wearing three-inch heels.
She’s going to sit down because no one’s waiting for her, because she no longer serves any purpose.
Bernard puts the cup in front of her, pulls out the chair on the other side of the table.
‘Bit off-colour this morning, eh?’
‘Bit off-colour every morning.’
‘No! Last week when you came in with your light floaty dress, it was like spring was in the air! Isn’t that right, Laurent? It’s spring, Mathilde, you’ll see, and the world keeps turning like the hem of a flowery dress.’
Nice people are the dangerous ones. They threaten the whole structure, shake the fortress. One more word from Bernard, and Mathilde might burst into tears. Bernard’s gone back behind his counter. He’s bustling about, giving her the occasional wink or smile. The café’s almost empty at this time. He’s preparing the sandwiches and croque-monsieurs for the lunchtime rush. He’s humming a song that she knows without being able to name it, one of those love songs about memories and regrets. The regulars, leaning on the counter and staring into space, are listening in religious silence.
Mathilde rummages in her bag for her purse. No luck. Suddenly, in irritation, she tips its contents out on the table. Among the objects in front of her – keys, travel-sickness pills, lipstick, eyeshadow, packets of tissues, luncheon vouchers – she discovers a white envelope on which she recognises Maxime’s writing: ‘For Mum’. She tears it open. Inside she sees one of those cards that are all the rage in the playground, which her sons regard as priceless and are sold in packets of five or ten. Cards which they use in their battles throughout the day and spend their time swapping. Mathilde begins by unfolding the little note that accompanies the card. In careful handwriting, without any spelling mistakes, her son has written: ‘Mum, I want you to have my Argent Defender card, it’s very rare, but that’s OK, I’ve got two of them. You’ll see, it’s a hero card that protects you all your life.’
The Argent Defender is wearing sumptuous shining armour. He stands out against a dark turbulent background. He’s holding a sword in his left hand and in the other he brandishes an immaculate shield at an unseen enemy. The Argent Defender is handsome and noble and brave. He’s not afraid.
Under the picture you can read the number of points he is worth, as well as a short text summarising his vocation: ‘Our cause is to fight swiftly and mercilessly against any element of evil that surfaces in Azeroth.’
Mathilde smiles.
On the back, against an ochre background covered in opaque clouds, the name of the game is written in Gothic script: World of Warcraft.
A few days ago, Théo and Maxime explained to her that Pokémon and Yu-Gi-Oh cards, which had been swallowing up their pocket money for months, were now old hat. Past it. Relegated to the cupboard. Now everybody had World of Warcraft cards and nobody played with anything but that. Not having any WoW cards, her sons were left out, nobodies, charity cases.
Last Saturday, Mathilde bought them each two packets. They were beside themselves with joy. They did some swaps with each other, decided their attack and defence strategies and trained all day for their forthcoming combats. Virtual combats conducted on the ground in the playground, which she couldn’t make head or tail of.
Mathilde slips the Argent Defender into her jacket pocket. The card has given her the courage to get up. She leaves the money on the table, puts her things back in her bag, gives Bernard a wave and leaves.
A few hundred yards further on, she stumbles, catches herself, puts the other foot forward. The least breath of wind, the smallest dizzy spell, could make her collapse. She has reached the point of fragility, of disequilibrium, at which things lose their meaning, their proportion. With this degree of vulnerability, the tiniest detail is capable of
She’s going to sit down because no one’s waiting for her, because she no longer serves any purpose.
Bernard puts the cup in front of her, pulls out the chair on the other side of the table.
‘Bit off-colour this morning, eh?’
‘Bit off-colour every morning.’
‘No! Last week when you came in with your light floaty dress, it was like spring was in the air! Isn’t that right, Laurent? It’s spring, Mathilde, you’ll see, and the world keeps turning like the hem of a flowery dress.’
Nice people are the dangerous ones. They threaten the whole structure, shake the fortress. One more word from Bernard, and Mathilde might burst into tears. Bernard’s gone back behind his counter. He’s bustling about, giving her the occasional wink or smile. The café’s almost empty at this time. He’s preparing the sandwiches and croque-monsieurs for the lunchtime rush. He’s humming a song that she knows without being able to name it, one of those love songs about memories and regrets. The regulars, leaning on the counter and staring into space, are listening in religious silence.
Mathilde rummages in her bag for her purse. No luck. Suddenly, in irritation, she tips its contents out on the table. Among the objects in front of her – keys, travel-sickness pills, lipstick, eyeshadow, packets of tissues, luncheon vouchers – she discovers a white envelope on which she recognises Maxime’s writing: ‘For Mum’. She tears it open. Inside she sees one of those cards that are all the rage in the playground, which her sons regard as priceless and are sold in packets of five or ten. Cards which they use in their battles throughout the day and spend their time swapping. Mathilde begins by unfolding the little note that accompanies the card. In careful handwriting, without any spelling mistakes, her son has written: ‘Mum, I want you to have my Argent Defender card, it’s very rare, but that’s OK, I’ve got two of them. You’ll see, it’s a hero card that protects you all your life.’
The Argent Defender is wearing sumptuous shining armour. He stands out against a dark turbulent background. He’s holding a sword in his left hand and in the other he brandishes an immaculate shield at an unseen enemy. The Argent Defender is handsome and noble and brave. He’s not afraid.
Under the picture you can read the number of points he is worth, as well as a short text summarising his vocation: ‘Our cause is to fight swiftly and mercilessly against any element of evil that surfaces in Azeroth.’
Mathilde smiles.
On the back, against an ochre background covered in opaque clouds, the name of the game is written in Gothic script: World of Warcraft.
A few days ago, Théo and Maxime explained to her that Pokémon and Yu-Gi-Oh cards, which had been swallowing up their pocket money for months, were now old hat. Past it. Relegated to the cupboard. Now everybody had World of Warcraft cards and nobody played with anything but that. Not having any WoW cards, her sons were left out, nobodies, charity cases.
Last Saturday, Mathilde bought them each two packets. They were beside themselves with joy. They did some swaps with each other, decided their attack and defence strategies and trained all day for their forthcoming combats. Virtual combats conducted on the ground in the playground, which she couldn’t make head or tail of.
Mathilde slips the Argent Defender into her jacket pocket. The card has given her the courage to get up. She leaves the money on the table, puts her things back in her bag, gives Bernard a wave and leaves.
A few hundred yards further on, she stumbles, catches herself, puts the other foot forward. The least breath of wind, the smallest dizzy spell, could make her collapse. She has reached the point of fragility, of disequilibrium, at which things lose their meaning, their proportion. With this degree of vulnerability, the tiniest detail is capable of
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