CHAPTER V

The apartment is empty. No one! … A walk to stretch his memory. Workers, men and women, like integrated circuits, answer the call of earning their crust. On the AM airwaves, it is the hour of nervous hosts. It is also the moment when the Colombian people, among others, are exploited to the utmost. But the harm is done. One no longer thinks about it; one muses on it while tasting it…

In the dreamopath’s mind, everything is a pretext for commentary. He moves forward, turns left or right, according to the pleasure of the traffic lights. He wanders. Then his tension rises, for the crowd is growing. But he does not panic; he looks for a spark.

From the corner of his eye, he scrutinises gazes. He selects other people’s blue eyes and directs his intrusive search toward women much taller than he is, … much taller.

— That’s it! At last, it’s her! … How beautiful you are! … No! Don’t cross the street. Please, come back… — Bah! In any case, it was not Nielle. Not yet. Another one, always another one.

The chances of crossing your path in the street are infinitesimal. Doubtful, too, the chances of recognising you. — Do you live in Montréal or abroad? … How are you spending your time this morning? … How is your life? … Are you still alive? — Absolute uncertainty. Total darkness!

After all these years of flight, voluntary or imposed, could I identify you if I glimpsed you? … — Almost impossible! Would I be lucid enough not to neglect the ageing on your face, which, like a chador, would leave only your eyes as a clue? That blazing youth fixed on your photo, the only one I possess, does not trouble my reason to the point of imagining the snapshot “youthful”.

Irrefutable! You have surely changed. No doubt, the only induction that might spur me toward the effective appearance of your body. But these modifications, circumscribed by the wear of time, do not restrain my almost immoderate impulses. Those that push me to discover in every woman some element, some reminder of your being. Unfair to her, but fair to my reveries.

Yet I must refrain from gleaning stray waves here and there! Forgetting you is a priority. Did I not make myself that promise at the beginning of this day of self-analysis? … I must remain calm. Think of something else.

… I must buy myself a new pair of shoes. Tomorrow? … Jeans…

What is this perfume I am inhaling? … Nielle! … No. — There, farther away, that silhouette! … There, that gaze! … Behind me, that soft voice? … No! … To my right, I feel her. I can almost touch her. Where do these sirens come from, imitating the song of my muse? … What is the use, it is always the others; those who resemble her… Nielle! … It is I!

Damn! … A fibreglass mannequin. A Rootstein! … Quick, let me go home before I start kissing shop windows! "

A dry creak. The sound of the door unlocking is identical to the one his passion produces. He strives to imitate the light steps of the obsessive one on the staircase. Nothing works! His mnemonic faculties fail. He does not head toward his former bedroom to weep there. Too different from what it had been, it smothers the memory of it. He stops in the kitchen, in normal disorder; opens the rear door for efficient airing of the hovel, too suffocating. Too many sorrows, too many nauseas float in the ambient air. Letting the draught slash through images already chewed over, he returns to the living room to stretch out on the old divan damp with sweat and illusory agonies.

Suddenly sensitive to memories of written words, he closes his journal. Nevertheless, he does not reject his will to elucidate the origin of his confusion. The photo of his “bitter-beloved” having upon him an astonishing attraction, as inexplicable as a state of hypnosis. He languidly plunges his eyes toward the silver nitrate, while reconnecting with his morose Orphic possessions.

— Damned photograph! … Am I mad enough to venerate a face on a mere university student’s identity card? This piece of identification found fortuitously, is this chance’s only gift? A poison that Bruce handed to me, certain he would make me happy while mocking me. In that impulse of carelessness, he assured me of the object’s uselessness to Nielle, since it was expiring. This trapped gift that dresses my wounds, then infects them again in a perpetual cycle! This image now wandering in my soul, in this hell lit by vain hopes once springing up at the heart of my dreams, is this the only balm upon my punishment? … When will deliverance come? … In what circumstances would I see you again, muse? … If? …"

Keine Spiel! … No game! … No game! —

Aber eine geibet! … But an orison! … But a prayer!

— You, creator and master builder of my soul! Hear this prayer that I recite to you with the same degree of emotion as Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto. Words and notes, in each one regret is expressed, a torment. But the complete orison implores your magnanimity.

