The Afghan hound lowered its head. It crossed the street behind its owner. Guénola pulled my arm. “Come! Over there, did you see them?”
The dog jumped behind its owner. It turned to us, so sadly that we froze. “I will never forget, what I saw run away, I have no regrets because I have memories galore”, sung Aznavour…
“I love dogs. This one smelled us! You see how it looks at us? Its long hair swinging to the rhythm of its steps…”
Gust of wind, a sensation of infinity looking at them, as if they were dancing on an invisible thread.
“Last winter, there were two. There was another greyhound. Their owner had clothed them with mantlets to keep them warm, one red and one green. I remember that I rushed towards them in a quite cavalier fashion to tell them how beautiful they were!”
The man sensually smoked his Havana. The dog avoided the smoke puffs. Its joyful barking made the sound of a flute in harmony with the Aznavour song about lost youth.
“The tailor measured my dogs’ chests and fitted my cashmere sweaters for them. Don’t you recognise these mantlets with colours like tubes of paint? Your compliments move me, Madam, but I must return them to you. These are Victoire sweaters, of course, comfortable and so beautiful!”
In the shop, Guénola walked toward a pile of red cardigans. She took the first one, which was like splendid red flame. From the street, the greyhound must have seen it, a recollection of last winter, and it ran towards us, panting.
“At the time, we were some joyful jokers…” Aznavour sung, echoing these words in the shop.
