Prix Kindle : EUR 0,99

Économisez
EUR 10,22 (91%)

TVA incluse

Ces promotions seront appliquées à cet article :

Certaines promotions sont cumulables avec d'autres offres promotionnelles, d'autres non. Pour en savoir plus, veuillez vous référer aux conditions générales de ces promotions.

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

Offrir cet ebook

Offrir en cadeau ou acheter pour plusieurs personnes.
En savoir plus

Acheter et envoyer des ebooks à d'autres personnes

Sélectionnez la quantité souhaitée
Choisissez la méthode d'envoi et achetez l'ebook
Les destinataires peuvent lire l'ebook reçu sur n'importe quel appareil

Seuls des destinataires résidant dans votre pays peuvent récupérer un ebook offert. Les liens de récupération et les ebooks ne peuvent pas être revendus.

Quantité : 
Cet article dispose d’une quantité maximum de commande.

Envoyer sur votre Kindle ou un autre appareil

Partager <Intégrer>
Image du logo de l'application Kindle

Téléchargez l'application Kindle gratuite et commencez à lire des livres Kindle instantanément sur votre smartphone, tablette ou ordinateur - aucun appareil Kindle n'est requis. En savoir plus

Lisez instantanément sur votre navigateur avec Kindle Cloud Reader.

Utilisation de l'appareil photo de votre téléphone portable - scannez le code ci-dessous et téléchargez l'application Kindle.

Code QR pour télécharger l'application Kindle

This Must Be the Place: The bestselling novel from the prize-winning author of HAMNET (English Edition) par [Maggie O'Farrell]

Suivre l'auteur

Une erreur est survenue. Veuillez renouveler votre requête plus tard.

This Must Be the Place: The bestselling novel from the prize-winning author of HAMNET (English Edition) Format Kindle

4,3 sur 5 étoiles 2 689 évaluations

Prix Amazon
Neuf à partir de Occasion à partir de
Format Kindle
0,99 €
Lecteur digital à contenu audio pré-chargé

Description du produit

Extrait

This Must Be the Place

Maggie O'Farrell

The Strangest Feeling in My Legs

Daniel
Donegal, 2010

There is a man.

He’s standing on the back step, rolling a cigarette. The day is typically unstable, the garden lush and shining, the branches weighty with still-falling rain. 

There is a man and the man is me.

I am at the back door, tobacco tin in hand, and I am watching something in the trees, a figure, standing at the perimeter of the garden, where the aspens crowd in at the fence. Another man.
He’s carrying a pair of binoculars and a camera.

A -bird--watcher, I am telling myself as I pull the frail paper along my tongue, you get them in these parts. But at the same time I’m thinking, -Really? -Bird--watching, this far up the valley? I’m also thinking, Where is my daughter, the baby, my wife? How quickly could I reach them, if I needed to?

My heart cranks into high gear, -thud--thudding against my ribs. I squint into the white sky. I am about to step out into the garden. I want the guy to know I’ve seen him, to see me seeing him. I want him to register my size, my former -track--and--field--star physique (slackening and loosening a little, these days, admittedly). I want him to run the odds, me versus him, through his head. He’s not to know I’ve never been in a fight in my life and intend it to stay that way. I want him to feel what I used to feel before my father disciplined me: I am on to you, he would say, with a pointing finger, directed first at his chest, then mine.

I am on to you, I want to yell while I fumble to pocket my cigarette and lighter.

The guy is looking in the direction of the house. I see the tinder spark of sun on a lens and a movement of his arm that could be the brushing away of a hair across the forehead or the depression of a camera shutter.

Two things happen very fast. The dog—a whiskery, leggy, slightly arthritic wolfhound, usually given to sleeping by the stove— streaks out of the door, past my legs, and into the garden, emitting a volley of low barks, and a woman comes around the side of the house.

She has the baby on her back, she is wearing the kind of sou’wester hood usually sported by North Sea fishermen, and she is holding a shotgun.

She is also my wife.

The latter fact I still have trouble adjusting to, not only because the idea of this creature ever agreeing to marry me is highly improbable, but also because she pulls unexpected shit like this all the time.

