Paul Carbone fell from the train. His body rolls down the embankment, the skirts of his jacket floating give the appearance of a strange beetle gray. A tense arm on his stomach, just above the liver, the red hand of his own blood, and on hand, a black hole with regular borders, where death comes to surprise in the dampness of a night train Paris-Nice. Now his corpse defiled ground and scratched by brambles lies a few meters from the railway, in a pitiful and miserable little pile. * * *
She opens her eyes, and removes a specific act that the speaker crackles at the bottom of his right ear. A low whistle discomfort listening to the song, and parasite flow of images, one after another, just rhythm to his pleasant drowsiness. She turns off the equipment on his knee, leans over, opens his briefcase and pulls out a packet of copies of students, some of which are already daubed with red. She goes to work.
The train enters the station, mechanically modulated voice resonates in the car to announce the arrest. She gets up, puts on his coat, grabs her bag and down the train.
The cold slap, it brings the edges of his collar, not the press. The coffee there, the hot lights, the hiss of the percolator. A hazelnut croissant, the bus arrives in twenty minutes. On the counter, the tiny girl of the boss, sitting, chewing a sandwich with a contemplative air. She has a flower name, Capucine. Mine crumpled, smell delicious sleepy little girl, still steeped in dreams.
The bus slows down, stops at the gate of the school. It snowed yesterday, a cold moisture soaks the ground, his boots sinking. She climbed breathing hard the path to the building it will occupy today. It has six hours of classes to give Monday is a big day. She returns to her mentally schedule, number of rooms, students' names, the texts it should be photocopied. Will she have enough money to borrow some coffee? She knows that she drinks a little too much, it is certainly not very good. It recognizes a student who is waiting, standing in front of the building's entrance, perhaps the arrival of a friend. She smiled, hoping she does not greet, she did not want to talk.
The warmth of the staff room fell on her shoulders, the piece that sizzles the hum of conversations scheduled for the copier can not interrupt. She approaches the large rectangular machine, made his choice, the mechanism snaps into a small metallic noise and can get a few moments later the cup filled with hot liquid, to taste unpleasant, but still comforting . It tries to avoid his colleagues, wants to preserve this last bubble of silence before the big show - because just now, immediately, it will keep them, attract them to her, seduce them, again and again ...
The first bell rings in the hallway. She hurries to the end of drinking his coffee, throw the cup into the trash, adjusts his bag on his shoulder and headed for the stairs. Waterspouts of students rushed to the classroom, she has the impression of being grazed by a cyclone disheveled and screaming. She retains her sternly, trying to preserve his dignity - to an arrival faculty, not to show the anguish that still captures the giddiness that hugs his heart at the door, then they are massed there, smiling, cheeky, kind, if disturbing ... The second ring barely covers the hubbub, we're at it, the game can resume.
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