Miette and Silvère/ Emile Zola
He became flabbergasted, leaned further, and finally managed to grab the chisel. The little peasant girl began to feel embarrassed. Then, they stayed there, smiling at each other, the child below, her face still raised, the young boy half lying on the wall cap. They didn’t know how to part. They hadn’t exchanged a word. Silvère even forgot to say thank you.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Marie,” replied the peasant girl, “but everyone calls me Miette.” She raised herself slightly and, in a clear voice, asked,
“And you?”
“My name is Silvère,” replied the young worker.
There was a silence during which they seemed to listen complacently to the music of their names.
“I’m fifteen,” Silvère continued. “And you?”
“I will be eleven on All Saints’ Day,” said Miette.
The young worker gestured in surprise.
“Oh well,” he said, laughing. I took you for a woman! You have big arms.”
She began to laugh, too, lowering her eyes to her arms. Then, they said no more. They remained there for a good while, looking at each other and smiling. As Silvère seemed to have no more questions, Miette left and went back to pulling weeds without raising her head. He stayed a moment longer on the wall.
Born Slaves
The 39-year-old PhD scientist was born in Lafayette, Louisiana. He had just come back from a trip to visit his family, the first time after Kathrina’s devastation. The whole area—which is 60 miles from the coast—was destroyed by seawater and winds. His family farm was still there, but no one grew anything. The young men had left the countryside. They used to grow sugar cane, figs, corn, and other staples. Europeans settled in the area, and their traditions remained very much alive. People lived many years. He met his grandparents because his grandma died at 106.
“They were born slaves,” he said, “and were liberated at five or six years of age. My grandpa used to sit me in his lap and tell me stories.”
