THE WATER TREES OF JOGUES VALLEY- L'ASILE DE FOU

L’Asile De Fou, 1273 La Rue Martrand, Paris, France

December 12, 1972

Marie Robetois, the sole survivor of Jogues Valley, sat silently in the drowsy room waiting for a group of reporters from Le Monde. Light spilled in through the generous floor to ceiling windows which ran along the eastern side of the room facing the street. An orderly sat on a bench just inside the door, but otherwise Marie was alone. She didn’t mind. She was used to being alone. The reporters were late, but Marie didn’t mind, she was used to waiting.

Somewhere distant, a door swung open and the sound of approaching feet replaced the sleepy silence. The orderly got up and stepped out into the hallway.

Marie remained seated- her face inscrutable.

Reporters and photographers, five of them, filed into the room and the orderly directed them to sit in chairs, which had been arranged in a line in front of Marie.

The orderly addressed the assembled men, reading a prepared introduction from an index card, “This is Marie Robetois, believed to be 33-37 years old, daughter of Jean and Lucille Robetois, originally of Andelot. She is the only known survivor of Jogues Valley. You have been granted a half hour to interview her. If Marie becomes upset or violent I have been directed to terminate the interview immediately. Understand?”

The assembled journalists and photographers nodded their heads in unison as they produced pads of paper, recording devices and cameras. The first to pose a question was a short, sour looking man, whose press credentials identified him as Marc Vasic. “Marie, what happened to the rest of the people who were stranded in the valley?”

“There were voices in the sand. You should really ask them,” said Marie in a flat monotone, her eyes fixed on Vasic’s shoes.

Vasic, sounding slightly agitated, rephrased the question in a slow steady voice, as though he were talking to a child, “Marie, where did they go? The others?”

“I don’t know where they went, but I know where they are,” came Marie’s answer, still speaking in a monotone and staring at his shoes.

“You know where they are?”

“You should ask the voices, the voices in the sand.”

“You know where they are?”

“Yes, but not where they went.”

“What does that mean?”

“You should ask the voices, the voices in the sand.”