The Man in the Hut.(Travel narrative)

A single road runs through our village in Normandy, and, depending on which direction you come from, either the first or the last thing you pass is a one-story house--a quonset hut, really--made of concrete blocks. The roof is covered with metal, and large sheets of corrugated plastic, some green and others milk-colored, have been joined together to form an awning that sags above the front door. It's so ugly that the no-trespassing sign reads as an insult. "As if," people say. "I mean, really."

The hut was built by a man I'll call Jackie, who used to live there with his wife and his wife's adult daughter, a gangly retarded woman I'll refer to as Clothilde. On ...