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twenty years earlier, his life would have been completely different. Not
to say that it would have been a bed of roses —the metaphor made him
smile to himself as he was driving back home—, but his life would have
been full and meaningful. Now, is it that I am “in love”? How can I be
so conventionally romantic at fifty-two? Romantic love is not enough
or even necessary to lead a meaningful life. Carol herself... My fight for
endangered species, the modest work I have been doing in my little lab,
my work with Aboriginal people, all this is meaningful, or then nothing
is. Carol likes me for these things, she told me so, she does not despise
me for not being an artist, or as well read as she is. There are other
things in life!
When Fred arrived at the garden-centre, there were two patrol
cars before the wide open wire gate, with all their flashing lights on. The
alarm was still sounding. Several guys had broken in after shooting the
dogs. Unable to force the lock of the safe where he kept the product of
his weekend sales, they had fled with some petty cash when they were
caught in action by a first patrol. The cops were only two, they would
not chase them, wanting to check they had not hurt someone inside or
set fire to the house: there are so many arsonists these days. It was better
there had been no arrest, thought Fred. They would not come back to
take revenge. But tomorrow he had to see Carol. Could he leave Sarah to
close the shop for him in the late afternoon, after what had happened?
He would have to contract surveillance. And he was sorry for the dogs.
Although, if Carol and the baby eventually came to live with him, it would
be safer to have professionally trained German shepherds instead.
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BABETTE NORTHROP AVAIT ce qu’on appelle un heureux caractère,
à moins qu’elle ne fût simplement une personne
équilibrée, ce qui n’excluait nullement qu’elle jouît d’une
sensibilité très fine. Jacques, autrefois, nourrissait volontiers une espèce
de ressentiment sournois à son endroit à cause de ce qu’il voulait voir,
dans ses mauvais jours, plus nombreux que les bons, comme un optimisme
béat. Devinant, sans le nommer, quel effroi dictait cette réticence,
Babette lui avait dit son fait, mais sans rancune. Au retour de Jacques