Brodeck by Philippe Claudel Page B

bacon, which she drew out of big blue canvas sacks, and also with words; she slipped them into my ear, and I had to let them out again through my mouth.
    And then, one day, we arrived in the village which was to become our village. Fedorine stopped the cart in front of the church and told me to get out and stretch my legs. Back in those days, people weren’t yet afraid of strangers, even when they were the poorest of the poor. The villagers gathered around us. Women brought us food and drink. I remember the faces of the men who insisted on pulling the cart and leading us to the cabin, declaring that Fedorine had done enough. Then there was Father Peiper, who was still young and full of energy, who still believed what he said, and also the mayor, Sibelius Craspach, a former medical officer in the imperial army, now an old man with impressive white mustachios and a beribboned ponytail. They settled us in the cabin and made it clear that we could stay there one night or several years. The main room contained a large black stove, a pine-wood bed, a wardrobe, a table, and three chairs; there was also a smaller, empty room. The wooden walls were the color of honey, soft and warm, and the cabin itself was warm as well. Sometimes at night, we could hear the murmur of the wind in the high branches of the nearby fir trees and the creaking of the wood caressed by the warm breath of the stove. I’d fall asleep thinking about squirrels and badgers and thrushes. It was Paradise.
    Here, in the shed, I’m alone. It’s no place for women, whether young or old. In the evening, the candles cast their fantastic shadows all around. The wooden beams play a dry music. I have the feeling that I’m very far away. I feel, perhaps mistakenly, that nothing can disturb or reach me here, that I’m safe from everyone and from all harm, completely safe, even though I’m in the heart of the village, surrounded by the others, and they’re aware of everything about me, every deed I do, every breath I take.
    I’ve placed the typewriter on Diodemus’s table. After his death, Orschwir had everything Diodemus owned—his clothes, his few pieces of furniture, his novels—thrown away and burned, under the pretext that it was imperative to make a clean sweep in order to welcome the new teacher properly. Johann Lülli, a local boy, has replaced Diodemus as teacher. He’s got one leg shorter than the other and a pretty wife who has borne him three children, the youngest of them still in swaddling clothes. Lülli isn’t very knowledgeable, but he isn’t an idiot, either. Before succeeding to his current position, he did the accounts for the mayor’s office, and now he draws letters and numbers on a blackboard and makes children stammer out their lessons. He was present on the night of the Ereigniës . Among all those heads that were looking at me, I saw his red mane and his broad, square shoulders, which always look as though he forgot to remove the hanger when he put on his coat.
    I didn’t really need Diodemus’s table, but I wanted to keep something of his, something he’d touched and used. His table’s like him. Two handsome panels of polished walnut glued edge to edge and set on four simple legs, without airs or ornaments. A big drawer locked with a key, but I don’t have the key. Nor have I been curious enough to break into the drawer to see if there’s anything in it. When I shake the table a little, I hear no sound coming from inside. The drawer is clearly empty.

IX
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    ’m facing the back wall of the shed. The typewriter’s on the table in front of me. It’s very cold. My fingers are not alone in resembling stones; my nose, too, is as hard as a rock. I can’t feel it anymore.
    When I raise my eyes from my page, searching for words, I confront the wall, and then I tell myself that maybe I shouldn’t have put the table against it. It has too much personality. It’s too present. It speaks to me of the camp. I encountered a