It was hot, too hot for the season.
I think it was an unreasonable time, like the rest.
I took a last look round to my living room, a little older, a just typed.
It was a nice room design and modern art, with the coffee table and library frosted interlaced iron verdigris. An artificial flower violet crystal, things like that. The old Modern. Alain Bashung a disc on the sofa, a work of Beckett still open. "Oh, beautiful days," it's called. Editions de Minuit. It can not be invented. There are also bills piling up and radios pulmonary piled under an old issue of Les Inrockuptibles.
I slammed the apartment door behind me and it made me nothing special.
Nothing, I tell you.
In the elevator, I cast a sideways glance in the mirror, as we start to prepare those who are suspicious of something wrong.
I put a light jacket with gray cloth. I know why I wear this one and not another, but that does not concern you.
On my hairless skull, I screwed a leather cap, which gives me a look halfway between Ticky Holgado and Hanna Schygulla in "Lili Marleen". I also have eyebrows to Nosferatu, that is to say that I have none.
And I went out into the street, where I have taken everything from the front as imprudent swimmer drinks the cup: the heat of the April unreasonable, car horns, the backfiring of motor scooters, pedestrians ran like ants after who knows what.
I headed to the Parc Monceau in the rue de Prony.
The place was full and buzzing like an egg from various peeps, men, women, children and birds tangled together in a chaotic and unreadable. At times, nevertheless, the robins seemed to outweigh the creaking of scooters.
I walked slowly - because I sweat quickly right now - looking for a free school.
I finally found the shade of a gazebo.
In my inside pocket, there is a white envelope and empty. At first I wanted to write a letter, but I quickly realized that I had many people who write. Friends, family, I too walked behind their box, even with no wind to stir the flowers.
So no, no letter.
I let it flow a little time, counting to a hundred. This is my hide and seek with me, a casino without gambling. At fifty against one, you lose. At fifty, I left my bag plastic bag gave me Tony. A friend, Tony, even if we do not give anything for a hug. I know that some take for a negligible quantity, but I know we understand each other without speaking, and that's what matters to me.
Last night he came to have coffee with me, apologizing for not being able to stay. On leaving, he just filed a plastic bag on the coffee table, murmuring: "The thing that you asked me."
Then he went to hello mimicking the U.S. military, at least a somewhat stylized version free, because you have to say that Tony is an artist.
And now, the bag and its contents are now in my sweaty palms on the bench rotting, I look around me with the air of someone who does not do it behind my sunglasses. While my eyes are a clump of rhododendron, my fingers decipher the butt of the gun, read the bulges of the barrel, the barrel and after his final rear sight.
course it's not very serious to make it to the Park Monceau, with all these kids playing, but is it that life took me seriously, me?
counting. A sixty-six, she came into my field of vision, obvious and improbable.
A young woman with a very dark dress that was too white sore eyes, thin as a climber, nimble and flexible. A face indecipherable blur body.
She waved at idle, as the curtains move when you leave the window open.
She advised briefly jostled a bench where children chocolate fingers and the little face smeared with jam.
Then she vaguely focused gaze to an elderly couple who took the sun, with eyes octagonal Brazilian lizards. But it changed its mind.
And finally, Tired, she led her not to my bench. Its not that I counted. Four.
Then three, two, one, and she stood before me, as a palpable blow, with a frown vaguely disgusted, a little tired.
She inspected the bottom up, then the reverse.
Resigned, she sat by my side, after a furtive glance at the cleanliness of the bench, gauge its potential impact on its white poplin dress.
It arose as only cats do, flexibly and through, having toured the place.
was a cat, for sure. I almost felt the scratch.
I tried to breathe calmly, breaking down the movement well as a good lifeguard teaches those who will drown.
I always hand closed like an oyster on the butt of the Ruger, a clammy hand a little now, with my movement frozen in motion as a skater on the ice frozen television replays. No way to release this stuff, the reason for all this. I heard more noise, nothing, not even right.
I resolutely silent, as are the pain or madmen who have abandoned say what happens to them. Time has sunk, I can not say how it was leaking like crazy bathtub overflowing.
And against all odds, she has spoken.
Without turning his head, eyes straight ahead.
She said quietly:
- "It's hot for a Monday."
I shook his head gravely, mimicking the one who understands. This sentence appeared to me a depth and an undeniable relevance, mixed with a humor that brooked no reply.
That's all she said. And then she stood up, walked away waving to the rump and the dress, her thin tanned legs struggled to keep twisting his heels on the uneven gravel.
"It's hot for a Monday." That's all she said, but it is true that there was nothing else to say.
It was a considerable bandwidth.
I told my plastic bag, I stuffed in my jacket and got up in my lap, slowly and without much conviction.
I watched walk in the park to the gates of the output.
I know I'll be back tomorrow.
A fresco.
Sandro
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