Colour of Dawn Read Free

taking off from the ground. Angélique skims the foam of the days. I can’t remember the last time she laughed so the sun danced in her eyes. Truly, I can’t remember.
    Since Gabriel was born, Angélique’s eyes have lost their ability to ensnare. Her body has laid down its arms. She keeps all her happiness tightly bound in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. I have difficulty coming to terms with this new Angélique; I find it hard to let go of the other Angélique who was lively and full of laughter, blazing under the sun. A notion of pure joy, of abstract happiness remains at the sound of her name. How I miss my sister, whose happiness and contagious bliss always went before her, who made me believe that the sun of my childhood would never set, who made every day a delicious flow of honey – despite the days when we went hungry, the days of pretence from just above the bottom end of the scale, the very bottom. We were always prepared to pretend, as if we went to sleep sated, our thirst quenched. As if our clothes were not held together by Mother’s ingenuity and mending skills. As if we were not always a hair’s breadth away from being expelled from school. As if, indeed, we hadn’t sometimes been expelled. As if, as if…
    Since my childhood I have been at war. Angélique knew how to make it a happy war. I learned from her the rough, wild strength of that pride. How I miss that Angélique, whom a crafty, boastful man with an ‘it’s your lookout’ attitude stole from me one ordinary day, against a backdrop of sky, earth and sea. This bully in the making must just have raised his head above the surface of our sea of poverty, for I recall he was wearing his shirt open to his navel and his smile revealed a gold incisor. Mother had clearly not had time to give Angélique sufficient warning, to remind her to be wary of strangers lying in wait by the roadside.
    Angélique now has a great shadow on her heart. Between the church services and the petty cruelties she bestows on the household, she has no time either to receive the love of God or to give love.Yet Angélique has just one thing on her lips: ‘God and His love’, ‘God and His works’, ‘God, God, God…’. I even suspect she uses her profession to distance herself from the sufferings of us mortals, and uses prayer to measure the extent to which she can resist earthly pleasures. Her heart is closed and the space between her thighs has been flooded with sadness. The connection is obvious. She knows it as well as I do, but would never admit it, never.
    Earlier, when I made to join her outside for coffee, I saw that Fignolé’s bed was empty and the sheets had not been disturbed. This fact froze my blood, but I revealed nothing as I heard Angélique open the door to the backyard. She simply said to me:
    â€˜Joyeuse, Fignolé didn’t come home last night.’
    And I replied, ‘I know.’ Cloaking myself with the air of an eccentric diva that I use when my heart is set to race, I added, ‘He must have slept at a friend’s place.’
    Angélique made no comment, but I know she didn’t believe me. For all her devout airs, Angélique is as sharp as an old monkey. When she moved away again towards the backyard, I took the opportunity of having a quick look behind the only cupboard in the living room, where a panel has worked loose. I know this is where Fignolé has taken to slipping the lyrics of the songs he writes, his desire for secrecy inspired by a lingering adolescence with its mysteries, its violence and its games. Without pausing to reflect for a second, I slipped my hand in. I didn’t expect to find anything but papers, but my hand met with something cold and metallic. I knew immediately it was a gun.
    â€˜What on earth can Fignolé be doing with a gun?’
    I drew it out quickly to examine it and convince myself. The barrel,