5

Seeing the other cars passing on the road, she realized that the luxury of this automobile was quite out of the ordinary for most Americans. We saw more often old Fords dented, with the bodies already rusted, covered with scratches. The roads seemed passable and pleasant, however, compared to those she had known in France. She saw that they were passing a small town with big square houses, Georgetown. At this rate, they had to drive for half a day before arriving in Bangor, Maine.

After about twenty minutes, the rain gave way to large clouds stretched by the oceanic winds at altitude. For the first time, she saw the American countryside, the ranches, and the fields that were lost in the middle of the deciduous woods. The roads were straight as freshly turned furrows.

The young woman was overwhelmed by the immensity of the landscape as if the Vast were engulfing her and making her whole body tremble. She felt possessed by this incredibly large nature. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes as she stared at the endless sky, almost too bright. This place, this land had something unreal. Despite the road and the fields, she could still smell the virgin and wild lands, inhale the perfume of the sap and the grass that announced them long before we could see them.

The road and the towns they crossed testified well to the existence of Man in these places, but the sky seemed to resist this invasion by sweeping away with its grandeur all that could try to rise on the ground.

McCarthy stared far ahead, holding the huge black steering wheel in both hands. From time to time, he glanced at the young woman with an amused but benevolent smile. After a while, he couldn't help but break the spell she was the victim of.

-You seem to like the landscape, he pointed out to start the conversation.

Arlette did not immediately know what to answer. "Love" is a word she found too small to express what she felt. It was more like feverish worship, like that of a prophet seeing heaven open before his eyes.

"Yes, it has nothing to do with France," she replied humbly. But you must be used to it, right? Are you from Maine?

"No, I'm from Nevada. I left my hometown to work in an engine factory. I assure you, it also has the same effect on me when I ride here, and it's even more impressive in the Great Plains. Maybe that's why I'm always up for getting out of the forest and seeing the sky… it's beautiful here.

The driver spoke without taking a breath as if he had been waiting to speak to her for hours. She realized the rudeness she had shown by locking herself in her daydreams. So she decided to satisfy her desire for conversation. She also had things to learn after all, and he didn't seem bothered by her foreign accent. Sometimes she even cracked a smile when she tried to translate French words.

"Did you get used to Maine easily?" Wasn't it too hard at first?

—It's a region where people are welcoming, and we live in the community. Hunters, loggers, and farmers, we all need each other. Of course, nature isn't going to give you a welcome card, though. But we get used to it. It's like here, it's big, it's beautiful, it's dangerous. And then it seems that you are from the Vosges, you will surely like it.

She turned her head towards him.

"Do you know the Vosges?"

— Well you know, Alsace-Lorraine, we heard about it a few years ago…

"I know," she replied abruptly.

Louis McCarthy glanced at her and noticed that she had crossed her arms. Her face had hardened, she had closed like a seashell. She took a deep breath before attempting a smile.

'Sorry,' he said, 'I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. It's just that, you know… I was young when the soldiers left, I heard about it, and I saw the neighbors' sons coming back. I listened to it on the radio this war. And you, well you…

"I lived through this war. And I got out. Please don't take me back. It's not that I don't want to talk about it with you, I just don't want to talk about it…

Respecting her request, he focused on the road again and kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. They had suddenly taken on empty, washed-out shades. He began to mechanically play with his radio, tapping his fingers around it as if his hands were automatically looking for other knobs to turn. Arlette closed her eyes for a moment, to make sure that there were no more images of horror coming from her memory.

"The memories of those years have the consistency of nightmares," she murmured as if to justify herself.

"I imagine," Louis replied immediately. But don't get mad at the Americans for that. Some may seem haughty and contemptuous to you if you talk about the War. We didn't experience it the same way and the consequences weren't the same. Here the monuments to the doughboys, our "Poilus", bloom like daisies. Did you see the posters of patriots when you arrived in New York?

Arlette then remembered the large placards at the Immigration Office, representing young men with cold, hateful eyes dressed in green fatigues, their guns still in hand, bayonets were drawn, one foot constantly in the air as if they were going to crush kicks the earth at their feet, " Over the top" written in all caps above the American flag.

Seeing the poster, Arlette felt invaded by a deep sadness. It would never have occurred to any Frenchman or Englishman to use a message such as "attack the trenches" to enlist soldiers since 1918.

