Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 21

Claudia is finishing up ironing your skirt. Sitting in your underwear on a chair, you are focused on the rumbling in your stomach. The hunger comes in waves. Nothing, and then an empty tunnel that opens up between your belly button and your throat.

‘Put this on. Let’s go.’

You grab your blue skirt. Your mother ironed the pleats, made it look like a fan. It’s pretty. You put it on and twirl. You are the wind.

Tables have been set up in the parish hall.

The neighbourhood families are seated, waiting patiently for their soup.

You feel like you’re at a restaurant. You try to sit up straight, to be worthy of your outfit.

You can’t wait. You like to eat.

You recognize almost all the families around you. They all look dressed up. More than usual. Not to hide their hunger. No, to greet it with dignity. To put it on notice that they aren’t afraid of it.

And yet the sound of hungry bodies finally being fed betrays the precariousness of the moment. Under their pristine fabrics, they are all hanging by a thread.