She never knew what became of her farmer after that. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. The woman shrugged her shoulders. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence.
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