Exercise your forgiveness upon this simple intention to usurp the glory of Kristos, even if I must have made Muhammad, Buddha and the other pretenders shudder in limbo, nirvana or Valhalla. I believed myself blessed by your designs only for a brief span of time.

I beg you to absolve me, even if I wallowed in lascivious adoration of the blonde actress’s canons; taking demonic pleasure in profanations with necrophilic overtones.

These faults, however grave they may be, do not succeed in making me accept this austere, inhuman punishment! … How can I accept not being the chosen one, the king of Nielle’s heart?

If not, force me to walk with my head bowed like a fallen dreamer, so as to avoid those blue eyes against a background of sky. Those azure gazes that pierce my soul, bending it to vibrate tenderly until the apotheosis of my oneiric moods.

Conjure away these troubling encounters of a fraction of a second, confusing reality in the haven of doubt! I find myself obliged to confess that love cannot be forced, that it can only be suggested… Why did it please you to choose Nielle to demonstrate it to me? Would it not have been better to choose another, so that I might hurt less? …

Amen! "

Instant of respite. No breathing and, … momentary void. Musical translation: silences, sighs and half-pauses on a stave as blank as untouchable inspiration. Confusion seeks to dominate the chronology of events widely. The image participates in the reconstruction of memories by situating space-time exactly where good and evil were lying low. The identity card acts as a journal, more precise, more detailed, like illustrated pages. An image worth a thousand ills… Around the dreamopath, everything is transformed. The walls recover the same colours, the same decorations as in those years when the trouble was born and fed.

— Damn this comic strip! How stupid it is to do this work with a brush barely bigger than a needle. I am ruining my sight as if I wanted to extract my eyes from their sockets.

It is mad, forcing myself to trace every line, determine every form, polish the textures under a magnifying glass. All the concentration this project demands is more masterly than the result will be. Every tree has its clearly defined leaves, each of those leaves enjoys its veins…

… And… those steps, up there, signalling Nielle’s presence to me, disturb me so easily…

Hop! As the other would say! — Forget everything, think of only one thing, concentrate. Abstract myself from every happiness, however sweet it may be. Nothing must derogate from your cultural objective, Damien! Not the slightest word, not the slightest step, not the slightest…

Ah damn! How can I direct my thoughts onto this white, lightly inked surface? … The professor is at Nielle’s, and he’s having her…!

I would sell my soul three times to replace him. Hold Nielle in my arms, … softly and affectionately caress her tender and sensitive erectile jewel.

Order! Motivate yourself, dreamer! Assume your role as artist, Damien! … Divert, without striking a blow, this distraction that moves you with another idea… But what? … Ah, yes! — For the pleasure of planning my life, I bought half a dozen Chinese fortune cookies last week. Oriental-style wisdom wrapped in sugared morality: "Flower-strewn paths do not lead to glory." That was what the short slip inside my first cookie mentioned. In fact, three out of six cited the same proverb. To think there are naïve people who believe in horoscopes. At least I get away with a tickle in my Sagittarius stomach…

Now I think of it…

Nielle was on her way to work when I offered her one of those treats. That very evening, crossing paths with her on the staircase, I quickly understood from her rather cold attitude; either she had not appreciated the maxim, or she had badly digested the Asian pastry. Yet the precept mattered little to me; I simply wanted to hear her quote the saying to me, as a way of stretching time in her company.

Too bad for my insatiable curiosity. Her refusal allied itself with her disdain in wishing me a good end of day. Was she afraid of inadvertently revealing some secrets to me? … A maxim too moralistic?

I, stupefied like that frog waiting to be kissed, remained motionless, seated on the middle step of the staircase, croaking "I love you!" in my heart for the rest of the evening.

Filth!

Four hours of work wasted! Another ink stain. Look, Damien, what you see are Nielle’s exciting complaints, her erotic crescendo. Her orgasm is that spilled ink.

Already over? Who is going down the staircase? She or he? It’s Jonathan! It’s the professor! — But what if it is Nielle? … — Always that irresistible desire urging me to take advantage of every opportunity to admire her. Take a look or not? … Too bad! I must feed my libido on her delectable forms. And I shall intensify the pleasure of it by projecting myself into a timeless story, like past and present in osmosis.

