Goodbye, Father

Author: (French) Laurent, translated by Sun Wenjing
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-08-03
Features: The wind was strong, yet it felt warm and familiar, signaling that another sunny day would arrive along the Atlantic coast in April. Night fell. I pedaled my bicycle around a bend, lifting my head slightly from the seat, then quickly sped forward. The rhythmic sound of the sea's waves rumbled, its breath; a shadow dashed between the streetlights, and that was me. I rode fast, my feet pedaling faster, yet my body remained agile. I hadn’t realized how nimble I was. I increased the frequency of my pedaling until my body started to feel uncomfortable, then stopped. I wasn’t rushing for the sake of it—I had to save my father, find a doctor immediately. I rushed to the city center, toward the hospital. I had already reached the small square, which was said to be haunted in the past, often filled with wax-like skeletons in short, vulgar blue work clothes, wandering about. Where had the old people gone? Had the shelter been moved? Had they been dressed in noble attire? Had they conquered death? What had become of those huge yellow wooden clogs on their exposed calves? And what about those berets? Heart. It must be the heart. Just past 50, his heart was like a willful pump, no longer working hard for him. This was the belief (impression) left by my father when he reached the age of wisdom (50)—I was just 10 years old then. He knew it well, and besides, all the men in the family had passed away without warning in their prime. "Ah, I should have gone to the other world long ago," my father said. Or else, he’d say, "No, back then, I would have already breathed my last." Whenever I heard such words, I would retreat to my room and cry silently. Since childhood, I had realized that loved ones would leave this world quietly, so I began to worry about my grandmother’s health. As she was elderly, in my eyes, the risks she faced were great. On countless summer nights, I would get out of bed to check her breathing, or else, when the roar of the sea waves came from afar, I would peek at the blanket covering her in the dim, half-lit light, though it was hard to tell if the blanket was moving. P1-2