Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ferrand and Denis walked through the garden of the asylum. A ferocious wind, beating at every nook and corner of the grounds, forced the trees on the drive into a humble, bowed position. Announcing the arrival of a pharaoh, thought Denis, remembering drawings in a book from his early days, that he had reread again and again: a waving wall of ferns, a guard of honour for an Egyptian king.
A momentous cloud in the shape of an anvil dominated the northern sky. Its belly was black as coal; the upper part so white it hurt the eyes. Vapours escaped from the anvil – mouse grey, veined blue and a brooding purple. It was still chilly for April.
“Bad weather is toxic for the nerves, but good for the brain,” said the director. Hard to tell if he was joking or not. He walked, h
