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claimed that things were never forgotten, merely stored in momentarily inaccessible places, usually in l'esprit profond; so it was not unknown for the inaccessible to become accessible, such as when you were in a dream state or otherwise bewitched. She supposed that was why he made his lists of train stations and the rivers of the capital cities of central Europe. Thomas was so American. Nothing was ever lost, only misplaced; and when something unwelcome entered his mind, he knocked wood. Now she craved a cigarette. The
Gitane smell was close but wafted away. She shut her eyes and put her hands on her face, her hands like claws, her fingers so very cold against her skin. Her nails were like chips of ice and she wondered if she was feverish. Her throat was sore, constricted as if a hand had closed around it. She did not understand why Thomas did not come for her. She was waiting for him.
    He was occupied with his friends. She tried to remember why the Americans were with them for lunch. Yes, of course. They had come for the funeral the day before. The funeral of the Englishman who lived in the farmhouse adjoining their own. He was over one hundred years old when he passed away in his sleep. Thomas and his two friends were pallbearers at the service, sparsely attended, only a few loyal neighbors and the mayor besides herself and Ghislaine, the village woman who cooked and kept house for the Englishman. The abbé was circumspect in his eulogy, a generic affair that took account of Monsieur Granger's long life and quiet death, his modest habits and unobtrusive character, before commending his soul to the grace of God, though the abbé's manner suggested that God might wait awhile before attending to it. The light was soft inside the church, yellow flowers banked beside the casket. Florette had picked them herself from the Englishman's greenhouse. Thomas and his American friends listened attentively, solemn expressions broken now and again by raised eyebrows. They buried the Englishman under the cherry tree by the wall in the meadow beside his house. There were no tears because the Englishman had led an agreeable life for a very long time, and if he had a complaint no one ever heard it. Ghislaine had turned to Florette and said that the Englishman had left her nothing, not a sou, after all the years she had looked after him and his wretched dogs, cairn terriers, filthy brutes, biters, six in all over the many, many decades he had lived in St. Michel du Valcabrère. Ghislaine looked after the dogs and the dogs graves, can you imagine such a disagreeable chore? The dog remains were on the south side of the cherry trees, while he will be on the north. They were all under the shade of the tree. Wasn't it appalling and unwholesome? And that was not all. He left the farmhouse and its contents, including the wine cellar and the English silver, to a niece in America and she was selling everything sight unseen. They had never met, Monsieur Granger and the American niece. They were perfect strangers. Yet for me, there's nothing. An irregular situation, Ghislaine said. She had only come to the funeral so that she could curse him silently and in person, another foreigner who arrived unbidden to enjoy French hospitality but refused to honor his debts. Debts were for other people. Also, he was not amiable, was untidy in his manner, often curt, one of those who thought the French owed him something. Yes, that was true. He had a grudge against us. He believed all France should be grateful that he chose to come and live among us, as if it were not his choice but our choice. They think we are innkeepers to the world! That was the way with foreigners estranged from their own countries. Wasn't it true that a person deserved to die under his own flag, among his own people? He will never be at rest. And I will say this also, Madame, between us two only. He had a stone in his shoe, something concealed. He had a dark past, that one. As with so many