PAUL
Dear Isabelle,
Do my letters get through? Am I writing to myself?
I lie here sometimes and drag myself back with you all. I see the blues, greens and the hazy yellows of the village and I feel my heart beat slow. I hear the chatter in the high street, the gentle clink of cutlery from the round tables outside the Hotel Avril, Father’s low laughter, the rustle of his newspaper. I feel my body slowly unclench, stretch my toes, roll my shoulders. I see me, the man you all remember, sitting languidly in the kitchen, a small glass of wine in my hand, teasing Mother as she cooks. The man whose concerns don’t move beyond what she might be making for dinner. He smooths the table with his palm. He has tanned hands. She is laughing, tickled by one of his stories.
I can’t remember the stories any more.
It doesn’t work. The noise is replaced – the lonely cough of my neighbour, distant talk from the guards in a language I don’t understand, conspiratorial whisperings, the too-low whine of aircraft overhead, shouting, an explosion. I see only blacks and greys. My body is angular, bunched up, alert. My eyes move quickly to doorways, turned by the harsh clang of an order, my palms quickly dampen, my heart drills through my body.
I miss that man in the kitchen, the man you write your letters to.
Paul