The wandering spirit

novel

Today is yesterday for tomorrow…
Where will I be when you read this ?
Where are you as I write ?

Laurent Hunziker

Chapters

. The beginning      3

. To whom by right      21

. Monday      35

. Tuesday      84

. Wednesday      133

. Thursday      186

. Friday      240

. Saturday      303

. The end      320

The beginning

It was a morning like any other for Serge, awakening slowly in his bed. The day ahead was easy, yet he woke up a bit earlier than usual for a Saturday morning.

Still, trying to fake sleep to prolong the night, but unable to resist the bright call of the day: his thoughts, futile but determined, apparently united in banning him from slumber. He lost that battle, just as night loses to daylight.

Coffee and a good shower would hopefully put an end to his slight headache and his day could begin in earnest : a colleague’s birthday party, with drinks, music and laughter… Sharing a few bottles with friends and pass around a few joints, to beat the week’s stress… An easy prospect for this bachelor in his thirties, but at this very moment, Serge wasn’t yet aware of the extraordinary experience he was about to live today.

The dark needles of the clock on the opposite wall, barely lit up between two curtains, were pointing on an annoying “08:33”. Usually time for a lie-in! A lie-in he always feels well-deserved and quite futile to resist… But not today. Sleep definitely seems to push him back. No point in trying to stay in bed staring at the ceiling waiting for the headache to vanish. Upset at abandoning his pleasant weekend routine, Serge decides that getting up is the best thing to do. Too bad for the lie-in, there will be more…

It felt rather incomplete though. A short night, a touch chaotic, he woke up stiff and achy. His bed was also messier than usual, pillows and duvet all over the place, like after a mad passionate night. But not the case, Serge living alone and sleeping likewise. He must have slept in an awkward position, and wasn’t totally rested, like he jumped out of his sleeping train before reaching its final destination. Still, fewer hours asleep would allow him to make the most of the weekend: First he could go to buy a few things at Brockley’s Sainsbury’s, only ten minutes away, and a walk by the park would be good to get some fresh air. He never does that, or so rarely, usually not keen on early morning walks, except for jogging on Sundays. But today could be an opportunity to breathe the air between the trees, to observe the squirrels, to listen to the birds, and discover new sensations in a poetic and pleasant way. Reconnecting with nature isn’t so bad after all, every now and then.

Some dishes to do, too, dirty in his steel sink. A touch of house-work would be beneficial… Quite a few things to do then, in no particular order or rush.

The weather was grey, as often in London. Grey and cold, raining a bit, in that annoying way that never seems to end. He was only guessing that still, but knew he would probably be right once he got up and walked to the window. Not very motivating. Maybe best to forget the walk after all, never mind the squirrels and the morning dew. Well, he’d find out soon enough.

The day’s activities looked like film credits sliding on his ceiling, so he put one foot on the floor, then the other and sat at the edge of his bed slowly rubbing his eyes until he eventually felt awake. A sweet smell of perfume drifted towards him. A woman’s perfume. Obsession from Calvin Klein. He smiled: Reminiscing about a gone love. There had been no women in his life for a while now and even fewer in his bed… In all likelihood a quick left-over from an interrupted dream, already forgotten about, a last remnant of fantasy giving way to morning reality. Or maybe the last dying effects of last night’s spliff. He rubbed his eyes again, then his nose to get rid of that perfume, and steadied himself on his legs to appear almost vertical.

In darkness, and precariously, he headed towards the door and gave another worried look to the clock. It wouldn’t budge, dark needles now stretching on quarter to nine. He stretched in turn and crossed the living room where a desk from another century was centered. He’d received the modest desk from his granny who had journeyed from Jamaica to London a long time ago. He never knew why she came over but guessed it was for some epic reasons. He imagined his family’s history, buried deep in the wood fibres, a history of monsoons on a tropical house, with the distant screams of children playing in luxurious gardens. A history of adventures, between the Caribbean and England with the multicoloured horizons of the tankers. A fantastic adventure he is fond of imagining.

It’s a small piece of furniture, quite smart, with worn wood. Probably originating from Europe, from King Louis whatever. Who knows how it ended up in the tropics… Was it a gift, a purchase or a barter? How did it end up there and how did his granny come to own it? Serge didn’t know and would never know as he never thought to ask her when she was alive. Memories not shared are forever erased. Surely its wood and leather top would have been the support of many contracts, letters, even love letters who knows, written beneath the coconut trees or the French oak trees. That’s what he told himself anyway, being the hopeless romantic that he is.

On its four bowed legs, the little desk took now pride of place in the middle of this room in this London apartment. Another roof of sorts. Another feeling.

The room smelt stale and a feeble light through the curtains lit up its uneven edges. Serge reached the window he drew open wide the green velvet curtains to finally let the light penetrate the area. That’s when he noticed a blue ink stain on his right index. Strange. He checked he hadn’t stained the curtain, that would indeed be a shame, then, reassured but still confused, he let that thought escape through the open window.

That little stain, unbeknownst to him, would be the first clue of the strange morning that awaits him.

*

Serge is an almost young man of thirty-eight, mixed race and tall, very tall, slim, nonchalant and calm, single for a bit more than two years. He now lives on his own in his apartment, trying to get over his heartache, over his alcohol or cannabis, or sometimes both. Or even all three when he confuses one for the other.

He is a paradoxical man with a spirit made of opposites that seem to agree without struggle : rhum and beer, order and carelessness, tea and a spliff, cleanliness and squalor, day dreamer yet pragmatic, church Sunday afternoon then loud out at the end of the road, faith and mathematical laws, God and Descartes… All these opposites seemed to have found peace, harmony and balance within him.

Serge is working for an insurance company and lives a rather quiet life, dull and with no adventure.. His real passion is writing, which he pursues as a hobby. A sharp contrast to his demeanor, that of a tall basket ball player. No one could guess he was a literary man, and yet this quiet man loves words and spends most of his free time sat at that little old fashioned desk with the hope of squeezing inspiration from this little park overseeing London, opposite his window.

Raised by his granny, a Jamaican immigrant, when his parents passed, Serge had a peaceful but strict upbringing. Despite her modest means she was erudite and was able to give him her passion for words, for letters, for books. He had to daily read a few lines of the Bible: « A chapter a day keeps the devil away... » she used to say. For Serge it sounded just like another rastafarian proverb from another age but in her honour he felt he had to obey as much as he could and in a much more relaxed manner, depending on his mood of the day. The Bible had no doubt served as an introduction to writing but this manifested itself much later. He had to wait years for a broken heart before committing pen to paper himself. Like a splash of colour in his grey life and boring days, writing became a way to express his doubts, his dreams and his regrets. Just telling stories to himself or others. To himself especially as he did nothing with his pages. They pile up in a drawer he calls his “publisher” «…Quick, let’s submit this to my publisher…» Or they end up torn after writing, in disappointment. Inspiration and satisfaction are rare beasts which meet too rarely and randomly to create a tangible result, an acceptable result, one that can be shown to others. Serge’s passion so remains private, almost. He obtains no gain from it and has no ambition for it. There are no publishers knocking, except for that drawer in that little desk.

Serge wasn’t great at school either except at maths, his favourite subject. Though he loved words, his facility with numbers enabled him to just about finish his accountancy studies and get a job in the City, where he thrives with others… It’s not amazing but it’s easy and secure. He’s been there many years now, has a decent salary and all his weekends are free to spend it. What more could he ask for?

It’s not obvious either but Serge is very methodical. Not obsessive, just methodical. Probably as a result of his accountancy training and his strict upbringing. His small flat reflects that : not a lot of style, not very rich, not a lot of class, but relatively clean and orderly. Following self-imposed rules of his bachelor style living since his breakup. It’s hard to imagine but the desk is cleverly placed in the middle of the bay window so as to benefit from uniform light, with no shadows to interfere with his pen and lines. Clever. At night the curtains wrap him up in velvet so he can focus on the page and soft lighting from a golden light. He finds it inspiring, almost magical. The spot is perfect, ideal for writing at any time of the day or night. Serge is like a happy child and although he doesn’t have the joy of being read, he has the joy of writing…

At the other side of the room there is a big sofa in brown leather and worn. He likes to sink into it and listen to loud music, reggae especially but not exclusively, while he waits for inspiration. Another paradox, or maybe not: he loves Bob Marley, his proud roots, but he’ll also listen to James Brown or Pink Floyd, hip hop or Chopin, Bach or Mozart. Anything. Whatever he fancies. Whatever his mood. Whatever his inspiration.

In front of his window, the little desk and, like any good little desk, it has drawers. In the left one, eighty gram paper, all new and shiny and ready to receive Serge’s inspiration. On the right side, his publisher: the written pages, the drafts, the ideas for future books. That pile is obviously less thick. In the middle drawer, his pens, erasers and pencils, and even an ink pot.

On the desk itself, nothing! When he works, that space must be free of any object and just be clean. Only the lamp, the telephone and blotting paper. That’s all. It’s vital: to write he needs space and tidiness. How can one find ideas in a messy work space? No, rigour is required. Socks can remain on the carpet, dishes can pile up in the sink, spliffs can stay in the ashtray on the lower table but the desk must be immaculate : that is sacred!

Once he’s finished writing, like the writer’s ritual, he places systematically the pens and papers in their rightful drawer so as to leave his desk free from intruding objects. The space is clean and tidy like a blank page, ready to accept the next part of his writing and feel the delicate quiver of his pen.

Serge writes by hand, not with a computer. Another paradox of his age. For him it’s a matter of honour. It’s part of the ritual. Computers are for the office and for work, for numbers, calculations, finances, percentages, year ends and reports. Writing is something else, one must take one’s time. It requires application, concentration, dedication. One must give life to dreams, one must colour sensations and emotions. It’s like a ceremony : the smell of the ink, of the paper, the movement of the hand, slow and careful. All this adds up to inspiration and its magnificence. Well, it should anyway. In any case that’s where he finds happiness.

Most of his writings remain incomplete. He never went to the end of a story or an idea. Never enough to be totally satisfied anyway. And that’s not because he hasn’t tried. It will come. In the mean time the pile of drafts thickens. Stories remain incomplete deep in the drawer. Never mind. Other sheets of paper are there, virginal, waiting to be deflowered by future inspirations. Their whiteness soiled and scratched by the blue blood of the pen, like the old days… Sometimes we have to learn patience. Serge knows this and so he waits, he waits for inspiration to strike, for the work to mature with the passing of the days. The tools are ready, everything in its place… He looks at the trees through the window in the park opposite. He attempts, he draws letters, beautiful letters, he warms up with words, phrases and ideas. He writes what he sees, he describes what he dreams. He gathers pictures and characters for the next story… He moulds them, brings them to life on these pretty pages, with a slow wrist action… He sketches them out, he outlines them. He invents them love and adventure… but for each voyage, it usually ends up in the right side drawer or worse, in the paper bin on the floor. Never mind, Serge is patient and hopeful. The manner is well established… and gives him while he waits the joy of meeting the imaginary albeit briefly. An imaginary to seize with the precaution of the fine line, the delicate line drawn on a piece of blank paper. From the skies to the earth. Fishing thoughts patiently and diligently. This small pleasure is in fact the most important. The important thing is the travel not the destination as someone once told him.

On the left side of his desk there is a green lamp with a golden foot. An English lamp he had bought in Camden. She sits perfectly on that desk. She is delicate and subtle. To the right side, an old dial-up phone. Although the phone is connected it never rings or rarely. Which is a shame as its old ringtone is pretty and bright in sharp contrast with his mobile phone which just sounds bland.

Serge loves this cosy setting with its soft light. He finds it conducive to writing in peace. He enjoys this solitary pleasure even more so since his split from Melanie. Melanie didn’t get his ritualistic love of order and she seemed to challenge it regularly by putting her hand bag on the desk, or a cup of tea, or anything that didn’t belong there.

Melanie. She used to be responsive to his writings, his passionate love letters, his incendiary poetry of a mad lover. His princess as he called her loved to read of his desire. The feeling that she had unwittingly offered in his heart gave Serge this incredible assurance of certainty. She was touched, deeply and flattered. In Serge’s words she felt adored and worshipped. But all this, that was before, it was another time. In the end maybe she just loved his love for her and not him. Maybe she just loved feeling important in Serge’s heart, she loved the beauty he saw in her… that blaze she set alight in him and which burned so warmly and so strongly. This was her vanity, not her love. She let herself be wrapped by his love like a warm blanket flatteringly resting on her shoulders to keep her from the cold. A simple accessory for her. Like a tiara on a princess. Nothing more. Maybe she was just that… Then she stopped reading him and he stopped writing, or he no longer let her read him as he felt silly. He often though of this gazing into the park longingly.

Her hobby was drawing. Nice pencil drawings, which she did in an other room of the apartment on her very own desk. She drew Roman and Greek statues, subtly fine and cleverly outlining the clothes and their body. She, also, was a paradox, with her impetuous mind and fierce character. Yet she could be so calm and collected when she drew. Both on their respective desks in separate rooms they also became distant emotionally, slowly but surely, without even noticing. The old leather sofa no longer united them for tender cuddles and confidences. Often Serge sat on it alone. This should have rang alarm bells, but he heard nothing. He never realised she was pushing away. Men see nothing as everyone knows. They don’t see the red flags and the warnings given by women, they don’t decode their messages… Loves makes us blind as they say… In short she had met another man at her drawing classes… That’s it. And last year she left him, shattering the young man’s certainty. The split was matter of fact. She must have decided a while ago. It was an opportunity. She took with her a lot of furniture that Serge hadn’t had the heart to replace yet, leaving his flat quite vacuous. But his sofa and even more so his desk had to remain. They were his life, his story, his inheritance. Melanie probably wanted to leave them behind anyway… Like the weight of furniture, the weight of a relationship immobilised in wood and in time and which is impossible to motion. A fine layer of dust hiding the colours we just can’t be bothered to wipe. And, moving out, she uttered this cutting remark :

– « Keep your bloody desk. You spent a lot more time on it than on me… you’ll make a nice couple. »

Cynical words indeed. A reflection of an amorous deception. She was bitter she wasted all this time with him when another man was just around the corner, so much better and exciting and fresh and full of energy… with none of those vivid colours which fade in time. Those words were like a blow. The final indictment in this useless life of Melanie. Now to close it loudly, determinedly and finally once and for all. As for the sofa, it was imbued with too many past romance for her to take it. Or she just found it too ugly. Probably. She didn’t even mention it as she left Serge. With daggered eyes she abandonned him with all his souvenirs of love buried deep in the cracks of the sofa, without saying a word, without even a glance and with no regret.

Serge often thought of Melanie. Their story was like her pencil drawings: destined to be erased and redrawn over. Such is life and it’s about time he understood pages do turn. Even the most careful drawings, even those who took the longest time, one day will be erased by life or what we do with it. They are only ever drafts in our quest and nothing lasts for ever.

He eventually got used to living without her. Her place was empty, like a painting removed from a wall leaves a yellowish frame indicating what vanished. The contours are visible but not much else. Only the hook reminds him of where was once a beautiful work of pictorial art. A stunning painting taken, evaporated. Only a stain remains. Nothing survives. Nothing remains from the meticulous drawing and its meaning. Nothing stays of its bright colours and contrast. Nothing but that pointless nail in the wall, now useless.

So a new chapter of his life had begun. He made the most of his new solitude by this quaint park on this residential street of South London lined with terraced houses. The split was in fact an opportunity. He had rediscovered freedom to do as he pleased… such as devote himself to the joy of writing without being disturbed by silly reasons from the drawer of dreams to be erased.

*

First ritual of the morning: feel the fresh air on his face as he lifts the sash window. Serge likes this a lot. Blinded by the light, he leans out to feel the wind through the trees on his chest.

As per usual he looked at the sky above the park to confirm his intuitive weather report : the weather was grim… Then he lowered the sash half-way. He gazed around the room now lit by daylight, and headed towards coffee to ensure wakening and steadiness.

Bare-footed he walked along the corridor to the kitchen, but paused suddenly and pondered : Something had saddened him… like a subliminal thought through his mind, a stone annoyingly stuck in his shoe. He turned towards the desk and frowned : a bunch of papers lay on it! The draft, as he opened the window, must have lifted the first page which had troubled him no end. Weird. It wasn’t normal for him: he usually files the papers in an orderly fashion once he’d finished his labour. The right side drawer and no other. Never would he leave his papers in a draft! So what gives? Maybe he just forgot yesterday as he was fatigued. Odd but nevertheless plausible. Stranger things can happen after all. Still… it’s weird, he thought, still frowning and staring at the desk.

Oh well, perhaps his headache affected his clarity of thought. He’ll come back to it after a coffee. Not quite awake enough to deal with this then and now. No point in engaging in complex cogitation before caffeine. In any case coffee signals the beginning. It’s a feeling thing, coffee tastes better in a bright flat, in fresh air. It surely never tastes good in a dark room smelling of lingering farts and stale odour. It’s a question of rudimentary hygiene.

Giving up on his queries, he turned away from the mess of papers, and walked towards the kitchen where a pile of dirty dishes awaited him patiently. He emptied the bottle of orange juice in one of the two remain glasses before preparing his coffee. He thought of Melanie. Then he took the butter out of the fridge to make some toast. That was another habit of his. Two pieces of toast with butter and Marmite. It’s good for the soul. It’s just good despite what some might say. You hate it or love it! as the tagline goes. Serge clearly loves it.

Whilst breakfasting ritualistically, he noticed again this blue ink stain on his finger. « Bloody hell » he said aloud, « I’m letting myself go : I don’t tidy up my desk and I go to bed without washing my hands… you’re losing it bro. You’re done! You better get your shit together !» he thought, half amused. He got up and walked to the kitchen to clean his hands with washing up liquid.

With the ink now off, he sat down again to finish his toast, staring at the opposite wall whilst listening to the BBC news. Nothing sufficiently engaging to warrant his attention : The stock market fluctuations, a depressed American movie star, the weather report, and an earthquake in Tokyo. Not a lot to entice. He thought again of Melanie, then evacuated her from his brain whilst changing the radio to a reggae channel playing one of his favourite tunes: Bob Marley’s Waiting in Vain. Happy, but the song reminded him of his departed artist. He listened for a few seconds whilst nodding his head and drank his coffee before rising up again to go towards the desk, toast in hand to inspect the mysterious pile of papers. With his memory now refreshed and his mental capacity now operating at near full deployment, the pile was begging for elucidation.

When he reached the desk, the pile of papers was still in evidence, taunting him, teasing him with its provocation. He still couldn’t recall. With one finger, he scientifically, forensically even, removed the first few pages then, stunned, he sat in the armchair staring at the papers without touching them: Serge wasn’t just looking at ill-filed papers, he was confronted with an enigma, which he just couldn’t make sense of. Like a bug. A blank space. Something eluded him but what? Everything in fact, nothing made sense. At all.

Silently he finished his toast, obsessing on the hope of resolution, then wiped the crumbs off his fingers on his dressing gown.

« What on earth is this? » he said aloud, gravely. « It’s my handwriting… When did I write this? It’s mental! Have I got Alzheimer’s? ». Shock now mixed with worry: was his mental health in doubt? Was his reasoning failing him ? What then? Right, let’s focus. Breathe in. Calm down. There must be an explanation. There always is.

*

The pile of A4, quite thick, must have been a hundred pages long, maybe more, written in blue ink. Perfectly piled, the first page had the following four words, twice underlined: To Whom By Right. Strange title! Not really a title either, almost an instruction, an order. A warning to the reader.

The next pages had been written hurriedly, with annotations but still legible. Lines were close with hardly any margins. Unlike him that : He likes big margins for corrections and annotations. But none present here. In any case it was definitely his writing, of that there can be no doubt… Those pages were his. A first draft, a dense draft, probably written the day before without much application… but when yesterday? He had absolutely no recollection. None! He remembered his dinner, his dull evening when he tried to write, before giving up. He had put his attempt in the paper bin, all scruffed up. That was still there, thereby, confirming at least partial awareness and faculties. So where did these pages come from then? And why these strange words underlined ?

