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.THE BREAKERSTHE BREAKERSClaudie GallayTranslated from the French by Alison AndersonAn imprint of QuercusNew York • London© 2008 by Claudie GallayTranslation © 2011 by Alison AndersonOriginally published in French as Les Déferlantes by Éditions du Rouergue in 2008First published in the United States by Quercus in 2013All rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to Permissions c/o Quercus Publishing Inc., 31 West 57th Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10019, or to permissions@quercus.com.ISBN 978-1-62365-279-1Distributed in the United States and Canada by Random House Publisher Servicesc/o Random House, 1745 BroadwayNew York, NY 10019This book is a work of fiction.Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.www.quercus.comFor LucileYou will know me, I amthe one who passes by …RENÉ-PAUL ENTREMONTCONTENTSA Note on PrevertChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3A NOTE ON PREVERTJacques Prévert was born on February 4, 1900, at Neuilly-sur-Seine on the outskirts of Paris, and died of cancer at Omonville-la-Petite on April 11, 1977.Associated with Surrealists like André Breton and Louis Aragon in the 1920s, he made his name with humorous anarchic “song-poems” about street life in Paris, collected in Paroles (1946), Spectacles (1951) and Imaginaires (1970).Many of his poems, such as Les Feuilles Mortes, were set to music and sung by French singers including Yves Montand, Juliette Gréco and Edith Piaf.He was also well known as a screen-writer, his most celebrated films being Les Enfants du Paradis and Le Jour Se Lève.He was described in 1959 as “a short, white-haired man with blue eyes, blunt expressive fingers, cigarette dangling from his lips like a corny Apache dancer.” With Paul Grimault and others, he adapted fairy stories by Hans Christian Andersen as animated films, including Le Roi et l’Oiseau, on which he was working when he died and which was dedicated to him.At the opening night Grimault kept the seat beside him empty for Prévert.IThe first time I saw Lambert was on the day of the big storm.The sky was black, and very low, and you could already hear the waves pounding out to sea.He got there just after me, and sat down outside, at a table in the wind.He was facing the sun, and wincing, as if he were crying.I looked at him, not because he had taken the worst table, nor because of the face he was making.I looked at him because he was smoking the way you used to, with his eyes staring off into space, and rubbing his thumb over his lips.Dry lips, perhaps even drier than yours.I thought he must be a journalist, a storm at equinox, you can get some pretty good photographs.Beyond the breakwater the wind was plowing the waves, driving the currents over by the Raz Blanchard, black rivers that had come a long way, from seas to the north or from the depths of the Atlantic.Morgane came out of the auberge.She saw Lambert.“You’re not from around here,” she said, when she had asked him what he would like.She was sullen, the way she could be when she had to serve the customers in bad weather.“Are you here for the storm?”He shook his head.“For Prévert, then? Everyone comes here for Prévert.”“I’m looking for a bed for the night,” he said.She shrugged.“We don’t do rooms.”“Where can I find one?”“There’s a hotel in the village, opposite the church … or in La Rogue.Inland.My boss has a friend, an Irishwoman, who has a pension.Would you like her number?”He nodded.“And can I get something to eat?”“It’s three o’clock …”“So what?”“Well, at three, all we’ve got is ham sandwiches.”She pointed to the sky, to the bar of clouds rolling in.Below them, a few rays of sun filtered through.In ten minutes it would be dark as night.“It’s going to chuck it down!” she said.“That won’t change anything.Six oysters and a glass of wine?”Morgane smiled.Lambert was on the handsome side.She felt like giving him a hard time.“On the terrace we serve only drinks.”I was drinking a black coffee, two tables behind him.There were no other customers.Even inside it was empty.Tiny plants with gray leaves had taken root in the cracks in the stone.With the wind, they seemed to be crawling.Morgane sighed.“I have to ask the patron.”She stopped at my table, her red fingernails drumming on the wooden edge [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]