Finally, it should have been a great day.
I pushed the gate of the mansion in the Rue Piccini, in the 16th district.
a cartoon gorilla took me, after the usual checks, in a waiting room with Venetian blinds that smelled GP who can not afford. Burgundy carpet worn, some journals there are more than a year. Then they called me. I went into another room, not without having crossed other gorillas. A real zoo.
Then the door of a shabby office less than others. And sitting behind a white wooden secretary, Bernstein. The fifty flaccid, slightly bald, too pale complexion by eating a bad beard. It was a dirty yellow shirt that was pretty good with his nails.
I immediately decided that I did not love her. He examined me from top to bottom. Then the reverse. Finally, he made a gesture, which would mean that I was allowed to sit in an armchair which had been yellow, too.
In response, I lit a Gypsy International, and blew away the smoke, to him.
He smiled. A dirty smile, I noticed.
- They came to collect his money, Mr. Ferretti?
Shrug.
- 30 000 euros for a guy like you is not much. You do not have big needs?
- I have very large needs, however. That's why I'm cheap. We will buy anything I want. I listened to myself
say anything. Sometimes it is as soft music in the background.
- And what, what you want? Night without moon? New
shrug.
Bernstein nodded, mimicking the one who understands.
- "When we looked closely at life, there is God or that suicide," he dropped sententiously.
Then after a while, as if to apologize:
- I think that's Camus.
- Montherlant, I let go by blowing smoke in my Gitane stronger than I would have liked.
It began to irritate me. It's dangerous when I get angry. My mother would tell you.
- Pardon?
- Montherlant is Montherlant.
- Oh yeah?
- Yes, indeed, it is death, "I said dryly.
It annoyed me. I was wrong. The idiots, be allowed to say. The only thing that mattered is that he gives me my money, preferably quick enough. Yet I felt that this would be long.
- You know what is your problem? Finally, when you do your job, I mean ....
I shook my head.
- You want me to tell you?
- If I can not avoid it, I say, tired.
- You're a thinker, that's your problem.
- A Dresser? Why, you have injuries? I ventured a smile.
But he did not understand the wordplay. A jerk, I said.
Then his face lit up with dirty white and slowly a smile. He was being understood. What was interesting about this type is that we could follow the path of thinking on his face. Slow path, difficult, and from time to time, the victory of mind over matter. A real fight.
- And you, what do you think, Mr. thinker, "said Bernstein, decidedly philosophical.
- I do not think more, it keeps me from thinking wrong.
- Yes, yes, okay, "he continued, is packed in its own fat. Say, you're in love, or what?
- Do not say bad words, do I let go soberly.
He deigned to smile, and then, suddenly:
- Trades of idiots, it makes con.
And before my failure to respond, he added:
- I am among those who think that a killer is necessarily an idiot. That's why I use them.
- You are those who think and who should not, I said slowly getting up to him.
Immediately he was afraid, because his eyes whirled in search of something or someone, then that obviously there was nothing. I like reading the fear in people's eyes. That, too, should it pass me.
So I put my hand under my blazer, by reflex, while breathing to calm myself thoroughly. I think that's where he became really scared, because he came out of a drawer a blue paper envelope from which emerged the 500 euro note.
I took the envelope from the hand that was not in the blazer and I think I smiled, which is unusual for me, many will tell you.
Then, turning on his heel, I heard:
- Ferretti, I was told that you were wrong. I will confirm.
I mimed a bow, putting a knee down, and then, once identified, I showed him a finger.
is leaving the mansion that I thought that it should have been a great day.
I had my money, I'd have to kill anyone today. In short, things were rolling nicely.
Yet I was calm, but vaguely disgusted. Outside
Avenue Foch seemed sweet, bland, with its smell of cut grass. A sort of miniature Switzerland. I do not know if it makes you that. I do.
In the distance I saw a Toyota that looked so much like a pick-up from the pound as it was. And then I saw, on wheels, the Mercedes I had rented in the morning. Double file ... I did not even like running. Anyway, the car is rented at organization name, she will recover.
- Having problems?
I turned to see whence came the clear voice. I was at the terrace of the Madrigal on the Champs-Elysees. The voice came from a woman who at once struck me as beautiful. Thirty years. Tight dark gray suit, white silk blouse, stockings smoked sewing. This kind whatever. The class-sexy kind. I do not know about you, but I like it.
- You have problems, "she repeated, amused.
- I do not call this problem, I replied, sec.
She was sitting at the terrace. With a gesture, she invited me to join. At least that's what I understood.
- Yes, I understand ...
The problem of people who say 'I understand' is that in general they do not understand what you just said. This was the case, I think.
She was blonde, had green eyes, the kind -woman executive who has read any Cosmopolitan that is to say that we felt she had theories about premature ejaculation, Bond Fund, but also on the wolf saffron in foil. I avoided so carefully these three subjects. She smiled lightly. I did not pay attention to the lightness, just smile.
was one of those moments when one feels distinctly we made a mistake but when you decide to commit it anyway.
I think her name was Audrey, and after twenty minutes passed around a gin and tonic, I realized it was a woman connected, that is to say that she took things serious lightly and light things with gravity. I decided to do in the grave, since it is what comes most naturally.
- Because you no longer believe in anything, she told me (the hipsters have in common with farmers with them, it is familiarly after five minutes). You're a Desperado . A cowboy sad.
I looked. I do not understand what she said. As Hope is an empty content, that nobody has taken me a satisfactory definition, I do not despair.
Hope, despair, these are notions of working girls who come to learn that their vacation in the Seychelles with Charles fell into the water. And I do not like water. I do not feel sorry either.
I just wanted to take her home to the real navigation begins. I did. She began. Screeching silk. Descent into the chic below. Heavy breathing, squeaks. The wave advance, retreats. Respite. Slight thinning on a neck clear. And the more words that no longer belong, "No, not there ... I beg you ...." And then the storm rises, the angry bull, "here, take ..." It was
be twenty-three hours, and her long legs floating out of my fridge.
- You take something? Her voice returned
clear. I noticed the wrinkles around the eyes. Crow's feet. Not moved with it, damn it known.
- You take something?
- No. But you take the sea. You are sensual, but without result.
"It's Gainsbourg, "I said after a while, just to apologize.
It took the shock front, an eyebrow raised in surprise. I watched her stir to pick up its affairs. To give a capacity, she rekindled her laptop, she deigned to cut when we were in bed. obvious sign of interest in me from an executive woman . It always consisted of numbers, which apparently remained unanswered, too .
When slamming the door, she said simply
- I would not live in your head. It is rotten in there.
And so saying, she patted his head. I shook head and smiled and blew away my Gitane smoke toward the ceiling. The gesture almost made me say "so happy?" But I restrained myself. It serves no purpose to humiliate people for free.
Then there was the slamming of the door, which the shock wave was nearly off the wall a picture of Cartier-Bresson that I love. Finally
only , as they say in B movies The cigarette between his lips, I went to the window, without ruling out the blinds, because I have none. Outside, there was not a single bus of tourists.
I live near the Porte Maillot, where Japanese tourists turn around, because when there's nothing to see.
Sandro
Credit: Levi Wedel
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