Yesterday, Mama died.
was a very old lady, she was at the end of life. It quivered as the end of his emaciated arms, his body away, she drew a long time his night. Years. And then it came yesterday. Suddenly, like a thief in the bag.
To be honest, it was almost a relief to know it subsided.
No, it's just that it was my mom and I have none else.
Hey, it's a good word, I must write the words in my notebook. Because I have a notebook words, I'll tell you.
This afternoon, it was burning. Bonfire modern farewell unreal and fictitious swimming in a wave symphony of Beethoven. Or Purcell, I do not know. The music does not speak to me.
After dropping the urn at home, I went straight to the hotel by metro. I'm a night watchman, my head in the stars. Stars, the hotel has little: it is a street and a neighborhood of passage, people change all the time, they get a little ramshackle, almost naked, sometimes without luggage.
It's not too expensive either, it must be said.
I saw him from afar, with its blue sign that flashes and is reflected in puddles of dirty wet pavement. The "L" Hotel is lousy, it becomes clear more. So, we read "Breakfast."
I entered the reception, have welcomed Sonia, the manager, who was waiting to leave. As usual, she gave me instructions: be careful of the type 22, which seems well lit. Beware the checks. Do not accept prostitutes. Prohibit customers to cook in the rooms. Think about connecting the video after 21 hours. Have at hand the counterfeit 100-euro given of a robbery.
Yes, Sonia, yes, as usual.
Sonia. When I started here two years ago, I must say she had drawn, although it is not really beautiful or even pretty. I thought for a moment that I liked him too, and then it did not. I think too much.
She kissed me affectionately, recommending me not to write too much. Because she knows that night, I write on a big black book. My book of words. I note those derived over the water like logs in the river of my reptilian brain. It has everything, eels, fish-pilot, but also old crocodiles. Bits of suicide stories, recorded in a black notebook, specifying dates. I write what sounds to my synapses. Sonia said that it is poetry. I do not know. It gives things like
"Gun dogs"
"Din of Tears
" skin tube "
" Glasses moon
Missile homeless "
" zetoile blood altar: come with baggage and tears. "
It was the month last. Yesterday, I noted:
"Alfalfa half mast"
"Going without cursing"
"Time is an illusion that serial"
"Night watchman of life."
Because Mom, no doubt. Who Knows.
And then I settled for the night. An old CD Thiéfaine on the mini-chain dusty. Coffee. Cigarettes.
It was a calm evening.
Two Dutch backpack and cans of beer in hand. I did throw the cans. Saving the appearances. A junkie
wise and very polite, almost already party, with lots of empty eyes. Get paid in cash. Breakfast? No, no breakfast.
A gay couple in the former. Discreet, a little anxious, vaguely shameful. Payment in cash.
A small part of the province sent there by the hotel next door, which is always full. Card payment, waking up 6:15.
Thiefaine spoke of the lift 23 hours 43, a flight of transneuronal Noctalopus Airlines. Tales of misfits and crazy, whatever.
I took out the black book, but nothing came. No idea, no picture.
Oh yes, can be a pun on time, something like "I do not know Easter Year", but it remained vague because one type encapuché with a scarf over the nose came with the barrel of a shotgun protruding his parka as a mundane fishing rod.
I was not afraid. It has already come twice this year. He does not speak, he just clap a little corner of the gun on the counter of the reception and designates the body of a chin shot.
My hands flat on the counter. Make him understand that I have no weapon. I'm not afraid. Give him the counterfeit bill of 100 euros. The
see leaving, walking backwards into the hall and do the finger at the camera.
Then call the cops to the complaint. Give him a good five minutes in advance, Berkan. Because I believe that is Berkan, the plunger is small Turkish restaurant opposite. That's why he does not speak. We know each other a little. I am one who does not recognize. In exchange, he is not violent. It's something between us, as a tacit solidarity nuiteux.
The cops came. An excited youngster who seemed to believe again and a wise old man in raincoat worn which gave the air of not having nothing to fuck anything.
An alert? No, nothing special. A small, a parka, scarf. Accent? No, he said nothing. Camera? Yes, come, jump here. Prejudice? 600. In cash. Sonia
be happy, you win 500 euros. Will just consider replacing the fake 100 bill, but that it has a completely stock.
Yes, go tomorrow morning to sign the Minutes of the Commissioner, of course, gentlemen, thank you.
All this led me to 5:30, may be 6 o'clock. Not had time to write. So the black book, I noted:
"Tonight, nothing."
And I closed it, stuffed into my bag and I left at 7am, arriving at the falls and maids. Outside it was still raining and the beginning of a blade whitish fought a duel with the rest of the purple sky, which stood out black chimneys and TV antennas.
Descent subway.
On the platform was almost deserted and white tiled walls dominated the tanned belly of a pretty girl who wanted to take us all on holiday in the Seychelles. I do not remember the price but it was cheap, I think.
Opposite the wharf was full. Night owls going to bed and sweat-stink, typists sleepy, still sleepy workers who left their livelihood. Besides, a piece of rod sticking out from the bag, some of them.
From my side, it was almost deserted. Three or four figures vague at best. Puppeteers.
And then him.
Him, I can not say that I recognized him right away, probably because we were not we ever met.
But I knew right away that he was there for me, that this type would be important in my life.
Small, he wore a long black coat who beat her ankles. Something to sweep the subway tickets. It was like Eurasian dressed all in black, up to his wool cap down to his eyebrows. At the junction thereof, sunglasses with chrome glasses that reflected the station in pan.
It was perfectly still, like an iguana that takes the sun. The nocturnal sun of the underground. Impassive, unreadable. He wore black leather gloves, I noticed.
I felt close, almost already familiar when the rails began to vibrate, the end of the tunnel s'enluminer halo flickering headlights of the train. It happened rather quickly, the rest is underground. I thought he would miss the station.
But no, he braked hard enough, just like two gloved hands pushing me dryly on the tracks. An outbreak frank, unstoppable. Dense granite. I beat the air with strange figures of pedaling legs in the air, arms reeling underground space. My head was magnetized to the motor, the wiper behind which I guessed a driver slumped, held his chin with a closed fist.
It started to feel very hot grease machines, fried fritters, the dead rat, the hot metal. The subway, whatever.
And then the shock slammed, clean and dry. Matt, too. He pinched my whole body as the automatic door metallic green of the Porte des Lilas, when I was a kid, as my fingers caught in the door of the chamber of my ten years in the house at Suresnes. Pain green striped gray has reapplied, with its mouth and its line of sharp needles as broken bottles.
My bag was stolen, too, and opened up against the front of the machine. A black book has escaped, then was pressed against the windshield, open to 9th December.
"Tonight, nothing Was he scribbled.
The driver activated the windshield wipers, get it over with.
Sandro
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