His mobile phone rang… which startled him, suddenly interrupting his thought process: It was his friend Natasha, also single, his Sunday mornings jogging partner, and could well have been his partner in another sport had he been alert enough to read her inviting signals…

– «Hello Serge ? What are you doing? You’re having lie-in ? »

Serge smiled, at last, hearing his friend’s voice half annoyed, half amused. He let go of his anxiety for a more pleasant and welcoming reality. Usually they meet at each other’s to run a few miles in the local parks whilst recounting their solitudes sweatily. She does three strides for one of his, but this discrepancy is funny and motivates them both.

– « Hey Nat ! You’re right, I just got up. But what are you saying? No jogging today! It’s tomorrow! Lay off the sauce! ». Natasha’s error made him smile.

At the other end, she laughed loudly :

– « Well kiddo, I don’t know who’s on the sauce but it ain’t me : it is Sunday and it’s gone nine. You’re late again… so hurry up ! Put your kit on and come down ! I’ll be done in ten… » she said hyped up.

These words hit him like a sucker punch… and Serge’s heart rate shot up, as to escape a stranglehold, a quick sand of spiralling panic in the desperate hole of madness. He checked the date on his phone : Sunday! It’s Sunday, not Saturday… Incredible ! Impossible!

He stood still, phone in the air, incredulous and shocked, as she awaited his answer making odd noises, interrupting her :

– « Err.. Sorry Nat, I don’t feel great today. I’m not gonna go running today… »

– « What ? What’s going on? You ill?»

– « No not ill, just... just knackered. No worry. I’ll explain later. I don’t feel like it today. Got a few things to do… » he said looking at the pile of papers.

– « Ok. But you should have let me know! I’m running on my own now… The weather’s shit as well. Tsss. Take care, bye. »

Serge hung up slowly. He was certain, resolutely certain, totally certain yesterday was Friday. Not Saturday! Yesterday he was at work like any Friday. At his office of Fenchurch Street, on the third floor. No doubt possible so what now?

That was a second punch to the face, a brutal affirmation of the absurdity of his situation. His memory loss suddenly took a turn for the worse: how on earth could he get it so wrong? Forget the writing of all these pages and now a whole day!…

The ink on his finger, the pile of pages on his desk, the vanishing Saturday... all this didn’t bode well.

Gathering his strength if not his lucidity, tormented and weak, Serge went towards his armchair on wheels, leant on his desk over his pile of papers, resolute in solving this mystery. He hoped by reading these pages he might find the answer although he had completely forgotten about writing them… The solution had to be there: these words should shed a light and blow away the veil of memory holes, as he had opened the curtains earlier on. All will be explained by reading. Surely. Serge started :

« To whom by right… Not a good start! What does it even mean… ? »

…and Serge started to read, hungry for answers, the strange words he had no recollection of writing…

To whom by right

Hello. Where shall we start ? It’s so tricky yet I have so much to say. You’ll no doubt find the story I’m about to tell unbelievable, just like I do actually. I write it today and live it day by day for a week now.

I don’t know who you are, or what you do, but don’t expect a logical explanation, a rational explanation that makes any sense to my story. For there isn’t one I believe. In any case I haven’t found one.

It’s been a good few days now that I’m thinking how best to document what I am living at the moment even if for myself there will be no benefit derived. Never mind. Things are never perfect and today I may finally be able to tell my story. So I’m jumping at the chance while I can… trying to be as clear as possible. Gathering my thoughts, my recent memories to reveal them here, in one shot. To you, my reader. To whom by right…

As I arrived, I immediately saw your desk, and it was like a calling, like a sign: An invitation to write what is happening to me. I found paper in the drawer and all I needed to write. That’s perfect ! I don’t want to know any more about you. It’s pointless. I have little time. A day, almost, a bit less now, and this story is a real novel. I must hurry to be able to reach the end, if I can, if I can write fast enough and well enough. I’m not sure it’ll be of any use to whoever reads this, for you or the whole of mankind, or science, but I feel I need to tell this, all of it, and quickly… They might not believe me. Whatever, I must get it out of me. Will you believe me with the clues I leave you ? I do hope so.

I have not a minute to waste. You will understand. My time is finite. Therefore I’m not going to try and find out any more about you, or this urban life that hides beyond these curtains I won’t open any further. That suits me just fine. The darkness of the room, its stillness. That peace is conducive to writing what I must tell you… and I wish to devote this day to that and nothing else.

Yes, I know this is all very confusing. You’re probably wondering what I am doing at yours, who I am and where am I from? Maybe you’re thinking I’m a violent burglar who broke down your door to write weird stuff, empty your fridge and roll in your bed ? It may look that way but that’s not the case rest assured ! No-one forced their way in or dirtied your sheets. It’s only you… You alone. Who am I then? Well, I am you for a day, whilst being me. I’ve temporarily become you, God only knows how but it’s beyond my control… I live in you, I borrow you, I look like you !

Before, I was a simple man leading a simple life… and today I’m reduced to being exiled from myself, a traveler, travelling from body to body, with no will of my own. I don’t decide : without knowing why or how, I wake up every morning in a different body… with apparently no limitation on place or space. It looks like there are no barriers or no laws to limit my voyage : I intrude, beyond my control, I observe beyond my control, I break in, beyond my control, into one person, random ly, whom I don’t know… at all and in any way. A total stranger… and this time it’s you Sir. I don’t even know your name. Since this morning, just before six, I opened my eyes in the darkness of your room. As you, whilst your spirit is wandering somewhere else, I don’t know where, to let me move in, just for a day. A day only. From waking to falling asleep.

I write these words with your hands, with your hand-writing and your skill even, which is imbued in this you I am borrowing. I see with your eyes, I feel with your senses, I speak with your voice, I stand with your legs, with your balance I keep naturally… but I remain me, totally me also… with my own thoughts. My thoughts not yours, and the memories of this life stolen from me but which I would so love to find again. All this is so… wowser ! (I say wowser when I fail to find a word with sufficient impact). Sorry if I’m not very clear. None of this is clear anyway. Maybe writing what I am living will help me dissipate this fog I find myself lost in… or perhaps this story which I’m about to tell you, will help you understand what is happening to us. I don’t know. Honestly I doubt it, but I know I must devote today, here, to that. I have nothing better to do anyway. I must tell quickly before I leave again…

So, I know nothing about you. Your memories, your secrets, are locked in a safe I have no access to, rest assured! I can’t access your memory. It’s better that way. I only drive the machine the best I can, without any brakes and racing down unknown roads with ferocious hairpins, trying my damnest to avoid a crash. Thus far, I’ve succeeded but for how long?

Your flat is calm. I’m by myself and that’s great. Glancing at your books on the shelf and what appears to be manuscripts, here, in this drawer, I bet you’re a writer. A writer : what a lucky fate ! It’s my opportunity to describe my experience on paper. Giving to free myself. I don’t know if it’ll be of any use, but I feel I have to do it: use this unique day, borrowed from your life. Therefore I jump on the chance given to me… to tell. Get it out of me. Leave a trace of my being in your life. This trip beyond me, beyond you, beyond all of us.

I imagine your disbelief, as I have been through it myself… I would like to be able to resolve this enigma for you, but I can’t, I may as well tell you now: All this is insane and will remain that way. You might even think you’re mad or, at the very least, doubt your memory, like a bug as you read this. Totally understandable given the circumstances. I asked myself the same question. But fear not, that is not the case : you are not mad, at least no more than me. Your memory is not in doubt.

I don’t know if you’re already aware, as you read these first pages, but there’s a day missing to your life. A forgotten day, lost, vanished. And that is the case: you are missing a day ! That day I stole it from you !

I appreciate these last words are not reassuring, but I won’t be able to dwell on answers I don’t have. I can only tell. Hopefully, little by little, you will understand what I am living through on the following pages and thus that will shed light on what you are going through yourself.

By inhabiting your body, it seems I can benefit from useful skills without having to acquire them first. It’s a gift. It’s in you but belongs to me momentarily, and I can make use of it for the next few hours if you’ll allow me, with your gift of writing. Well, you don’t have much choice in the matter anyway… Writing is your skill I shall use and it will assist me greatly in the telling of my story.

You will probably read this tomorrow. Tomorrow, today will be yesterday… and if you forgot yesterday, it’s because, yes, I stole it from you, by becoming you when you woke and putting you on pause.

This phenomenon has been going on for a few days now. At first, I thought I was going insane… But I don’t think I’m insane. I’m sure of it : I am able to reason despite the context. I’m able to keep track of reality. At least, I believe so. I don’t at all feel mentally challenged although it may become that as I inhabit all these strange people borrowing a day of their lives unwillingly. I do hope they get over it when I leave, and their original spirit continues, undamaged. I hope, for your sake…

You will have the answer as you wake. If you do wake… but I think you will. Me, I’ll ask myself this frightening question: will I ever find my body again and my previous life ? My friends, my family, my house ? The answer escapes me every morning, and the less confident I feel… When and how will this ever end? I’m not just a spirit you know : I have a body of my own. Well I had… What became of it ? What became of me ? I mean, of my previous body ? Am I dead ? Am I asleep ? Is another soul now residing in what was me, just as I am within you now albeit involuntarily ? And if so, what is this soul doing with my me I have vacated ?

All this scares me. So many questions without an answer. I am sucked in a strange voyage beyond frontiers and space. I’ve yet to understand if there is a logic to all of this, or is it nature’s witchcraft, a cosmic monstrosity that landed on me. Am I the only one living this ? Or are there thousands of others ? Other lost souls like mine passing through bodies like a surreal game of musical chairs ? All of them perhaps ? Maybe that’s what all spirits have in common ? Without anyone knowing or talking about it ? No that’s silly, we’d know by now. Someone would have found out.

So what then ? Only certain spirits, selected by God knows what devilish criteria ? I’ve yet to pierce the veil, to understand this un-merry go round. I can only describe it today, hoping to put the maximum of words in the fastest time on these pages… Time is running out before I have to inhabit another body : as far as I can tell, when I fall asleep exhausted tonight, I will bid you farewell and we shall never meet again… You will be able to resume your life… almost, well, minus one day. That’s what I make of it… I don’t want to believe anything else, as that would mean my hopping from body to body leads to death… That the people I inhabit die within twenty four hours… making me unwittingly a killer, a fatal messenger (whose message is elusive)… Like an assassin trying to escape his fate. A suspended soul jumping from body to body, stealing lives at random to cheat fate. Attempting to cheat death by gaining an extra day on someone else’s life. Impossible. I don’t want to believe this. I am not dead. I don’t want to be. Neither do you. I prefer to imagine you’ll wake up as if nothing happened. Some clues lead me to believe that might be the case. Maybe just a slight hangover, a rough night, but nothing more.

In the mean time I shall make the most of these few hours, short and precious, to tell whoever will dare read me… you it seems, this tall mixed race man who has welcomed me inside his body, or whoever reads these pages first if it’s not you. In short : to whom by right…

What terrible hand have I been dealt here ! And for what ? As I write these lines I ask myself what on earth did I do to deserve this ? And what about you ? What have you done to have me in you in this way ? What do we share that brings us to the gates of hell ? I’ve no idea. I see no reason to impose this nightmare upon us. Absolutely none

I have, well, I had, a quiet life with no drama. Why this punishment I’ve been handed ? And what is the motive ? Is someone wishing to test me and why ? Why this exile far away from me, in these strange lands I do not wish to visit ? Who will answer me ? Where will I find the answer to all my questions ? Will you help me ? Will you be able to? Will we help each other through these pages ? I don’t know what else to do apart from write to you…

I want to cry, to scream my rage at this dirty trap, locked in this glass house… but that would serve no purpose. So I will write, as calmly as I’m able to, from my prison for the day. Tell you my awful secret which is also yours now. Tell you of this mad relay race, hoping you won’t stumble before the finishing line, if you reach it…

Still, I am going to start by introducing myself to you a bit more formally… briefly. It is, I believe, the least I could do after inconveniencing you in such a manner.

*

Serge stopped reading the first few pages and fell back heavily in his armchair, flabbergasted. Incredulous, tormented by doubt, he tried to cling on to basic and simple logic. Not easy though, the reading appearing crazy and irrational.

First he rejected with vigour the exact interpretation of a complete stranger writing to him and all the rubbish about him being inside his own body… No, that is a total load of nonsense ! Or was it voodoo against him and he dared not consider it. And for what reason any way ? No. Breathing slowly to calm himself down, he supposed it was his writing anyway and so he had probably written the text for good, strangely having no recollection of doing so. Maybe that will come to him later. Let’s not panic. Tiredness certainly : he had worked hard these last few days at the office. Payback. A momentary lapse of memory due to overworking which he wasn’t able to notice in time. Burn-out… The rubber band snapped, that is all. Strange rubber band but it saved him. Switch off the brain to preserve it. Science can’t explain everything… Unless it was a forgotten drunkenness, an ill-dosed joint ? Or both, as spliffs and alcohol make poor bed fellows. Anyway something like this could have caused his amnesia… Yes, probably. Serge breathed deeply in an attempt to settle. He managed a touch by holding on to life’s certainties he knew were true. Certainties from his Christian upbringing, his values… God is all seeing, we can’t hide anything from Him and maybe this his well deserved, just desserts for his daily letting go of late. And his alcohol and marijuana intake. His amnesia is a correction : a call to order and discipline… although Serge is rational in his daily life he also has his faith. He was brought up that way. Very young, his granny made him go to church, and to ask for forgiveness on Sunday. It’s in him so he pursues this tradition, and these notions of good and bad are entrenched. He will therefore be motivated and pray to ask for forgiveness for whatever attracted the wrath of God. With renewed fervour.

Decided and comforted, Serge resumed his logical analysis of that pile of pages. Now that he had been reprimanded, perhaps he could unravel the key to the mystery at hand by following it to its natural conclusion… Despite being unrealistic, the story written appeared oddly to confirm the events he was living since getting up : an alike story was being described, expressing totally the absurdity of the story and the frustration at its lack of explanation. Through this long story, the man in question was sharing his torment, and his queries

The man… Everything evolved around the man, an invented and unhinged character described in such a credible and believable manner. But what man ? Could he really exist ? Of course not. It was his own hand writing, his own, without any doubt, his style, his phrases. Without a shadow of a doubt he had written these pages, through this imaginary being, inspired during the night… A surprising hypothesis but convincing nonetheless. In any case he needs to hold on to this explanation. To hold on to rationality. But when and how?

First, how could he have thought up something like that ? Where could this imagination have come from ? And when would he have found all the time to write in such detail and precision? This fair question was even more irresolute. Yesterday ? During that missing day, as described at the beginning of this story ? Can one even generate so many pages in a single day ?… to then promptly forget all about them ? Like a giant memory blank, he fell into the black hole of unanswered questions. Knowing he had lost a whole day and then forgot all about it was unbearable to him.

« Right. Focus. Calm down, breathe in. Have a coffee and explain… There must be an explanation… It’ll come back to me, it has to, one way or another… put the pieces back together…» he told himself aloud. Desperately holding on to his own accountant’s pragmatism, he went back to the kitchen to refill his coffee, but stronger. He downed it begging God to help him solve his predicament. Speaking of God, mass would be brought forward with this missing Saturday and he will have to attend without fail… today then… All this was very troubling. But first to decode these pages to explain further…

His radio was playing House of the rising sun, by Gregory Isaacs. He switched it off regretfully having listened to a few seconds his eyes shut, but he had more pressing things on his plate today: He had an enquiry to lead. Silence and thought were the order of the day.

As he switched off the radio an idea struck him. He grabbed his phone and dialled his jogging friend:

– «Yes… Serge ? You feeling better ? » said Natasha, breathless, as she was still running.

– « Yeah not bad. Tell me, how was I the last few days? Bizarre or normal ? »

– «Bizarre? What do you mean ? » she asked stopping her run.

– « Well yes, odd. I don’t know, saying odd things, being forgetful… that type of thing… »

– « No. Apart from this morning you mean ? » she said laughing… « No nothing… But why ask ? You have me worried… »

– « It’s nothing. I’ll explain… it’s a bit tricky. Don’t worry I’m fine. One last question: yesterday nothing weird about me ? »

— « Weird? How do you mean ? You got me worried more now… »

— « Well yes, did we chat ? Did you call me ? Did we hang out ? »

— « No… We didn’t hook up. Actually no-one saw you yesterday ! Adam was a tad upset you didn’t go to his birthday…  What’s going on Serge ?»

Adam’s birthday ! Shit, it was today, well yesterday… The party ! These words confirmed if required the vanishing of Saturday… She went on :

- « You told him you’d do the cocktails ! He was upset. You should have called him, good manners. Go and apologise to him, it’s the least you can do… What’s going on Serge ? You sure you’re all right ? Shall I come over ? I’m not far… Nunhead… the cemetary. I can be there in ten minutes… »

— « No that’s fine. Don’t worry Nat, I’m well… I’ve got to check a few things that’s all. See you later. »

– « Later… » she answered anxiously.

Serge put the phone down on the kitchen table and drank his third coffee he’d just poured, before returning to these mysterious pages to resume their deciphering :

*

My name is Antoine Perrenoud, born on the 21 September 1943 at La Chaux de fonds, Switzerland. I’ve been living now for many years, at Brenets, a small town neighbouring France, by the Doubs river.

I am retired from UBS, the big bank opposite Migros, at the Locle, a clock town. As I’m fond of adding : I was an electrician not a banker. I was the janitor. That’s all. It was a steady job which suited me well. Widowed a long time, I live by myself by the lake, at the frontier with France. I got used to this solitary life where I live like an old bachelor which suits me well. I have my own plot below the Doubs. I play a bit of clarinet with the village orchestra, some jazz and some classical also. A distraction to my solitude. I also grow flowers, another colourful distraction. I like manual labour, working the mud, the DIY. People say I’m skilled. The neighbourhood knows I’m an electrician, electronics by trade, and people bring me stuff to repair. It helps me occupy my retirement days. A tranquil life, with no drama, with a few activities here and there. A life by water and pine trees which I wouldn’t change for the world. Nothing extraordinary has ever happened to me either –and that’s just as well– until that fateful day I left myself. That day where my being was stolen, where it was swapped for no reason. The day that drives me crazy ! That night where everything disappeared from what I held so dear. That life where everything was in its place and comforting to me…

The last souvenir of my preceding life was a dinner with my friends Pierre and Daniel, two old colleagues from the bank, real bankers them, well, financial advisors. A dinner preceded by a beer or white wine at the bistrot after a walk in the forest. We do that every now and then : hike and a drink or dinner, or both, it depends. It enables us to keep our health from declining with the passage of years. We fight back by walking as if nothing. We face the time to believe in youthful, even if we feel our bones crunching with age. Such is life. One tries to forget. Some weekends the three of us meet up, with our sticks and shoes, to walk the pretty road over the Doubs, following the road under the tall trees of the pine forest until the loud waterfall. Then we come back and stop at the restaurant du Saut du Doubs, halfway, to drink an Absinthe and eat a little. These are the simple daily pleasures we are not sufficiently aware of, I appreciate that now. Those life joys we don’t make the most of when we can. These small pleasures punctuate our being ephemerally yet we think they will last forever. Life is an impressionistic painting made of millions of tiny colourful dots… on which a roller of white paint splatters…

Sometimes, when we’re up to it, we go all the way up to Le Locle, towards les Grands Monts, to come down to town early evening. The bar is our target. Our motivation for the last kilometres. That’s what we did Sunday: the bar, at the entry of Le Locle, the only one open, for an aperitif we deem well justified. After a few pints, the three of us went to Daniel’s where his wife had prepared her traditional fondue… A real treat especially after a long walk ! After that as far as I can recall, he drove me home where I fell into the sofa in front of the second evening film on the French channel, which I don’t remember, nor its subject. It must have been 22:30 or 23:00. After a few pints of Cardinal, plus some glasses of white wine with the fondue, not forgetting the digestive liquor, I wasn’t so observant… and so I must have fallen asleep in front of the film which couldn’t sustain my alertness either.

Sunday evening, that’s when everything changed…

Monday

As I woke in the morning, a horrible feeling got inside of me. It could have been a classic hangover after too many drinks as often happens, but it wasn’t that. No hangover, no dry mouth. Just a weird sensation, a bit like putting one’s shoes the wrong way round. A feeling that something’s not right… something’s odd.

