A History of Forgetting

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Book: Read A History of Forgetting for Free Online
Authors: Caroline Adderson
child. Denis wouldn’t budge. He looked like a man being asked to step into oblivion. They had to prise his fingers off the banister. ‘Ahhhhhhhh,’ he moaned as they led him down; in his mind, he was plunging.
    â€˜What is that awful smell?’ he asked when they had finally got him out of the building.
    â€˜Spring,’ Malcolm answered. For months they’d been breathing air heady with garlic and wine reducing, and the reek of Yvette’s combustibles.
    They said goodbye to Yvette, Denis kissing both her cheeks. ‘A nice woman,’ he commented after she had driven off. ‘Let’s invite her again.’ Turning, he began his shuffle back towards the apartment, but stopped short when he saw the building. ‘This is not our place!’
    â€˜We’re going shopping. Come.’
    â€˜Shopping?’
    â€˜The walk will do you good.’
    If Denis kept his eyes down and his hands in the pockets of his coat so his arms did not hang down so troglodytically, they looked like any other couple out for a walk on the first sunny day in weeks. The cherry trees were beginning to bloom, the clumps of crocuses open. Robins paced the lawns and yanked stubbornly on worms. But if Denis lifted his eyes and squinted around, he grew fretful and claimed that they were lost.
    â€˜No. We’re going shopping,’ Malcolm told him.They passed the seniors’ centre and Malcolm spotted Mrs. Parker bombing through the parking lot on her scooter. She didn’t see him. She didn’t see that far.
    â€˜Nous sommes perdus!’
    He patted Denis’ shoulder, then picked a crocus for his lapel. ‘I know exactly where we’re going.’
    They neared the corner where they would turn onto the avenue of stores. In front of the bank, Denis nudged Malcolm. ‘Look who’s here!’ he hissed. Inside, a line of people waited for a teller, none of them familiar. But Malcolm was looking in the bank while Denis was staring at his own nemesis reflected in the smoked glass, a mauve crocus perking in the buttonhole of his coat.
    â€˜We’ll give him the slip.’ He took Denis’ elbow and hustled him around the corner. ‘Is he following?’
    Denis looked over his shoulder. ‘Non.’
    They went first into the bakery where Denis seemed immediately less anxious. Around food, he felt at home. He began chatting to the girl behind the counter, a young thing susceptible to charm, who stood listening, rapt and comprehending not a word. To Malcolm she said, ‘It’s French, right? I took French in school, but only remember a few words.’
    â€˜Say something to him.’
    â€˜I can’t.’
    â€˜Go on. Try.’
    â€˜Je t’aime beaucoup,’ she blurted, then reddened.
    Delighted by this impromptu declaration, Denis reached across the counter for her hand. ‘Je vous aime aussi.’ When they left, Denis with a baguette under his arm, everyone smiled after them.
    â€˜Au revoir!’ chimed the girl.
    â€˜Must you always do that?’ Malcolm asked, pretending to be annoyed.
    â€˜Quoi?’
    â€˜Collect admirers everywhere we go. I can’t take you anywhere.’
    â€˜Bah,’ said Denis, smiling. ‘Elle est bête, la pauvre.’
    Outside the fish store they found a dog tied to a parking meter, a golden Labrador with its muzzle stretched out long on its yellow paws. When Denis stopped, it lifted its despairing wet brown eyes.
    Malcolm stepped inside, for the first time noticing how many reflective surfaces there were in the shop: the chrome edging and the glass on the cases, the black counters, the mirror behind the cash register. In any one of them Denis might see himself, so Malcolm stuck his head out the door where Denis was standing with his free hand on his hip, the other holding the baguette, talking to the dog.
    â€˜And does she often tie you up like this?’
    The dog was sitting up now. It jerked

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