There was not enough room for the pair of us to move about with soap and razor or socks and shirts. So I got myself ready first and, knotting my tie, called him to wake up. ‘I am awake. I’ve been awake for hours.’ ‘Why didn’t you get up?’ ‘Nothing to do. What would I do?’ He clambered slowly out of bed and shook his head. ‘It’s a really mouldy room this, and the lav’s miles away.’ ‘I’m going down to breakfast. Don’t take all day, I want to get over to Jericho early and I’ve got to dump you at the Theobalds before. Clean your teeth. Remember?’ In the trellis-and-rose-papered dining-room only Monsieur Forbin, the walker who had moved me out of my room, and I were present. He was pouring coffee, reading Var Matin propped against a pot of white daisies. We nodded across at each other. He set down his coffee pot, poured milk. He was about seventy, in stout walking-boots and flapping khaki shorts. Eugène came swiftly through the swing door from the kitchen with a small foil-wrapped packet and a half-bottle of Evian which he set on Monsieur Forbin’s table, then brought me my coffee and a dish of hot croissants covered with a little cloth.
What do You think about A Period Of Adjustment (1994)?
