Very busy," she said. She wished this topic to go no further. She
let herself look at him, into his eyes.
"Yes," Jean-Pierre replied with a nod that said, without words,
that he understood. It was the same look he had given her when
they'd first met after they had shaken hands, when his arm had
been in a sling.
They continued along in silence at a trot, and Greta renewed
their conversation with enthusiasm. "Jean-Pierre, tell me more
about your country. Is the French countryside similar to Northern
California, as everyone here seems to think?"
"Ah, it is beautiful," Jean-Pierre said. "All year is green out
in the countryside where I was born. And clean when you inhale,
and pretty, all fresh and tingling in your nose, in your heart.
You ride on and on and see no one for very long stretches of
time. Here and there, children are playing or doing chores, you
see a woman carrying a basket, a man with an ax. They wave when
they see you." Smiling, he waved to her as if to illustrate, but
all at once his expression changed into a grimace, as though he
were suddenly in great pain.
"What is it?" Greta asked.
"This damned shoulder. If I cannot even lift it to wave, how will
I ever hold a mallet again?"
"Isn't there anything you can do about it?"
"Oh, sure. There are procedures. Surgery."
"Then why don't you get it fixed?"
"It is complicated.
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