“Jesus, honey,” I gasp, and I am momentarily distracted by how shrill my voice is. “Unmanly” -doesn’t cover it. I sound as if I’m admonishing her for an -ill--judged choice in soft furnishings or for wearing pumps that clash with her purse.

She ignores my high-pitched intervention—who can blame her?—and fires into the air. Once, twice.
If, like me, you’ve never heard a gun report at close range, let me tell you the noise is an ear shattering explosion. Magnesium-hued lights go off inside your head; your ears ring with the three-bar high note of an aria; your sinuses fill with tar.

The sound ricochets off the side of the house, off the flank of the mountain, then back again: a huge aural tennis ball bouncing about the valley. I realize that while I’m ducking, cringing, covering my head, the baby is strangely unmoved. He’s still sucking his thumb, head leaning against the spread of his mother’s hair. Almost as if he’s used to this. Almost as if he’s heard it all before.
I straighten up. I take my hands off my ears. Far away, a figure is sprinting through the undergrowth. My wife turns around. She cracks the gun in the crook of her arm. She whistles for the dog. “Ha,” she says to me before she vanishes back around the side of the house. “That’ll show him.”

My wife, I should tell you, is crazy. Not in a requiring-medication-and-wards-and-men-in-white-coats sense although I sometimes wonder if there may have been times in her past—but in a subtle, more socially acceptable, less ostentatious way. She -doesn’t think like other people. She believes that to pull a gun on someone lurking, in all likelihood entirely innocently, at our perimeter fence is not only permissible but indeed the right thing to do.

Here are the bare facts about the woman I married:
—She’s crazy, as I might have mentioned.
—She’s a recluse.

She’s apparently willing to pull a gun on anyone threatening to uncover her hiding place.
I dart, insomuch as a man of my size can dart, through the house to catch her. I’m going to have this out with her. She can’t keep a gun in a house where there are small children. She just can’t.

I’m repeating this to myself as I pass through the house, planning to begin my protestations with it. But as I come through the front door, it’s as if I’m entering another world. Instead of the gray drizzle at the back, a dazzling, primrose-tinted sun fills the front garden, which gleams and sparks as if hewn from jewels. My daughter is leaping over a rope that her mother is -turning. My wife who, just a moment ago, was a dark, forbidding figure with a gun, a long gray coat, and a hat like Death’s hood, she has shucked off the sou’wester and transmogrified back to her usual incarnation. The baby is crawling on the grass, knees wet with rain, the bloom of an iris clutched in his fist, chattering to himself in a satisfied, guttural growl.

It’s as if I’ve stepped into another time frame entirely, as if I’m in one of those folktales where you think you’ve been asleep for an hour or so, but you wake to find you’ve been away a lifetime, that all your loved ones and everything you’ve ever known are dead and gone. Did I -really just walk in from the other side of the house, or did I fall asleep for a hundred years?

I shake off this notion. The gun business needs to be dealt with right now. “Since when,” I demand, “do we own a firearm?”

My wife raises her head and meets my eye with a challenging, flinty look, the skipping rope coming to a stop in her hand. “We don’t,” she says. “It’s mine.”

A typical parry from her. She appears to answer the question without answering it at all. She picks on the element that isn’t the subject of the question. The essence of sidestepping.

I rally. I’ve had more than enough practice. “Since when do you own a firearm?”

She shrugs a shoulder, bare, I notice, and tanned to a soft gold, bisected by a thin white strap. I feel a momentary automatic mobilization deep inside my underwear—strange how this doesn’t change with age for men, that we’re all of us but a membrane away from our inner teenage selves—but I pull my attention back to the discussion. She’s not going to get away with this.

“Since now,” she says.

“What’s a fire arm?” my daughter asks, splitting the word in two, her small, heart-shaped face tilted up to look at her mother.

“It’s an Americanism,” my wife says. “It means ‘gun.’ ”

“Oh, the gun,” says my sweet Marithe, six years old, equal parts pixie, angel, and sylph. She turns to me. “Father Christmas brought Donal a new one, so he said Maman could have his old one.”

