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Towards the end of the first year of Anita Bruckner's death time,

I was remembering my meetings and conversations with her.

What we talked about.

Art, books, the literary world, France, friends in common.

What we didn't talk about?

Her early years, her personal life, politics,

or anything practical. No exchange of recipes, no mention of sport. Anita, what do you think

of Ireland's chances in the Six Nations? It was not a question that ever came to my lips.

I remember her telling me that she just finished a novel,

and so for the moment was doing exactly what I like. I said, teasingly, well, in your case,

that probably means rereading Proust. Her eyes widened in alarm. How did you guess?

On another occasion we discussed Sem Simonon. I had mainly read

the Megre stories. She had mainly read the Romandour, which she greatly admired. I asked her to

recommend one. She was, as in everything, quite firm. She cruel, she said. This conversation must have taken place before

1999, as the FNAX sticker on the back of the copy I brought back from my next trip to Paris

is priced in francs, 3770. I remember taking the novel on a few holidays, but never getting around to it.

Something about the title kept putting me off.

That cosy French Shea, followed by a harsher, doubly foreign surname, cruel, K-R-U-L.

...