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309 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2011
That there could be no question of animal lust on this occasion, Léon bore with fortitude. Having matured into a man with some experience of life, he knew after five years of marriage that a woman’s psyche is connected in some mysterious way with the peregrinations of the stars, the alternation of the tides and the cycles of the female body; possibly, too, with subterranean volcanic flows, the flight paths of migratory birds and the French state railway timetable - even, perhaps, with the output of the Baku oilfields, the heart-rate of the Amazonian humming-birds and the songs of sperm whales beneath the Antarctic pack ice.
It was Friday, fourteenth June, 1940. That first springtime of the war, which had so far passed almost unnoticed in Paris, was unprecedented in its beauty and joie de vivre. Throughout the month of April, when thousands of young men were once more dying in the East, women in short floral dresses had gone around beneath the dark azure skies with their hair cascading down their backs. The pavement cafes were crowded until late at night because the boulevards still glowed with the heat of the sunlight stored up during the day. It was as if some gigantic, warm-blooded creature were hidden beneath the flagstones, breathing gently and imperceptibly.
Radios broadcast Lucienne Delyle’s wistful Serenade sans Espoir, customers in the Galleries Lafayette and the Samairitaine competed for white linen suits and beach pajamas, the air was laden with the beguiling scent of expensive perfumes in miniscule bottles, and at dusk lovers’ shadows blended with those of the plane and chestnut trees blossoming in the parks. To be sure, the Parisienes’ thoughts occasionally turned to the drôle de guerre, the so-called phony war, between two kisses or two glasses of wine, but should they have drunk one glass, bestowed one kiss, or danced one dance fewer? Whom would it have benefitted?