The two smaller children, the girl and the younger brother, are the first to remember.
They suddenly stop laughing and go into the darkening garden.
I remember, just as I'm writing this,that our elder brother wasn't in Vinh Long when we sluiced the house out.
He was living with our guardian, a village priest, in the department of Lot-et-Garonne.
He too used to laugh sometimes, but never as much as we did.
I forget everything, and I forgot to say this,that we were children who laughed, my younger brother and I,laughed fit to burst, fit to die.
I see the war as I see my childhood.
I see wartime and the reign of my elder brother as one.
Partly, no doubt, bccause it was during the war that my younger brother died : his heart, as I've said,had given out, given up.
As for my elder brother, I don't think I ever saw him during the war.
By that time it didn't matter to me whether he was alive or dead.
I see the war as like him, spreading everywhere, breaking in everywhere, stealing, imprisoning, always there, merged and mingled with everything, present in the body, in the mind, awake and asleep, all the time, a prey to the intoxicating passion of occupying that delightful territory, a child's body, the bodies of those less strong, of conquered peoples.
Because evil is there, at the gates, against the skin.
Wc go back to the apartment.
We are lovers.
We can't stop loving each other.
Sometimes I don't go back to the boarding school.
I sleep with him.
I don't want to sleep in his arms, his warmth, but I do sleep in the same room, the same bed.
Sometimes I stay away from high school.
At night we go and have dinner in town.
He gives me my shower, washes me, rinses me, he adores that, he puts my make-up on and dresses me, he adores me.
I'm the darling of his life.
He lives in terror lest I meet another man.
I'm never afraid of anything like that.
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