Catherine, usually impassive, was holding her sides as well. I had just told them about my unsuccessful attempts at gestural synchronization with the guy in the Métro. “I don’t see what’s so funny. I almost got beaten up because of you.” They didn’t answer, still doubled over. “I ought to be the one making fun of you!” I said. “Your trick doesn’t work!” Between fits of laughter, Dubreuil repeated what the African man had said, imitating his accent: “Ya finished taking da piss, mon?” They broke out in uncontrollable laughter again, so contagious that in the end I had to join them. We were on the terrace on the garden side of the mansion, comfortably seated in deep teak armchairs. The late afternoon sun gave a bronze color to the carved stone of the building. The stone was beginning to radiate the accumulated heat, and, along with it, the delicate perfume of the immense climbing rose that clung to the wall. I was enjoying this moment of rest, as I was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the previous night.
What do You think about The Man Who Risked It All?
