CHAPTER VIII

A diabolical temptation briefly insinuates itself. That of provoking schizophrenic symptoms. To hear, if only one word from his muse. To see his love again, even in transparency, like spectral light.

To go mad or to return mad from it? This state of mental dislocation is of equal consequence to him. Two steps from eternal night, as he wishes, he considers that only hell remains to draw him out of his psychological torture. Outside, this “false order” that is the city troubles him even more. Accidents, various crimes and frustrations amplify the jostled unfolding of these images from another time, which pursue one another, accelerate and cheerfully harass him. His crutches: journal, photo and even doubling, forbid themselves. The uselessness of these accessories is obvious; he is caught in the gears.

— But what is Nielle doing? … Three weeks lost waiting for even a short glimpse of her work! — She is leaving me to stew; to languish in expectation of an outcome. An uncertain one. Is she trying to isolate me? And then, damn it! … Provocation will be played by two!

I will pose the threat of taking back the photocopied document. Then, perhaps, she will make an effort to work on it? … This ultimatum will oblige her to see me more regularly. Surely. "

At the moment he judged favourable, Damien, nervous, left his home; then rang at the third floor, all in a few seconds. Direct and without diplomacy, it was in an even briefer span of time that he addressed Nielle. His feverishness had made him caustic.

— Hi! I’ve come to take back my document. You are taking too much time. Your pace is slowing my productivity. I am withdrawing your collaboration. "

No doubt fearing this almost aggressive attitude, Nielle did not defend herself. Not the slightest explanation.

— You want your document…? Wait! … I’ll go get it. "

Between the two of them, silence delimited each one’s subsidiary thoughts and reflections. Then she came back.

— Here! Here is your damned shitty amateur “comic-strip artist” project. Low-grade dilettantism, if ever there was any! Bye!

Nielle had abruptly changed attitude, and her true conclusion was summed up in clenched teeth and a slamming door.

Damien returned to his lodging half-satisfied, half-disappointed. The satisfaction came from the simple pleasure of having seen his beauty. The disappointment resulted from his personal attitude: great impatience, impudent irreverence and, finally, the unintelligence of failing to enquire about the slightest touch of inspiration, even mawkish, that Nielle might have noted.

Already, remorse reached him in his reveries.

— …and what if the work met with no success? … What if it were a monumental flop? … Caused by my exasperation! "

Between this mistake and the consequent attempts at recovery he would combine, a few days laden with mea culpa passed.

Alone in his kitchen, elbows resting on the edge of the table, fists supporting his head heavy with contrition, a portable mirror placed before him; he repented, accusing himself of his faults as in a confessional, before his makeshift spiritual director: his own reflection.

— For your penance, … you will prepare her a chocolate cake.

— Huh! … What?

— Are we not in November? Is she not a Scorpio? Is it not her birthday around these days? …

— But I have almost no money left, barely ten dollars in my pockets, and my provisions are exhausted!

— Then too bad! The emptiness of your stomach will accompany that of your mind… Hum! What do you say to “Hungarian slices”? … No! Rather that famous Austrian recipe, the “Sachertorte”! I even know some of the ingredients.

— Oh yes! Which ones?

— Baking chocolate. The sweetest and very rich, of course. Sugar and eggs, and an indispensable personal touch: positive thoughts well blended in! "

After making the Viennese cake with all the required attention, he waited for the atmosphere to cool… so as to offer it at the ideal temperature. Thus an entire day passed.

Nielle’s steps. His only contacts up there, which remained faithful to him, warned him of his muse’s presence. Egotistical, they constantly betrayed her, pushing impropriety as far as denunciation, satisfied with only one reward: Damien’s will to remain taciturn during their arabesque disclosures.

Without further ado, he presented himself at her place.

— Hello, Nielle! (translation: “I love you, my love, but I am a stupid being!”) I waited for you all day yesterday. You did not come home? … (interpretation: “Shit! Is that any of my business!”) Here! This is a cake for you. It is a Sachertorte I made for your birthday. You are a Scorpio, aren’t you?

— Yes.

— Since I did not know your exact date of birth and I had some free time…

— And then!

— Honestly? … I would describe this surprise as rich. Rich with regrets. — I am seeking to have all my shames forgiven at the same time, such as that lustful desire to sleep with you. A long time ago! … Do you remember? … But mainly, I deplore that trust I bitterly took back from you.

— All right. I accept your apologies, but on the condition that I take only half of the Sachertorte.

— No, Nielle! I prepared it for you. Goodbye and thank you! "

He dispatched this, happy that his neighbour’s mood had calmed, even if it lacked enthusiasm. He assessed the percentage of forgiveness she would grant him by the number of savoury mouthfuls she would swallow.

Zoom-in inside the head of the sick dreamer, the unsatisfied lover. The images unfold at the speed of his heartbeats.

The questions? … Nothing new. — The answers? … Wait!

From one sleep to another, at each appearance of his muse, his dreams burst open in his nights. From one reality to another, in the covetousness of his reveries, unworthy nights rushed in to replenish him.

Real temporal indication: one second. Mnemonic temporal indication: one week.

— Someone at the door!? … Is it my love deigning to give me an appreciation of the truculent chocolate surprise? — Shit! — It is the cook’s silhouette. Too bad! I’m opening.

He looked dumbfounded when he saw Lou holding in his hands the plate on which he had presented the cake to Nielle. All the more so because Lou resembled those sly children who are happy only when amusing themselves with other people’s toys.