As I opened my eyes, I looked to the ceiling, a ceiling I didn’t know. My spirit still confused by sleep, took its time to surface and to connect to the world. To get used to the light. I looked without thinking at what my eyes saw compared to the reality I was expecting : the ceiling of my bedroom, with its centre border and its light-shade. A usual target for my accustomed eyes. Every morning, unchanged and reassuring, but suddenly no longer there.

Still half involved in a dream, my eyes swept the ceiling, a lot less high than usual, looking for a familiar reality to latch onto, but I couldn’t find either. The colour seemed different as well, or was it the light, soft with the darkness of the room ? Not the same white. In any case my target wasn’t there. The ceiling was empty of any landmark, familiar or not. Clearly, I wasn’t in my home. Damn. I dare not move so stayed immobile, with my foggy queries, stuck in my lethargy, with the vain hope of securing my morning’s geography.

« But where am I ? Did I drink that much with Daniel and Pierre, yesterday, to find myself so lost ? Or was it the mixing ?… with too much cheese and bread ? No I’ve never had that before, and I’ve often overdone it. Did someone take me home completely drunk to drop me at someone’s ? …and who ? Not our style. Did I stop over meeting a drunk woman I’d met at the bar or after leaving Daniel’s? She then took me home to abuse my body ? No, not at my age ! It’s been a while since I did such things… In any case I’d have some recollection ? That kind of thing doesn’t happen every day… No, that’s nonsense. I eliminate this silly hypothesis but can’t find a more plausible one. I’m feeling both amused and increasingly worried. A lot less amused to find myself in these unknown bedsheets, and more worried not to know why. My body is still asleep but my imagination is wide awake as I try to make up some explanation: did someone slip a drug in my drink to wipe my memory or my resistance… and what for ? To steal ? To kidnap ? And why not even rape me ? No. Stupid… I’m neither handsome, or a spy with secrets… What then ? Error ? Mistaken identity ? An old banker to mug ? The wrong target ? An unfortunate misunderstanding ? And Daniel and Pierre ? Did they not see anything ? Did they not protect me ? Were they part of the plot ? » I smile at this thought, this ridiculous hypothesis and remain scanning the ceiling without daring to move… trying to gather my thoughts, to get my ideas together, let them fall into place, failing to, though.

- « Pierre ?… Daniel ?… » I said aloud but not reassured. Nobody answered. My voice filled the room with no result, followed by the echo of silence. No answer. I repeat my question, with no more success.

I rested on my elbows to observe the room, and this confirmed my first impression not to be at home but in a room I’d never seen. And it wasn’t the home of Pierre or Daniel either. Too modern, too design, too clean. Whose home then ?

- « Is anyone here ?…. » I dared shout, a tad louder, hoping to reach further ears, but with no answer apart from the echo of the walls.

I observed the room. It was large, subtly decorated but with style. At the end of the bed was a rather modern desk with a telephone, a lamp and various bits of paper. In front of the window hidden by long curtains, a little glass table with a bouquet of flowers with two brown armchairs on each side. At the other side of the room, on the door, was a frame with what looked like prices. Interesting detail : a hotel room !

Looks like I stopped over for reasons still unknown, and spent the night in a hotel. Why not. Maybe I was ill and was dropped here to recuperate or something like that ?… Not probable but possible. Surely I’ll remember soon. Or maybe it was just a joke… which I didn’t quite get yet, but would no doubt reveal itself, with a round of applause and the laughs of my friends at their prank.

What a weird situation still : to wake up in a hotel, without remembering how I got there!… I thought… waiting for my friends to laugh…

Time went on and no-one showed up, no-one laughed. My naive hypotheses never materialised and I was still a long way from knowing what had happened to me. A long way from simple answers, logical and sensible which I’d hoped. A long way from everything in actual fact ! No prank, no laughs. No woman taking me hostage. None of that. As I sought clarity, all I saw was a muddy blurry vision. I didn’t know it yet, as I was about to find out…

I got up and opened the big curtains who slid silently on their rail. The light lit the full room and I suddenly realised I was naked. Blinded by the light, I wrapped a white towel around me which was hanging on the bathroom door. Confused but still prude.

Back to the window, I pulled on the white string to open the second curtain, to see what was outside, hoping for a familiar and reassuring landscape. In vain! That was the first mud cloud I lifted…

I had naively hoped to see the hills of my Jura countryside, with its brown and white cows, grazing the green grass amongst the pine forest, with their bells ringing from their necks. Or a quiet road of the borough, in which I got lost for a night… but which I’d recognise. Well a simple and logical fact to explain and allow me to find my way back… but in truth none of that. Sadly. Nothing but mud… lifted in clouds.

The nose against the glass, I discovered not green Swiss hills, but a modern city with high rises, on the opposite side of the road I dominated by thirty floors at least. A forest of buildings, as far as the eye can see, all as ugly as each other, straight and vertical… No pine trees sapins, no green hills, no cows. No nature. Only ultra-modern buildings, like giant stalagmites. Beyond my bare feet on the carpet, further along form my legs, a road with four lanes crossing two other perpendicular roads, on each side. One of the roads crossed the first from above, like a bridge, on which multicoloured cars were riding. The lanes were marked in an alphabet I didn’t understand. Probably my eyesight. I couldn’t read from this height. I noticed cars were driving on the left and not on the right as it should be.

I slowly put my hands against the cold glass of the window, as much to feel its smoothness on my skin as to feel reality, but also to steady my balance, feeling my legs give way, my body feeling a sense of panic at what lay in front of me. Vertigo in every sense of the word. I put my forehead against the transparent material separating me from this absurd landscape and remained a long time without breathing. I drew breath against the glass thereby blurring the buildings.

The confusion of being awake suddenly turned to fear and incomprehension, and frustration of not understanding… I was beaten. I was stunned : Where was I ? What is all this ? What was I doing here ? …how did I get here ? Did someone really kidnap me ? …and why ?

Back in incredulous hypotheses : « I’m neither important nor rich. It’s ridiculous. No-one would pay a ransom for me, that’s for sure. I’ve no family. It must be a mistake. But for what reason am I here ? Was I really drugged, with a powerful sleeping pill put in my beer yesterday, my white wine, so to wake up so far away ? And why put me in a nice hotel room, and not in a cellar tied up ? » No, this doesn’t make any sense.

The sight of this modern city in front of me, with its million tons of concrete, made sure of that. « What were these roads ? This town ? Clearly it wasn’t Switzerland. No such city exists in any borough, that’s for sure. Where then ? …and who brought me here, by which means ?» A thousand questions, like an evil bees’ nest, and from which it was vain to try and escape.

I stood there without speaking, without moving, many minutes… afraid, stunned, incredulous… trying to find my North in this deep fog. Like in slow motion, I went back to the bed where I sat slowly, whilst still looking outside at these impossible silhouettes. This town. This absurdity. What now ? How to get out of this, to escape, to break away ? Go back in time to last night, the walk, the fondue… so as not to be had again… pay attention to every detail, to all and every one around me… To Pierre and Daniel, his wife even, maybe in cahoots ? How can I go back ? Undo this dream and wake from it properly with a good night’s sleep ? Put an end to this nocturnal spell and return to my own life ?

Could all this be just one big hallucination ? I opened and closed my eyes several times in that vain hope to find my reality. It was still this unknown city. Those modern curtains. This rectangular window, a passage to a world of insanity I didn’t know and which shouldn’t be here in front of me.

I decided to lay down again, exactly where I was previously a few moments ago. Carefully position myself where my life suddenly changed, as if nothing had happened, to go up those tracks where I took a wrong turn. Go back in time. Repair the misunderstanding. The bug. This horrendous confusion. Set myself back in the right direction, and go back to normal order. Wake up at home. Peacefully.

I kept my eyes shut and stayed still without daring to move. When I reopened them, the same low ceiling, smooth and white, crushing, was above me. Nothing had changed, absolutely nothing! I was still in that strange room, in front of this window on a strange town. I felt my face crease to despair and turned my body in, my neck trembling nervously, holding the bedsheets tight. Foetal position. A chilly sensation, of danger. I was like a lost child. I wanted to be up against my mum’s warm belly, feel her embrace, her reassurance, her protection. I’m five and everything is dark. There’s monster beneath my bed and it’s so dark ! It’s horrible. And my mother won’t put the light on…

Sadly she can’t do anything. I am alone… alone in this horrible nightmare. Nothing can help me out now. No-one will hear my cries, my distress. No-one will come to save me. I am lost, for ever… and I don’t know why!

I remained thus for a few minutes, screaming my madness, crying the tears of my body holding these wet sheets against my face, feeling my heart beat outside my being, pumping blood to my brain under pressure, ready to explode… and I must have fainted, or finally fallen asleep, exhausted by the mass of panic and stress, as I only woke up a few hours later.

When I opened my eyes again, the brief hope that this what just a dream in my big home bed of Les Brenets was shattered. The nightmare was tenacious : I was still in that big impersonal room with opened curtains on this evil window on these ugly modern buildings. It was still here. For real. Around me. A cell of reason, in which I was locked in, forever, for no reason. Without knowing why. Without knowing how. Reality would not return. My reality, my life, vanished, for good.

The alarm clock on the bedside table told me quietly it was two hours and thirty three minutes, with its blinking blue diodes. Two in the afternoon, given daylight. I rubbed my eyes and suddenly felt thirsty, so I got up and rushed to the mini-bar where I opened several bottles of water I drank straight up, followed by several beer cans of Asahi Super-dry, a brand I didn’t know. No Cardinal. A little Chinese or Japanese sign beneath… I swallowed a bag of peanuts and a chocolate bar, followed immediately by another can, of Coke this time. All this did was get my heart rate up, and so I went to the bathroom to freshen up my face, with no idea what I was about to find there…

Another shock: as I switched the light on, a man appeared standing… still and rough ! Another cloud of mud from a kick into life’s nonsensical appearance… I had to steady myself back to the wall…

The man, semi-naked, against the wall, looked at me steadily, eyes wide open, silently. He was apparently scared also. He did not move, like me… But our face to face was brief, because I ran screaming out of the bathroom to get an object that would serve as a weapon to defend myself against this intruder, this pervert hidden in the bathroom… but I stopped my run suddenly, as I understood the terrible vision I had witnessed : There was no other man in this bathroom. There was just a mirror above the sink, that’s all…

Had I lost my senses ? Madness ? Soda delirium, too many beers and peanuts too fast ? A side effect of this terrible drug from last night ? Optical illusion ? Hallucination ? Tiredness ? I returned cautiously to the bathroom which I left lit and approached the entrance, apprehensively, fists clenched. I stayed on the edge of the door for a moment, to listen. I gathered my breath in silence and, hesitantly, leaned forward, slowly past the frame of the door, to see the mirror above the sink.

The man’s face leaned forward as well, perfectly in time, scrupulously miming, like an artist, copying my gestures and mocking me… my facial expression, my urchiness, my terrified eyes. No doubt. That was a reflection… My reflection, but which sent back another picture, as absurd as this may seem. The sight of a man in his fifties, naked, hairy, a green gaze on a matt skin and a white short beard. The man stared at me with somewhat red eyes, as if he’d been crying or sleeping or both.

« What ? » I said provocatively at the man who said the same, in a loud and deep voice. No doubt now : that was me. My reflection. My absurd reflection through this man.

I stare at him, his hair, his shoulders. I touch my neck, the hair on my head, with my finger tips. He does the same. There is no doubt. It’s mad. Completely mad… I smile at myself, forcibly, draw my tongue. I grimace, which makes me laugh, as I approach the mirror. So does he. I don’t know this face, but it’s me! A mutated me. A younger me by twenty years, tanned and rather handsome. Naked. That is so unbelievable! I observe myself at length, top to bottom. I look at my hands, pretty and fine. I wear a gold ring. My nails are cut, manicured even. I look at my feet, not very gracious but looked after also. I still preferred those before. I look at my navel, my hips, my legs, my tanned complexion, my penis, fatter than normal, meatier, with another shape. Bigger then. A touch vexed, I grab it with disgust as if I was touching another man’s cock, which wasn’t the case : this body is mine… all mine, beyond doubt. I am transformed, through black magic or a spell. I mutated into this handsome man I don’t know and I’m touching myself in front of this big rectangular mirror under the ceiling lights of the bathroom. It’s a nightmare. I will wake up. I must wake up… All this can’t be true. Being real. There must an explanation for all of this. It’s crazy ! It’s not me… there.

After a long pause of expectation, and observing myself and this man scrupulously, I give up the fight. He has won : I am him. I must concede, even if all reason has deserted me.

I enter the shower for a warm rain, for lasting minutes. The sensation is calming, but I dare not soap myself, touch myself, touch this body I still refuse to consider mine, even if it is under me in this shower… this foreign body, fixed to me. I do it anyway, after a while, anxiously, avoiding the intimate regions of this man who wants to be me. I scrub my hair with shampoo. Strange sensation under my fingers. Another shape, another texture under the foam. I stay a long time under the hot water to rinse. If only my memory could be rinsed, wash away this image and return to my previous life… Rehydrate this dry body to give it its original shape, its usual appearance… even if it means returning to its disgracious forms, my paleness, my frail silhouette of a seventy years old man. But nothing changes. Water runs down my face with no effect. I turn the tap off to cut the flow of water and leave the shower, beaten by heat, and steam. I wipe the mirror and still see the face of that man staring back. He smiles at me now, looking odd. As I do. Trapped behind the glass. But still there. A symbol of ill luck.

« Right, what is this shit? Gotta do something… » I told myself leaving the bathroom. « No point in lamenting ! All this is too much, too crazy ! I must get out, whatever the cost… get us out, him and me - he is also trapped, even if I don’t know who he is - and free us of this doubling of our lives which stops us living… Come on, let’s get to it ! Action !» I tell the man, convinced action is the only way to save both of us. I must get to it, do something, even if I still don’t know what… From my side of the mirror I will take matters in hand. I feel a new force, a new energy. No doubt twenty years younger helps… I hope he’ll do the same on his side… if it is a dream, I’ll go up and down it to find an exit. To gather meaning. Sting myself, burn myself, try to wake up… Anything really. I must. I can’t stay here doing nothing, waiting for it to pass, waiting for everything to become normal. Yes: I must act. I must seek… seek and find. There must be an explanation… There must be one, concrete, banal, basic, which I’ll find obvious once I find it. Surely a dream, that puts me asleep in a parallel world which doesn’t exist: I’m asleep and I dream, yes, and this dream is so vivid I believe it to be real. That’s it. No doubt a noise, a cold draft, a telephone ring will wake me up… to extract me from this dream… Probably. In the mean time everything seems so real… It’s confusing. I don’t feel asleep at all ! Still, I’m going to have to accept this new reality which I hope is temporary… and this place, this strange and unknown town… This new reality. Play the game… this game that is imposed upon me, this big joke… this prank maybe ?

Action-reaction. Motivated by the energy of despair, I decided to leave this room as quickly as possible to inspect nearby, its limits, the explorable perimeter beyond my eyelids, hoping to see some familiar faces, some reassuring help, or anything telling me of an exit plan, the short cut towards the end of this nonsensical dream. To explore whilst I wait, the clues, this quest with no meaning, deep in the night, a brave adventurer of the unreal. First, to know the name of this city would be a start. The day, the time. Locate myself in all this chaos… Rely if possible on basic parameters how transient they may appear.

Start the exploration then, starting with my room. On the desk there is a phone. I pick up but a voice I don’t understand answers. Probably an operator. I hang up, go towards the wardrobe and open its doors, behind which are shirts and trousers, hanging on coat hangers, well aligned. A vest also, of good quality. Clearly the man has taste, and means. His clothes are of the finest materials, his shoes are sewn, well polished. I decide to get dressed, grabbing a shirt and trousers randomly. I’m almost surprised they fit me so well… But they were tailor made for the body I am wearing. Nothing surprising then.

I look at the man in the long mirror, with his nice beige trousers, finely ironed, his white linen shirt and his light brown vest. His shoes, brown also, seem new. The leather creaks a bit. The soles are smooth and slide on the thick carpet of the room.

On the bedside table, there is a beautiful watch, very pretty and in gold, from IWC. With a big button. I’ve never worn such a big watch but I need to know the time, can be useful. That’s handy. The watch also gives the date ! It is up to date and on the right date : Monday, that’s good. And it even gives the lunar calendar ! Classy. A luxurious watch no doubt. « It must be expensive» I tell myself, as I put it on my wrist, with a struggle, as the bracelet is complex. Then, my wrist burdened by the weight of this luxury, I decide to open the door of the room, ready to confront this mysterious world of this absurd dream. Is there only a world or will the door open to a black hole ?

I glance at myself one last time in the mirror : impeccable. My disguise is perfect ! It’s a strange feeling to look at oneself in another body… in different clothes. To witness our movements perfectly reflected.

What a strange dream. I’m very well dressed in this dream. I almost fancy myself. Beautiful man. I’ve never been so beautiful, in my lifetime, well, before this, I mean. In my awake time. These few years won back are pleasing… I don’t remember well what I looked like when I was fifty, but I don’t believe I was so elegant ! Another social group, for sure. I am wealthy. I must be attractive to women I bet. How strange. It is not me. It doesn’t look like me. All this is crazy! Well, in any case I have no choice. That’s the way it is by now. I have changed… and I must proceed thus, with this mask, hoping it’s not forever. Just the time of a bad dream. Carry on playing this role, until I wake up smiling at the dream, as is often the case.

Everything looks so real, so authentic. The bedroom, the smells, the sensations, the objects… to the last detail, the colours, the furniture. Everything. I breathe deeply, take the room card from its slot, and like Indiana Jones open the door towards the hostile jungle!

Behind the door, no jungle or black hole: the dream continues on a long carpeted corridor, with doors on either side. A hotel for good! The exploration resumes. I leave the room noting its number : « 3006 ». I must remember that : it’s my starting point, my refuge if things turn bad outside. You never know. At this point I have to be ready for everything! What will I discover? Mystery. I may even wake up before I reach the exit… and laugh about it all, my head deeply buried in my white cotton pillow, in Les Brenets ! »

With that hope in mind, I prudently go along the corridor without meeting anyone, looking for a lift I finally find, and head towards the lobby. Ding… the little ring tells me the door’s opening… Still no black hole. I go forward, at a slow pace, in the marble grand hall where no-one notices me. Why should they anyway ? I look at them briefly. First signs of life. First humans sharing this strange dream with me. I am therefore not alone. It all looks so real. I want to ask them a thousand questions to aid my inquiry, light up my candle, but prudently I resist and limit myself to observing from afar what is going on. You never know… It’s best to observe without interfering if possible. We’ll see later… Still, there is not a lot going on. What a dream! Everything looks so normal and banal. Like in real life. As much as you can consider real life the life in a luxury hotel. A big hall with a mosaic of marbled colours with three gloriously opulent chandeliers dominating my world and that of others. It looks like a cathedral, it is so imposing in its magnificent scale. A very nice hotel, with wealthy tourist and obedient staff, but still just an ordinary experience and contemplation.

In the middle of the hall, at the bottom of the stairs, families and business men cross their way without noticing each other. Next to the reception, fifteen or so men and women in aviation uniforms chat away. A happy and relaxed group. Nothing worrying or supernatural here. All looks calm. Who would guess what is happening to me at this moment ? Who would believe it ? Not this captain, with his hat and golden stripes shoulders, who’s joking with this pretty hostess carefully combed, seemingly hiding complicity, their maybe secret of a night of passion in one of the many soft lit rooms… Not this couple with two badly behaved kids who can’t sit still and run from chair to chair, carpet to carpet, absorbed in their facetious games… Not this Asian ceremonious doorman who opens the door for me, as I discreetly leave the building, expecting.

Outside the air is fresh, but not cold. The day seems already to end as I glance at my beautiful watch: four thirty. I prudently go towards the pavement, the parking, in front of the building, immense from beneath. The sky is grey. The floor wet. It must have rained. The dream, if it is one, carries on in detail, with its strange realism. I’m not waking up… not yet. Fine. Could this all be real then ? Would that be possible ? It’s so far out. I don’t know what to think anymore. This feeling of freshness on my skin, this perfume of urban breeze, these noises, these lights. All this is so present, so touchable. So real. Does one feel this in a dream ? I don’t know, I don’t know anymore. I don’t dream, normally… or I never remember it. But for now I must leave these questions aside, and move forward.

