By Andreï Makine
In present-day France a Russian author recollects his harsh adolescence at a Stalingrad orphanage within the Nineteen Sixties and the previous Frenchwoman, a family members buddy, whose stories fed his desires of a higher international. One tale specifically has stayed with him: that of her short, passionate affair, in the course of global struggle II, with the French fighter pilot Jacques Dorme, who in this case died in a aircraft crash within the Siberian mountains. So the narrator makes a decision to retrace Jacques Dorme's steps, starting a trip which leads him not just to revisit the land of his delivery but in addition to work out his followed native land in an unflattering new mild. A profound and relocating novel concerning the hazards of ideology and of struggle, added with humour, sensuousness and nice lyricism.
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Additional info for The Earth and Sky of Jacques Dorme
Example text
Sometimes a train would go by and in its lit sleeping compartments the lives of the passengers could be covertly observed: a woman tucking in a sheet on her berth, a young man, his hands held up like blinders, his brow pressed against the window, as if he hoped to see those he had just left behind . . Alexandra had opened the window, the mild air brought in with it the pleasantly bitter scent of the last mounds of snow, the swollen bark of the trees. The promise of spring. I thought of this as I observed Alexandra reading aloud, the ghost of a smile playing over her lips.
On the footpath that led back up to the orphanage, he confided to me in somewhat embarrassed tones: "You know that boat where that bastard and Muza . . " Twenty years later, when I was beginning to write, I contemplated turning that evening spent in the company of Village into a short story about the last twenty-four hours in the life of a young man. For he was to die at the end of the following day. A striking subject, I thought, the quintessence of a life revealed amid the mellow banality of a May dusk.
What occurred to me at that moment was much less considered. My whole being was filled with an awareness of the infinite night in which our house was adrift, the depth of the darkness, of the icy expanses of sky and earth, and, at the heart of this gaping space, of a woman, giving voice to my presence in the universe. The night light went out. I lay there, unsleeping. Amid the early-morning uproar of the trains, it struck me that she had been murmuring those secret words in her mother tongue.
