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Chapter 193 – A Winter of Convalescence
🕑 Added 2025-09-29 17:05:25 +0000 UTC
The town of Tolochenaz, in Switzerland’s Vaud canton, lies in the French-speaking west near Geneva, at an altitude of 418 meters—a lowland region.
In winter, Tolochenaz stays between 0 and 6°C. Around Christmas, snow is common, blanketing gardens and rooftops.
Still, it isn’t Alaska—the latitude isn’t nearly as high, so the climate is far less severe than the subarctic.
This season, gardens require little care. As long as the flowers and plants survive, that is enough; no one trims them in winter.
But it isn’t as though one can simply curl up by the fireplace all season.
The most important task is clearing snow—from the roof, from the paths in the yard.
The snow here doesn’t pile up as thickly as in Alaska, so collapsed roofs are rare. The real nuisance is the snow on the paths. A thin layer may seem harmless—step down and you hit the ground—but all you’ve really done is compress snow into ice. And ice is treacherous. If left uncleared, the garden paths become skating rinks, accidents waiting to happen.
So Henry’s first duty every morning was snow removal. He didn’t have to touch the roof daily, but the garden paths were essential: walks there were the only exercise Miss Hepburn could take.
He could have vaporized it with heat vision, but chose not to. It was enough to shovel it aside.
Still, plain shoveling was boring. So Henry indulged a childhood wish he’d never fulfilled—he built snowmen.
That winter in Tolochenaz, it was a common sight: a young man in the early morning, clearing snow and then shaping it into a snowman, while five Jack Russell terriers frolicked nearby.
Since icy roads made running dangerous, Robert stayed indoors for exercise, leaving the dogs to burn their energy outdoors with Henry.
The snowmen phase lasted only two or three days. Then Henry began sculpting.
At first, grotesque alien forms, Lovecraftian enough to shred one’s sanity; later, Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David, the Greek goddess Athena, the Statue of Liberty.
Each day, after shoveling, he created a new figure. His big shovel scraped here, carved there; if he cut too much, he simply packed on more snow—far simpler than real sculpture, with the luxury of undoing mistakes.
Henry wasn’t aiming for fine detail. Left outdoors, any sculpture soon warped in fresh snowfall. It was just a way to pass the mornings.
The rest of the day, he practiced piano.
In Hepburn’s home stood a well-maintained upright—not a rare antique, just a solid instrument. Sometimes guests played; sometimes Audrey herself would strike a few keys to soothe her mood. Most of the time, though, it gathered dust.
Henry took it up for practice.
Neither Audrey nor Robert was a trained pianist, but as actors they had cultivated taste. They could comment, offer suggestions.
Robert’s verdict on Henry’s playing: “By the book, nothing personal in it—but at least it doesn’t hurt the ears.”
He never practiced more than an hour. Most of the remaining time was spent in Hepburn’s preferred pastime: reading. Robert sometimes broke away for other pursuits, but Audrey and Henry lingered over books.
The collection ranged from the household shelves to borrowed volumes from the town library. Often they exchanged impressions afterward.
Henry, of course, read the widest. He could handle foreign texts that Audrey and Robert could not, so they often pressed him for his thoughts—sometimes Audrey alone.
Reading time was usually in the afternoon, by wide sunlit windows. The pale winter light warmed them as they savored the words on the page.
“Henry, what are you reading today?” Audrey asked, resting her eyes from her book.
He raised his own volume. “The Poppy by Natsume Sōseki. A Japanese modern writer from the late 19th century.”
It wasn’t that he avoided Chinese books—he had simply exhausted the library’s stock of them.
“And the story?”
Henry explained: “The ‘poppy’ refers to a scarlet flower—beautiful but perilous. In classical Eastern literature it often symbolizes women, and as the source of opium it also suggests hidden ruin behind beauty.
“The novel mirrors that. The heroine’s allure to men serves as a metaphor for Western civilization’s arrival in Japan—a prosperity that is but froth, without real foundation.”
Audrey murmured, “It sounds sad.”
“Rather than a sad story,” Henry corrected, “it’s more of a vehicle to flaunt literary technique—pages of florid nonsense dressed up as profound.”
Audrey chuckled. “One remark from you and the whole feeling shifts.”
Henry spread his hands. “That’s literature for you. Dress up ordinary stories in dazzling words, slip in a sermon, and call it genius.”
“You’re not entirely wrong,” Audrey agreed.
“There’s also a curious anecdote about the author.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
“He taught English for a time. One student once translated ‘I love you’ literally as kimi wo aisu. Sōseki told them Japanese wouldn’t say it so bluntly. A better phrase was tsuki ga kirei desu ne—‘The moon is beautiful tonight,’ a poetic way of sharing the evening’s beauty.”
“How lovely. Is that true?”
Henry replied coolly, “No. Scholars later traced the story to a source written more than a decade after Sōseki’s death. Likely invented.”
Audrey pouted. “Henry, must you ruin the romance?”
He grinned. “But isn’t it something, if people hear a tale and think, ‘Yes, that’s exactly the kind of thing he would say’? That too is a mark of greatness.”
Audrey thought a moment, then nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