Opposite me, a big board, lit up by a row of lights, proudly indicates : Hyatt Regency hotel – Tokyo.

« So then: Tokyo ! Good joke that ! I’m in Tokyo! No less… Another kick in the swamp, so as to not let the obscurity of confusion fall again. Tokyo ! Not Neuchâtel, Geneva or even Paris… No, no: Tokyo. Quite simply. Just on the other side of the planet… There. Take that, sleepy head! Or sleeping head. Yesterday I was playing darts in my Swiss pub at the entrance of Le Locle, in the midst of a pine forest, chilling with my friends, and today, less than twenty hours later, I wake up in a big hotel, in Tokyo! In Japan! I am in Japan… and to top it all, in the body of a stranger reflected back at me. It’s absolute nonsense! I must be mad. I can’t see how not… or I’ve had a brain fart, a broken vessel, with age, in the depths of my brain… and I’m comatose between two worlds…

With this dark option in mind, I walk the avenue ahead of me, straight ahead, without stopping, trying to gather my thoughts. To bring clarity. Without success. I walk fast and with agility on the pavement. The sensation is not unpleasant. My legs are twenty years younger. That’s not bad. I look at the buildings dwarfing me, the sky, the cars. Real or not? I put my hand on the body of one: It’s cold, metallic and real. What to believe ? This does not make sense and yet is so true. So concrete.

My walk soon leads me to smaller streets sided by smaller buildings, no more than three or four floors. I continue to move forward on the narrow pavements, then in the middle of tiny pathways. There are not many people there, and the few I cross don’t look at me. I feel like invisible. Perhaps I am ? A young couple, dressed oddly, smile at me, though. It means they saw me… Therefore I exist! I am seeable. At least. Interaction with others is feasible then. I’ll make the most of it when the time comes…

A new thirst comes back to me as I spot a vending machine, in one of the roads. Coloured bottles are available, with signs I don’t understand. Just chemicals, fluorescent liquids… but I’m thirsty. I would drink anything. Unfortunately I left my room without any money so I can’t supply the hundred and fifty yens required. The pockets of my jacket are empty, except for a match box, an ad for a jazz club, and the key card of the hotel room… Damn. I should’ve thought of that before leaving my room. Such an idiot. Even in dreams you have to pay. I shake the machine hoping to dislodge a bottle but in vain. The machine doesn’t move. I look around me: no-one saw me do it. I don’t want to end up at the police! I move away from the machine. I must now think of going back, going back to my starting point: my hotel room. There are drinks in the fridge. It’s getting late anyway. Night falls… and loitering in Tokyo won’t help me stay wake I fear… I’ve explored far enough. Enough to realise my depressing reality.

All this, this walk, gives me the impression of going deeper in this coma. This weird world from which I surely must wake. Yet I have to conclude it is not a dream. I am more and more convinced. I feel totally and completely awake now! All my senses are on and capture without lying this new reality. I feel it. What strangeness! All this is too real, too palpable, for it to be a dream, an unconscious delirium. It’s something else. But what then? A migration ? An atomic aberration of the cosmos which teleported me into this man… or something like that? Absurd. But what else?

I go back on my steps, towards the grand hotel, the entry point of this dream that may not be one. My unique landmark. My original cocoon. My birth into this incomprehensible thing. Not without difficulty, as I find it hard to find my way back at night in these stereotypical roads. My thirst is now doubled by achy feet. Can one dream achy feet? Can one dream thirst? Probably. In any case my feet really ache, both of them. These new shoes are probably too new, too tight. Or my new feet are too fragile. I pay no attention, galvanised by this feeling of new energy, of new force. Maybe the man isn’t used to walking so much ? Finally, I find the big avenue, then a bit later, the hotel, where another doorman politely opens the door for me… and I go up into my room 3006… getting lost in all the corridors and in all my questions.

It’s almost eight o’clock when, relieved of my footwear, I collapse on the bed, tired from the long walk. Exhausted even, worse than in my mountain walks with Pierre and Daniel. No comparison. But I’m not sleepy. Can one be sleepy in a dream ? I’ve no idea. Probably not, that would be the ultimate. So what now ? How can I sleep with such anxiety, mixed with excitement, with fear and anger ? All these feeling boil inside of me, clashing in silent chaos.

My persistent thirst forces me to get up and walk towards the mini-bar to drink what I first had: half a bottle of mineral water and another Asahi Super dry, downed in frozen gulps. That will do for now. I have just one thought: rest my legs and my feet, hurt by the long walk. I assumed a lot of this foreign body, more worn than I thought despite appearances, more pained and fragile, less tough. I did not moderate and now I pay the price.

I remain flat out looking at the ceiling without thinking. What would I think of anyway? I’d have too much to think about in one go. It’s all beyond me. I prefer to defuse my overheating brain, and lay there without thinking… Have a rest. Settle my nerves. My heart. My feet also…

After a while, I grab the remote and flick thorough colourful ridiculous TV programs. That pathetic gesture, to watch television at this time, is so anachronistic compared to what I’m currently living, that it surprises me : how can I move from channel to channel, at such a time ? The idea is even absurd. And yet… I carry on, my thumb on the buttons of the remote… I flick. TV games, mostly. I stay a few moments on a debate of which I understand nothing, obviously. One sees Japanese boats racing against another boat, with a black pirate flag. A film, a documentary ? The program is cut off by an ad, which I cut off in turn. Black screen. Silence returns to my room. That’s better.

Slightly rested, I decide to get up and look for the man’s papers, his money. I need to eat now. This body is hungry. I’m hungry. Get back to life’s basics… It’s a good sign after all. Hunger, thirst. I find it reassuring to see these vital signs, as they are so normal. I head towards the desk and shove on a pair of official hotel slippers. That is much more comfortable.

I find a leather wallet in one of the drawers. I sit on the chair and open it to find a wad of dollars and yens. At last! Credit cards from Visa and American Express and an American passport in the name of Steve Brown. There: my name is Steve Brown and I’m American! It’s a start as crazy as it may appear! I smile. It’s best to smile. At least I have a passport, a name, an existence, proven officially. The man isn’t so anonymous. I have his papers, just in case…

Still all this leaves me perplexed. I know his name but I don’t know who he is. And what about me? Who am I? I feel like a thief, an impersonator, in another role, in disguise. An actor learning a scene but who can’t get used to his character. This is so weird. But do I have a choice to play any other role given to me from this surreal casting? Steve is apparently my role… I am in it, locked in. A prisoner. I am constrained. What else can I do ?

*

I slowly close the wallet and put it in my pocket, as if it were mine. In any case, it is. I then notice on top of the desk, the beginning of a letter written on hotel paper. Written in English, but that’s no problem at all : French is my native and only language, but I understand English perfectly. I read it in English and think it in French, as simultaneously as our two reflections earlier in the bathroom :

My love. It’s when we’re sure of everything that we’re sure of nothing. I lost you. I am lost. There is no light in my life, no guide. I will never forget you. All is dead in me. You were my proof. Nothing has meaning any more. I cannot go on. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. Forgive me. Forgive my action. My despair has no escape… Today is

The letter finishes here… in the middle of a phrase, leaving little doubt as to Steve’s intention. Dark intention. Probably a heart break? A break up? But the end hasn’t happened. It isn’t written, yet. He didn’t go to the end. He’s still alive, through me. Something interrupted him. A phone call ? A need to urinate? Me? Who knows… The letter is incomplete and Steve is alive. Well, somehow…

I spend a moment staring at these words on this piece of paper. The letter was interrupted a bit like my life… without warning. Where is he, who wrote it? Where did he disappear ? Did I chase him away, as I’ve been chased away myself? Did I save him from his fatal intention? Will he find his love? Will he be able to write her another letter, to change the sombre direction of the current one? Will he be able to erase and meet her again? Win her again ? Seduce her again? Who knows, pointless questions.

I get up, grab my jacket, his jacket, and leave the room, looking for food. We’re hungry, the depressed and me. I noticed in the lift, an ad for a restaurant, somewhere in the hotel, so I decide to go there. It’s the easiest, the closest. And I didn’t see any restaurants close by during my walk around. This Tokyo neighbourhood isn’t the most lively. The hotel bar is the best option. Maybe eating will clear up my thoughts… One thinks better sated. I go back to the lift to decipher the ad.

There: The Peak bar. On the 41st floor. I press 41 and let myself be pushed upwards by the relaxing music of the lift.

Ding. The doors open soon after, on a big room with dim lights, with a splendid view of Tokyo-by-night. The vibe is soft and luxurious. Almost ceremonial. I’m a long way from the pub at Le Locle. Strangely there aren’t many people. Maybe the time zone is altered in Japan? I’ve no idea. I sit at the end of the bar in the form of an arc where a barman promptly comes to take my request. I tell him I’ll look at the menu, on the vast choice on offer. I can’t seem to focus, I must have forgotten to replace my brain fuse from earlier. Finally I order a Martini dry, and an assortment of sushis, not knowing what else to choose. I’m in Japan aren’t I ? Might as well eat local… and taste the specialities of here. I’ve never been to Japan, make the most of it then. I feel a bit like a tourist… a strange tourist, having travelled in such a weird way, but a tourist still. Let’s enjoy !

The cocktail is prepared with care, in front of me, and I savour the first sips looking around me, this strange place where I’ve landed. I rotate slowly 360 degrees from my chair and observe the few clients scattered around the room. Business men, no doubt, in suits. Most look Japanese or Chinese. Asians anyway, gathered for the end of the day recreation. Or are they still at work, negotiating ? The men are calm and drink, smiling. All is well.

At the other side of the bar to my right, I see a young woman, blond, who drinks alone whilst reading a magazine. She is very pretty, European. She has beautiful blue eyes, a fine nose and her long blond hair drops to the left side of her neck. Every now and then she looks up, in a sad way, across the glass windows, caressing the lights of Tokyo, blinking in the distance. I try not to stare at her too much, but it’s hard as she is so attractive, surrounded by charm and mystery. I observe her profile, so fine. She intrigues me. I couldn’t say why. Her beauty no doubt. I remain a man, in a man’s body… Two reasons. A feeling of a possible seduction also, which I thought disappeared a long time ago, being so old. A forgotten feeling. Buried. But there’s more than that. The place, the decor, the dim lights, the beauty of the city lights behind her, like stars and her in the middle, the moon. It’s a bit magical… like everything else.

My sushis arrive nicely decorated on the counter. The young woman smiles a bit, without looking at me. Probably a few funny lines in her magazine. I savour one by one the sushis, until the last, whilst reflecting on my improbable tourist condition… and exhale after my last mouthful. Those sushis were delicious. Nothing like the ones at La Chaux de fonds where we sometimes go, with Pierre and Daniel. The woman smiles again and our gaze meets for the first time. I must no doubt look silly with my smiles and my sushis. I make a sign and she looks away back into her magazine. This little game troubles me. A lot.

I suddenly feel all excited by this connection, for a second, with this beautiful woman. I’m surprised by the diversion of my soul. It suddenly seems to forget the craziness of my situation to enjoy the sushis, the pleasant restaurant view and the undeniable charm of this beautiful girl sat a few feet away. No doubt my mind tries to connect to what it can : these sensations… tastes, visions, senses… Simple emotions proving my existence, my life. Reassuring impressions to combat the horrible unbalance of the situation. Its absurdity. The subtle taste of sushis, the mustard wasabi which stings my nose, the caress of the white rice on my tongue… the liquor of Martini. I can feel all that. Appreciating the glow of the expensive watch on my wrist and this hand softly tanned holding the glass. I can also adore this view of Tokyo, behind the bay window. It’s beautiful. It’s magical. A wonder that does me good… as does the presence of this girl sat there. This moonlight which lights up the night softly.

I should surely focus : all this probably doesn’t exist, outside of my brain deep in sleep. But all is possible now. How could I be certain anyway ? The line between imaginary and real is decidedly blurry of late… What is true? What is false? What is in me? Who are these people? Are they real? And this woman? A fantasy no doubt, born of my subconscious… a perfect woman, beautiful and seductive, whose charm I felt before we even looked at each other, as one foresees the rain from the storm. The perfume of grass on the wet soil, far away, announcing the downpour to come.

A few laughs echo throughout the room, reminding me of the presence of men in the restaurant. All this is very real… and is a banal and extraordinary setting, all in one. What am I doing here ?

I must stop thinking about it too much. These questions for now have no answer. No point in torturing myself. I’ll live what I have to live here, even if I don’t know what it is, and the rest will follow. Things will fall in place, naturally if I may say so. Wait until things settle… to rest a little, and let my imagination focus on something less serious, less dangerous, lighter and softer: the vision of this young woman further away, at this very counter. I want to think of her as I would if I were in Le Locle. A beautiful woman, intriguing, who excites the imagination of the single men around… and others also. Married men who secretly rediscover attraction. A forbidden feeling, a challenge. Measure yourself against the impossible ? Get your fingers burnt. Or real love, violent, brief and eternal at the same time. What is she doing here ? Where is she from? From which dream is she from?

I gaze at her. She seems lonely. I daydream : She’s probably waiting for her husband, or her lover ? Her client perhaps ? Come on, I must forget this stupid idea. I must chill. It is obligatory. I want to fly… in the weightlessness of the moment. Fantasising on this woman is silly. I ask the barman for another cocktail, and focus my gaze on its soft reflections. I raise my glass to see the city’s lights through it. It’s pretty. A lit ballet of fairy lights, a liquid choreography of lights interlocking with each other in my beverage… It’s pretty and abstract, like a dream. A moving abstraction to hypnotise… but the young woman, magnetic, quickly gets back into my soul thorough her smile which crosses mine, from afar… therefore from a courage unbeknownst to me, I move my gesture in her direction, as if I were clinking form afar. She replies to my gesture by raising her glass, after a few seconds of doubt, and clinks with me, from the other side of the bar. A heatwave rises to my head. She cannot see it from where she is, luckily. I blushed like a teenager… I am pathetic.

Then she resumes her reading, smiling, and I resume my liquid contemplations. It’s stupid. I tell myself I have at last the opportunity to meet someone in the is crazy dream. And such a charming woman! Since when did I never chat up a lady? It’s miraculous. It’s not to be missed. Maybe I could find out more on what is going on ? Maybe she has a clue to tell me?… Unless she’s also part of the dreadful plan ? No, silly ! Forget that. Go for it. Talk to her… We’ll see. I’ve nothing to lose, only my pride. But I was never very good at chatting up women, even less so here. Especially with this look which I’m not used to and which is staring back at me with reflections, surprising me each time. And all this is such a cliché: A chat up in a bar, a man with fake attire, convinced of his power and force, moves in on a girl to buy her a drink. This is so old, so dull, so banal. I hate that. I always hated that, these manuals of man-woman. Those strategies to seduce, to convince, I always hated them, probably because I don’t feel up to them, especially as a youth. Probably because I wasn’t competent anyway. I wish to remain natural, clean and real. Even if it means avoiding looks and attention on me. A need for romance, love, but without invasion, by this game we have to conform to. A desire to please, but without its marketing connotations: selling yourself, with tools for the sale, with studied actions to close the deal, rehearsed for the performance. Pathetic.

After a long time weighing the pros and the cons, I decide I shouldn’t overthink and just go meet her, in a natural manner… I get off my stool, and doubtfully walk towards the pretty reader, still deep in her reading. Years since I did that. So long I don’t even remember when. I’m going to be ridiculous, I’m sure. I still don’t know what I’m going to say to her, but my new sophisticated look allows me a certain confidence. Inside I feel weak, but that’s not visible, I tell myself as I approach her  :

– « Good evening, may I ? » pointing at the stool next to her, calmly and confidently, which surprises me…

– « Go ahead… » she answers smiling discreetly, clearly amused, seeing me all clumsy.

Still worried at going against my pathetic approach to which I’m witness and protagonist, observing form the inside of myself, I quickly make my intent honest :

– « Don’t worry I’m not the kind to annoy young women in a bar… It’s just you seemed lonely, like me… I’d never dared to annoy you but as we clinked together… I though to myself… well… but I don’t want to disturb you or interrupt your reading, forgive me… » I stumble like a shy teenager, despite my appearance, fuming internally at this marketing ploy I’ve just fallen in. I couldn’t be more cliché: precisely the style she must hear all day long…

In truth, the contrast between this man well dressed and seductive and what I feel inside is quite striking. I love the deep and calm voice of this man. As if I were driving a luxury car, a nice Bentley, loaned to me to replace my old second hand Peugeot. I’m not used to it but I feel like protected, confident, assured. Looks and bodywork, they count. They impress. Me, I know my usual effect: non-existant, almost. I’m a banal old man no-one looks at, with a banal old body. Well, of course, I still look after myself, and I’m not too shabby for an old man. I never suffered from it, but I realise it now I’m in this unknown world of luxury. Where I never had it. That power. That feeling. I savour it like I would savour a cocktail… by little prudent sips, trying to hide my fraud, involuntarily but real, in this Steve I direct without authorisation … with my shyness of Antoine.

The beautiful woman lowers her magazine gracefully :

– « It’s ok. My reading was boring anyway. »

– « Will you allow me to offer you another drink, so we can clink for real this time? » (might as well continue with the clichés…)

– « Why not… With pleasure. I’ll have what you’re having: it looked pretty, the way you looked at your glass…» she said smiling, quite naturally and enthused. Slightly awkwardly, I have no reply and order at the bar man.

He goes back to prepare our two cocktails, I smile forcibly to the young woman, not knowing what to say next without betraying my new self… and she puts an end to my misery :

– « What are you doing in Tokyo ? »

Bam! The killer question. Such a banal question in our marketing context but which is incredibly difficult to answer given my situation… What can I say ? What can I answer? Tell the truth, certainly not. And what do I know of the truth anyway? She’d think I’m crazy and would leave before her cocktail arrived. Invent ?  Pretend I’m a business man? I wouldn’t know how to… I’d be quickly found out. Well. I must answer something, so I follow my instinct. My instinct of Antoine. Answer but without lying… if possible. Blur.

– « What am I doing in Tokyo ?… That’s a good question. If I told you I’ve no idea, would you believe me ? »

– « If you say so, I believe you. Why not ? You must just elaborate a bit… » she says with a touch of malice in her voice… « What’s your name? Me, I’m Amandine… » she said, naturally and charmingly, making up for my rudeness in not introducing myself. What a loser! She must think I’m a waster and she’d be right.

– « Antoine. My name is Antoine… » I say without thinking further. Maybe I should have said Steve? Oh well, it came out naturally. I can’t go back anymore. I therefore decide to continue naturally, even if it means going against my current events, my self. Never mind. The pretty lady feels natural, albeit a bit mysterious, but she inspires me confidence. I couldn’t say why, as we only met three sentences ago. Her smile, her tone of voice. Maybe she’s so used to being chatted up in bars, that it all feels very natural to her, but I doubt it. I don’t wish to think it anyway. In any case we shall see… in any case I’ve nothing to lose. I’ve already lost so much in a single night: my body, my identity, my country… Seeing me perturbed, she carries on :

– «So, you don’t know what you’re doing in Tokyo ?»

Well, pretty direct! Has she got it? She insists. Pressing on the wound. Got to play this tight!

– « In reality, no! I arrived last night, unpredictably and I require a bit of time to adjust to the Japanese clock. To adjust simply. The time difference, the jetlag, no doubt… I’m not used to travels. And you ? What are you doing in Japan? » I said, getting rid of my burning question, at the risk of making her uneasy...

– « I’m a photographer. Journalist. I work for a magazine and do reports on various parts of the world. They send me anywhere to discover unusual places, meet people, shine a light on them. Today it’s Japan. I’ve been here five days. It’s my last day. I go back tomorrow, write my report, edit my pictures, write my blog and articles… before leaving for other discoveries. »

– « I’d never have guessed. You don’t look like a traveler! »

– « Yes I know… », she said laughing, a fresh and charming laugh. « It can help in certain situations…» she concludes with a knowing smiles which ravishes me.