I am a once that was…? No, once upon a time there was I, who am… Too bad for this everlasting opening formula, the story has begun… someone is showing up…!

… and that is how Damien had just enough time to settle himself at the window, so as to give the impression that he was already idling there. Casually, humming, he was convinced he had no talent for acting but gifts for lying.

— Heads! Someone is entering the carriage entrance. But who is crossing this corridor that drains the echoes from the courtyard toward the street? … Shit! It’s only that gigolo of a pedagogue… Damn! He saw me! …

— Hi Damien! How are you? So, watching the big fat women of the neighbourhood stroll along the sidewalk? …

— I…! I was relaxing between two brushstrokes. I’m making a comic strip and…

— Good! — Oh! While I’m at it, I have an important piece of news to announce. I’m moving my household gods. I’m going to live elsewhere with my fiancée. We’re getting married next month! "

Damien’s heart struggled, seeming to drive back, to repel all the blood to be purified. The muse would enrich the life of the trendy one; he would find himself obliged to cut short the pleasant satisfaction of contemplating his beauty. Nielle would leave his dreams.

— My future wife is coming. Oh! Shit! … What shall I tell her?

— What’s wrong, Prof?

— I just saw my girlfriend’s car turn the corner. I’m in a mess! … I had an appointment with her and I forgot to go! — Help me, Damien! If she asks me the reason for my presence here, tell her I visited you! "

— That’s his fiancée! … So it isn’t Nielle? " Damien murmured like a ventriloquist struck by sudden loss of voice.

Fancifully, the future husband would seize upon Damien’s complicity to mask the quasi-adulterous act. To make sure he saved appearances first, he welcomed his pretty promised one by hastening to snatch from her a guilt-clearing kiss, convinced he was the only one who knew the motivation for the deception.

— Damien! This is Dominique, my fiancée. "

Suspicious, she did not take long to question Jonathan, who was sweating blood and water to hide Nielle’s perfume still clinging to his skin.

— How is it that you are still here? Weren’t you supposed to meet me at the tailor’s half an hour ago?

— Forgive me, darling. I stopped to see the artist to inform him of our upcoming wedding. — And Damien insisted on showing me some of his works. He is a good draftsman. Imagine, at the moment he is working on a comic strip. We had a long discussion about certain aspects of the scenario. It was so interesting that I forgot to look at the time. You forgive me? … Isn’t that true, Damien? …

— Indeed…! He has…! We palavered on the subject… It’s a rather singular idea. If I had the chance, Dominique, I would tell you about it, but… I have to work. "

Convinced of his own innocence, the professor greeted the artist while inviting his Dulcinea to follow him by car. Damien, for his part, had been delighted to learn that his hot and volcanic muse would not be moving away from his sight. Moreover, he did not consider himself in any way delinquent, in no way guilty of having been the involuntary collaborator in the Tartuffery of a bachelor at his last libertinages.

And cric, crac, croc, … the tale is not over; it must be pursued. The monster has gone away, the fairy has lain down again and sleeps upon her dreams, there, where she holds out her arms to me. "

A digital clock, panicked by a sunbeam, indicates eight eighty-eight. Yet it is mid-morning, not the end of the world. Distorted time disconcerts the dreamopath, who sees his memories developing in slow motion. A hesitation arises in the approach; choosing between the absence of music or a sound support as the axis of liberation. The journal indicates twenty-eight days later on the clock of memories.

(Today, August 9

— Sweet torments moving here and there, higher than my thoughts, just above me. I love hearing you and surprising you when you settle so feline-like on the floorboards. I dream of massaging you with just the vigour and caresses you need. Carefully rubbing you down, persuaded that the next time I listen, you would sing to me in a G arpeggio your affectionate gratitude.

I delight in these moments of confession, these accounts of Nielle’s pedestrian adventures. I rock myself in farniente, stretched out on my divan, lying in wait for the subtlest movement, the most eloquent; eyes closed, waiting for her feet to beg me to go and find the woman they adorn. ")

— I profited from my muse’s presences to unearth inspiration. These occasions did not result in the creation of works or artistic research, however disparate, but in the deepening of reveries. The innocence of drinking myself full, as through roots, from Nielle’s life. "

A witness. — The plastic-coated reproduction, the identity card denouncing a dilemma. ***