By Jean-François Beauchemin
Pour son cinquième roman, Jean-François Beauchemin nous invite à partager l’intimité de monsieur Bartolomé, qui, à l. a. suite du décès de son jeune fils, half à l. a. recherche de ce qu’il doit faire avec son âme. Que ce soit à l. a. ville, à l. a. campagne ou sur le bord de l’océan, sa quête l’amène à s’émerveiller devant les beautés de l. a. nature sans toutefois en percer tous les mystères.
Dans ce roman contemplatif à l. a. prose poétique, Jean-François Beauchemin aborde los angeles query de l’évolution humaine, d’où los angeles référence au Turkana Boy, qui est en fait le nom donné aux restes d’un jeune garçon ayant vécu en Afrique il y a plus d’un million d’années. Le passage des millénaires a-t-il changé quelque selected au sentiment humain face à los angeles perte des liens du sang ?
Monsieur Bartolomé coule des jours paisibles en compagnie de son fils jusqu’au jour où celui-ci disparaît mystérieusement. Ce fils qui le tenait parmi les hommes n’est plus. Son départ marque le début d’une quête chez monsieur Bartolomé à propos de l. a. vie et de son essence. Guidé par son intuition, il tentera de chercher des réponses à ses questions dans l’observation minutieuse de son environnement. Constamment habité par le keepsake de son fils perdu, il souhaite transcender sa douleur en allant à l. a. rencontre de quelque selected de plus grand que lui-même.
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Extra resources for Turkana Boy
Whenever it stopped of its own accord at one of those holes bordered with thorns that farmers dig along the edge of their ploughed land, Charles, waking with a start, would quickly remember the broken leg, and try to recall all the fractures that he knew. It was no longer raining; day was breaking, and, on the leaﬂess branches of the apple trees, birds sat motionless, ﬂuﬃng out their tiny feathers in the cold morning wind. The ﬂat landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the clumps of trees round the farms making widely spaced splashes of dark purple on that vast grey surface which, at the horizon, merged with the dreary tones of the sky.
When he entered Les Bertaux his horse took fright, and shied violently. It was a prosperous-looking farm. Through the open half-doors of the stables you could see huge draught horses placidly feeding from brand-new mangers. A stream of vapour arose from the big manureheap that ﬂanked the buildings, and, standing out among the hens and turkeys, ﬁve or six peacocks––that luxury of Pays de Caux farmyards––were pecking for food. The sheep-run was long and the barn tall, with walls as smooth as the back of your hand.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.