Typewriter

Chère Madame. Vous ne vous rappelleriez pas de moi, mais de ma part… Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…

She flicks the return bar – PING – and her fingers fall back into rhythm. Catherine’s French comes as naturally as the movement of her hands on the keys.

Dear Madame. You will not remember me but, for my part, I recall you vividly. Thirty-seven years ago, your village was holding a vide-greniers, a car boot sale, as we say in English. I had driven for hours through fields of sunflowers and vines and lavender and I was thirsty. And there, suddenly, a church that looked like a child had drawn it. A bar with men smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine at wooden tables.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…

Madame, how to express my thanks?

What caught my attention was a black case with silver latches. Thinking back, it’s like remembering