Her headdress had fallen

The ship continued its journey across the Indian Ocean. Alas, there was still a lot of misery closed in the moving sick room. The deck was just a matter of carelessness, health and youth. Around the sea, there was a full celebration, clean air and daylight.

In the beautiful weather brought by the rain winds, the sailors virged in the sails of the sails, running their parrots for fun. (In Singapore, which they just came from, they sell all kinds of tamed animals to seamen).

They had all chosen for themselves parrot chicks, whose birdies were so childish; they had no tails yet, but they were already green, with marvelous green colors. Their fathers and mothers had been green; therefore, even these little gnats were unknowingly inheriting its color, while on the ship’s clean deck they looked like vegetables from leaves that had fallen from southern trees.

Sometimes they were all put together, then they looked at each other, turned their neck if they were, as if to look at each other from each other. They stepped in, as if they were dead, jumped madly, went out, would have been hurrying, and some always fell.

Another interest was to teach Maracat to do the constellation. Others cared for their animals very fondly and caressed them, and they glared at their host’s chest and looked at them with their female eyes, who were crazy, half-moving.

When the clock struck three, the guards brought two pillowcases on the deck that were locked with large seals of red lacquer, and marked with the name Sylvestre. It was going to be sold by auction – as in the decrees on the property of the dead – all his clothes and other belongings. The sailors immediately gathered around them, the sick caravans often delivered such auctions, so no more worries about them. And secondly, Sylvestra was a little known on this ship.

Her dresses, shirts, and blue t-shirts were researched and translated and then sold at different prices, as buyers raised their prices for fun.

Then came the little coffin turn that was so expensive for him, fifty sous offered. The letters and honor had been put aside, sent home, but there was still his booklet, the book of Confucius, the needle, the strap, the button and the other little fish that the caring Yvonne had put in to repair and patch the garments.

Lastly, the security officer, who offered the goods for sale, took two small buddha pictures that Sylvestre had taken from a pagoda to be given to Gaud, and they were so crazy that everyone burst into laughter when they saw the last offer. But they were not laughing at malice, but of non-thought.

Finally, the bags were sold, and the buyer immediately began to scrape the name written on them and put it on their own.

Then, the lid was rinsed with plenty of water, thoroughly cleaned of any dust and filamentous head that had fallen into the lid of the sack.

And the sailors were happy to play with their parrots and maracas.

On the next day of June next June, when Yvonne’s morsel came home, the neighbors told him that he had been invited to an agent for the Maritime Administration.

Probably it touched his grandson, but it did not arouse fear in him. Sea-going families often have things to do with the Maritime Agency, and he, who was a sailor’s daughter, wife, mother and mother, had been dealing with the agency for sixty years.

No doubt something about Sylvestre; or perhaps savings on his salary “Circle” that could be lifted by his credentials. Feeling obliged to Mr. Agent, he dressed in his best clothes and white headgear and then went on a trip at two o’clock.

He stepped on his spit quickly and densely along the beach paths to Paimpol, but a little worried when he remembered that he hadn’t received a letter for two months.

He walked to the side of his old coward, sitting in the mouth of the door, still running away from the cold winter.

– Well, do you! … Because you want, as you know, sweetheart! … (He still wanted a dress that haunted his thoughts).

In June, the beautiful air smiled around him. There was still only a shallow, yellow-flowered ajonc bushes on the rocks, but in the valleys that were sheltered from the winds of the sea, there was fresh, beautiful vegetation, flowering hawthorns and high-scented grass. Muori did not notice it, he who was so old who had lived so many summers from which years were so short as days…

There were roses, carnations and snowdrops around the dark rocks, the wretched sharks, and the tall, mossy straw roofs had thousands of little flowers that attracted the first white butterflies.

In the Icelandic land of the country there was a springless spring, and the beautiful, handsome girls, who were sitting on the doors of their dreams, seemed to look distant, visible objects with their brown or blue eyes. The young men they were wounding and dreaming about were fishing far away in the North Sea.

But then it was spring, warm, sweet, charming spring, insects mourn, and newborn plants smelled.

And all that was soulless, still smiled at the old grandmother who walked so fast as she could, to know the death of her last grandson. He approached the terrible moment when he was to be told what had happened in the far offshore of the Chinese Sea. He was on the dark journey that Sylvestre had foretold at the time of his death and who had squeezed him with the last pains of his pain: his old grandmother had been invited to the office of Paimpol for information about his death!

