The Islands of Dr. Thomas Read Online Free PDF Page A

Île aux Marins and the cliffs of the Route du Cap. From here, she could see the monster, far behind Petit St-Pierreits, waves lead-coloured despite the sun, their foamy crests, broken off of the waves by the squalls, floating over them like an eerie mist. In the distance, the windswept coast of Newfoundland, flecked by large ice patches, emerged in a rare brightness. There was not a boat in sight; no one would have been foolish enough to take to the sea.
    Despite the cold, Émilie took deep breaths, filling her lungs with the odours of iodine, seaweed, and even the pungent garbage from the port. Without thinking, she tasted the damp, salty air that always reminded her of the blocks of butter she was sent to get at the Olivier farm every summer, and that the farmer’s wife carefully wrapped in waxed paper.
    A particularly strong squall nearly knocked her to the ground as she made her way along the slippery stones and she resigned herself to walking back up the hill to the road, which was sheltered from the windy salt-shore. It was here that she caught sight of François, walking along the other side of the road. Camera in hand, he was examining some old buildings that were from another age, a time when fishing, tall ships, rope-makers, and caulkers still gave life to the island, the golden age of the “terre-neuvas.”
    Nowadays in the port of Saint-Pierre, people spoke Gallician and Basque, and the Spanish trawlers that ploughed through the waters near the Grand Banks, two by two, had replaced the sailing ships from Saint-Malo and Granville. The warehouses filled with salt cod in the early years of the colony and then with crates of alcohol during the Prohibition in the 1930s now languished in a slow and anguishing decline, their siding, roof shingles, and window frames lifted off by one gust of wind after the other.
    Ã‰milie walked over to François, overjoyed at their chance meeting. For once, there was no one around, no appearances to keep up, no faking interest in a boring conversation. As she was crossing the street, he turned in her direction and waved vigorously at her. He hoisted the strap of his camera back up on his shoulder and watched her move towards him.
    Ã‰milie glowed with happiness; she was almost running in her eagerness to get to him. When was the last time someone looked at me like that? François wondered, touched by her spontaneity.
    Heaven knows why, but women were interested in him! He was never without women to go out with, companions who would spend an evening with him, a few weeks, occasionally a few months. His social standing, his success, his very comfortable income—François was modest, he would never think of calling it “wealth”—made it easy to meet people this way. He often thought it was more a question of a woman’s pride in “catching” a successful architect, the thrill of the conquest, than it was about being interested in him. This doubt made him hesitate to talk to them about anything serious; he had never tried to describe his childhood or his career or his deepest desires, even to the most intelligent of the women he met.
    â€œWhat are you doing out here in this wind?” François exclaimed when she was beside him.
    â€œThe same thing as you are, I imagine,” laughed Émilie. She gave him a kiss on each cheek, her lips icy and salty at the same time.
    He started to laugh: Only she could talk to him unpretentiously like that. He had noticed that people did not speak to him the same way anymore. In the last few years, they seemed to talk with him differently. Was it out of respect or embarrassment? Did his fame and fortune intimidate them? Some, indeed, seemed impressed, and he suspected that even people who disagreed with him completely treated him with kid gloves. But not Émilie! With her, it was quite the opposite. When they were at a family dinner, or having a relaxed conversation with friends as they were