-I understand…

He straightened up in his seat.

—In general, avoid talking about politics or anything related to the country. Here you are just a stranger… And people like to say that strangers are the cause of all the evils they suffer. And don't talk about communism and especially trade unionism. If you are thought to be radical in addition to being a foreigner, you will be sent back to the sea in a few days.

He turned onto a wider road where more cars were driving. Communism was therefore so frowned upon in this country. She didn't dare to speak anymore, as if she felt the Red Menace hovering above her head.

"We've been driving for hours now, we're going to stop for dinner. It will give us a break. We'll get to Bangor in the night anyway, he said quickly.

She smiles. She was in a hurry to go out to breathe something other than the smell of diesel fuel and to eat.

Maybe it was the boat trip that had exhausted her, but she felt like she had been thinking about food since her arrival on the New Continent. However, this need seemed legitimate to him at the start of the evening when his only meal of the day consisted of a shellfish and a few clams in a milk broth.

He stopped the car in a small town of brick houses clustered on both sides of the road, at the end of which was a small church painted white. The only neon lights that lit up the night sky were above the gas station with its large glass windows. They were so powerful that they made all the pale streetlights useless.

Arlette got out of the car and went straight in, followed by the driver who was struggling to light his cigarette while holding the door. She sat down at a table near the window, paying no attention to the other customers. The menu listed above the counter was written with plastic letters run through a rail.3

She retrieved a handwritten copy of the menu from an old yellowed piece of paper as she observed the other customers. Four or five truckers were dining in silence, getting ready for the long night ahead.

In the room, the scent of coffee, cold cigarettes, and fried food dominated. These mingling smells reminded the Frenchwoman of the little country inns where she used to come with her mother, father, and brother when she was little. The only scent that kept him from going back to his childhood was that of gasoline, which was starting to give him a headache.

"Louis, or Mr. McCarthy?"

"Call me Louis. What is it?

"What is this dish?"

She was pointing to the handwritten name: " Chicken a la King ." The use of French in the name caught her attention, but she was especially attracted by the comment left by a previous customer on the menu: "to be taken with ice cream". The other dishes were only annotated with small "good", "lack of sauce" or "not enough cheese on the macaroni".

Simple advice and comments, as much for future customers as for the kitchen. The young woman found the idea interesting. Was she going to discover a simple dish, from the people, or the new exotic fad of an eccentric tired of traditional dishes?

-It's chicken with a sauce of vegetables and rice, he replied simply, you're going to take that? They have-

—It will be perfect, with ice cream.

A stern-faced waitress arrived at their table, she put her hand on her hip wearily, as if she was already annoyed by her new customers. Louis ordered and settled a little more comfortably in his chair when the grimacing waitress walked away.

"They do pretty southern food here, and I often stop by when I'm in Boston or New York to buy engine parts.

"Do you come often?"

"Once every three months or so.

A truck driver a little to their left received his meal on a large plate garnished with fries and beans. He had ordered braised pork. The meat had been cooked so long that its flesh was falling apart in runny filaments of fat, it had been seasoned with a strong-smelling mixture of garlic and chili.

Louis watched him eat longingly then ran his large hand over his bony face. Dark circles surrounded her clear eyes that seemed thicker in the neon light.

—What characterizes the cuisine of the South?

—I don't know, it's not very Anglo-Saxon, they put vegetables, spicy sauces, they cook on the barbecue, it's sweet and savory sometimes. They use a lot of corn. In Maine, you're going to have to get used to the potato. But you took a popular dish, not from the South, he replied tiredly.

His chicken a la King arrived on a huge plate, the rice soaking in sauce and the chunky pieces of chicken a little too dry. Louis had taken chicken wings browned in a marinade of brown sugar and spices. All this cooking seemed wonderful to Arlette, far from anything she had seen in France or England.

They ate quickly and she received her ice cream as a salutary aid after the dryness of the overcooked and spicy chicken cubes. An imperfect dish, relieved of its mediocrity by an equally bare dessert, but filling its gaps exactly where it fished. It was the simplest and most family-friendly way of eating, and yet the young woman had the impression of grasping something of paramount importance, almost holy, through this doodle. The balance between the dishes brought satisfaction, even where there was no refinement or elegance. A simple and accessible satisfaction.

Overjoyed, she shared her discovery with her driver, and he seemed amused at her philosophical conjectures on diner cooking.