"I used to fish with Marcel ... we had a boat, made it ourselves, kept it hidden. We'd sneak off and paddle the Nonette. Such fun!" He ticked off the years since Marcel's death. His past became too remote, too clumsy. It had to be bypassed--through Jeannette.
"Have you ever gone out to the island where Rousseau was buried?"
"No ... how could I?"
"A rowboat, a punt ... you know my dad's buried near here in Ermenonville."
"I didn't know that."
"He was injured in a three-man tank ... in 1918. The tank was blown up but he had to wait years to die. And so I got born."
"Orville!"
"That's how it was, Jean. As for the tanks ... father and son ... you'll see."
"Don't say that ... that's plain dumb!"
They were walking along the shore of the Petit Lac, swans paddling close to the shore, the greenery of the shoreline greener than the water.