dimanche 26 juillet 2009

Le Garçon Huître

J’ai aimé un garçon qui était comme une huître.
Il ne parlait pas, mais il fumait beaucoup.
Et il écoutait de la musique.
Je lui ai dit, « Édouard, tu es une huître austère,
Tes contours sont tranchants et l’on s’y blesse, toutes.
Car on s'est mises en tête qu’il y a une perle à l’intérieur. »
Il a souri avec ses cils de chameau.

Un jour, j’ai réussi à induire l’ouverture de l’huître.
Juste comme ça, en tournant le dos.
Et j’ai vu son secret.
Il n’y avait pas de perle à l’intérieur ; c’était vide.
Alors j’ai fait une jolie génuflexion,
Et assez poliment, j'ai dit à Édouard:
« Au revoir ».

dimanche 5 juillet 2009


He was playing guitar on the couch when June introduced us. I could distinguish Paul’s features on his oval face. How did I not know that Paul had son?
Fran was bent over his guitar, tuning it. He was a reserved young man. He had short thin hair of the darkest sort, and dark fugitive eyes. His expression was this of a child, and yet there was something very noble about him. Possibly his aquiline nose.
Paul was lying on the damask divan across the room. He pushed his guitar aside and said: “you two are very close in age,” so I asked Fran how old he was. He replied with a soft masculine voice, without looking at me, without taking his eyes off the strings of his instrument. “I am 25”. “I am 24,” I said.
I sat on the carpet next to the couch for a moment. I would have liked to stay there with them. Listen to the father and son play guitar together. An intimate musical dialogue.
But I left. I felt like an intruder.
And as I left, I heard a voice rise and carry a soulful tune.

I woke up later that night and went to the kitchen to get some water. There was a dim changing glow in the hallway to the living room, where Fran was staying. He was watching TV. I could hear the indistinct murmur. I filled my glass with water and listened for a while. Should I go with him? I tried to think of a way to engage a genuine conversation, but could a midnight conversation ever be genuine? Colorful fantasies uprose in mind.
When I came out of the kitchen, red-faced and decided to talk to him, the living room was pitch dark.

Fran left in the morning. The sound of the gate woke me up. June told me: “Fran doesn’t talk much. He is schizophrenic.” I marked a pause; my thoughts were still clouded with sleep. Then the clouds dispersed and I felt my heart race. Schizophrenia...
“Does he visit here often?” I asked. She shook her long curls.
“He makes me uncomfortable, she added, I never know what to tell him.”

As much as I wanted to, I didn't find the words either.