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 ».

Fran

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.”

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