Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 46

On the train back to Ottawa, you feel as though you are the only one moving and that everything else is standing still. The night outside is deep and radiant. You have Marcel’s hypnotic drawing tucked in your pocket. You have a geyser in your stomach and there is nothing around you to stop its gushing.

You knew nothing about Montreal. Aside from Hilda Strike and snippets about Duplessis.

You still don’t know much more than that. Except that a door has opened onto bodies in motion, bellowing in a cloud of smoke, sipping and sharing wine, reflecting on arcane, appealing shapes.

These people have rekindled your interest in others.

You were an island, and now you feel like you might have a country.