The wind redoubles in force. The storm is unleashed. Rain had been forecasted, but no one expected this. Fire trucks go up and down the roads to sound the alarm. They start by evacuating the school. Children jump in puddles, get slapped, cry. Adults yell, push them, carry them. Someone shouts that the river has burst its banks. This makes them laugh. A river bursting the banks! Ha ha! They laugh and cry at the same time. The youngest ones call for their mommies. The mommies, in their houses, wring their hands, look out the window, turn on the radio. No more electricity. Night falls as if someone suddenly pulled a black curtain over the village. Cars lift up off the ground, wobble, gently swirl, then, like a docile herd being led to the slaughterhouse, move into the streets, tossed about by a torrent of mud, rumbling as it rolls along. Basement windows shatter under the pressure. Cellars fill with pebbles, water, earth, rubble, silt vomited by the river. The most adventurous residents—the brave, the crazy, the miserly—come out of their homes wearing fishing boots to save what they can.
The children are safe in the community center adjoining the town hall, located on higher ground. They are given stale cookies from last Christmas. They eat them. One of the teachers is crying. She says her baby is at his nanny’s. The nanny lives in the old windmill, at the river’s edge. The firefighters reassure her, explaining that this isn’t going to last; they’ve evacuated the school as a precautionary measure, but everything is under control. She doesn’t believe them. She races toward the door. She wants to go save her baby herself. The children cheer her on. Go, teacher! The teacher knows how to do everything. She knows how to swim. She is good at geography. She knows the names of all the rivers and all the streams in France, maybe even in the world. She knows how to make bumps disappear and how to put on Band-Aids that never come off. They trust her. But the firefighters grab her by the waist, scold her, tackle her to the ground. She doesn’t have the right to go save her baby. The children throw themselves onto the firefighters. They want to save the teacher so she can go save her baby. They kick and bite. Go, teacher! They all know her baby. She brought him to class when he was born. His name is Nino. He is very small. He doesn’t have any hair. He wears pajamas all day. Go, teacher! The other teacher, the one who has a grown son at reform school because he keeps stealing mopeds, grabs the children by their collars and sends them flying, all the while screaming that if they keep it up, they won’t go to the forest, the pool, the fair; that they’ll never see their mommies again. They don’t listen to a thing. They’re like the river. They’re bursting their banks. Nothing will stop them, nothing will make them be quiet.
But then the nice teacher, Nino’s mommy, who has escaped from the free-for-all, suddenly stands up in front of them and says: “It’s okay, children, I’m going to tell a story now.” She’s not crying. She has regained her normal voice, her normal head. The children stop their assault, sit cross-legged, like she taught them to do, in order to really concentrate. A sweaty fireman with disheveled hair and scarlet cheeks offers her a chair. She sits down and puts her hand under her chin, like she always does when thinking of what story she’s going to tell.
“What about Nino?” asks a small voice from the group at her feet.
“Nino is very strong,” she says.
“Does he know how to swim?”
“Yes.”
“How did he learn?”
“He learned in my stomach,” she responds.
The children nod seriously. Of course, they say to themselves, that’s normal. He’s the teacher’s son.