The occasional crash relieved the perpetual grumble of cars and juggernauts, and the maniacal screams of the unfortunate drivers as they hurled themselves with abandon at their unfortunate victims pierced the droning. It never seemed to matter who was responsible or who bore the brunt of the infraction. The louder they shouted, the more conviction they carried, the more innocent they were. At number 39 Avenue Claude Villefaux, in one of the grey Victorian blocks, behind a metal and glass entrance door, up one flight of stairs, in a large, capacious office, twelve employees sat trying to look busy, if somewhat despondent. Jean-Auguste Le Passé had just announced that their recent efforts had been in vain. The sleepless nights, hard work, tears, shouting, panic, lamenting and wailing, had all been in vain. They had, finally, not been selected—they had lost the competition. Le Passé had retired dejected to the privacy of his upper office, where he kept his private affairs. He had not exploded, not lost his head, or broken down as expected. Instead, he had passed calmly amongst his employees, apologised for his occasionally aberrant behaviour and for all the time they had passed on the project. He implied that it was the political element, his responsibility, which had let them down. That it was his rôle in the scheme which had failed them. 1.6 Jean-August Le Passé - The Floors of Memory.
Posted on: Sun, 19 Jan 2014 11:24:18 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015