— Hi, Damien! … Your Sachertorte was delicious. Rather rich, but very good…!

— …!

— Nielle offered me a large piece of it; in fact, much more than half, almost three quarters. Her sister and one of her friends ate the other part. She told me that in any case, she preferred much lighter desserts.

There! I have to go back. Here is the plate! … Truly excellent! … Truly! " concluded Lou, regurgitating through a smile his satisfaction at seeing in Damien a disappointment considerably harder to swallow than the dessert.

Alone. Momentarily disconcerted. Damien looked at the plate, empty of those joys he had flattered himself he might eventually receive. Reacting abnormally quickly, as if to defy fate. He exclaimed, addressing his cat, who was eyeing the object in the belief she might discover interesting remains there.

— Then too bad! No more cakes! I am not a pastry chef, after all. It will be the grand declaration! You know I have never clearly confessed my feelings to her… I have the dreamed-of opportunity and an original way to come forward!

Do I not have direct contact with the collective unconscious because I am an artist? Is she not a cultivated woman, a woman of taste?

I will subtly entice her with a unique work, one that will surely please her. "

Already, his cat was no longer listening, preferring to sate herself on dry food rather than on the human’s strange meowing. He persisted in his flight.

— Simple in form. Sophisticated in message. A black-and-white drawing. An ink. Evoke an atmosphere of peace, of dream; a bucolic rapture; a touch of Damienism. Many details! … Very refined! Force contemplation.

In four days, I must have finished it, for it will be November twenty-fifth, Saint Catherine’s Day. Patron saint of old maids. Is Nielle not a single woman over twenty-five? — Brilliant, Damien! … A camouflaged marriage proposal. Well, practically. This is taking a great risk. How will she react? "

Avoiding detecting an answer that might wound him, he set to work at once. The work would be carefully treated, delicately finished. (Five butterflies fluttering around a wild rosebush; an interested cat anticipates catching one of the ephemeral insects.

Central element and leitmotif, Nielle, imagined…, seated sheltered from the sun, beneath a tree without shadow.

In her hands, she holds a book, the symbolic representation of the dreamer’s artistic project. Written in lowercase on one of the open pages: “I love you, Nielle!”

In the distance, in the background, to the left, a bay inviting the sea to marry it. To the right, a deciduous forest in which all adventures would become possible…)

In the dreamopath’s inner journey, the hours identify themselves along the thread of seconds. He makes the same choice again: deliver this nonconformist present to the very place of Nielle’s new work, to amaze her without risking criticism and reproaches.

The same gestures, the same route, everything is mechanically identical.

Downtown. It is raining! Each grain of rain on his face was twinned with future projects or anxieties to come…, when everything would go better or when everything would be worse.

Near the department stores, an office building. The sixth floor comprising a pavilion of a university from which, incidentally, they are both graduates. The precise place, a centre for inter-European studies.

In his neuronal theatre he analyses himself; intestinal nervousness, troubled intuition. He notices his badly hidden shyness roughing him up as he approaches the receptionist on duty.

— Hello! Nielle, … is she… there?

— She is absent at the moment. What can I do for you?

— I…, I…, I would have liked to meet her. Would you… give her this envelope… containing a drawing, … please!

— No problem!

— Be careful, handle it with care…, thank you! "

He finished by suggesting, with a slow gesture, the greatest precaution, as if it were a bomb. Then he left, lengthening his way, altering the route back.

Taking advantage of the rain rushing down, he used it as a purge, exuding those hesitations which, he believed, would certainly be mentioned by the reception secretary. However, once back in his lair, doubt settled there at the same time as he did. Paranoia or seed of passionate love? … A certain scepticism governed him. Would the envelope reach the proper destination?

Estimating that misfortune pursued him in his efforts to communicate with Nielle, he decided to wait for her, to watch all day through the window until she returned.

Taking advantage of this obligation he had complacently imposed upon himself, he continued to dream of her. As usual, from unrealistic scenarios, he embroidered new ones. From their extrapolations, he sublimated the essence in order then to transpose them into a fairy tale. His beautiful stories, he told them to himself and mimed them. He had reached the fantastic stories when he realised, through delicate noises, that his muse had arrived. His tender chimeras often frosted reality, especially if they were provoked by the recalcitrant inspirer.

In the event that she might sniff out his intentions, that she might not deign to answer him when he rang at her door, he moved cautiously. The tactic proved profitable; she opened. But at the sight of Damien, she began, … cold as that morning of terms…

— Hi! What do you want?

— Just to ask whether you did indeed receive a large beige envelope containing an illustration.

— Yes! I arrived at the office just after you left. Your lift was going down. Mine was going up! … They made fun of me. You know you could have waited for me? …

— I am sorry.

— It’s all right! … Thank you for that drawing, it was… very beautiful. "

A short moment of silence between them. She had just emitted a message in the form of a slip of the tongue; he had caught it. A brief instant, with nothing said, followed by the usual farewells.

He returned home, crestfallen, interpreting the imperfect tense used by his muse when mentioning the drawing. Troubled, stretching out on his divan, he strained his ear, listened…; probing, searching for the slightest noise, identifying even Nielle’s lightest movements.

The harshest would come later. He would ingeniously seek a way to contact her, to see her, to hear her closer, without that filter of woodwork which is the ceiling. Often, he would enquire about her presence. Answer: absent! Unbearable, for he would identify her steps, the finest of all.