Page 12 of The Black Table
Okay, have it your way.I flip open the book and, with a furtive look at everyone else, find the poem we’re assigned and turn to it: Victor Hugo,La tombe dit à la rose.
At least it’s short. I start the first lines.
La tombe dit à la rose :
The tomb said to the rose
- Des pleurs dont l’aube t’arrose
The tears with which dawn waters you?—
Que fais-tu, fleur des amours ?
what do you do, flower of love?
I wrinkle my nose. Sentimental as hell, symbolism about as sophisticated as an eighth-grader’s. But I keep reading.
La rose dit à la tombe…
The rose said to the tomb…
I scan the rest of it, trying to get the gist enough to have an intelligent conversation about it, barely even noticing when the door opens and shuts.
“Sorry,” comes a smooth male voice. “I mean,désolé.”
My conversation partner shifts beside me, and I take advantage of the distraction to speed-read the rest of the lines.
Que fais-tu de ce qui tombe
What do you do with that which falls
Dans ton gouffre ouvert toujours ?
In your…whatever agouffreis, a mouth, maybe?that’s always open
The professor murmurs something and clucks her tongue, telling whoever it is he’ll need to join a group.
La rose dit : Tombeau sombre,
The rose said: Somber tomb,
I hear footsteps and the sound of him setting down his bag.
“We’re an odd number now,” the professor is explaining in spitfire French, “so I suppose you’ll have to be ménage à trois.” She murmurs a little French laugh.
De ces pleurs je fais dans l’ombre
Of these tears I make in shadow
It’s not until a shadow falls across the page of my book that I realize she’s put him with us.
Un parfum d’ambre et de miel.
A perfume of amber and honey.
He sits down, and I look up.
This is no scrawny nerd or ponytail geek.
