The Long Summer of Monsieur Loiseau

"It's endless, you see," complained Prudence, speaking of the rain, which had begun to fall again, dousing out the last flickering rays of daylight.The rocky beach, sea water and clouds are mixed together, showing layers of blue and black.The raindrops were not as big as they were in the morning, and they fell slowly, almost shyly, and stuck to the glass like a layer of melted icing sugar.

The nurse knocked on the door and came in, reminding the reporter that there was only half an hour left for the visit, and all visitors had to leave before [-]:[-] pm.If he had a train to catch, he'd better go now, the last train for Paris was leaving soon.

"There is no hotel near here." The nurse added.

"Albert, let this young gentleman stay to supper," interposed Prudence, whose French sounded discreet and clear, with every vowel well ordered, "just to please me, will you? I don't have many visitors. And he hasn't tasted your wonderful pear liqueur yet."

"But we have rules, Mr. Prudence."

"Just say that the visitor has a very important official business that must be completed today, and he is unwilling to leave, and there is nothing you can do." Prudence blinked at the reporter, "There should be two more cars to Rennes tonight. Ben, even if Mr. Rivers doesn't leave until nine o'clock, he can still catch up."

"Since you say so, Mr. Prudence. Dinner begins at 07:30."

"Thank you, Albert."

The nurse left and gently closed the door. "I like Albert," Prudence told reporters, "wine-making, sympathetic, not like Pierre on duty on Thursday, no-nonsense. Where did we just talk? Can I have a look at your notes? 1961 At Christmas last year, I once thought that everything was over. Alex and I spent the Christmas and New Year holidays in Bruges safely. The place you dream about when you fall asleep. Apart from us, there is only an old couple from Italy in the hotel. They don’t know English or French, and we don’t know half a word of Italian. We occasionally meet in the restaurant and can only communicate with each other Nodding and smiling. Our guest room window faced the canal pier, where a row of pleasure boats were tied up, waiting for the influx of summer tourists. I would rather recall our winters in Bruges than our summers, with never-ending sleet, But the fire never went out either. The pale maroon painted guest room was our secret den, where, with the curtains drawn, we were 22 again, children, travelers without names.”

"In the second week of January we set off for Paris."

Barry's name hit the front pages of newspapers in early February: "Conspiracy or Plantation?"Morton awaits trial in London".The article stated that despite public protests from the Foreign Office, Mr Brendan Morton had voluntarily been interrogated by MI[-] in order to dispel rumors about Soviet spies.Mr Morton is currently under house arrest at an unnamed location pending the final outcome.The reporter asked for MI[-]'s opinion, and the answer was: this is a frame-up, and it is likely to be a farce directed by Moscow, and the misunderstanding will be cleared up soon.

Barry's storm blew on the front pages for days.Harry took each paper back to Alex to read, and the two of them pondered over every word, guessing at Barry's chances of surviving the shipwreck.Like all news, the drama receded into the pages and fell silent. However, within five days, the dross resurfaced, and a few words about the internal hearing were spit out. During the next two tense weeks, Barry It looked like he was on the verge of being completely out of the game, he was suspended, MI[-] searched his house, and everything was against him. "We will witness a trial of the century." The current affairs reporter of "Express" commented vowedly, "This is also the first time we clearly see how thorough Moscow's infiltration is."By the end of March, however, a large photo of Barry was making headlines again, right below the headline "Morton Cleared."The subject of the photo looks directly at the camera, holds his hat up, and looks like a boxer who has just won.The Foreign Office and MI[-] took him back with open arms.

Boxer immediately set out to retaliate. On April 1962, 4, an envelope appeared on the desk of editor-in-chief Schmidt. There was no postmark or handwriting on it. It was obviously not from the postman. No one knew who put the envelope there. The doorman claimed not to notice the strangers coming in and out.Inside the envelope were the few photos of Harry, who could not come up with a reasonable explanation, sitting stiffly on the chair opposite Schmidt, fists clenched, like a convict awaiting punishment.

"I've never asked about people's private lives." Schmidt approached the subject reluctantly, as uncomfortable as when one has to reach down a drainpipe to pull out a dead rat that's stuck in it, but always. Can't just sit back and do it, "Maybe you should go away for a while, Harry, go somewhere sunny for a few days, talk to a doctor, maybe they can help you get rid of this, this, you know, disease."

"I don't need a doctor."

The editor looked at him with a sympathy that irritated Harry: "I appreciate your work, Harry, you're a terrific reporter, these," the editor glanced at the envelope, "I can't pretend I didn't See, but I wouldn't report it to the police either - here, in France, it's a crime, remember that."

"My private life has nothing to do with my work."

"You're sick, Harry, and you need help."

"Are you going to fire me?"

"Suspended until you can produce a psychiatrist's certificate that guarantees you are cured."

"No need." Harry stood up, "I resign."

There was nothing to tidy up in the office. The lamp, typewriter, and telephone were not his, and the keys and official correspondence had to stay where they were.Harry took only a few letters, a pen, and a box of paper clips, in a manila envelope.The room still looked as foreign as when he first arrived, with wilted potted plants and foggy glass, file racks that smelled of camphor.Harry tore off the sticky note on the desk, crumpled it up, threw it into the wastebasket, opened the door and went out.

