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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 82 | volume XV | January-February, 2012



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 82January-February, 2012
Prose

Pierrefittes Train Station

Excerpt from the novel "My Antonio Diavolo", Blesok, 2010.


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p. 1
Sibila Petlevski

There was something quite charming about the deserted depot thanks to the signpost with the name Pierrefittes inscribed on it. Railroad tracks choked up with grass in between the sleepers. The station building kept in a surprisingly good repair. One could be tempted into waiting on the empty platform that looked as if the train departed only a minute ago. What was the last time you'd been taken unawares by one of those rare and precious moments of absolute bliss the source of which you found difficult to explain? In comparison to the feeling of happiness for which there always must be a good reason, the blissful joy feeds on the fragments of banality. The merest trifle such as the word Pierrefittes could come as a windfall to a foreigner like me because it has in itself a triggering mechanism capable of releasing a one-shot emotion and sprinkling the bliss of the moment as if it was sprayed from a toy pistol. But then, if one would be able to single out all the "originators" of the last year's joys and draw them up close together he would found himself in the museum of superfluous antiquities. What a mighty museum it would be! The collection of stubs and gnawed remnants of what once used to be a solid, close-grained reality.
    It was a nice, sunny day, unusually mild for December.
    'Look! The pines.' Annie calls for my attention.
    I am watching for a while. I just see the pines. 'And?,' I ask. 'What's it all about?'
    She points to the tips of the trees: 'There. Up there. On the very top. You see now? … It looks like an animal.'
    'It's not a beast,' I say. 'Not a bird, either.'
    'What is it then?' Annie insists. 'Don't you tell me it's a weathercock!'
    I gave her no reply. It was clear that something pecked at the tips of every single tree and gnawed through wood in the same manner forming a row of strange silhouettes against the blue of the sky. A woodpecker's work? That's what seemed most logical to me but then I though that the cause might as well be in the pines themselves. The very thought of an insidious disease nibbling at the trees from the top downwards threatened to pull the foothold of serenity from under my feet and deprive me of the sacred joy of the early afternoon that I safely enjoyed


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