The more the seconds pass in her presence, and the more I feel myself melting in her incredible charms, in her soft heat. I find myself a teenager again, under the spell of her beauty, her natural ease, her voice even, her moves. She’s the prettiest girl in the school, the one everyone loves secretly. She’s the sun of the playground… The secret motivation to go to class… and I’m opposite her. It’s me that she talks to, me that she stares at. She attracts me madly, incredibly, and I’m almost scared of it. Without a compass. Never known this. Or it was so long ago… It’s a madness added to the madness of my situation. I look at her eyes, her forehead, her lips… as she speaks to me. I feel my heart beat in my chest, as if it wanted to escape, and join hers. I wish this moment to never end… I want to stay thus, opposite her, for the rest of my life. Crazy sensation. Absurd. But so intense.

Two little dolphins, fine silver earrings, swing happily, brought to life by her moves as she talks to me. It’s pretty, it’s soft, it’s sensual. The little dolphins seem to hide in the shadows of her cascading blond hair which flow on her shoulders. They fight and play, to the beat of her sentences for me. They jump out of their golden froth, and dive in the golden reflections, and languish on her skin like on a white beach. My gaze stares at her neck. I’d like to be a dolphin. I gather myself, as the barman returns with two cocktails on a platter, which he poses carefully on the bar with two paper napkins the same colour as the bar, breaking up our beginning of conversation… interrupting my maritime visions.

– « Me, I was never a great traveler… » I pursued. « Never had the chance. I’m from a small Swiss town where I live peacefully, simply… and which I’ve hardly ever left! »

– « A small Swiss town ? Well. You don’t look Swiss though. Even less living simply. I would’ve said English or American… Well. Swiss maybe in fact: you have a nice watch. Swiss, isn’t it? » she says pointing at my wrist wearing this bling-bling, I notice it now…

– « Ah yes, it is Swiss ! » I say trying to decipher the front, but without success. My watch is blurred. Being vane, I don’t put on my tortoise reading glasses poking from my pocket, and carry on: « In Switzerland watches are in our blood! »

She smiles without answering, and we clink, glass to glass this time, looking in each other’s eyes, as one should. Bam: my heart is taken! My young man’s heart which I am not. Caught. Trapped. I know it. I feel it, at this precise moment. Does she feel it also ? Does she feel her power on men? Yes, probably. Her effect on me? Probably also. She must be so used to deciphering male attitudes, the players, the stereotypes like myself. My face is probably an open book to her. Too easy. She’s read that a hundred times. I can try to hide the emotion going through me, it’s all a vain effort. She know. She sees. She reads. Easy.

Trying to hide my emotion as best I can, I lower my stare and look at her hands. They are fine and strong at the same time. The nails are short with no varnish. Fingers that seem clever to manipulate, flexible but straight. Delicate but accustomed to an active life. My gaze follows her left hand that rests under her chin. A charming gesture… a move studiously practised… But I don’t think so. I’ve no idea. Who cares. I want to believe her natural. I don’t read well, me. So I let myself go without resisting, taken by the soft wave of her charms, and I observe her face through the prism of tenderness which moves me. Her eyes are blue and clear. Her smile, luminous. I don’t think I’ve felt anything quite like it. Never. I feel I’ve known her forever, yet, at the same time, I feel I’m trespassing on a land I want to discover more of. I want to run towards her, enter her world. Offer her mine. I feel silly in my lover’s thoughts. Her beauty subjugates me, and her charm makes me capsize… I hope she hasn’t a clue. This also: that’s mad. I’m beside myself. It’s stupid. Maybe Steve is used to this but not me. It’s what you call love at first sight, for me anyway, in this unreal storm. Posing her glass she carries on:

– « Let me guess! I’m very good at guessing: You’re a business man, probably heading a company, a corporation… Textile perhaps ? Or in watches, judging by your beautiful one… and you go around the world to meet associates and sign contracts. You’re married, judging by your ring you forgot to hide, but are often away from home for long periods… and you casually walk up to drunken women in your slippers, after work… Am I wrong? »

I stare at my feet quickly: damn! What an idiot! I forgot to put my leather shoes back on and left my hotel room with my white hotel slippers. Shame!…

I feel the blood reach my cheeks again and mumble hurriedly anything to get rid of the situation :

– « Ah yes! The slippers… They’re so much more comfy aren’t they. Shoes are so overrated… don’t you think ? »

The young woman smiles with all her teeth burying her mouth in the cocktail glass whilst looking at me with laughing eyes.

I also drink to hide my shame and pretend to be relaxed, but this error seems to turn to my advantage. I must seem peculiar to her. If she knew how much!… At least I can make her laugh. It’s a start…

– « You still haven’t answered my question… » she insists posing her glass.

I try to forget the slippers and remember the question. Ah yes: the guess. What can I reply? She both amused and worried me with her question. Her vision of me is that of Steve. It’s him she guessed: it’s not me. And I’m hurt by that, offended. But, after all, I can’t blame her: Appearances are deceptive. Her beautiful blue eyes saw Steve, but looked at me, Antoine, hidden behind. Me, the old man in the mountain. How could it be different? She spoke to my heart, deep in this body… and touched it. In the bull’s eye!… How can I continue lying to her ? I am not him. I am me… I must tell her. I feel it. I can’t see another way. Break everything. Never mind. I take a large sip of this delicious alcohol. I’m already a bit drunk, so a little more… It can only help… to give me courage.

I’ll destroy everything, but I don’t want to continue this game. It would betray this improbable love I feel growing. It would be mocking her. I don’t want that. I’ll have to tell my story. My story… The best I can… I can’t invent this man’s life which I don’t even know. Say anything. He’s probably a business man on a trip. It’s the most plausible. I’ve no idea really. I know nothing of him. I only know what I know since I woke up. It’s not much. A beautiful man, confident and wealthy… but is that just a front? The beginning of that letter written by his hand suggests a hole open in him. A terrible weakness. His words full of doubt on his intentions. Who is he? What happened to him? What did this girl do to him? What was he going to do when I took his pace that night? All this is a great mystery I’ve temporarily set aside for this beautiful woman in front of me, a dark hole where this light came, suddenly, improbably and beautifully… but a mystery I will now have to share… with her! Maybe it’s the only way to get out of this, to explain. To talk to her. To trust her. Maybe that’s the way out of my troubles: open my heart. Tell her my life. To confess, to this angel on my path. Maybe she’s here for that ? Maybe she’s part of the solution?

I continue to gather my thoughts, like a big puzzle, so I can answer as I must, as is right. I know nothing of that man’s life. How can I tell a life I don’t know? I take another sip. The eyes of Amandine don’t encourage deception. They’re beautiful and pure, clear and bright. I don’t want to put any dirt in them, any lies. That would be pollution. That would be bad. It wouldn’t be me. It wouldn’t be her. Of course I could tell her anything logical, anything reasonable, but what is the point? Where would that lead? Why should I play the game I’ve been given? Follow this flow of illusion or fight back with my truth to join the bank of my life? Well, try anyway… My feelings for her, new and marvellous, feel like the only reality I can cling on to. Like a buoy. A miracle sent to save me.

I look at her in silence. She doesn’t break my silence, which lasts a little too long. It’s awkward. I must catch my breath, put together my puzzle, whilst downing another sip of cocktail, and answer her. Once I set off, I won’t be able to go back, to return. I must tell her everything… I gather my mental strength. I go for it :

– « I do fear you’re wrong actually… Well, half wrong. I don’t know which half to give you either: the simple one, the naked truth, as incoherent as it is, which may frighten you and make you run from this bar, or the one which will confirm your first impression… more reassuring, more ordinary, but which may not be the right one. ».

I’m surprised at my manner of speaking, calm and considered.

– « Continue Antoine, you intrigue me… »

– « I bet… But believe me that’s not my aim! I don’t wish to show off, even if that’s what it looks like… I realise that. I don’t want to puzzle you, to bait you, with my mysterious chat. I am alone tonight, you’re right, but not as alone as you might think. I saw you, also alone, at the end of this bar. But you don’t know the effort myself I had to overcome to talk to you… in slippers as well! I’m really not that type of man…»

She smiles again :

– « I admit it’s not what I see at first sight… You look rather spot on, as far as chat… » she replies cleverly. « and your slippers could just be an elaborate ploy… »

– « Yes and it’s the worst: everything plays against me. The mystery around my words to soften them, looks like a carefully studied chat up line. It troubles me, but I hear myself talk, and can only say you’re right. You don’t believe me, I can tell. A natural doubt. You see in front of you a player with all kinds of tricks to reach his goals. However I beg of you that is not the case… I have no agenda. I find you incredibly beautiful and seductive, true, and my heart beats insanely each time your eyes look at mine, I admit, but these words as fake and rushed as they are, are pure and without interest or vice. Really: I’m not lying to you. I don’t think I could anyway: your eyes won’t allow me. I want to give myself to you, to tell you my crazy story, because I know and feel you have a pure soul. That you’re not an easy girl which takes Martinis off strangers in bars, as you seem to be! Appearances can sometimes be deceiving…»

– « Good, a point for you! I’m not that kind, it’s true… » she smiles. « It’s not my style. I believe you. So who am I dealing with ? Tell me. Who is this polite and distinguished man who offers me a drink with no agenda? I’m curious… It’s not that common these days…»

And, after a long inspiration and another sip of cocktail, I unravel everything, from the start, the beginning, this morning, when it began. I utter my words, as softly as possible, with the required prudence for this irrational story, implicating her in my adventure, despite expecting at each end of sentence, her to break into laughter, mocking me and leaving the table, well the bar, leaving me settle the bill, thinking she’s dealing with a nutter in slippers or a player out of it beyond his game.

But no: she stays unmoved, looking at me with her eyes of a summer’s sky. Strange and surprising feeling. Her gaze into mine. We hold each other through our gaze, like we were holding hands. She doesn’t let go. She listens without interrupting, without cutting short my crazy tale. She no longer smiles. I tell her about Switzerland, about Daniel & Pierre, my retired friends. I tell her of our Sunday walks, of the bar where we play darts… of my simple and quiet life… of my waking, this morning, in this hotel so far away.

I hear myself talk and I struggle to believe what I’m saying. Steve’s voice doesn’t help: I feel I’m listening to Parky tell his incredible stories… It’s so crazy. She must think I’m mad and she keeps quiet not to add to my state. One musn't worry the crazy, you never know. Maybe she’s thinking of escaping… but I don’t think so. She enters my story, she follows me in my crazy adventure. I must appear credible, sincere. Of course! I finally tell her of my meeting with Steve, in the bathroom. She smiles at the description of my panic.

I tell her everything, the minute details, and she stays. Her gaze is clear and beautiful. I feel she takes in my story with the candour of a child with fairies… then finally I stop talking. I down my cocktail, look at the empty glass at the end of my hand. We stay thus silent, minutes. She says nothing. She looks at me. Her eyes talk to me in silence. They land on me, then look away, then melt back into mine. An incredible feeling starts in us. Almost palpable. Maybe my imagination again? But I don’t think so. I went to the end of my honesty with my statement. I was naked and she felt it. Real truth does not cheat, it convinces. What must she think ?

Silence falls again. I cannot break it. The blade will fall when she opens her mouth. I await her now. The verdict. The sentence. Am I guilty of deception, of lying?… Insane, psychotic, irresponsible? Or has my innocence been accepted ? My fate is in her hands. Her words. Air is still. No noise in the bar. But she doesn’t run away. She stays there, looking at me, almost tenderly now. It’s funny. It’s kind. This sharing brought us together. Never has a chat up line been so fruitful… except it isn’t one. She knows it now. I see it, I detect it. I say no more… She waits before speaking… as if to prolong the tension. She looks outside, at the Tokyo lights. Deep in thought. Her eyes come back to me :

– « I don’t know what to say… » she finally answers. « Your tale makes my head spin, it is so incredible! Or is it the Martini? All this is so wild that I tell myself you couldn’t have invented this just to pick me up. You do look sincere… I don’t know. I believe you. I want to believe you… but I’m lacking the words to answer you, to comfort you if it’s all true. How could I anyway ? I’ve never heard such a story. Obviously. The fatigue, the cocktails. I don’t see clearly. I admit. And it’s getting late... »

I tell myself then the verdict is here: she didn’t believe me, and is cleverly trying to leave, without offending me… However she counters and carries on :

– « Shall we walk outside a bit? I’ve got to get up early to catch a plane, but a bit of fresh air will help me I reckon. You too actually… »

– « Yes, with pleasure… » I say, surprised… telling myself this beauty is rather brave… or maybe she just wants to slowly end this evening without offending me.

She steps down elegantly from her stool and goes in front of me. Her hair touches me. Her perfume drives me insane. We leave the bar towards the lift, where we stare at each other intensely, during the forty one floors, each leaning against the side of the lift. No, she’s not afraid of me. Her eyes search mine. Search the truth. Ding. The door opens on the hall and after a few quiet footsteps, we’re on the dark and cold pavement in front of the hotel. We start to walk slowly.

– « Your story is crazy you know that? »

– « I know… »

– « It’s so big! Yet I can’t fail to believe you. It feels so real. So true. You took me along and I couldn’t resist. Logic is against you, sure. Reality contradicts… it’s not possible… yet I believe your story. It’s mad, I don’t know what to say…»

– « You think I’m mad? A liar ? »

– « No, I don’t think so. Maybe it’s me that’s mad? But your story touches me. You touch me, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. It’s all going so fast… »

At these words, without thinking, I grab her hand. She looks at me, a bit surprised, says nothing but doesn’t push me away. She smiles even, after a few seconds of hesitation. Our fingers grab each other as we walk, silently, along the brick wall that separates the pavement from the hotel.

We walk along a small park, lost in this forest of concrete and steel. We go around it… in silence, before finally risking going through it, on the way back to the hotel. It’s dark. There are little concrete alleyways, with lights, which we walk along, hand in hand. Strange sensation. The place is deserted. We climb up the pathways in the night, the little stairs through the trees, towards a white altar with six pillars and a roof, sheltering a few stone stools. I don’t know where I am. This crazy story is coupled with a crazy feeling. I still find it hard to realise: I’m in Tokyo, at night, with a young woman I’ve just met, at least twenty years younger than this Steve… and I walk touching her, absurd and romantic, with this incredible feeling of peace and calm.

Odd couple her and me. Such emotion. The young and the pretty old walking together, hand in hand. Who could believe their story? Its purity? Its sincerity ? We probably appear to be, her and me, what we are not… But we don’t care. There’s no-one in this park anyway, and even so we wouldn’t change a thing. And that’s without the age difference with me, Antoine… I tell myself I could be her dad, her grandad even! As horrible as this though is, I feel no shame, no embarrassment, as if time and years had no importance. The age of our bodies is secondary, and I know a lot about that since this morning. Amandine has no age, and me neither. I feel good, young. Only the flow of colours, connecting us in the dark, matter.

Between my trip and this encounter, the surreal deepens the abyss and yet my thoughts become clearer, in all this confusion. Like a truth, a light, bright, which shines in this ocean of darkness. We lean against the marble table, between dream and reality. We look at each other. We smile. We look at the city through the branches. A slight wind caresses her hair and drifts her sweet perfume towards my nostrils.

– « Thank you for tonight Amandine. Thank you for staying with me… Thank you for not taking me for fool…» I tell her as I squeeze her in my arms.

– « gmfff… » she answers to my grasp. What else is there to answer anyway? Gmfff seems the best term, given the situation. I feel her chest beat against mine, her heat, soft, filling all my body, well, Steve’s. The bastard gets an awkward erection which I control with difficulty. I feel her arms circle me lovingly, squeezing me. She says amused : « You hang to the left… » I’m not sure what she means. I say nothing. Then I get it. There is nothing to say…

She shakes a bit. It’s nippy. Whilst still hanging to the left, I rub her back tenderly to warm her, then we decide, without a word, to go down the small sleepy park towards the hotel, embraced, like an old nostalgic couple that we’re not.

We walk thus slowly, through the deserted road, seeing colourful taxis every now and then, disturbing the peace of our steps on the pavement. Well, Amandine’s steps, as my white slippers are completely silent compared to her heels. It’s almost symbolic of the situation : She, real & loud in reality, and me unreal, walking in silence, weightless, as non-existant next to her. Floating almost. I look at our feet, although in time, a metronome set to our birthing love, hitting the dark and smooth tarmac. She looks at them also… and smiles, hitting me on my shoulder, tender, amused by my look. I am happy. I am tired but happy. Lost but happy. I’m not myself anymore, but I don’t care, almost. Amandine is an angel that accompanies me, a star guiding me though the night, in this desert, on this unknown planet on which I walk. She holds my hand, tight, so tight.

Slowing down more and more, we finally reach unwittingly the entrance of the Hyatt. End of our digestive walk. End of our lover’s evening. The delicate moment of our separation has arrived. I’ll have to deal with it. Not easy.

As a galant man, following my distinguished appearance, I walk her back to the door of her room. Without a word we kiss for a while against the wall. Her perfume drives me wild. Her heat, her softness… her clear and smooth skin under my lips. Her hair mixed with mine. Our eyes, closed with pleasure as we give ourselves away. I start hanging on all sides now. Then, both hands on my chest, she pushes me kindly and says :

– « I must really sleep now. I’m up early tomorrow. »

– « I understand. Sorry. I didn’t mean to… »

– « Stop saying sorry. I had a strangely pleasant evening… You know it. Cheeky. But it’s better to stop now don’t you think ? »

– « Yes probably. You know I don’t… » but she interrupts me :

– « Which room are you in ? Is there a number to call you ? »

– « The 3006… I don’t even know if I have a phone actually. Well, Steve… Probably. Who hasn’t got one these days ? I didn’t see one in the room. I didn’t really look to be honest… Do you want me to have a look ? »

– « No, no worries. Here’s my number...» and she scribbles it on a piece of paper I put in my jacket.

– « Good. Thanks. What time you’re having breakfast? Shall we meet in the restaurant ?… »

– « Early! At 6. I must be at Narita around 8. »

– « Ok. I’ll be there. Good night then. See you tomorrow. »

– « Good night Antoine… », and she closes her door on her blue eyes, slowly like the final curtain on a play. The endless corridor looks like it darkens, in the shadow of this closed door in the strange light. I walk away from her room, from her, all down… and silent… with my white slippers.

I reach the lift, slowly, a tad broken, then my room, the 3006. Nothing has moved. The bed is still undone, a bit like the shell of an opening egg, abandoned by the chick who just birthed… It’s a bit that actually: I arrived in these sheets this morning, from who knows where. I got out, stunned, not knowing where I was, or why. I was born in this room. Strange birth. The white towel hanging off my chair in front of the desk, seems to be a clue of this chick just popped out from his egg. I smile. « You just had a great encounter my chick! » I say aloud, to myself as much as to that greying businessman.

I find again that letter, enigmatic, placed on the desk… I read it, twice. What a strange letter. Well strange isn’t the right term. It is so dark, so desperate. It doesn’t really fit with the evening he just lived through me, brilliant, loving. Charming. Full of life and hope… Hopefully she’ll remember it!

I can’t leave that letter as it is… « Come on, Steve! Focus!… life is beautiful!» I grab the pen which wrote it, to complete the sentence… to try to change destiny. A literary rewrite from me to him, to cheat fate. After a few thoughts, suddenly inspired, I end, smiling, his sentence :

… today is …yesterday for tomorrow. Carpe-diem ! Seize the day my friend… and i sign: Antoine, a stranger who wants the best for you…

Absurd gesture, destined for someone who won’t read these lines, because from now on I am, Steve ! But who knows, maybe am i writing this for myself.

I smile. Why did I feel this need to write, to end these words? A need to leave a mark, as I foresee my possible imminent departure? An order for Steve, in case he takes his place again? I nod. If that were the case, it’s a much longer letter I’d have to write, to explain this adventure. But no need to think any further. I give up, tired by a long day, an improbable day, testing and rich in all kinds of emotions, as crazy as each other. A letter wouldn’t suffice. A whole novel would be required to write all this! I don’t have the courage.

