The Bark Tree Read Online Free PDF Page A

with much gusto. The papers are folded and their owners courageously dart into an appalling melee, each is trying to conquer his usual seat. When everyone is accommodated, the receptacle is closed. And once again, the merry train sets off for the big city (taking good care not to walk on the track. Strictly forbidden).
    The being of minimal reality looks out of the window. He calculates the number of times he’s probably seen that particular factory and is surprised that he’s never noticed that weatherboarding hut CHIPS a bit further on. Like the little ducks, he thinks. He suddenly conceives a really extraordinary project: one day he’ll go and have some French fries (chips) in that hut. Has a moment’s anxiety wondering whether CHIPS isn’t someone’s name: Mr. Chips. (Good-by.) But he doesn’t think it’s very likely, and smiles.
    A meussieu in the corner notices the smile. But what’s caused it? Last night, wasn’t the face convulsed? From another seat, a great sack of potatoes also observes the smile. “Another nut,” he decides. “Soon have to be put away.” He discreetly presses his foot on that of the man opposite him, who raises his snout from a rag which is the simultaneous defender of public decency and the metallurgical industry, and directs his attention, with an artful movement of his neck, to the nut. They smile at each other. They know the being of minimal reality, and the being of minimal reality knows them. They’ve exchanged: goodmorningmeussieuhowareyouthismorningnotsobadandhowareyouthere’sabitofanipintheairbutit’sgoingtobehotlaterons. The one facing the engine is a bearded and short-sighted hatter who made a fortune during the war manufacturing very French caps; since he has a lot of children, he thinks it’s his duty to travel third class, on account of their future (the children’s). He has a car too, but it’s only for Sundays : it’s used for carting the brats about. As he’s shortsighted, the local people don’t think his brats’ chances of survival are very high. Only yesterday, the silly dope ran into the barrier at the Outer Circle level crossing.
    “Just as well I’m a good driver; otherwise, my friend, there’d have been a catastrophe, a ca-tass-trophy. If I hadn’t had all my wits about me, we’d all have been dead, a terrible accident—terr-rrible; but I kept my wits about me (slap on the thigh of the meussieu with his back to the engine) hahahahahahaha.”
    The meussieu with his back to the engine, who has some regard for the hatter, smiles admiringly. The observer looks at them both ferociously. The minimal reality has stopped smiling, he’s still cherishing his project: he’ll go and have some French fries. Which day? He can hardly do so other than on a Saturday afternoon. What will his wife think of this curious venture? She’ll think it very odd. He’ll never be able to explain to her. Either he won’t do it or he won’t tell her about it, he’ll tell her he was working late. He doesn’t at all like lying. Right, now he’s really in a quandary. He frowns, and purses his lips.
    “When I was seven years old, I was working ten hours a day for my father, who was a china merchant. And he didn’t spare the blows when I broke something, believe me. That’s how I was brought up, and I’ve no complaints. Ah, it’s not like that these days!”
    It’s the back-to-the-engine perorating. The observer is amazed: then there are people who talk like that, and then he smiles (inwardly, because he aims at impassivity) at his naïveté. Now he’s appreciating it. The back-to-the-engine carries on imperturbably; he is a banker. At least that’s what he claims; he’s suspected of being at the very most an exchange-broker. But in any case, he’s a very respectable meussieu. He contributed fifty francs to the prize-giving and twenty-five francs to the firemen (or something else). The mothers are a bit suspicious of his white hair; they’re afraid he might be a