No one gave him a second glance when he left the newspaper office.Miss Minie is not here today, she is out for an interview.He walked slowly down the stairs, wondering how Schmidt would announce the incident, maybe say sick, or say nothing at all.The doorman helped him hold the door, saw the envelope in his hand, and asked him if he was going to the post office.Harry smiled perfunctorily and walked straight into the weak early April sun without answering.

He folded the envelope, stuffed it into his pocket, walked aimlessly on the road for a long time, reached the river bank, turned back, found a random coffee shop and sat down, watching the passers-by in a daze.It was an overcast day, as it always does in spring, without rain, but the clouds were thick and of a dull grayish color.The people's coats were also gray, and Harry watched them move slowly on the black-and-white street, like a frame cut from film.He had been in Paris for more than three years, and he had never seriously looked at the city on a weekday morning, never before.

The waiter came over and asked him if he wanted to order anything. It was almost lunchtime, and if he didn't want to eat, please get the table out.Harry left the change in the saucer, got up and left, crossed the bridge, and walked in the general direction of District Seven, keeping his head down because of the strong wind.

It was just after four o'clock in the afternoon when Harry returned to St. Dominic's Street. Alex was writing on the small coffee table and put down his pen as soon as he saw him, knowing instinctively that something was wrong.

"Schmidt," said Harry curtly, "he knows."

"Then your job?"

Harry didn't answer, but shook his head.Alex said softly "My God, Harry" and walked across the living room, hugged Harry and kissed him on the forehead.Harry found Alex's hand and squeezed it tightly.The wind blew up the gauze curtain, sweeping the paper to the floor, but neither of them noticed.

After the contract was terminated, the newspaper office naturally took back the small apartment behind the puppet theater, and gave Harry a month to move out. Like the office, there was nothing to take away from the apartment. Most of Harry’s personal belongings were gone. On St. Dominique Street.He spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment, rolled up a few ties that had been forgotten in the deep drawer, put them in the suitcase with some books, locked the door, threw the key into the concierge's letter box, and said goodbye.

"And then," said Prudence, pondering the word as if it were a wind-and-sweat-blurred road sign that would lead you astray if you didn't look carefully, "then, Burning at the Stake was published. Mr. Firth, you now understand why there is such a long gap between "The Kite of Agnes" and "The Stake". People - especially biographers - often use Alex's work as a convenient tick , thought he had finished measuring his life, and forgot the meaningful gap between the two scales. The French version of "The Stake by Fire" was originally printed in only a few dozen copies-of course also translated by the generous Mr. Manat- —Later, more than a hundred copies were added, which were not sold publicly, but only secretly changed hands among specific friends. From the current point of view, "The Stake of Fire" is nothing new, but a story of two male students in a boarding school , they fell in love, they were forced to separate, and they each committed suicide. But our world at that time was not the same as the world we have now, and just writing this story is a crime in itself. 'Underline' bookstore shut us out, ya Some of the salons Alex used to frequent turned him away like a leper. Paris made it clear: You are not welcome, please leave as soon as possible.”

"I tried to find other work, and at one point wrote a leaflet for the theater. There were only a handful of English-language newspapers at the time, and although Schmidt didn't say anything, the other papers knew about my sudden departure from Viewpoint. , and full of doubts about it, no one would give me a position. And the French newspapers have no need of an Englishman who cannot write fluently in French. Alex receives dozens of letters every day, some praising "The Burning", Most cursed him to hell. That same summer we abandoned the little bird's nest in St. Dominique Street and returned to London. Alex's luggage was almost full of manuscripts, which was the prototype of "Eternal Summer", still Not finished. He still won't let me see the draft he's working on, not even the clips, and certainly doesn't ask for my opinion like he used to. I think some wounds don't heal so quickly."

"We haven't been in London very long, and we haven't seen anyone but Lyra. The Baron has several properties in London, and George used to live in a detached house in the outskirts, which is now left to his widow, who has no children. The other is A flat in South Kensington, where Alex and I quietly hauled our luggage in, like two nocturnal owls hiding in a tree hollow. I quickly found a part-time job writing for a gardening magazine Writing, bragging about the latest rake, explaining cutting techniques, and the like, you know. Were you in the literature from the start, Mr. Rivers?"

"No, I have been in the cooking column for six months, racking my brains to think about how to praise an ordinary cake shop."

"God bless you."

"A necessary torture."

Prudence glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to 5:07.It was quite dark, and the windowpane became a smooth black mirror, reflecting the old man, the reporter, and the firelight from the fireplace.Somewhere there was a door banging on the wind, it sounded like it was coming from the direction of the restaurant.

"Later, an old friend approached me. It was The Post, my first employer. They happened to need a political reporter who was familiar with the Warsaw Pact countries. I just came back from the other side of the strait. Of course it was their No. 1st pick. I'm back in that big smoke-smelling office after seven years and agree to start work in September so I can go back to Cornwall with Alex for the summer - Lyra should have told the Baron we'd be back Yes, because a few days after seeing his sister Alex got a telegram asking him to go up to the mansion without saying why. We were only going to be there about five days, so we packed up the last Simple luggage. I booked an early train and went back to where the story started with Alex."