These few words will be enough for tonight. We’ll see tomorrow. I put the pen down, take my clothes off, say a last hello to my new mate, Steve, in the bathroom, to brush my teeth. « What a handsome man! » I tell myself looking at his clear eyes in the reflection of the mirror. My new self. My new life that’s starting. « He really charmed Amandine! So good !». A last complicit smile between men was exchanged with him above the sink, then I lay down on the large bed. I find my shell of white sheets. I cocoon within. I switch the light off. The night is silent and peaceful. Yes, peaceful. Strangely so…

What a wonderful encounter! Why must it be in such circumstances? Is this a dream ? How odd this feeling of growing love in my brain. I feel like a young silly boy discovering pleasures, all emotive. It’s the case actually. I don’t remember feeling such emotions, for anyone. Not even my wife, rest in peace. A late but delicious revelation of unknown feelings and sensations.

This day will have been full of unknowns… all as improbable … and I struggle to say which is the most surprising: my new life as a travelling business man, with this new appearance, years taken off, or this feeling of love which almost takes over and cancels the rest of the absurdities… or the opposite, it gives it meaning it can’t have. Everything is upside down but I don’t care. A strange feeling of happiness is within me, and dominates everything. That is probably the most extraordinary. The most marvellous. The nightmare becomes dream. I walk on the moon, in zero gravity, in the night’s silence. I discover a new planet, a new universe. Another perspective allowing me to see a new star in the sky and to look at it subjugated. The sky is black and its infinite obscurity attracts me, but I’m not afraid. Light guides me now.

The blue eyes of Amandine fill my eyes and I fall asleep, with her smile on my lips, her perfume on my skin, the feeling of her hand in mine, and the heat of our last embrace between my thighs.

I carry also with me, through the night, the joy of meeting her again in the morning… the impatience of her next smile, of her new words towards me, of our truths and confiding, our secrets shared and to share. In this common world we have to discover together. Discovering each other, word by word, stare by stare. Day by day. A crazy desire to kiss her again. To hang. Just to see her again… To relax with her, sliding in this new life together… tomorrow.

I fall asleep like that, With Amandine deep inside of me, a dream in a dream… A bubble of perfume in this smelly nightmare.

Tuesday

What a rude awakening: someone loudly hitting my door with his fists and a man's voice shouts:

- « Erik! Erik! Wake up… Here they are! At least a hundred are coming around Gasaladur and they head to Bøur! It has begun… This is no time for sleeping! Don’t miss this… everyone is there… it’s gonna be hell! Move your butt and come! »… and the beating on my door gets even harder, shaking the wooden door! « Let’s go! Hop, hop, hop … Get up! »

This uproar, as violent as sudden, hits me from the deep sleep I dived myself into, last night after the long and sweet kiss with Amandine in the corridor, and here I am, all shook up, straightened on my bed, eyes lost in the blur and googly amazement from the awaking hullabaloo and the sight of a new room, again unknown…

It doesn’t take me long to realise that the yesterday’s unlikely scenario happened again… that my sleep dropped me once again, through its nocturnal magic, in another one’s life, in another one’s body… catapulted elsewhere, in another country, another world, different. A world that is not mine, in a strange room, in a warm bed, but which is not my bed… someone else's bed I don’t know, a stranger from all points of view.

Despite that, desperately clinging to my last dream which I don’t want to exit, my first thought, the first word that comes out of my mouth is Amandine... My appointment with Amandine!

My ideas are not yet clear. I still want to believe that this confusion is due to sleep, to a dream, yet close… and not reality. Desperately, I still seek a link with the remains of yesterday, how illusory was it also, yet at the same time so beautiful… This meeting. This romantic feeling. Perhaps a dream, but to which I try to hold on to at all costs by forcing my ideas to not drop the images, how blurred can they be: Amandine. Her kiss. Our breakfast to come…

Jostled by the anxiety that grips me again, I search for the time, but the alarm clock radio is no longer in place and daylight through the window suggests time has already passed. Night is over. I missed the breakfast. I missed Amandine.

Gradually, the soft mists of my dream dissipates leaving space for a horrible clarity invading my eyes. Around me, the furniture is different. It’s now a clear vision of this dark adventure, brutal, with no more logic into it. Feeling of nonsense. Again. No doubt: I left Tokyo. I left Amandine. Without going through Narita airport… But yet I flew and here I am… far away from my hotel room… far away from these modern buildings, this artificial city. Far from this palace with long hushed corridors. Far from the luxurious Peak bar where I met her. Emotion within emotion.

I must accept the fact, as horrible it can be, but I don’t want to! Resolving to this new reality is to me a double tear. It's pain, it’s unfair. Hopeless. I try to remember Amandine as much as I can, to tie her over my thoughts, hold on to this sweet date, yesterday… her tender eyes. But my mind is not strong enough for the tsunami of light that invaded me. The awakening, the great winner, inflicts me triumphantly its new landscape, incongruous and ugly, where Amandine is gone. I put all my strength into this final and desperate fight to not let her definitely fly away, burned into the rays of the new day, let her vanish into the night, black smoke blew as dawn inundates the new day with his outrageous clarity…

What I feared came true: I'm not anymore where I was last night… I am… elsewhere… Offset again to another place, unknown and mysterious… and probably very far from Amandine!

No!!! Not that… Not now… It can’t be! We’ve just met, she and I, to start our story, so sweet, so beautiful… A wonderful meeting, full of hope and promise. Full of sweetness and nascent complicity. This is really not the moment. And what will she think now? She will just be disappointed not to see me on our first date… She’s going to imagine things. No doubt she'll think I’m just like every other man, one of these usual dredgers who played with her an evening, trying unsuccessfully to pull her in his bed, and, slightly piqued, gave up and already forgot her to get more success with the next one to pick up in another bar. A one night missed shot, like a tissue barely started and which is discarded immediately to the basket of oblivion. Just a quick and easy conquest to add to his list. A check box, still missing, to his credit, his list of female trophies to behold: Tokyo, it is done. Next one… No, it’s not possible. She should not believe that… It's unfair! It is not me. Not at all…

But the damage is done. It’s already too late: The appointment is missed. I will not go there… and I can no longer do. I abandoned Amandine to her solitary breakfast, alone with her misconceptions about me. I left her on poor memories and tarnished disillusionment. What is she thinking now? Everything is ruined. It enrages me that some have played such a trick to us. Everything is spoiled.

In this whirlwind of despair and re-edited inconsistencies, this is all that matters… Amandine: the huge disappointment of having left her so. Even more than having been teleported again that way, so unreal, inconsistent, impossible, into another body. Having been catapulted into another place, with all the dangers that this must entail, the risks… and especially the terrible absurdity of extreme terror to find myself sucked in such a cataclysm where reason and laws of physics are violated, canceled. I don’t think about all that, this life flying away from me, erased, in a whack… I just think about Amandine. The past seems even not so important compared to this missing future, this strange reflection glimpsed in her eyes, that fades now with this new awakening. My past reality of my small Swiss village does not matter… Only matters this nugget of dream interviewed over the clear brook of that last evening with her… but who fell back in the quicksand of this absurd stream.

Here I am caught, electrified, by this terrible awareness, this new light… and a second wave of mixed misunderstanding and rage is taking me, while the memory of Amandine goes off with the missing sleep:

« No. It can’t be... Not again? Not twice!!! Not yet! Was it all just a dream? A dream that jumps to another dream, without logic, without any meaning? »

This though twists my stomach. No, impossible… although my concept of impossible has been seriously questioned lately… I don’t understand. All this is crazy. What is this fate falling on me, this damnation, this punishment? And why? For what? What have I done to deserve this? Who grabbed my soul and now plays with me as with a puppet dismantled against the cold walls of reason?

A thousand questions daze my mind still numb, struggling to wake up yet already upset with so many interrogations, doubts, disappointments when suddenly the man’s voice strikes again, punctuated by a new burst of violent fists banging on the trembling door:

- « Come on! What the fuck are you doing?… Put your boots on and come down! Hurry up! There's no time to waste. You think they'll wait for us? I am going to the Jeep… Hurry!… and don’t forget the harpoon! »

Footsteps of the man moves away from the door, heavily going down the stairs that resonate and shake the whole house. The language he’s speaking is strange, harsh and guttural… Not my language but I seem to understand it perfectly though. It is as natural to my ears. Like yesterday. Amazing.

Where am I now? What is this again? Another dream? Another nightmare? I try to get my thoughts back together. Not easy, as sudden and noisy it is. Violent.

*

New awakening, and new discovery of a completely unknown world to me, where my place is obviously not. Anymore. Second slap in my face. Now not walking on the moon, in its soft quilted weightlessness, I am on Saturn, heavy and crushed by my own weight, tied by its powerful rings, suffocating in its gas… I went across the universe, I went across the world. I crossed the skin, white and thick, that covers my hand today, with its red hair. I jump from square to square on the roulette table in the doomed casino of destiny. The die is cast, each and every day: That’s it, all bets are off…

New game. Second dream, perhaps, then. Or second part of a dream that goes on, who knows? I don’t know what to think. What’s going on? Am I simply sleeping or is this all actually real? …with a new parallel reality, unsuspected, I will have to accept again. Integrate. All this is really crazy. More and more crazy! I do need to calm down, definitely… Well, I'm alive, at least that's a good thing. I breathe, I move, I even get angry. This is surely a positive point. Now, as a good explorer, I have to try to analyse the battle ground, as calmly as I can, and set my new situation. Evaluate my chances. My options. Like yesterday. Put it all on the table and sort the events to restore a semblance of order and logic to all this. Breathe and think. Above all, not to panic. All this must have a meaning. Just need to search for it. Look. To carefully follow the new path, even if I don’t know where it leads to.

I stay still, sat for a moment on that bed, unknown again, covered with a thick quilt, and study room by appearance… First steps. Different bedroom. Totally different. Less modern, less design. Darker too, with a six tiles square window, much smaller, no curtains. The walls are white, not polished, covered with pictures of boats. Several metal items on nails. Jackets, hung on a coat rack. The floor is made with a light wood, a bit dirty though, covered with a thick and used carpet where a newspaper is lying beside muddy shoes. Celebrities magazines, too. On the cover of one of them, Julia Roberts smiles with all her teeth, taunting my discomfort and laughing at me. « Not nice Julia! There is nothing to laugh about… »

I can see some rubber boots under a chair beside the door. No doubt those mentioned by the man who shouted at me to wake up. The room smells musty. I stand up to go to the window. I can see roofs of houses, covered with grass, mud, and in the background, a lake, maybe a fjord, a sea inlet surrounded by steep cliffs and bare mountains which seem to channel the water to the port. Everything is green and short, looking both dry and wet, rounded and sharp. A strange contrasted landscape like I have never seen. Probably up north, far up north. But north of where? Looks like I'm on the heights of a small fishing village, with colourful houses, all a bit similar with their pointed roofs. A village encircling a tranquil and sleepy bay. Some smoke escape here and there from chimneys. All is calm and serene. The sky is grey and low, and it flattens the advancing sea with its lead’s reflection. It seems to be cold, like winter. Where did I fall into this time?

Three short honkings call me back to the present reality: My loud sleep troublemaker is impatient. My face a little closer to the window, I can see the roof of a large grey car waiting, below, its exhaust steam blowing white steam, ready to go to I-don't-know-what important mission it could be, where my presence seems necessary! Who am I? Who is he? Where are we, like that? What is this emergency? To get the answers to all these questions, I decide to act, without thinking, getting dressed with the clothes lying at the end of the bed that probably are mine, and join this mysterious and noisy man. Follow this imposed motion, this stream of events and see where it leads me. What do I risk anyway? I'm already so far… and I can’t be more lost that I am.

I put on the boots and braided sheep wool jacket, and open the door of the small house, where a wooden staircase leads to the grey car waiting for me with a small way of dark slabs in between. The man’s silhouette inside, stirs at my view. I give him a small sign from the hand while approaching. I realise how ridiculous my gesture is according to these circumstances, but I have to play this part. I have to be an actor in this new scenario, enter my role, my new role. Only then will have the chance to get the entire piece, the full picture. Whether I like it or not, I have to play this game, as ridiculous as it may be. I don’t have the choice. I need to blend into the play to find the key. The possible way out… The escape.

But who am I? What am I doing there? Again. Keep calm. Just breathe calm.

I’m almost at the car. The man inside, stirs even more! I open the door and he says:

- « The harpoon! You forgot the harpoon… damn, we already don’t have much time! What’s wrong with you this morning? OK. Forget it, come in, you'll use mine… »

- « Sorry… » I reply, in this strange language, with this new voice, equally strange, sitting down at passenger side. What else to say? I slam the door. We start. I look at the man as he’s concentrated on his driving. He’s a big burly, bearded. He wears a navy blue cap and a big striped marine sweater. His eyes crinkled under a thick skin. He looks excited, clinging to the wheel in the lane contours leaving the village along the sea. He looks like a retarded teenager going to a party. He smiles. His annoyance, after my forgetfulness, was short-lived. He’s not resentful, now on his way to the happiness of the day. He slams me his big hand on the thigh, with a brotherly and playful air.

- « Well then, what were you doing? It took you quite some time to come down! Sleeping huh? Well, I guess after last night… -He laughs out loud- You were not the last to order a drink, huh?... Aquavit Master! » does he add with a wink and doubled with a second fat laugh. « What a party! Good fun! »

I dare not to speak. What could I say anyway? I have no memory of that night he’s talking about… How could I? The man seems very communicative about his joy of taking the road to this mysterious destination. He holds his wheel clamped between his big rough fists as clinging to a rope. He drives fast and often looks out at the sea, when the outline of the meadows emerges a bit and the horizon appears, like searching for something. He also speaks about people I don’t know, some girls, memories that I have not, things I can’t understand… from this world, this life which isn’t mine. I remain silent. Then he returns to the main subject that seems to animate his day, our day:

- « They are hundreds, minimum! Morten had the info from Niklas. It’s gonna be awesome! Everyone is already there… We’re the last ones… Damn. Should not miss the start… Fuck. »

I keep silent, while asking myself what hundred he may be talking about, and if I could have some reason to rejoice like the guy at my left about this start not to miss. All this seems so… wowser. I look at my hands. They are also rough, strong. Young though. My nails are a little dirty, but not much. Worker hands. Lumberjack or butcher. I don’t know. I scratch my chin which I feel square, massive, and covered with short, coarse hairs. Unshaven. Like Steve, but harder. I dare not look at my reflection in the window. This idea scares me. I don’t really want to know, see. According to my hands, I'm probably not as handsome and distinguished as I was in Tokyo. All this is over. I have to get used to. At least am I a little younger. Perhaps the age of Amandine now! What a pity. A young, unshaven man, which takes a part of something with his playing partner. Forget the puny Antoine! This is the first time I think of him today. Where is he? What did he become? When will I find him back, if I ever find him back one day? And why would I find him back? I was thrown out of this life, such as sapphire on one LP vinyl disc who would have jumped on another song, someone banging his fist on the table, making it derail suddenly. Divine wrath? All this is damning. I feel like crying again, but I need to face. I can’t do that, next to this grinning guy at my left. Come on… I am well able to understand why this blasting furrow of this song’s change… I'm suddenly being dropped to the chorus without understanding the lyrics. There must be a reason. I'll find it. I'll manage to deal with that. Have to. So, let’s recap: I'm in a Jeep driven by an unknown colossus and we spin on a winding road at the edge of a fjord… What is there to understand? I can only observe and follow the movement of this life which is not mine. No choice.

I think of Amandine. This break with her is what hurts me the most right now. She must hate me! How will I manage to find her, join her now? I'm wasting my time in this car driven by a stranger, and every passing minute seems to put more distance between she and I. How to part from this mastiff and escape? And then, to go where? I don’t even know where I am. Beset by these unanswered questions like a lamppost by a cloud of moths, I watch the landscape passing behind the window along the road and think of Amandine.

We pass by hikers. A small group of men and women walking along the coast with binoculars. At their sight, the big guy next to me gets excited:

- « Bunch of jerks, they are there already… Assholes. If I could ride over them! Look at these cunts! Get you closer and you will see what happens! …Sea shepherds of my ass! » he says, raising a pretty rude finger in their direction.

- « They don’t look that bad… » I say, a little sheepishly, not well understanding what could we blame them for, and immediately regretting having opened my mouth.

- « What the fuck? Are you kidding? These Yankees assholes coming to piss on our island! Not that bad? This bunch of environmentalists trying to change our traditions? You must be kidding?… oh, ok, I get it… » and the man eructs a loud laugh. « Ah, you're funny! You look so serious sometimes! I really believed you, did you see?… Bastard. You got me! Not that bad!… huh huh huh! I'll choke myself with laughter because of your bullshit! »

I speak no more… it's better. He laughed quite enough like that. His enmity with these people is beyond my understanding. Apparently some political dispute. There must be good reasons, but, not knowing them, I shut up… and then, at the sound of his laughter, we arrive at destination on a small car parking lot just above a bay, overlooking a small fishing port. Many cars are already parked. We get out somehow of ours, wedged between two, and the grinning guy, still focused on his mission, goes to the trunk and pulls out various tools, including a kind of large sharp nail and bent at its end into a hook, all this attached to the extremity of a thick, long rope, coiled, which he puts down on the floor. Then he stands again and plunges into the trunk his conqueror torso.

- « Look! Take the whale’s knife and my harpoon. I get the rope and hook… » and he hands me two long sharp and heavy weapons, which I catch apprehensively. One is a sharp knife, the other a kind of shovel handle, with a handle but without any shovel at the end, just a pointed stick. I have never seen such objects. Well, the knife I did, though, but not that big. It's impressive. Then, quickly, he shut the trunk, grabs the coil of rope which must easily weigh over twenty kilos if not more and heads, thus charged, by a stony path toward the small black sand beach which a clear and cold water caresses peacefully. I'm following him, the heavy tools in my arms, hurrying not to be left behind, and still wondering which activity requires such an equipment. Could it be a kind of fishing trip? A sea safari? All this doesn’t sound good to me, whatever it is. I don’t like that. Not my cup of tea. The weapons looks a bit dull, though the knife was apparently freshly sharpened, seeing the traces on the blade, as is the motivation of the man whose broad back is rushing ahead of me. Fishermen, for sure.

We are not the only ones to rush to the port and we soon join a crowd of hundreds flowing down by small paths to the quiet bay. It comes from everywhere, like a human chain now encircling the bay. What the hell are they heading to? What’s so important to have decided to spend their day, all together in this common move? No doubt an extraordinary and festive event by judging the number of people. Maybe a sunrise, or something like an aurora or a fireworks which would double the fishing party? I don’t know.

There are men, women, children. They all look like enjoying themselves with sheer excitement at the upcoming show, at the fair which is being set. I follow my new pal bringing with strength and determination his coil of rope to a group of men gathered with the same kind of bizarre utensils. They let us pass, with almost respect, treading hurriedly on pebbles and sand. Surely are we the village’s attraction, its expected and respected team and will we soon play, under the amazed eyes of all these spectators, some manly joust we are the experts of? Maybe some popular rite of passage? I just have to follow the crowd, pretending to understand what I am doing there. Smiling if I can, but I hardly do so. I’m following the hurried man in boots, joining the rest of his team on the dark and noisy beach.

- « Andreas, Erik! Here you are… Just in time guys… look! They're coming… » shouts one man pointing at the sea with a fat and pink finger.

Far away, I see indeed some action as hard it is to define from that distance. Like a small boat flotilla of dozen seems to be heading toward us, cracking the horizon with erratic trajectories, strange naval dance in zigzags. In front of them, like an escort, some big fishes seem to play, opening the way, cavorting ahead and swimming fast.

Gradually, the squad of ships widens and surrounds us from its sides the small twirling group at their bow. Maybe is it a race? There are fishing boats, but also zodiacs and other small speedboats that now seem to unite for circling the bench. The group of fish becomes clearer. They are very numerous indeed, and their group is surprisingly concentrated. Looks like dolphins, large black dolphins swimming together, jumping out of the water like in a water park, but less graciously, given their number and constraining promiscuity. They seem to find the game less and less fun. I am realising so now with the reduced distance. They are visibly distraught and seem to jump on each other more and more chaotically as they approach the shore in this net of ships.

