The Footpath to the Collinettes

The back of the shop wasn’t equipped with any heating, and it was beginning to get a bit chilly during the evenings. To begin with my mother boiled water on the cooker, but it became too steamed up, so she quickly abandoned that idea.

My father, who was always looking for cheap solutions, returned home one day carrying a rather large box. We watched curiously as he pulled out a sort of green metallic mushroom pockmarked with round protuberances and pierced with holes: it was a paraffin heater.

Papa had bought this thing at the local hardware store. The owner had carefully explained to Papa what he must do and that a slight smell would be apparent at the start.

The ceremonial inauguration began around eight o’clock. First of all, it was necessary to feed the tank with paraffin, which my father did with the aid of his five-litre jerry can – under the silent and watchful eye of his wife.

On occasions such as these, we knew that the slightest comment on the subject would be superfluous and would most probably provoke a torrent of undesirable expletives. It was, therefore, advisable to shut up, if we could – Maman, the dog, and I.

After a quantity of liquid had spilt over the tiles – which my mother sponged up in complete silence – my father had to wipe the gauze, an operation that only my father could carry out successfully. Then the delicate and perilous moment arrived: setting it alight.

We remained silent during an interminable half hour. When our eyes became red because of the fumes, and we started coughing and sniffling in the unbearable odour, the mistress of the house did the only thing left to do: she opened the window wide. We were immediately freezing cold, but the sacrifice was worth it! We could now breathe freely and easily.

The clock stoically marked out nine crystal clear chimes.

Kneeling on all fours – like a suppliant to misfortune – in front of that which had become a generator of enough fumes to camouflage a tank, the head of the household carried out the final adjustments. We shivered in the perfect stillness. Suddenly, and so that the whole world could hear, the too-long-contained storm finally exploded.

‘The moron, he’s sold me a piece of shit!’ my noble progenitor shouted brusquely. ‘This piece of junk is unusable! It’s not possible; it dates from the concentration camps! This bloke’s an ex SS – he wants to gas us!’ His face was scarlet, and he rose suddenly, throwing menacing looks all round. ‘I’m going to give him a rectal injection… with his paraffin! Scum of the earth! And his contraption… his thingumajig… as a suppository!’ he shouted, brandishing his jerry can. Shrewdly the dog had slid under the table, out of harm’s way.

During this time, little desiring to inform the whole world of our difficulties concerning our heating, Maman quickly re-shut the window. Also, she had no desire of letting people hear her husband’s aggressive intentions towards the unfortunate salesman.

My father continued to lash out his fury upon him. ‘This whatsit’s a foul smelling load of trash! He’s sold me a piece of shit! There!’

‘But René… you said yourself…’ my mother timidly interrupted.