My statue of Superman does not fit not in the car. Yet we tried everything, we have turned in every direction imaginable, nothing works. I will have to abandon it there and it fills me with infinite sadness.
Vincent tries to close the trunk is already packed to overflowing, with my shit and told me there will be more room for business Xavier when the latter is asked to wake up.
Xavier has contributed nothing, I say. And I have not finished loading my stuff.
Vincent lights a cigarette sullen. I go back inside the house and found my mother sitting on the stairs. She asks me if I'm ready From sipping his coffee.
"Not yet. I have many things to take away.
I seized a box of comics, and won out. It contains the remnants of my old collection, and the starting point of the story. It will be more important than before.
Vincent fills the back seat of victuals, and groan when I open the trunk. He asks me to activate, because it does not go too late.
-To avoid traffic jams?
-Shut up.
I do not know why as soon as I load a car I feel like going on vacation. Maybe because a parcel of air that I breathe in the moment is in charge of melancholy, even if it has nothing to do with the start.
I refuse the cigarette Vincent handed me, and make another round trip to a carton. The mustache is a jaded remark on the fact that it is now certain that the trunk will not close more.
-I need new business, "I said.
-You 're not even an apartment to you ...
The road will be long until Paris, with such a pain in the ass. Vincent did not let himself be touched by moments of grace.
-In fact, I have an idea of something to write for you, says he.
-Do it yourself. I write more.
-It's about you.
-I am just that.
I sit on the hood of the car and rubbed my arms to relax. I'll probably never do more writer. None of the novels that I would not write worth of iron a year like I have to live.
Actually I look forward to all this is over, and we have won the battle. When Irving Rutherford and his band of acorns are no longer of this world, every day will be gold. I shave the beard, and I start smoking again. I will ensure my future collection of comics. -You think
always in the future? wonder Vincent.
-According to my sources, the future is a mess.
And then?
I confronted my gaze to his, and I have to swallow excessively to suppress a flood of gratitude that swept into my mouth. A desire to thank him for his confidence in the future fool seizes me. Vincent is not afraid of economic crisis or decline of social values. He does not care about wars and global warming.
When I asked him what he wanted me to write, I see his face light up. He tells me with relish the story of a young gangster who reverses itself the Mafia in his hometown, for finally take control.
And how come there?
"Because it's good. Because he has a pair of balls so big that he lugs around in a wheelbarrow.
I keep myself from asking if I speak well in metaphor. I realize that I do not really regret not to tell the story of this guy who pushes his cart, and realizes with sadness that this may be less difficult than I thought to give up writing.
"I have written a novel," I said. Sometimes that's enough.
-Damn, it still pionce, another con?
Without paying attention to me or my moods, he returned inside the house. Often I would be less stupid. I would consider the overall situation and make choices that mean something. Look beyond the obstacles in my path, to which I sink.
My mom just brought me coffee, and sits on the hood with me. His eyes filled with longing, and she tells me feel that I am leaving for the first time.
"Because I bring more business.
"Because you're an adult.
I shrug my shoulders and it goes hand in my face, ruffling my beard playfully. I tasted his coffee, which looks like the fleet, and complimented it. I fixed the path and flags in front of us in silence, reluctant to make certain disclosures. I could explain where my scars, or why my apartment burned down. But I'm not a writer, I've probably never even been, and words fail me. I finally tell him that I had cancer this year.
Me too, "she says.
I spend an arm around her shoulders, and she suddenly looks tiny. She quickly emerged to settle quietly in the hammock in the garden and read a book on the place of women in a country unknown to me.
And shit. I decide to abandon the idea of continuing to load the trunk, and leave it at that. I'll look into the garage of the tendons to close. I m'escrime for a few minutes to make my setup more or less solid, and back to gaze with a satisfied air.
Vincent leaves the house, arms dangling, looking dazed. His eyes are pleading, and planted on me like nails. "Ask me" seems to beg it. And yet I will not ask him.
-It not wake up, "he finally said.
I nod, fatalistic. The mustachioed shakes a trembling finger from right to left and shudders involuntarily. Terror is with him all around him, across him. She freezes her tears before they hatch, and prevents it from making constructed sentences.
-You do not understand, "he shivered, he woke up.
"I understand.
-You do not understand. Follow me.
On jerky steps, without bothering to congratulate me for having closed the trunk, he returned inside the house.
I offer one last breath revivifying before my life becomes a real mess. The summer is coming to an end, but still clings not bad, and will be hard to dislodge. The departure will certainly be delayed, but it leaves me time to learn to push my barrow.
Note: Cold
Soon: Xavier is no longer my literary agent
0 comments:
Post a Comment