This utterance renders me, for a moment, speechless. Donal is an -ill--scented homunculus who farms the land farther down the valley. He—and his wife, I’d imagine—have what you might call a problem with anger management. Somewhat trigger-happy, Donal. He shoots everything on sight: squirrels, rabbits, foxes, -hill walkers (just kidding).

“What is going on?” I say. “You’re keeping a firearm in the house and—”

“ ‘Gun,’ Daddy. Say ‘gun.’ ”

“—a gun, without telling me? Without discussing it with me? Don’t you see how dangerous that is? What if one of the children—”

My wife turns, her hem swishing through the wet grass. “Isn’t it nearly time to leave for your train?”




--Ce texte fait référence à l'édition kindle_edition.

Biographie de l'auteur

Maggie O'Farrell is the author of seven novels, AFTER YOU'D GONE, MY LOVER'S LOVER, THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US, which won a Somerset Maugham Award, THE VANISHING ACT OF ESME LENNOX, THE HAND THAT FIRST HELD MINE, which won the 2010 Costa Novel Award, INSTRUCTIONS FOR A HEATWAVE, which was shortlisted for the 2013 Costa Novel Award, and THIS MUST BE THE PLACE. She lives in Edinburgh. --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition kindle_edition.

Détails sur le produit

  • ASIN ‏ : ‎ B011IYIEW2
  • Éditeur ‏ : ‎ Tinder Press (17 mai 2016)
  • Langue ‏ : ‎ Anglais
  • Taille du fichier ‏ : ‎ 2648 KB
  • Synthèse vocale ‏ : ‎ Activée
  • Lecteur d’écran  ‏ : ‎ Pris en charge
  • Confort de lecture ‏ : ‎ Activé
  • X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Activé
  • Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Activé
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée  ‏ : ‎ 402 pages
  • Commentaires client :
    4,3 sur 5 étoiles 2 688 évaluations

À propos de l'auteur

Suivez les auteurs pour obtenir de nouvelles mises à jour et des recommandations améliorées.
Brief content visible, double tap to read full content.
Full content visible, double tap to read brief content.

Découvrir d'autres livres de l'auteur, voir des auteurs similaires, lire des blogs d'auteurs et plus encore

Commentaires client

4,3 sur 5 étoiles
4,3 sur 5
2 689 évaluations

Meilleures évaluations de France

Traduire tous les commentaires en français
Commenté en France le 15 mars 2017
Commenté en France le 4 août 2016
Une personne a trouvé cela utile
Signaler un abus
Commenté en France le 10 septembre 2018
Commenté en France le 1 juin 2017
Commenté en France le 30 septembre 2016
Commenté en France le 5 août 2017
Commenté en France le 13 mai 2017
2 personnes ont trouvé cela utile
Signaler un abus

Meilleurs commentaires provenant d’autres pays

Graham Eason
3,0 sur 5 étoiles Close but no cigar
Commenté au Royaume-Uni le 26 novembre 2017
28 personnes ont trouvé cela utile
Signaler un abus
hextol
3,0 sur 5 étoiles trying a bit too hard to be meaningful and failing
Commenté au Royaume-Uni le 7 juin 2018
11 personnes ont trouvé cela utile
Signaler un abus
Kindle Customer
3,0 sur 5 étoiles Disjointed
Commenté au Royaume-Uni le 29 août 2021
2 personnes ont trouvé cela utile
Signaler un abus
M. Mahauthaman
5,0 sur 5 étoiles An excellent read
Commenté au Royaume-Uni le 21 novembre 2017
11 personnes ont trouvé cela utile
Signaler un abus
Sarah-Lou
4,0 sur 5 étoiles Maggie O'Farrell writes beautifully. You cannot help be be swept along by ...
Commenté au Royaume-Uni le 7 mars 2018
8 personnes ont trouvé cela utile
Signaler un abus
Signaler un problème

Cet article contient-il des contenus inappropriés ?
Pensez-vous que cet article enfreint un droit d'auteur ?
Est-ce que cet article présente des problèmes de qualité ou de mise en forme ?