A short story (English version of Cloître au printemps, sous la neige)

Voici ma nouvelle  publiée dans l'ouvrage collectif  100 monuments/100 écrivains/ 100 histoires de France  aux Editions du Patrimoine, dans sa version anglaise, traduite par mes soins.

Cloister in Spring, with Snow

 Constance Laroche collected moments of happiness, kept them inside crystal or glass domes. She would capture those elusive minutes, hours perhaps, with delicate art, suspended them for ever and beyond in those globes where replicas of famous monuments are usually represented. With a flick of your wrist you can turn them upside down and set forth a hurricane of mica or polystyrene chips, whorls and vortexes over towers, castles or cathedrals. Fascination is a sure thing, your mind loosens up and there you are - deep into contemplation. In imagination you can roam the roads of those perfectly sealed worlds, sheltered. Constance would examine happiness as an entomologist, unflinching, methodical, determined to collect it under its manifold shapes - from the most naive to the wildest. Inside the window of her shop located impasse Aulézy in Fréjus, an ad in beautiful hand - all sensuous loops and curls, swift dashes - read : I can immortalize your happiness, magic guaranteed. In the course of time, the snowdome collection she could show her happy customers kept growing. When she was not busy chiselling this or that detail of a background for a customer's order with almost manic accuracy Constance would gaze at one or the other cristalline universe. She used a jeweller's magnifying glass, watched the scene and often started the glittering disaster, sometimes kept it going, as cloudless happiness can be very short-lived indeed.

 That night, while she was putting away her tools, she heard the shop door chime. A couple stepped in, as it often would. On their faces you could read that beatific expression that was a sure sign for a coming order. Lucas and Angèle had just been through the most perfect of moments, rounded happiness, an unexpected achievement, most probably. They were both blushing as they recalled it aloud - who could have thought that those two… in the cloister of the cathedral… had it been some kind of epiphany ? Had it been the sky, blue and deep, a rich alcohol, that had dizzied them, set them slightly off track ? Could it have been because of the well hidden under masses of wild ivy stems ? Or was the wooden ceiling and the painted characters parading in a grotesque carnival around the cloister responsible ? Lucas's and Angèle's souls, instead of retiring into secret nooks of deep meditation on celestial graces found themselves hopping about, reeling in glee with a jug-headed man and a crowned centauress. In this cloister - but was it really ? - they had felt more deeply alive and there, absolutely there, than anywhere else ever before.

 And then, after wandering aimlessly, drifting at random through crowded or deserted streets, they happened to find Constance's shop and read her ad. Could it be a sign ? Could they doubt it was indeed one ?

Angèle was thrilled. Out of sheer discretion, to shut up essentials, she went on conjuring up the golden filigrees of light on the paving slabs, white marble, pink limestone, the joyous confusion of fleshy irises, the blooming lemon-trees, the tang in the air, the sea so close. Lucas was nodding. They were expecting Constance to sculpt, paint and seal this memory of theirs in one of her light bubbles, a souvenir they would give to each other as a present. Constance figured out how much it would cost them, told them the price, and they agreed on her terms. To celebrate the deal Constance poured them some sweet liquor of her own making into goblets - tiny, precious things of ancient times. When do you think we will be able to… But quite fast, Lucas's voice was fading down to a feeble piping, a squeek so faint that no human ear could make out the words without being particularly intent on listening. Constance was used to the procedure. So as not to risk deafening the two creatures now no taller than a finger's nail she said in a whisper : Don't you worry about anything anymore - in this cloister you chose to stay and so will you. I will take care of your happiness.

B.A.