Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Laura Sintija ČCerniauskaitėe

fragrance? Isabel didn’t notice it right away. It suddenly occurred to her one evening that for quite some time the whole house had been infused with this new scent. She didn’t do anything to stop it. Silently she watched, resigned, how less and less of him returned home. She watched how he kicked the mud from his shoes as he came in, how he took off his coat and sat down opposite her and talked incessantly, melting slowly before her eyes like a crust of ice at the tail end of winter. ‘Mama, when I die, take me to the barn and lay me there,’ Gailius said one evening, out of the blue. He was doing his homework at the kitchen table. ‘You’ll never die,’ Isabel replied, without turning from the stove. ‘The barn isn’t any use to you anyway . . .’ ‘For goodness sake!’ ‘When I try to have a serious conversation, why do you treat me like an idiot?’ ‘Because you talk like a fool.’ ‘It ’s stupid to face the cooker and pretend that your son will live for ever.’ Isabel turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry, mama,’ Gailius whispered.

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