from politics to wheelchairs. And she would talk to anyone; to you or me or dogs or cats or chickens or the mayor or the curé. It was all the same to her.
It was winter that made her a handful. In a town where nothing happens in the summer, less than nothing happens in the winter and Madame Delacour became bored. Nothing helped: not the television, which by virtue of its size blocked the only window in the house; not the kids, whose collective naughty imagination would keep the most blasé among us on our toes; not the constant supply of chocolate which was made possible by cheques from the state that arrived at the door. Winter bored her, absolutely and completely, and nothing helped. Nothing, that is, except death.
Madame Delacour was fervently drawn to the drama and ceremony of death. Not her own, of course. That was, as she wisely knew, a party she could not attend. But anyone else’s fascinated her. She appeared at all the funerals she could, dressed appropriately for the occasion in her vast purple dress and with lipstick smeared all over her wide mouth and sparse teeth. She mourned with the mourners and eulogized with the eulogizers. Often her sadness was sincere, but more often the excitement that death causes in a small town cancelled all but the most fleeting of sorrows. Madame Delacour at a funeral was like a child at a birthday party, and the corpse like a brand new, recently unwrapped gift.
But there was a small problem. There were simply not enough deaths to keep her occupied. The tiny population of the town could only produce a certain number each year, and although most of these occurred, conveniently, in the darkest and most boring part of the winter, Madame Delacour became restless and dissatisfied. Boredom waited for her on the street after each funeral. She began to invent deaths.
And so it came to be that, after a few long dark winters, almost everyone in the town had been reported dead three or four times before they, in fact, expired. Madame Delacour became, as Monsieur Delacour so aptly and so silently put it, a handful. Even the dogs and the chickens avoided her chatter. Everyone likes to discuss the actual death of a neighbour, but invented death is something else. It’s foolish to weep and bemoan the fate of a friend who, at that very moment, is buying two tins of pâté and a grosse baguette in the local épicerie. And it’s most embarrassing if and when the friend in question finds out about your outburst of emotion. And so, as Madame Delacour found fewer and fewer people with whom to discuss imaginary death she turned more and more to her husband.
Monsieur Delacour loved his wife. And it wasn’t that he was against death either. He just didn’t care about it one bit. Someone or something could come and snatch it away for all the difference it would make to him. He was far more interested in the children, chickens and rabbits who all fitted nicely, if a little snugly, into his small corner in the square. He liked to watch their numbers increase. It was something he could count on. He wished his wife had something she could count on too, for Monsieur Delacour was as certain as could be that all of the important deaths had already happened.
Because he could not speak, Monsieur Delacour’s thoughts consisted mostly of observations and explanations, which he put to himself in the form of announcements. Questions were, you might say, out of the question since they could not be articulated. And only occasionally did he make decisions; only when it was absolutely necessary. He felt it was necessary now.
“Spring is here,” he announced, silently, to himself. “In spring Madame Delacour visits the larger square near the church and watches the tourists come and go. Then she makes up stories about the people she has seen there; movie stars and counts and earls, thieves and convicted murderers, millionaires and soccer players, queens and presidents all stream into her imagination and the
It was winter that made her a handful. In a town where nothing happens in the summer, less than nothing happens in the winter and Madame Delacour became bored. Nothing helped: not the television, which by virtue of its size blocked the only window in the house; not the kids, whose collective naughty imagination would keep the most blasé among us on our toes; not the constant supply of chocolate which was made possible by cheques from the state that arrived at the door. Winter bored her, absolutely and completely, and nothing helped. Nothing, that is, except death.
Madame Delacour was fervently drawn to the drama and ceremony of death. Not her own, of course. That was, as she wisely knew, a party she could not attend. But anyone else’s fascinated her. She appeared at all the funerals she could, dressed appropriately for the occasion in her vast purple dress and with lipstick smeared all over her wide mouth and sparse teeth. She mourned with the mourners and eulogized with the eulogizers. Often her sadness was sincere, but more often the excitement that death causes in a small town cancelled all but the most fleeting of sorrows. Madame Delacour at a funeral was like a child at a birthday party, and the corpse like a brand new, recently unwrapped gift.
But there was a small problem. There were simply not enough deaths to keep her occupied. The tiny population of the town could only produce a certain number each year, and although most of these occurred, conveniently, in the darkest and most boring part of the winter, Madame Delacour became restless and dissatisfied. Boredom waited for her on the street after each funeral. She began to invent deaths.
And so it came to be that, after a few long dark winters, almost everyone in the town had been reported dead three or four times before they, in fact, expired. Madame Delacour became, as Monsieur Delacour so aptly and so silently put it, a handful. Even the dogs and the chickens avoided her chatter. Everyone likes to discuss the actual death of a neighbour, but invented death is something else. It’s foolish to weep and bemoan the fate of a friend who, at that very moment, is buying two tins of pâté and a grosse baguette in the local épicerie. And it’s most embarrassing if and when the friend in question finds out about your outburst of emotion. And so, as Madame Delacour found fewer and fewer people with whom to discuss imaginary death she turned more and more to her husband.
Monsieur Delacour loved his wife. And it wasn’t that he was against death either. He just didn’t care about it one bit. Someone or something could come and snatch it away for all the difference it would make to him. He was far more interested in the children, chickens and rabbits who all fitted nicely, if a little snugly, into his small corner in the square. He liked to watch their numbers increase. It was something he could count on. He wished his wife had something she could count on too, for Monsieur Delacour was as certain as could be that all of the important deaths had already happened.
Because he could not speak, Monsieur Delacour’s thoughts consisted mostly of observations and explanations, which he put to himself in the form of announcements. Questions were, you might say, out of the question since they could not be articulated. And only occasionally did he make decisions; only when it was absolutely necessary. He felt it was necessary now.
“Spring is here,” he announced, silently, to himself. “In spring Madame Delacour visits the larger square near the church and watches the tourists come and go. Then she makes up stories about the people she has seen there; movie stars and counts and earls, thieves and convicted murderers, millionaires and soccer players, queens and presidents all stream into her imagination and the
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