Interrupted nap

Author: (French) Philippe Delerm, translated by Huaiyu
Translator: Huaiyu / Country:
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-04-01
Features: Last June, China Minshu Press published a beautiful illustrated book titled "Moments of Paris," this small booklet records countless vivid and iconic moments in Paris. Earlier, Harbin Publishing House also released a small book titled "Not Lonely." "This is the water in the pond, the water in the spring; this is the water on Wednesday afternoon," the author who wrote these words is the French master of the "microscopic school," Philippe Delerm. In 1997, the best-selling "Mug of Beer" in 22 countries brought him success. This book continues his writing advocacy and exploration of the "microscopic school," focusing on the small themes of life with the unique elegance and romance of a Frenchman. Many detailed descriptions and delicate emotional expressions are like the rich aroma of coffee in the afternoon. In the author's portrayal, these small themes have great value, which is the contribution of the "microscopic school." This book is his masterpiece. However, without bread, it still causes discomfort, of course, this discomfort cannot be compared to the harm suffered. Without bread, you break the routine and become unruly. Moreover, those who are cautious provide lessons: in the back of the car, on the bench, at Zhoukou in the evening, they have already placed the life-saving loaf of bread at five o'clock in the afternoon, which will compensate them in all traffic jams. They will only come home late at night, exhausted, not even wanting to eat dinner, even sneakily eating something. But they will have their bread. It's not just a food issue, but also a spiritual sustenance. Bread is the skeleton and structure of the day. A little bitter and brown crust, a little crumb: life finds its pillar here. For those who did not think of distributing this unremarkable measure at sunset, it is unlucky, because it is far from measuring our appetite, but measuring our foresight. When the guests do not leave, everything is already allocated, except for some salad, the terrible problem of late guests will soon appear, and every time it will be unexpected. We feel so generous, but humiliation comes: "Can you stay and eat a little crust?" They are primitive organisms, amoebas, just like those seen under the microscope in biology class. We often wonder what we need to see under that small light, of course, only these things, only these, only these grayish transparent bodies appearing between the upper and lower eyelids. You lie on the beach under the strong sunlight. You close your eyes. Amoebas walk across the screen formed by your eyelids. They slowly move left and right, then disappear above your eyes. At this moment, another one follows. Of course, if you close your eyes tightly, you won't see them anymore. But exactly when you lie face up on the hot sand with your eyes half-closed, you feel good. They appear and disappear. You hear everything: the sound of the waves, the screams of children above, the cries of seagulls. Occasionally, a sentence will pop up from under the umbrella: "I watched 'Capital Forum' on Sunday, and since then, I don't want to eat anything anymore!" But more commonly, imperatives spread through the air: "Marina, don't go too far!" Those amoebas, according to a changing structure, gather and arrange themselves into curves or "Z" shapes. Those small water pearls gradually disappear, drawing the back of the sky and summer. Now, it seems like an insect, like the silhouette of a mantis that is disintegrating before it takes shape, you see, it's like the Big Dipper, then it's like translucent and granular cassava powder. On the back of the eyelids, people curl in the hot flow, accompanied by faint sounds, only thinking that nothing is floating. This is like the world seen under the old microscope between the upper and lower eyelids, a world moving towards a vast, insignificant infinity and disappearing into the opposite screen. Shortly after, you will open your eyes. The sea has suddenly become green. But you are not in a hurry to give up the gray. You stay there, lying completely into the armchair, surrounded by mist, floating on the blurred silk sheet tied for you by the barber. At first, his movements are sliding his fingers on your neck to tie a small protective towel—then, you can only let yourself be led. In the end, you will be by so many authoritative actions, so much attentive care, and the scent of violets and ferns scattered throughout the room. When the barber speaks behind you, you are not polite to stare at him in the mirror, and this will make him a little impatient—he doesn't say a word, but his hands grab your head from the temples, slowly and unchangeably correcting your posture. Then, after a short pause, the ballet of the comb and scissors starts again, and the conversation resumes. At this moment, something quite strange happens: you chat while looking at each other in the mirror. You can't say you're really looking at each other, nor can you say you're admiring each other—if you admire each other, then it would be inappropriate to oppose such arrogance with this kind of meticulous manual labor going on near your ear. You look at each other, but you quickly forget each other. You become the usual kind of preachy conversation that is very insignificant but widely approved, such as the development of goalkeeper techniques in football—you have no choice, it's money that's in charge. However, time is paid for, and everything comes last. The movements slow down, and the barber is like an tireless whip master, freeing you with just a slight swing of the nylon apron. He brushes the remaining hair off you with a soft brush. The terrible moment comes. The barber walks to the tool stand, picks up a mirror, and stops rhythmically at three positions: the back of your neck, three-quarters to the left, three-quarters to the right. It is only at this moment that you suddenly realize the magnitude of the disaster...’ Yes, even if it's about the same as what was requested at the beginning, even if you really want to cut it shorter, but every time you forget how foolish the hairstyle looks after it's cut. And this disaster still needs to be acknowledged with a whisper of "Okay, okay," this slightly painful agreement requires the false concealment of a winking eyelid, the of the barber shop manager, and sometimes an absurd "Good," that makes you laugh or cry. And all of this comes at a price. Undoubtedly, they are widows. Their hair is usually mauve purple, very curly, and they usually wear blouses with hats, printed with light gray or truly light purple tree patterns, and their wrists usually have the imprint of a bracelet, but they don't wear one. They sit in front of the slot machines, staring blankly, listless. They take coins one by one from the plastic buckets with an automatic movement—this is strange, this small bucket for playing with sand, now in front of the ticking of the slot machine, has become a toy for the elderly. Around them, people are relatively young—someone puts in coins, and others comment behind them, making "Wow" or "Ah" sounds. But these little old ladies don't even blink their eyes. They sit on the stools like wooden people, always watching the cherries, the yellow peaches, the white pears, the bananas turn. Suddenly, it's done, all the reels have turned to cherries; only to hear the dull and decisive "click," and then the rain of coins falls into the slots below. This sound continues, and others look up, some stop, discouraged by the long sound of the rain. But these little old ladies don't pick up the coins. They play with high stakes. They have time. There is no joy on their faces. These little old ladies at the small gambling den are frightening. For a long time, they have forgotten the taste of yellow peaches or cherries. They need nothing, nor do they have any desires. But they want money, and they want it mechanically. The orange-yellow light makes their faces pale, those American words they don't understand, and they ignore the music that is too harsh. The first time they enter the arcade, people think they are a bit funny. But soon, people understand that this ridiculous little furnace is for them, for their absurd victories and tasteless failures. They finally start to put the coins piled in the slots into the toy bucket. They put on their coats, and the staff counts their winnings, then gives them paper money. They take the last one left in their mouths, holding a cigarette, with a slow movement. People really want to know that at this moment, their hearts will beat faster. But they don't want to tell anyone. They walk slowly along the embankment illuminated by the light. It is a summer night. The girls are all wearing their collared shirts on their shoulders, and the children are eating ice cream. These little old ladies disappear into the night. Tomorrow, they will come again, and they will play.