– He had obviously seen the giant step down the road, fast straight forward, the brown scarf on his shoulders, the big headdress and the umbrella in his hand. And this vision had made him rise up on his bed and swallow in terrible pain, while the southern, big, red sun was shining in his sick room and saw him dying.

The only difference was that Sylvestre, in his last imagination, had described his grandmother under the rainy sky, but now, on the contrary, was a joyful, spicy spring day…

As he approached Paimpol, he felt more and more agitated and accelerated. He was also familiar with the gray city, its narrow stone streets, where the sun was roasting, and he greeted other elderly people, his peers, who were sitting at their windows. They were stunned to see grandma and they said:

– Where’s he going so fast in his holy clothes, in the middle of the week?

Mr Commissar was not at home. A small, very ugly-looking creature, about fifteen years old, who was his secretary, sat at his desk. Because he had grown too poorly to qualify as a fisherman, he had been given some kind of upbringing and days long he sat on his chair, black cuffs in his hands, smudging the papers.

When he had told him his name, he was very stubbornly looking to take stamped papers from the ark.

There were a lot of them,… what did that mean? Testimonials, sealed paper, sea-yellowed sailor’s notebook, all they smelled of dead…

He spread them in front of the clay that began to shiver and whose head was dizzy. He had known two letters that Gaud had written to his grandson on his behalf, and who had come back without opening … That’s what happened twenty years ago when his son Pierre died: letters were sent from China back to the commissioner who had delivered them to him …

The boy read in a teaching voice: “Moan, Jean-Marie-Sylvestre, Signed in Paimpol, page 213, matrix number 2091, dead on board at Bien-Ho, 14 …”

– What? … What happened to him, Mr. Gold?

– Dead! … He’s dead, the boy repeated.

He, God, is not hiding, probably a hiker, a scribe; The reason he said it so rudely was the lack of judgment, the poor eloquence did not understand. And when he saw that the grandma did not understand this beautiful word, he explained in Bretagne:

– “Marw éo!”

– “Marw éo!”… (He’s dead!…)

Muori repeated his words with old-fashioned vocals, as a decayed echo mocking an indifferent sentence.

That’s why she had a half thought, but it made her tremble, now that it was certain it hardly seemed to him. First of all, his suffering was really a bit boring for a long time, especially last winter. The sorrow did not immediately prevail in him. And at this moment, his head was a little dizzy, and he confused this death with others: for so many sons had died from him!… he lived to which he had drawn all his hope and all his thoughts that the impending gloomy second childhood began to blur…

He was disgusted by the despair of a small Lord, who disgusted him: for the grandmother had to declare the death of his grandson!…

Oh, how far away he was from his home!… That’s why he also tried not to think, to be clear, because the long distance he scared.

He got the power of attorney as heir to raise those thirty marks that had been obtained from Sylvestre’s goods; he also received letters, testimonies and a box of honor money. Clumsily, he picked them up with his fingers, he moved them from one hand to another, and couldn’t find his pockets where to put them.

He went through Pimpol, one measure without seeing anyone, the body bowed down, as if falling, the blood sprang in his ears; – He hurried forward, striving for his last power, a machine that is already old and last time to run at full speed, even if it exploded.

On the third mile he was already hooked, completely exhausted, occasionally his wooden shoe went into the rocks, always tearing his head. And she was getting more and more hurried to her home, she was afraid of falling down and then being brought home…

– Old Yvonne is drunk!

He had fallen and the boys ran behind him. It was just
upon entering the Ploubazlanek district, with lots of houses along the way.
He had both reached his own power, and ran away from his rod
– Old Yvonne is drunk!

And the boy’s zeros ran in front of him and laughed at him face to face. His headgear was completely skewed.

They were some of the boys who were not so cool in their hearts, and when they saw the desperate grimace of the old window, they turned away and sad and didn’t dare say anything.

When he came home and closed the door, he let out a cry of despair that was choking on him, and he crashed into the corner against the wall.

Her headdress had fallen on her eyes and she clung to the ground, a beautiful headdress that she had so cherished. His last holy garments were completely stained, and a small, yellow-white strut was seen under the hood, complementing the miserable clutter.