“Loose slates gave momentarily trapped cascades. Broken, once-painted shutters were open. ‘From a swamp to a palace to a horse market, to this,’ said St-Cyr sadly to himself. Grand-maman had said that to him once, that good woman having dragged him here at the age of six to learn a little history. He’d been particularly bad, had stolen from her handbag. Just a few centimes … Well, five actually. Always, though, the memory would come rushing at him when here, no matter how desperate the circumsta...nce. ‘A sliver, Jean-Louis,’ she had said. ‘A splinter from the lance of his opponent. Who would have thought such a thing possible? A king? Henry II and a bout of jousting? Oh for sure, they didn’t have carousels whose operators demanded cash. They were far too busy, but a little fun all the same, eh? A careless impulse? A tournament whose spine of heartwood found the visor slit of his armour to pierce the eye and brain!’ She had given him a moment to think about a life of crime and then had said, ‘He died in agony, screaming for his mother.’ Beyond the high iron fence that surrounded the park where duels had once been fought, the ruins of last summer’s community vegetable plots made their graveyards among the severely pollarded plane trees.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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