A Love Like Blood Read Online Free PDF

one of those times when you feel impelled to do something, to act your way through a scene or two of your life that has already been written for you. You find yourself walking somewhere almost without thinking, as if unseen forces have a hold of you. Or maybe you do know what you’re doing, deep down, but it’s so buried in your unconscious that it feels automatic.
    Within minutes, I was in the park beside the chateau. The building itself hadn’t changed, but outside there were small signs to show it had returned to its former role as the Musée des Antiquités.
    Briefly, I remembered the Major, and his passion for the ivory Venus. I remembered old Monsieur Dronne and wondered if he was happily taking care of ‘his museum’ once more, but my mind was on something else, and I found myself heading for the edge of the park overlooking the valley, the river, towards the city.
     
    I had to look at myself, at my arms, to see the black wool of my suit in order to remind myself that I was not in uniform, that the war was over, and that this was 1951 , for the park looked just the same, or so I thought at first.
    But, though I looked and looked, I could not see the bunkers in the park. They appeared to have been removed. Seven years had passed, my memory might have distorted things, but . . . no, I knew I was in the right place, at the side of the chateau and before the first avenue of trees.
    The only thing different, as far as I could see, was a new little bandstand. I wandered towards it, trying to remember, and then I understood that what I was looking for was the bandstand; it had been built on top of the bunker, the entrance to which was now a small wooden door, firmly padlocked. A small window had been punched in the front side, right underneath where a bandleader would stand, and I crouched down on my hands and knees, trying to see inside.
    I couldn’t. It was too dark, and the glass was grimy and mud-splashed, being so low to the ground.
    A couple passed by me on bicycles, looking at me strangely, and I tried to give the air that this was something one did every day, but I stood nonetheless, and walked back towards the town.
     
    I found a large and noisy brasserie and was pleased to get a table to one side, where I could observe both the cold square outside, and the diners in the restaurant.
    And there it was that I saw him.

Chapter 6
     
    Him.
    I knew at once it was the man from the hole. He was turned in profile to me, sitting across a small table from a young woman, in her early twenties I guessed.
    I remember that for a moment I questioned myself, told myself I was being fanciful, wanted to dream up this powerful coincidence in an attempt to destroy the ennui that pervaded me just as much as everyone else, but it was, unquestionably, him.
    My first impulse was to run, but the waiter appeared in front of me. I looked up.
    ‘ Je peux manger quelque chose? C’est trop tard, peut-être . . . ? ’
    ‘ Pas du tout, ’ he said, and began setting out cutlery for me, placing a large card menu on the table. Adding in English, ‘In Paris, you can eat at any time.’
    I looked across at the man again, and realised he had not seen me, and probably would not see me. I was fractionally behind him, and I could watch both him and the girl easily without drawing attention to myself. While I was glad I was not too close to them, I soon regretted not being able to hear what they were saying, although I could hear enough to know they were speaking in French, and fluently. I would most likely not have understood them even had I sat at their table.
    The girl was striking. Not beautiful, but there was something about her. She had a slightly pointed nose, but it was fine and gave her an air of nobility. Her mouth was noticeably wide, but the most striking thing about her was her hair; long auburn ringlets hung beyond her shoulders, quite unlike the short French fashions.
    Though I couldn’t hear what she was saying, she spoke in an