"I had to go to the island to lay this wreath of dried flowers on the grave of Anna. A pale circle bristling with stalks and spikes that one of the old Mirnoie had knitted for several weeks.
For me, that cruise the lake in the rain perfectly reflected the absurdity of existence that had Vera. Absurd also my wish, unexpected for myself, to accompany her: she was preparing the room, saw her pass by the street, I called from the window and asked, without knowing why, if he could accompany her. And, on top of stupidity, under a macho swagger, demanded paddling alone, standing as a gondolier operetta. Vera wanted object (wind, weight of the boat capricious ...), but in the end I left.
The wind was unstable, the bow of the boat danced on the right and left, and sank, not detach the thickness of the water where the paddle is dipped as wet cotton. To keep up appearances, I pretended agility, hiding the effort soon numb arms, temples tucked, eyes drenched with sweat. The woman who was sitting opposite me with the ugly and dry crowned at the knees, it was unbearable to the eye. Formally seated, insensitive to rain, wind, her spoiled life, the one day lost in an expedition decided by the whim of some old funeral half crazy. I looked at that face bent, lost in reverie faded guessed that by dint of returning to them every day for thirty years, dreams or maybe a vacuum gray uniform as those waters, those edges faded into the air laden droplets. "A woman who has become a monument to the dead abulante. A bride sacrificed at the stake of fidelity. A peasant Andromache ..." poisoned formulas as my effort was more exhausting. At one point I had the impression that the boat had stopped moving, stuck in the thick viscous waves. Vera's face lifted slightly, smiled, seemed to go to talk, and he changed his mind. "! The silly people! That's right. A wooden idol that these rednecks have struck at the entrance to his camp to deflect the rays of doom. A scapegoat offered to history. An icon in the shadow of which these poor collective farmers were able to fornicate, betray, steal, get drunk ... "Exhausted from fighting the wind, I ended up waving the paddle rather mechanically, without conviction. The contour of the church looked paunchy as far. "Well have had to let go of the poor Vera, until sacase the title of master in a nearby city. Without doubt the single biggest trip of a lifetime. His openness to the world. Then, pull, to the fold, in lookout on the bench outside the door, with his ear hanging forever: what if it was the sound of the boots of a soldier? A dry crowned the tomb of Anna, yes, precious, my dear, but who will flowers on your grave? The old will die and you will not have another Vera to take care of you ... "(...)
Why not wake? Stop rowing, curl up before her, squeezing hands, swat better, traded to kiss his hands. "Sleep in a kind of premature death in half the time it stopped at sixteen, walking like a somnambulist in the midst of those elderly who remember the war and the march of soldiers .. . Live an afterlife, the dead should see what she sees ... "We played lightly
shore of the island. I jumped to the ground, pulled the bow of the boat in the sand, I helped Vera down. The think that this woman lived what not for us to live up to after the broadcast of a sudden death a meaning to his life, that I had seemed so absurd. A sense that shone through every step, every gesture.
(...) Suddenly I realized that this was how she lived her afterlife. A slow journey without apparent goal but marked by a simple and profound sense. The boat docked in the dark, in the exact place where we started. "
Andrei Makine, The woman waiting , Barcelona, \u200b\u200bTusquets, 2006. ISBN84-8310-344-3
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