These, obviously, tighten more and more, threatening, like a marine vice that frames cetaceans increasingly close, with risk of touching them, hurting them… until eventually reach to pinch on the sandy low level water that becomes the beach, with foam and waves splashed with their frightened fins… That’s why we’re here… That’s why we’re waiting for them, tools in hand… or should I say weapons in hand. I now understand: We are hunters, and all this is a wide sea beaten, a trap that locks on this group of dolphins driven to us by this deadly escort.

Trapped and bundled, stranded on the sand, against each other, having not enough depth to swim… They are stuck for good, and their fate is now sadly obvious… The ballet is not a ballet anymore. There will be no sunrise or Borealis aurora. No marine show, but the killing of these animals. I now understand. I'm terrified… overwhelmed. Sad. This is a nightmare, and I’m in the middle of it. How else could it be?

My fat friend grabs the long knife, one of the two weapons that I still hold, arms dangling, and with a manly gesture doubled to a war scream, encourages me to raise up my spear as he does himself in front of me. I do not, stunned by it all, the horror that I foresee. Anyway, he soon doesn’t pay more attention to me. The other men, all around, have their ropes ready and valiantly hold their sharp hooks, hanging at the end, determined to launch an assault on beasts…

Then, having probably received a signal that I haven’t heard, everyone rushes as a block running towards the water of this bubbling beach edge where are debating the dolphins, clumsy as they can be now, out of their element, half out of the water with no depth to use their powerful flippers. Their power is now useless and pathetic. Their majesty is gone.

I stand there, motionless, with my harpoon, upset by this wild bunch of men rushing towards the water in an indescribable din. I watch, stunned, this wave of violence, of hateful ardor. I hear, like muffled, the men’s yelling, their war screams as they throw themselves over the long black silhouettes offering their flanks. All this is crazy… I suddenly jump from my white luxury bed in Tokyo to this… from my sweet date with Amandine to this nameless horror… I witness, incredulous and passive spectator, to this barbarism, helpless, without understanding why.

The men look happy, so happy to play their game. A game, rather a battle, with its well established rules, well-established apparently: Each rope is held by five or six men, some more, and all running to follow the first one, the one who holds the big sharp hook… rushing on the first dolphin still frighteningly undulating in the remaining water to violently hammer in the hook in his head, in an indescribable punctured tire noise, while others pull the rope back to bring the still moving beast on the sand. From all sides, dozens of men rush, knives and harpoons in hand towards the frightened animals that seem now they understand the fate that awaits them… They are harpooned, drawn, stabbed, butchered, even before being removed from water, sea, their natural living space… which then turns, in a few minutes, to a real bath of blood… this blood spurting everywhere off the dark smooth animals skin and splashes the grimacing faces of the men with their odious pleasured killing smile. The sea is not the sea anymore… There is no sea. Sea disappeared. It is neither fresh nor clear or calm nor beautiful anymore, as it still was a few minutes before, before the dolphins were stranded here: It’s only blood, it's red, opaque, thick and warm, it bubbles like a giant pot… teeming with excited ants in this hemoglobin magma that seems to drive them crazy. Sea is ugly now… like it never should be… ugly as the men in their deadly and pathetic game.

Around me, hundreds of men, Vikings wave, are running then to jump into this wild melee, shoving me, while I stay still and in disbelief at the spectacle happening in front of me... Andreas and his cohorts are now literally hounding after the few remaining whales waving until they hammer their proud spear in the head, ultimate deliverance. A kill without panache in the aquatic arena of this marine bullfight. Only then do they stop to stir, struggling in however majestic undulations of their outraged bodies… long bodies now resting in the carmine swirls until final slaughter. Some still scream, but not all. Some seem resigned to their fate. Their screams are anyway covered by the loud shouting of men, slamming shovels struck on the boats hulls to disturb their acute senses and also bring maybe a little more excitement to all the carnage, the illusion of bravery in combat of these men, within this cowardice bath.

No doubt these dolphins shout to call their puppies, their male or their female, to gather one last time with family. Perhaps they beg for mercy for those men who are attacking them without reason? In vain. The men remain deaf to these cries. Obviously. Deaf and blind. They don’t hear the supplications. They don’t see the families torn apart that they are murdering. They just see the carcasses that still stir in the red water. Animals with no soul, to defeat. The game of death, the war game, men had, for centuries, so much fun to play. A manly game, a daring fight, a struggle allegedly grand old tradition they have from by their parents, their grandparents, even their ancestors. They are proud of their heritage… That makes you a Viking!

Watching them though, they look so small and ugly, ridiculous men wading through the blood of pain with their wool sweaters. Some even wear fluorescent jackets!… safety jackets! How ridiculous! Are they afraid of getting hurt… of risking injury?… How brave! It would be laughable if so many suffering lives weren’t in question. All this makes me sick. Amandine where are you?

That unleashed and unstoppable coachloads of hyenas, drunk with rage and joy, wallowing in the blood spilled all over the bay. Around me, everything is only screams, hemoglobin splashes and applause… What is this madness suddenly possessing people? The quiet bay is transformed, in a few minutes time, to a wild chaos of violence, field of unnecessary and painful battle, as often are battles. But a one-sided battle: Only men assaulted here, armed with pickaxes and knives, with this supreme cowardice they are capable of. As a group. Only men have started this war… Dolphins just made the mistake to pass there, to be here, still their habitat though, them and their families… to get drawn into the fatal trap. They don’t defend themselves. How could they anyway? Hatred is not in their minds, in their genes, unlike men. The cries of some of them are terrible. Heartbreaking. I feel like I can understand it, as I understand the language of this unknown country. Maybe dizzy with all these cries, maybe just the blurry echo of this nightmare that resonates in my head?

- « Magalak, Dzibi, Bziin… where are you? » … « Stop, stop it!! But… why are you doing this? No… please don’t! Let Pilini... let her go… she's pregnant! » … « Pioutzin! Help… Where are you? » … « Run away… run away! » … « What's this? You hurt me… no… »

My eyes are crying watching, helpless, this massacre going on. My ears are bleeding hearing all the frightened voices put to silence in a liquid gurgle… The war and suffering cries mingles in this deafening uproar resonating in the bay. But what am I down into? What is this horror? Why all of this? Everything spins around me. I want to vomit. I let the spear held in my hand -it will hammer in the sand- and cover my ears not to hear those cries, then I turn back and run to escape the murderous and bloodthirsty hordes. There is nothing I can do. Nothing I can do to help them. I must, my turn, shove onlookers not participating to the killing, if not with their vile curiosity into this sad spectacle. Cut through the noisy crowd and run away. It’s finished anyway. Almost. Huge fury, short battle.

There are men, women, even children. Everyone is so happy! It's party time! They shout, laugh… around this infamous carnage. Some acclaim the valorous... encourage the warriors. Some sing. Some puts their kids, standing on the inert carcass of a mummy-dolphin freshly ripped from which released his unborn puppy, still retained by the umbilical tie… and then take pictures, selfies. Cheese! Laughing again. Adjusting another take, another picture, where blood will be best seen: Yes, this one is better! Women call each other. Men pat on shoulders, congratulates. All this is beyond me. I don’t understand. I think of the song of french singer Francis Cabrel about bullfighting: “Est-ce que ce monde est sérieux?” [are we really ending there with this world?]

An infinite sadness overcomes fear and takes me. What is going on? Is it me or am I being exaggeratedly sentimental with this hunt, same as many others after all? I don’t know these people, I don’t know their rules and traditions, I admit. It’s a sport that is totally unknown to me, but is it all really necessary? This cruelty? This pleasure? This joy of death? Into killing? No, I do not understand and never will, whoever could I be, whoever could I become. It's not human. It disgusts me as much as it scares me… What can I do? Oppose with my body? They’d trample me, lynch me maybe… I'm nothing against this murderous crowd. Man is crazy. Mankind is not human. This is not new. This show is only a demonstration among others.

The calm of our evening, with Amandine, strolling in the small park in Tokyo yesterday, now stained by all these wild screams, all that blood. There's nothing left of it. Amandine’s gone. Everything is destroyed by this cacophony of shouts, noise, blood spattered. I can stand no more. I must flee quickly and extract myself from this foul dream.

I struggle then, like one of these dolphins to pass through the crowd and go against the stream of people. Get out. I jostle, my turn, full of anger and grief, shame too, these people who obstruct my narrow escape, my fly away… I play elbows, I shout. People smile at me thinking I'm happy, I push, to make my way, my way out. I smuggle this infamous horde. Lucky I’m not a whale: I made it …

I then start to run like hell, as a fugitive on the run. Run as fast as I can, without stopping, on a small steep road that heads away to the hill, to the calm, silence grass and wind. Toward the sky. I run and I run and I run up… breath… Run until i cannot run anymore… as far as my lungs allow… Screams and fury fade gradually behind, with the distance, now covered by my heavy breathing, the blow of the wind and my heartbeat mixed. Nobody is chasing me. Of course not. I’m no one. I do not exist and everyone is too busy rushing to the blood of the beach to care about my escape... Run, run away. It’s my one and only thought now. Fleeing the murderer’s din. Escaping this dream I do not want. Go back to the hotel… have my breakfast with Amandine… Instead of that, I find myself running on this dark road. Alone. Helpless. Scared…

*

Without knowing how, I finally reach the top of the meadow overlooking the sea, and then fall to the ground, breathless, exhausted by my run as much as by the images of that massacre still in my eyes, that noise still in my ears. My heart is struggling, too, in my chest, from this thoughtless sprint. It tambourines as strong as did the man on my door in the morning. I let it calm down, staring at the grass under my feet while taking my breath back. I haven’t run like that for years. When I was old though! I’m not anymore, with this younger body, but still have to breathe. After a few minutes, I finally straighten to look away from where I left… this red bay where so many died today, where so many souls were killed, trampled, defiled, murdered. I can still, but barely, distinguish the silhouettes which became microbes that move and abound now, in silence, in that little red sore, far below, bleeding in the sea. This virus of hate that infects men and which will probably kill us all someday.

Want to cry “Why?” but I'm still out of breath, despite my young body. Words fail to come out of my mouth, and so am I there, silent, staring at the sky, speechless, motionless myself. Who would hear me anyway? Who would listen? I let myself fall down on the ground and roll up like a ball on the short grass as I rolled up in the white bed yesterday. Such a lost child, I start to sob, Gasping my unanswered Why: Why all that fury, all that pain? Why the enjoyment of death in the eyes of these people and their families? Why this game? Why am I here? Why Lord have you made me land here, in this madness within madness? Why all of this? Why?… I don’t know who I am asking this to. I speak to the sky, to the wind, to the invisible hand that dropped me here. I talk to myself. I speak to Amandine.

- « Oh, Amandine! Where are you?… » I hear myself say those words to this gray sky that crushes the bay. But Amandine doesn’t reply. Amandine can not hear me. Amandine had to take her plane, thinking I didn’t even bother waking up as I promised. Thinking that I preferred a lazy comfortable sleep in my big comfy bed, rather than going to join her… If she knew! If she knew how I miss her, how I regret having left that shut. But she doesn’t know. She can not know… and I'm now for her, a disappointing man, like all the others. Here.

Amandine, she is the sun that I have sought for so long, and I'm seeking more than ever in this terrible moment… Sun which I no longer believed into, because it was too late for me, my life was almost over… Sun glimpsed yesterday in the magic of an unlikely day, then immediately hidden today by the gray clouds, with that red mist by this involuntary run away.

Amandine, she is the light, appearing within a fleeting moment during this strange night, and she enlightened me. Guided me. Helped me. Saved me perhaps… But Amandine disappeared out of my life… as quickly as she appeared and just as absurdly… and I find myself in this cold morning shade, tinted with red and black. I am this injured dolphin, who calls his mate, lost in blood, lost in time. Dolphin crying “help” without any hope of being rescued, struggling with his so powerful but now useless fins over the black sand of fatality…

Amandine is the only image that keeps my whirling mind straight. I say her name repeatedly, as if to hold on to it and keep some kind of balance in this vast chaos. I cling on to yesterday to deny today. Stop this absurd and painful tornado sucking me into nothingness. But Amandine disappeared. Or should I say, I have disappeared from Amandine… I was left from her, as some had left me from myself… I let her hand go. It's too late. I just kept her name which, however, thus invoked, seems to keep her a little closer to me, in thoughts, and calms me… a little. Saves me… a little.

Gazing toward the distant horizon, I think back about our evening, our walk along the streets of Tokyo, the small park by night. Our kiss. Our date… All this is lost. Her number written on that paper given and slipped into the jacket pocket, lost too. Why haven’t I memorised it? That was my only hope to get back to her. It’s all too late now. But how could I’ve had ever imagine that all this was about to start again? How could I’ve had ever planned this second compulsory migration?… Some fool added to fool. I was already at the top of the imaginable world for me -from all points of view- with this awakening in this hotel room… Far beyond my borders, in this unreal Japan, and far more beyond the boundaries of my understanding. A strange spell, suddenly transformed me into Steve, yesterday, and, surprisingly, I almost made my mind about this idea for a few hours, thanks to the miraculous appearance of this beautiful young woman who seemed to give some sense for everything. Who seemed able, her, to get me out… or at least to give me a good reason of not wanting to get out. But everything is ruined now… I lost Amandine. I am no longer Steve, nor even Antoine. I'm nobody and I am nowhere. Here I am, wading through a bit more within this absurd nightmare… Dolphin drowned in his own blood flowing without reason. I wade and I suffer.

I stand up and begin to walk along this road, but more slowly this time. Not running anymore. Just walking, a heavy walk, disillusioned, watching my boots scroll under my legs. I can still see our synchronised footsteps, with Amandine yesterday evening, her shoes and my white slippers, heading towards a mutual destiny. Looking back, I smile… and I cry.

Nothing can I do but walk in silence along this unknown road. There is nothing else to do. Sometimes I look up and I can see the sea, from top, and I curse men. I curse myself for being there, for having let myself trapped like that without reacting. But what could I do? I walk aimlessly and dazed. I walk with the idea of never stopping. Like yesterday in the streets, I walk looking for a way out. Pathetic but possible action. So I walk. That’s all I have. Life has no meaning. I don’t want to think. I want to get tired, exhausted body and soul, and not think any further about anything. I walk straight through meadows and hills in this landscape that seems to lead to nowhere, with the vague hope to finally wake up, for good.

Some hairy sheep straighten as I pass beside and stare at me. I hear one of them bleating: « Who's the fuck is that? Don’t know him… Why is he here? » Another replies, with a short bleat « Huh. That is no one. Keep on eating… »

Yes: I am… no one. No one anymore! I lost my identity, my appearance, even my life… I'm nothing more than a wandering spirit, condemned to wander aimlessly. A strange traveler.

*

It’s a very long walk indeed, perhaps hours without stopping. I have no idea of time passing. Time is not important. It doesn’t mean anything now. Time is just time. I don’t care. I'm lost anyway and I just lose myself a little more at each step. Nothing matters anymore. I will walk until all of this disappears. I follow the curves of a road which undulates between the hills and seems endless. But a road suddenly reaching its end amid meadows and bumps. Unfinished. Sharp cut! It ends like that in the middle of a field, giving up its quest, its meaning. Leading nowhere as well. Absurd, stopping there in the middle of… nothing. Abandoned among this desert landscape, as if men who were working for its construction had suddenly given up… as if it was suddenly useless to build such a road… change of plans… and they were gone elsewhere to build another one… And so is my life.

Never mind, I will keep on walking on the grass. It doesn’t make less sense than following the road after all. I therefore go ahead on grass, stones, straight on, bypasses a mountain, then climbs on a second, even higher. I think I will see better from above. But what will I see better? The skyline? My life? What? Will I find, there, some reason for hope?

I am thirsty. Like yesterday. Even more now. I remain human after all. I think that thirst is a good sign. It means that I am alive. Well, kind of. But no fountain in sight.

Arriving at the top, I sit for a little while on a big grey stone, put there probably for centuries. I contemplate the sea, endless, but I see no better, of course, about my situation: The infinite remains infinite and absurd remains absurd. Only islands floating on the sea, and me on one of them, lost and alone in the universe. With my growing thirst, my human dehydration, my dry mouth. I smile. A smile of despair. My face is whipped by the cold wind. The sky is tortured with dark clouds which are reflected on the sea. A thousand shades of grey and black that form a majestic and strange painting. The sea wind, came to charge with scents of mud, wraps around me like a vast and invisible scarf. How beautiful. I go from most sordid landscape to the more wonderful, from the most terrible to the more peaceful. Everything is so wide, vast, silent, quiet. The moving sky wraps in its pale light the entire world around me. It is soft. Raw but soft. It is true. Paradoxical feeling of truth in this ocean of lies, this imposture. A truth that doesn’t need words. A truth that has nothing to prove. A fact. Life seems so real, so beautiful, and yet stuck in the middle of all this infinite, ugly, the non-existence. I'm sitting, feet put on some genuine grass, with true wind that stirs its strands… but these feet are not mine and I don’t know this mud they tread today. The truth and the absurd. The real and the unreal.

I stand there a long time, thinking of nothing but the feeling of wind on my skin, the iodine scent of the sea, in the short grass where my feet are stuck into… I think of the white slippers. I miss Amandine, badly. I think of her hand in mine. Her eyes on mine, their magic. Love. Where is she now? I see her lips moving, soundless, calling me. But how to reply to her, to join her, to find her? I start to ask myself if she is not just a dream, too, like I'm dreaming right now, maybe. Yes, it could be only a dream… Am I awake? Am I even only alive? I come to doubt on the most obvious. Although my thirst, palpable, painful, tends to prove me I am not, asking me to get some water to survive… But after all, what does that prove? Nothing. Maybe do I even dream my thirst? Perhaps it sweats within my sleep? I have to find a solution. I have to know… if this is true or not. If I sleep or if I'm well there… But what to do? I pinch myself, as children do: Ouch! Sounds real though …pain. I do not seem to wake up.

Well, I just had to get over it now. Fight. I have to act logically to find my way out of this struggle, my way back to myself… the right way, the one of my own life and not another one’s. Be pragmatic. I should have done it earlier! When I woke up in the hotel room. I had a phone there. What an idiot! Why haven’t used it? Why have I not sought relief at first minute I found myself lost in this life that was not mine? I don’t know. Amazement, bewilderment, disbelief, no doubt. Why have I given up so quickly, the handset in hand, when I did try, some time later in that first day? Why have I not tried to cling to my reality instead of hanging up at all? All I had to do was calling, to explain. Join my friends… tell them my terrible adventure and ask for help. What an idiot. I was knocked out, OK. That's enough. I have to take back control now. Gathering my wits. Get away from it. Action. The young guy who I became looks strong and full of energy. I need to take benefit of it.

First point: To drink… and, after, find a phone to call for help. Log in. Catch the wire linking to my real life... and pull it, to get everything back. Call my friends in Switzerland. But I don’t remember their number: It was in my mobile phone which fate didn’t allow me to bring it with me. Nowadays we no longer remember anything because of this addiction to mobile phones with their stored data. Memory is fading. So: What can I do? Call myself on my own number?… see if I answer? …or if someone answers… someone picking up the phone, so experiencing the same trouble, the same awkward situation, admitting that a parallel case would obviously happen… someone who would take my place in this body of Antoine left vacant while I was myself drawn into another… and to whom I could talk, who would share my nightmare. Someone I could seek solutions with perhaps… Who knows? Or maybe should I search for a police station and explain what happens to me… but, no. This very probably wouldn’t work. They would take me for a fool, no doubt. I would get my direct ticket to asylum, without any options, that's all I would gain. What could I explain anyway? What did I understand about all this? No. I can only tell to someone who knows me well. And still… Probably hard to trust my story. No doubt he will think I turned crazy, too. Anyway, I have to try, no choice… Find a phone, then… and call. Pierre Daniel… someone.

