Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 39

Outside, the sky is turning grey. You hurry. You walk past the plant where women work. You stop to look at them. Their gestures are as perfectly timed as the short hand on the clock in the living room. Fine and exact. Precise, female hands.

They are making weapons. Turning pots into warships.

They wear berets, and their clothes have a sober, military cut.

They are like ballerinas. The elegance of the useful gesture.

They are also a motivation, a reward. The men who go off to the front fight for them: their beauty is part of the war effort.

Way in back, you think you spot Hilda Strike, dressed to run, her slender body and warrior presence. She looks up at you.

It’s raining. You walk slowly home.