TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

Join the Dance It’s said in Alsatian, a German dialect from Strasbourg studded with French words in which, in front of the woman who has empty-handed, he voices his regret:

“You should’ve let me go do it. I told you.”

Tall and skinny with his specter-like allure and emaciated, bearded face calling forth images of fauns from Antiquity, he tries to justify himself in front of her. She remains seated and pale, head lost in who knows what absurd profoundness. “Enneline, in these times when misfortune and bristle growmore than grass, you wouldn’t have any milk. We wouldn’t have been able to feed him. And, doing that is better than eating him like others are doing.” Ennelinedoesn’tsayanything. Seatedonabenchnearanengraver’s press, she lengthily taps out a rhythm with her fingertips on the edge of the printing device—tap, tap, tap . . .—then she gets up. She goes out into the street, leaving the door to the atelier open. In clogs, Enneline extends a leg behind her as if in ballerina shoes and looks to the sky. The blonde pirouettes and extends her back while leaning forward, raising her hands and spreading apart her fingers. She sidesteps one way, then the other. The wooden soles clashwith filth. She launches into a half-turn, spreading her arms that she extends with grace before flapping them like the wings of a dragonfly. Tap, tap, tap, tap . . .

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