the only certainties in this day: I must buy fruit at the market, and meat at the butcher’s. Everything else depends on other people right now.
“Surrealistic,” the lawyer commented upon receipt of those documents in the four young men’s possession. Whether they’ll manage to obtain more this morning; whether delays have run out for an appeal, if such is needed; whether there’s need for a trip to Toulouse with them today; if so, whether we can find someone for the drive; whether the combined knowledge of French of all four, plus my attempts at making sense of what they say will be up to the task… etc.
As for the locals and their reactions – eh. Mystère total. I’ll take that one as it plays.
voilà, and revision too, maybe.
After the four left last night, I started Rouletabille Le Mystère de la chambre jaune by Gaston Leroux. An old Livre de poche edition picked up for fifty centimes. In which Leroux’ young Rouletabille outdoes Poe in Double assassinat de la rue Morgue and Conan Doyle in Speckled Band – no mean feat. In this yellow room, there are no openings, none. None whatsoever. And yet…
Allez. Marché and whatever comes next.
18:55 – the four now have a lawyer – and a good one. Plus a secure roof, heating, and food for the next few days.
On to the evening with friends.