Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 28

You’ve been in line for two hours. The ration card in your clammy hand. You close your fist over it so as not to drop it, or else everyone will go hungry, because of you. You’ve pictured the scene at least twenty times: the card falling, the wind kicking up and carrying it off. You running after it. The card flying off to the river and throwing itself into it. You hesitating and diving in. The river swallowing you up. You floating with the dead in the cemetery.

You tighten your grip.

Take a few steps forward.

Seven ounces of sugar, seven ounces of butter, one and one-third ounces of tea, five and one-third ounces of coffee. The weekly food ration.

The lady in front of you smells like burnt caramel. Her skirt brushes your face and you like it. You want to sleep under it. Your little head pressed against her fat thighs. Her damp, sweet skin. You would slip your tattered card into her sock for safekeeping. And you would rest a while in the shade of her bottom.

The line moves forward a few steps, and you collide with her feet, apologizing.