Chapter 1
Hm. Once upon a time …
No, no, no ! Since two centuries, all the
stories begin by “once upon a time”. Mine will start by something else. Moreover, it’s not precisely about my story,
it’s as well about theirs. Then, imagine
the sire Perrault’s gnashing of teeth, if beyond the grave, he was reading the
first words of my diary, I quote : once upon a time, twice upon a time, ten
times, twenty times, thirty times upon a time ! It’s likely that the old academician, hundred
eighty four years old today, slip on as quickly as possible his wig and his lace jabot to
come to pull my ears. And honestly, what would I do with a ghost in
the lighthouse? A grumbler spectre
escaped from Saint Benoit’s cemetery in Paris, for expunge this affront to his
immortal quotation : Once upon a time.
If Madam Lechêne was reading these first three lines, she would certainly say : “My poor Elisabeth, put some order there! It’s necessary to structure your story. It wouldn’t make sense to invite readers in a shaggy-dog storie.”
Portrait of Madam Lechêne
Madam Lechêne is my governess, and she has this
personal way to know everything about everything. From aquatic plants names to
birds ones. From the names of the constellations, in ancient Greek, please; to those
delicious food that she cooks on the cast iron stove, in the lighthouse’s small
kitchen. When I write : “this personal way to know everything about everything”
I’m carefully weighing my words because I suspect her to have abused of my
child naivety by inventing a lot of silly definitions to describe things
nearest to us. Prank at which she was forced to stop when I was able to read
the old books put under the spiral staircase leading up to the lighthouse’s
lantern.
Three days ago, Madam Lechêne left me alone in
the tower to collect clams on the rocks. Since then, she never came back. Maybe
she has been taken by an old fisherman or a loneliest captain in his drifting ghost ship. She
might but I doubt it. My governess was too ugly for someone wanting to take her in the shade of
its boat sails. Her hands were too dry, too calloused, and her shin was so
rough that it could be possible to blaze matches on it. Her long nose, as for
it, and her perfect bun, gave her a strange
courtesan look. Her eye yet, her eye which took the Ocean’s color when
the clouds move towards the north, concealed a thousand beauties which could have moved a man , if her deformed skeleton had not given her such a frightening figure.
As I write to you, I am in my governess’s
room. And maybe this is here that my story should begin. In this mysterious decor
that I was not allowed to visit since my parents locked me up in the
lighthouse. In the middle of the ocean, far away from Britain’s coasts.