The Islands of Dr. Thomas by Francoise Enguehard Page B

wieners to have on hand for the tropical storms that occurred after August 15, and that prevented the mail boat from delivering the provisions; a big tin full to the brim with Milady brand English toffees (which Émilie took large handfuls of and shared with her friends); and Poulain brand chocolate bars she stuffed in a pocket of her backpack, along with two chunks of baguette, when she went swimming in the Belle Rivière. All these preparations usually filled her with happiness, and she could not wait to be on her way. This year, however, she barely noticed the activity. She had not yet finished choosing the photos and would be away for two months.
    â€œDon’t worry,” the photographer said. “It’ll give me time to sort out the rest of the plates. When you come back, you’ll have a better selection.”
    His reasoning did not manage to convince her. In her race toward the finish line, she began to spend every moment of her spare time in the studio.
    â€œI’ve been thinking,” the photographer announced to her one day. “Why don’t you take the photos of Miquelon-Langlade with you? I’ve just finished printing them. Once you’re there, you can sort them.”
    Standing with the wind blowing in her face, her knees rocking in harmony with the waves, Émilie watched as the coast of Langlade emerged on the horizon and then hid behind the slightly dishevelled fog banks hanging onto the crests of the waves in the middle of the bay. A little further out—she could tell by the mild temperature of the air that caressed her face and the brightness in the west—the fog was going to disappear all of a sudden, leaving the sunshine in its place filling the air with its glittering reflections, dancing gleefully on the waves, and setting the quartz cliffs of Langlade alight. Indeed, a few minutes later, on the deck, the passengers opened up their pea jackets or oilskin coats to take in the welcome rays of sunshine. Voices became louder, as people knew they no longer had to keep the silence mandatory in the fog, which allowed the captains to hear the sound of the surf that announced the coast only a few minutes before they landed, or the approach of another craft also blinded by the fog and risking a collision. The use of radar in the mail boat had done nothing to change this reflex, which had been reinforced by centuries of “Hush!” “Be quiet!” “Shut up!” or “Listen,” repeated by the captains who knew they could never be too careful.
    This is the way the Saint-Eugène sailed into the Langlade summer, around the Anse-aux-Soldats. Well protected from the coast, the boat stopped moving; the hunting dogs tied to the rail that had moaned and groaned from the time they left Saint-Pierre now calmed down, feeling the inshore breeze. The poor people who had suffered from seasickness could now relax, happy to have refrained, by sheer will power and concentration throughout the entire crossing, from heaving their breakfast into the ocean, though it had been calm this morning.
    For Émilie, summer began with this familiar ritual that never bored her. As soon as the steam pushing the boat ahead died down, and the boat began its graceful slide into its moorings, it signaled for her a slower, gentler pace of life.
    The dune stretched out straight ahead of her. To the left above the pebbles of the shoreline was the mouth of the Belle-Rivière. Further back, at the edge of the woods, the little red and white chapel hailed its parishioners. Here, even religious ceremonies were lighter. On Sunday they gathered at the chapel at the convenience of the priest from Miquelon or the one from Saint-Pierre, whenever they could get a “lift” in a vacationer’s dory or some other vessel. “What time is Mass?” people would ask, on the road to the farm. If no one managed to find out, they would keep an eye on the activity around the summer