*

These resolutions in mind, I stand up and walk away down this high standpoint, back to the green and grey shadows of the valley. I walk, determined to get out and find the exit of this pathless path… the way out door, stealthily hidden somewhere at the end of the road, draw over this vast movie set. I am Jim Carrey, in the movie, trying to escape my condition rowing on the raging sea towards the horizon, until this door put above… that I will eventually open… and I will then finally be out of it… in my room, at Les Brenets, back home… sweet home, in my skin of Antoine finally recovered. I would wake up, freed, pleased to have confirmation that this was just a dream. A bad dream. A strange dream, the kind of dreams that makes you smile when you wake up from. Then, I would get up, drink my coffee while watching the lake, away... the flowers on the balcony, the garden, and I would smile. All would be normal then.

By chance, my footsteps lead me to a new small road, muddy, winding and quiet. Not really a road, more like a path. A wire, a trace. Some stones more aligned than others, and mud a bit flat in the middle. No doubt it leads nowhere-not more, but I keep on following it. After all, here or elsewhere… And it's less tiring than walking in the grass. Someone traced it here for a specific purpose… So I make it mine. We'll see.

I’m following its curves, determined to find back my hope or to give it up forever. I walk slowly watching the scenery passing, as if I was watching a movie. A landscape where I would not really be in. An illusion, lost in time. Maybe this thin pathway was it traced by the same workers who gave up the previous road? Or have they abandoned this one to go start the other one? Who cares? I follow this track, wherever it goes, letting myself be guided by this stony destiny.

*

Reflection: Time… Could everything be a matter of time? Time and logic. Time with its equations. Its relativity. What is the role of time into this? Does it play against me or is it my ally? Can it be measured here with the same rules, the same codes? Is a second a second? One day a day? Do I have time? Everything went so quickly since that hotel room! Since Amandine. I'm landmarkless. Even the sun appears to have retired, hidden by the clouds that hide its time position. The landscape haven’t got any shade. It is colourless… Just this vague green, yellowish, without any contrast, melt with gray stones scattered all over the fields as if a giant had dropped them all around. How long have I been hiking on these lands by now, fleeing the massacre in the small port? I don’t know. Does it really matter? The images of these dolphins is haunting me. The banging shovels on the hulls of boats, still echo in my ears. My senses are scrambled, outraged. I don’t know where I am and I don’t know where I go, as these dolphins probably. My sonar is kaput. I walk straight into the trap. I move forward, treading the mystery path of this arid valley. Must be an island, a large island. From above, this is what it seems anyway. When I’ll reach the end, and if I'm on an island, there will be one, necessarily, what shall I do? Turn back? And to where? Return to the starting point? but returning where? Turn around, in a loop? This seems to be an endless path. A desperate quest.

While asking myself all these questions, I see, not without a tingling of hope in the heart, a small house isolated some distance away. Its chimney is coughing a thin white smoke obstinately feeding the ceiling of clouds above. I walk in its direction and, as I approach, I can see a silhouette fronting its porch. Step by step, the silhouette by the door gets more precise: An old woman, wearing a long woollen apron. She’s watching me, while I walk towards her. She have long white hair pulled back with a braid, and she looks at me with a sullen look, hard as can farmers to vagrants. Well, it’s not going to be an easy one, I say to myself while walking. I will have to play it smart…

A small dog, very small, is at her feet, barking at me, clearly unhappy about my presence, my intrusion on his land, too.

The small gravel path finally reaches the house where the woman stands. I feel like a migrant arriving at the port without knowing how his journey will turn at this point. At a few steps before arriving at her side, I shout a shy Hello, as friendly as I can, to reassure her about my intentions and courteous arrived by her, I finally ask, with all the respect due to her age, if she can give me a glass of water, I can do no more. I need to drink…

The little mutt pointing his muzzle skyward, outraged by my cheeky way of speaking to his mistress, barks: « Stranger! Stranger! Stranger…» he repeats in a loop, with a rather limited canine vocabulary.

Without saying anything, except a growl that I do not understand because of the loud barking, she turns and enters the little house, slamming the door behind her. Well, I guess I didn’t have a sufficiently convincing tone, or look thirsty enough, to make her have mercy on me… The dog looks at me… His barks turned into a much less loud growl now he’s left alone, while walking rear, groping for the door to his mistress shut behind him, leaving him outside, alone and unarmed against the dangerous migrant that I am for him. We both are very frustrated for different reasons: He now feels left behind, defenceless against me… On my side, I’m just thinking I’m not about to drink or call now, lost in the hostile valley with slamming doors and growling dogs.

With a dry mouth, so I turn back to the road and scrutinise its perspective away towards the end of the valley to gauge if I can keep some hope to find home a more inviting house, further… But nothing in sight: The route is just a curving line, deserted and winding through meadows, like a long worm of dead earth, blackened by time… So silly I was to have walked like that, without thinking about my basic and vital needs. No chance to get drinks for miles now. I’m done.

Suddenly, between two « stranger », I hear the door opening behind me, slamming the other way:

- « Oh shut up now! » does she say to the dog that comes quickly to hide behind her legs, looking sheepish. To me, she says: « Here is some water… Can’t stand these wind plays. Damn door, I'll have to fix it… » she complains, holding out a large earthenware pot filled with fresh water… which I empty in one shot, before even thank her, while the little dog is hopping on the side of the house with small steps, looking a little vexed.

- « Well that is thirst! » she laughs, ultimately less gruff than she previously appeared. «Where do come from like that boy? »… It’s been a long time no one called me boy. It unsettles me a bit.

- « I… I come… from there… » do I answer, pointing a direction.

- « Sørvágur? »

- « Yes…» do I say, not knowing the name of the city and not wanting to dwell further on the matter.

- « Ah, but your face is rather familiar in fact… You would not be the son of Jensen’s?»

- « No. I just got lost. I was at the dolphin hunt in the small fishing port over there… I left it fast and I then walked without knowing where I was going… and here I am…»

- « It’s the Grind that put you in such a misery?» she said to me, cracking a first smile on her face.

- « The what?»

- « The Grind! The Grindadráp... Come on, don’t tell me that, at your age, it’s the first Grind you attend?… Especially if you're a Jensen!»

- « No, I'm not from here…» I pretend with a lie which is not that much of a lie...

-« Oh. I would have thought so… Kind of a resemblance. But it's true that it's been a long time since I have been there. You don’t look like a tourist anyway. Wait, I will fill the jug…» and she takes it from my hand and goes back to her house… followed by another wind noise and door slam.

- « The Grind, I've never liked it myself either…» she says, after passing the door to hand me the jug newly filled with fresh water. « I do not understand how it can still go on! But it’s the tradition. What can you do with traditions? A tradition dating from so long! Times have changed, but the traditions die hard, even if have they lost their original meaning and that no longer know why we still practise them today. This is more like a sport, a game, stupid… In the ancient time, it was a way to get a good amount of meat. Life was harder. This isolated island is so far from everything. Since there were not many cattle on the island, it was a real opportunity, a gift from heaven, to capture these whales. It used to provide the meat for months, to share between everyone. All the village would gather and it ended with a dance, a celebration. This was pure joy and a grateful time. But nowadays, no one dances anymore, or if they do, they don’t remember why. The meat, we have it from the land, all year long. The fridges are full. It is no longer necessary to kill these whales. But hey, we do not change habits, do we? In addition, some say that the meat is toxic because of mercury or chemicals or something… Well, I never eat whale’s meat anyway...»

Listening to her, -maybe her speech or tiredness from my long journey across the plains- I suddenly feel my head spinning. My legs are weak, and my eyes dazzle and a strange tingling runs through my hands and arms… I feel faint, and prefer to sit on the floor in front of the porch of the house, without giving further explanation to the old woman. A high heart, no doubt. Loss of power. What do I know? I put my butt on the edge of the small vegetable garden that borders the house. Don’t care about my poor manners with the lady…

- « Well ? What's going on with you boy? You are pale… Something’s wrong?»

- « Sorry. I do not feel very well. I do not know what’s happening to me. A sudden fatigue. I did not eat or drink. It may be that’s the reason…»

- « Oh well for sure that is… Should never go walking with empty stomach. What have you learned? Nobody taught you that? In addition you didn’t bring anything with you, not even a bottle! That is not very smart…»

A sudden bead of sweat wets my forehead. Everything turns around me, as if moved in the sea stream, the red blood of the bay that goes back to my head by choppy waves, pulsing its dark images of death. Its screams of pain and fear. Never felt that way. Despite this newfound youth, this valiant body, I can still feel not so well! That's a shame… Probably hypoglycemia. Not the moment. I have a battle to fight… My own Grind against these sharks biting my mind and which I have to kick away, by all means.

- « Stay seated. I will bring you something to eat. You cannot stay like this…» she says, moving away again towards the house while grumbling. She soon returns, handing me a piece of bread and an apple, and says: « And how are you going back home now? It’s going to be dark soon. I haven’t got a car to take you back in town, you know?…»

- « Don’t worry, I will manage madam…»

- « Oh, and stop calling me Madam! My name is Kirsten. And you?…»

- « Antoine… My name is Antoine.»

- « Antoine! It's a nice first name! Not very familiar here. Oh dear, you don’t look good, Antoine. Honestly. Come inside to get a little warmth. I'll do a soup to perk you up. You cannot stay like this…»

Finally, she is very kind this lady, despite the appearances. The dog is going to hide somewhere. Good. I so enter in the little house, the arm of the old woman holding me as strong as she can despite her grand age. It is dark. I go straight from the bright light of the fields outside to the darkness of a cave that smells of cooking food and firewood. Gradually, my eyes are to the gloom: I feel like traveling in time this time! A century back, at least! It reminds me of my distant youth, my parent’s farm at the Roussottes.

*

A small bulb is on the ceiling, still confirming the presence of modern electricity. A small ageless oil lamp also shines at the center of the table. The old woman directs me to a little sofa behind the table where I lie down, while still looking for a phone… in vain. I lean my head against one of the armrests, covered with a sheepskin, and hold my legs over the other. It's soft and comfortable. I don’t feel very polite in this position, but the woman doesn’t seem to consider my rudeness that much. There are braided cushions and a big plaid blanket. I look at the ceiling, black as ink. On the walls are nailed shelves with various books. The lady is obviously not an illiterate rustic. I thank her for her welcome.

- « You’re welcome. I don’t meet people so often...» she says, while preparing the soup, torturing some unknown vegetables on the stove at the other side of the table.

- « Excuse me to ask you this, but you would not have a phone by any chance?»

- « A phone? What the hell for? No… Well, I have a cellular, somewhere, but I just use it at the village, if I’m lucky enough to get some decent network! Nothing here, not even on TV, so…».

Dammit. My hopes for a possible call are reduced to nil.

- « It's true it would be good for you to call and ask someone to pick you, and bring you back home. In your condition… would sure be better. I don’t know how you could ever walk home. By the way, where do you come from? You did not tell me… Have you got some family here? A girlfriend?»

I try to overcome my disappointment of having let off the next single hour of my life, in this dark house, into this no-win situation. So I cling to the memory of Amandine, her face smiling at me, strange young woman and her haunting memory. For now, there’s nothing more I can do. I keep it preciously deep within me, deep within my eyes.

- « No. Well… It’s very recent anyway and it is rather a complicated story… Kind of a relation without a future, one might say.»

- « Relations with no future are rarely love stories… Otherwise they would have some… Don’t you think?»

- « I don’t know. Can’t tell. All I can say is that it was a wonderful meeting, quite unexpected, unanticipated, even impossible should I say. A godsend… offered and immediately resumed. It's complicated to explain.»

- « Don’t explain, then… better to rest. If you really felt that feeling of love, too, so you will meet again!… and there will be some future. It has to. Trust my experience.»

Trust the experience of this old woman would tend to make me smile as I’m slowly recovering my blood’s pressure on this old couch. I look back, saying nothing. Her white hair mat undulates at her back to the rhythm of her movements to peel the vegetables. There, in the darkness of the room, one could almost imagine the blonde young girl she used to be, long ago… No doubt she was beautiful and thin and desirable… Maybe has she even known that love of which she speaks. This future that probably now is her past. She is alone now, though. Alone in her little house isolated on this remote island somewhere on the sea, surrounded by thugs who slaughter whales below, perhaps even men? She is alone, without telephone and friends she could call upon… How can we become so lonely? What has she done with her life to get there? What combination of circumstances caused her to miss her own date? It brings me a little pity. Her experience is not a blatant example of success with love. How has she been able to end up here, alone and abandoned from her family, at her age?

- « You're wondering what I'm doing here, all alone, huh?»

The oldie has read my mind! I laugh. Funny woman. She makes me really laugh out loud now… and this is the first time I laughed since the beginning of my ordeal migration.

- « I must say your story intrigues me indeed… You don’t seem to be a banal woman. What happened to you?»

- « Well… nothing but life you know… I’m a very banal woman that took a life not so very banal. Finally, we can say that. Banal, not banal… what does that mean anyway? Just to live, is not banal… What to say? I studied law, became a lawyer. That was a long time ago, of course… It seems like another life of mine. I even was one of the first lawyers in Denmark. That was not banal. But that's all. And then I fell in love with a man, a sailor. Unlikely meeting. This is often where the best stories are born. It was the man of my life. I knew it, at first sight… and felt it too. A strong and intense love, which leaves no place for doubt and hesitation. Soon, we then got married and settled in a small apartment in Copenhagen, more convenient for my work at the time. He kept his house on the coast, a hundred miles away, near the port where his ship was. We lived so, between the two places. A life a bit chaotic: Him, working on his boat and me at my office, and I was often staying alone one week or weeks at a time. But we did not care. We met at the weekends, sometimes longer, and we spent our time making love. Laughing… enjoying every single minute of each other. Somehow, we knew it would not last, and it did not last… That was some wonderful months. Alas, shortly after our honeymoon, he disappeared at sea, one night, he and all his crew, here, off these islands. Nobody found the boat despite extended searches. One day he was there, the next day, he was not. Gone. As vanished. He never came back… And everything stopped. All of a sudden. So for us, it is true, since then, there has been no future, no tomorrows. We loved each other so much, though. I never really recovered. I don’t think I ever will. But, again, it’s probably some very banal stuff.

Every day I was hoping for his return. Every day I hoped that the next day would bring him back to me. I was hoping to see him at the door, telling me his adventure, explaining to me why he could not contact me for such a long time. I invented myself a lot of stories, a lot of self tales not to accept his probable death. I imagined him, stuck on an island somewhere, or pushed by the wind, by the stream, without being able to return… or anything, but certainly not the simple fact that he had just sunk with his boat, taking with him, to the bottom of the sea, our deep love… deep as the ocean. That was inconceivable. Really. My life in Copenhagen quickly became absurd, empty: How to plead when you have no more faith in anything? What cause to defend while yours seems so hopeless and fate has condemned you? I needed to hope, but this had disappeared as well. Hope was vital. Even an irrational hope, it was still hope.

One day I decided to chuck everything. My office, and the good salary coming with it, my apartment, my relationships. I had some savings, so I spent it all to return to the islands where we had spent so sweet moments, just the two of us, before our wedding… I left everything behind to join him in some way. These offshore islands where he had gone, later, leaving me alone with our love. I told myself that if he would come back someday, this is certainly would be the place where I would find him… Faroe were somewhat our islands… and so I bought this little house, away from everything, to get closer to him in some-way. Losing myself, my turn, between the sea and the sky, where he surely is… in deep sea or at the top of the sky… and waiting, perched on this island, between sky and sea. I would give my life to wait. Wait for his return. And hope. Believe.

This house was our dream to both… A project that we didn’t have time to achieve together. So I did it for both of us, but later. A bit too late. It became like a beacon to guide him towards me… and so am I still living here, since then. Nearly fifty-two years! Fifty-two years I have been alone here, waiting for his return, staring at the sea, listening to the wind, hoping tomorrows that never come, well, never with him. A little banal life, yes. ordinary and lonely, but still full of love, of hope. And as long as he will not be there, my life will be so, and I will hope. I will continue to wait for this wonderful day when we will be reunited, one way or another. I still believe, because as long as I live todays, I can believe in tomorrows. Believe that our history will finally have a tomorrow, tomorrows. It's like that… You think I'm crazy right?…» she concluded, laughing.

My opinion of the old woman has changed. It suddenly made me think of Amandine. An Amandine from the past, which would have seen her Antoine disappear one morning, as I myself have gone from Amandine! Disturbing parallels. Behind the peasant silhouette of scowling while ago, hides a woman, still in love, who lived a solitary life, but so romantic. Sacrificed. I see the blonde, passionate lawyer and lover, she used to be. I imagine their life before the tragedy. Their passion, their happiness… and her infinite grief. What a strange destiny. One should never judge people too quickly.

- « No. Not at all… You listened to your heart. It said you should wait and you waited. It told you to hope, and you hoped. We must listen this heart we have inside. Fewer and fewer people listen to their heart today. They listen to their reason instead, because of the people around them, their advice. Then they abdicate most often and regret, then. A whole life can pass, but if you listen to your heart, there is nothing to regret at the end. We may suffer, but we live without regret. Regret is also a sort of suffering. And hope keeps you alive, some say, no? Hope about tomorrows. Your life has been full of hope and love. It is not madness. Madness would have been to deny this love and forget it. Could you? Probably not. Madness also to watch yesterdays, only yesterdays, and forget about tomorrows. Your husband disappeared one day, one yesterday, and if he comes back one day, tomorrow, your love will be ready to welcome him, as now. You never know why people leave? You never know if they will not come back one day or not… It's funny, yesterday I wrote these words to a stranger, on a paper: Tomorrow, today will already be yesterday… or something like that! I meant that we should live intensely this life, because it will not last. It only passes like a flow to the past, such a wide river that nothing can stop. I don’t know why I wrote that. This man looked so defeated by life, while he yet seemed to be fulfilled by it… and you, it’s the opposite: You face, full of hope, in your daily solitude. You stare at the future, you scrutinise the horizon, never look down… but never turn your back… even if painted with dreams and illusions. You never abandoned!»

- «You speak like an old man, boy…».

I smile. If only she’d knew how old I really am… I stay silent. She keeps on speaking then:

- « Looking down? No… one should never look down, give up on hopes. If you do so, you're right, life passes and you realise too late you forgot to watch what was happening… and then everything is behind. Gone. Never be afraid to look up. As for turning my back, unthinkable. How could I anyway? Turn back to what? I don’t even have a grave to go to put flowers on. Nothing concrete showing me his disappearance. He just left, one day, joyful, to the sea, and everything stopped… life, time, wind… Everything stayed still. He never returned. That's it. Where did he go? Nobody knows. No one has ever seen him dead. Is he? Nobody, nothing proves that he is. Thus I always thought his return was possible, some day. He would find me… and would run into my arms. But I am just a poor mad woman. It never happened and never will. My life proves it to me everyday, alas… yet I keep on hoping, and looking up. Because every day is the day after another, as you say. I look every morning by the window, the same road that led his way to me. I look and I hope. I almost thought it was him, when I saw you earlier, on that road, far away. You look like him a bit, from afar. Young. But it was only you, poor thirsty wanderer… on this road. I found myself very foolish.»

- « I hope I did not scare you?». My question is making the old woman laughing aloud.

- « No. I need more than you to be scared… I've crossed weird people on this island. They are not very wicked, except if it's a whale, of course. But you rather tell me more about the man for who you wrote those words. Who was he?»

- « I don’t know. A lost man. I just put myself in his place for a while… But I'm not sure that it was of any help.»

- « Compassion, there's nothing like it! Whether in the shoes of others. Not everyone does.»

I answer nothing. What to answer? Night invaded the plain, thick and black. Only the two of us, alone in this little shack with the odour of hot soup, swept by gusts whistling wind. Yes: to put oneself in the place of others… I repeat this sentence. It's all about me! All about now. I, who put myself inside these two men, like that, just for one day each… disappearing myself by the way. But have I disappeared? How can I know?… as I'm here, conscious, and thinking about it. Who am I? Who is Antoine? And who took his place, now… instead of me? Instead of him? I just know that I was with Amandine, yesterday, feeling good, so good. So incredibly happy with this wonderful meeting in the middle of this nightmare. And then I left, as the sailor from that old woman… I flew away from her into a stream of air, from Tokyo, so far, a violent gust above the sea. A trip out of the imaginable, the conceivable. I went through the night and space like in a dream. But what do we know about disappearances of our loved ones? