Chapter 38 partridge butt (1)

17. Partridge Butt Anna Arden is selling her house! "Anna Arden is selling the house!" I said to Lev. "Oh, all right," it answered me -- at least I felt it would. In the twenty-seven years I've lived here, I've never had an apartment change resident.The old Mrs. Morris vacated the place for the young Mrs. Morris, and the Badoise family, the Rosen family, and the Rosen family were almost in the same situation.The Ardens moved in at the same time as us; in a way, we will grow old together.As for the de Brogley family, they had lived here a long time and would continue to live here.I don't know Mr. Congressman's actual age, but he looked very old when he was young, and this creates a situation where he looks young even though he is old now.

So, in my eyes, Anna Arden became the first person to sell the house.Oddly enough, this unknowable future scares me if I'm used to this eternal beginning that, with the still unknown prospect of this change, plunges me into the eternity of time Among them, always reminding me that time is passing by every minute?We live every day in a dream, as if tomorrow will still be reborn. The depressing and boring of No. 7 Rue de Grenelle, morning after morning, reappears eternity, and suddenly makes me feel like this is a small island ravaged by a storm. . Very shocked, I picked up my four-wheeled bag, leaving Lev who was snoring softly, and wandered to the market.On the corner of Rue de Grenelle and Rue de Barker, Ren Ran, the faithful tenant of the broken cardboard box, looked at me like a spider seeing its prey.

"Ah, Mama Michelle, have you lost your cat again?" He threw out such a sentence to me, and he was still smiling. At least one thing hasn't changed.Ren Ran is a homeless man who has been wintering here for many years, on his old and dirty cardboard box, wearing a worn coat that smells like a Russian wholesaler at the end of the century, just like the person who wears it, this clothes It is also old. "You'd better go to the shelter," I said to him, as usual, "it's going to be cold tonight." "Ah, ah," he screamed, "go to the shelter, I want you to see it, I think it's a good place."

I went on my way again, and then, feeling so guilty, I came back. "What I want to tell you is that ... Mr. Ardern passed away last night." "The critic?" Renran asked me, his eyes suddenly brightened, and he raised his nose again, like a hunting dog smelling the butt of a partridge. "Yes, yes, it was the critic who had a sudden heart failure." "Oh my god, oh my god," Renran repeated, looking genuinely excited. "You know him?" I asked, trying to find something to say. "Oh my God, oh my God," repeated the tramp again, "such a fine man should die first!"

"He had a good life," I ventured, secretly surprised at the expression. "Mother Michelle," Ren Ran answered me. "I'm sure there won't be another guy like that, my God," he repeated. "I'll miss him, the guy." "You got something from him, maybe he gave you money at Christmas?" Renran looked at me, took a deep breath through his nose, and then spit at his feet. "Never. I haven't given me a dime for ten years. Can you believe it? Forget it, don't mention it, this annoying guy, there will be no more, no more, no more."

When I was walking on the vegetable market road, these short conversations made me restless for a long time, and Ren Ran completely occupied my mind.I never believed that the poor would have great souls just because they were poor or fate was unfair to them.But at least I believe that poor people have the instinct to hate the big bourgeoisie.Ren Ran made me understand a truth: if there is one thing that poor people hate, it is other poor people.