ENGLISH
‘F–’ Suzanne Dumesnil
Many details are missing from this enigmatic short story. Not least the true identity of its author: it was published in English under Suzanne Dumesnil’s name, but many
I was on my way. The man struck hard against me. My God, what is it now, he said. We had stumbled, both of us, and I fallen finally the way things finally fall that are moved without heed from their place, without heed or love. He did not understand what was happening. Nor I. We were on the same road at the same moment, that was the only certainty. No, there was another. I was in front. He struck against me from behind. He must have been advancing head down and fairly fast, faster at all events than I. His eyes closed probably. If they had been open he would have seen me in front of him, in spite of the night. Dimly no doubt. But it seems to me that even without seeing me he might have heard the sound of my steps. But then the wind. But then walking I make no sound. Strange. But it seems to me that I might have heard the sound of his steps. I hear very well as a rule. And yet I had heard nothing, up to the time of my fall. Afterwards yes. As before. My God, what's happening to me now, the syllables resounded in my ears. And yet the voice was not resounding. Oh by no means, by no means. I said warily, I am not hurt. A silence. Have I hurt you, he said. He had not really hurt me. I felt myself. I was whole. I was on my feet against the wind, the wind assailed me as before. My skin stung. But the other parts, the sheltered parts, were cold only, suffered from the cold only. I moved my joints, my joints moved as before and creaked as they moved. It was still night. Those great rifts I saw, filled with black shadow, were the night. It was with his help that I had been able to rise. I should say rather with his desire to help me. In his desire to raise me, and having done so partially, he had fallen. I too. Again. And so on. Again and again. It came about at last that we were on our feet, both of us. I was whole, I have said so. He was not. He had lost something very important, I don't know. That, something he had put in his hip pocket, or thought he had. He was distressed. I found it strange that he should be distressed over a loss. For me who had lost nothing it was easy to find this strange, when in fact it was not at all strange. Easy. But what could I have lost. I had helped him look for the object to the best of my ability. Beyond my ability. But it ...
