After a storm. Family.
We were sitting at the table, a piece of pizza on our each of our plate. My father wasn't hungry. He was tired of being the constant caretaker for my mother. Conversation with her is still fine, but she remembers less and less. Same questions every few minutes. Sometime she does remembers, when it strikes an stronger emotional chord in her.
The TV was playing 'Murder in the West Indies'. Last week, it was 'Murder at the Lac Léman', a tepid murder mystery that was as exciting as Switzerland is cutting-edge, and later in the evening, the TV viewers were spoiled with another offering of the 'Murder' series: 'Murder in Carcassone'. Why not 'Murder in Pau'... I half joked.
"There is a very good one, 'Murder in Saint-Maur', my father replied.
My twisted mind froze. What did my father mean by that? Was he that desperate that... No, it couldn't be that. Keep your stupid pulp novel imagination to yourself, I thought.
"Murder in Saint-Maur... Don't you remember? Our neighbour, monsieur Engel killed his wife before shooting himself" my father went on, as he was slicing a kiwi.
And I thought of another neighbour who lived in house opposite ours, who hanged himself after long years of depression.
My mind was still confused. What was father trying to say, or wasn't there anything else... I felt ill at ease.
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