The weasel

By Yves Patrick Beaulieu

Jonathan Rabys thinks he has some peace, but a weasel is getting in the way of his quest. The curious girl won't get out of this without a hitch, that's for sure, if I get involved, he repeats to himself over and over in his head. He observes her without saying a word since a while and now his ears are ringing, a dull buzzing gives him a headache. But the neighbor doesn't see any of this, although ....

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Mar 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667453873

Yves Patrick Beaulieu

Yves Patrick Beaulieu ist französisch-Kanadienser, der in Quebec lebt, genauer im nordöstlichen Abitibi-Témiscamingue, eine Region im Herzen des kanadischen Nordwaldes gelegen.  Er präsentierte seinen ersten Roman 1991, "Als der neunte Mond vorbeizog", für den er eine regionale Auszeichnung erhielt. Der Autor kam zehn Jahre später mit seinem zweiten Roman, "Die Einsiedelei", zurück, der ebenfalls Anerkennung in seiner Adoptivheimat erfuhr. Sechs Novellen folgen. Dann widmet er sich dem Schreiben seines nächsten Romanes, "Dada der Verrückte", welcher den Zyklus der abitibischen Trilogie schließen wird.

Book preview

LA FOUINE

YVES PATRICK BEAULIEU

ISBN 978-1-7770899-4-8

The weasel

*

You complain about your neighbor who owns two old family houses, you say that he doesn't see to his business because he doesn't fix what he has to fix, you wonder about the red truck that parks in front of your house or about the black Labrador that barks at nothing. I don't care about any of that! In other words, I don't care about your gossip. All your comments, starting with the first one, give me nothing, absolutely nothing! Neither enrichment nor knowledge. Do you want to know? You bore me to death. Get out of here before I carry out my plan to remake your portrait. No, don't! Forget what I just told you, it's the warrior in me who was talking to you, the former soldier.  I understand myself.

*

But, no. I denied myself the pleasure of sending this nosy neighbor packing. I preferred to play the game on the same field as the invader. The owner has problems with the roof of his garage and it seems that this is why he is delaying the repair of his gallery...

Unless the roof falls on you first...

We have a side door.

Are you saying that the truck parked in front of my house is his oldest's?

That's right, yes.

And the other one, the one who lives with you and your wife?

This is his youngest... he lives downstairs in the basement.

Doesn't he work? I say that because...

Because?

He picks up the mail in the morning and passes by the house every morning...

And?

He has a wooden cane in one hand and in the other he is holding the leash of a small miniature dog with a bull-dog face, quite angry, thank you!

Ah?

You could say ‘energetic’ if you want. Have you seen my trailer?

I looked at the man. Already, he was pulling out of the back pocket of his faded jeans a smart phone, in front of which he began to quickly tap away. He was skinny, almost tall if you're talking five feet tall. His hair was short, his beard was done, and his barely trimmed mustache stretched over thin, tight lips, which were moving at the moment...

A 19-foot Boler, I tell you! A beauty, here, look at the coquette!

He sticks his phone up to my nose, all proud. I look over and see a slightly elongated half loaf of bread, a bulging trailer like in the days of bulging refrigerators. It's not ugly and it's not beautiful, but it's nothing more. I tell myself that the ergonomics of the machine allow for little friction with the elements; the wind must indeed follow its rounded curves as it passes. That is a question of fuel economy rather than aesthetics. I look at him. His little bright eyes are watching me. He is all honey, all smiles.

Beautiful, huh?

I know the company, it is based in Earlton. My uncle used to work there a few years ago. They're looking for a man of the cloth these days.

Not interested, I'm retired... Bowhunting is coming up.

I tell myself that the conversation is certainly not going to end immediately. The gentleman wants to be a hunter, and an experienced one at that, hence the spectacular entrance. Indeed, I observed his maneuver, earlier. He thought he was a cat and quietly slithered into my parking lot like a snake.

I was cleaning out the bed of my van and had my back to him when I turned just fast enough to see him take one last step in my direction, with a smile on his lips. He lost his smile for a fart. At that very moment, I was proving to him that I was not the first one in the business of fine hunting. He didn't know it, but he was dealing with someone much more dangerous than he was.

Afghanistan was behind me but  the country was well anchored in me and I had a certain difficulty to detach myself from this other universe, once inside.

His dog? Is he mean?

This one brought me back to reality pretty quickly, it must be said. Which dog are you talking about, the miniature or the Labrador?

I'm talking about Labrador. I've never seen him around. He barks too. You shouldn't let your dog bark, especially in the city!

My dog does not bark, as far as I know...

Well, no, of course not. I wasn't talking about your dog! Yours is fine! I know that you control it well.

"I don't control it, as you say. It's more a matter of mutual