By Pascale Quiviger, Sheila Fischman
Marianne, a tender Montrealer, has come to dwell in Tuscany to attract and write and view her existence. the following she meets Marco, a temptingly seductive guy who nonetheless lives in his mother's condo within the village and who's no longer ready to dedicate himself to whatever akin to a shared existence. although he breaks her middle, repeatedly, Marianne can merely steer clear of him by way of returning to Canada. this primary novel through Pascale Quiviger is marked by means of its luminous language and its unstinting examine what makes Marianne, and Marco, and, certainly, a complete village and the area past it, tick.
Translated through Sheila Fischman
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As he imagines it, he feels it. She stops swimming, pulls off the goggles, and looks up. To the woman down below, he is simply the man up above, staring. Accidentally he touches the glass. It is cool. He presses his cheek, his nose, his mouth to the glass. He takes a deep breath and exhales long and slow, fogging the glass, and for a moment everything, even the swimmer, is gone. He is standing at the glass waiting for his life to begin. ” Cecelia the housekeeper asks. ” “You’re just standing there, staring.
It is cool. He presses his cheek, his nose, his mouth to the glass. He takes a deep breath and exhales long and slow, fogging the glass, and for a moment everything, even the swimmer, is gone. He is standing at the glass waiting for his life to begin. ” Cecelia the housekeeper asks. ” “You’re just standing there, staring. I’ve been here ﬁfteen minutes and you haven’t moved. You’re not wearing your morn ing clothes, and you don’t have those headphones on. ” He can’t decide whether to say anything, whether to tell her about last night.
Covered with the creepy crawl of the emergency room, he scrubs himself, washing off the night. There are a couple of electrodes still attached. The BandAid on his hand slides off and is sucked down the drain. He is trying to put it behind him, and yet it plays in his head—the lights, the people, the pickling disinfectant smell, the God boy coming down. He pictures the nurse getting home in the morning, glad to have missed a long night alone. ” She was a good nurse, a damned good nurse. He pictures her house, the kitchen ﬁlled with crocheted pot-holders, knitted afghans, hens and chicks on the windowsill.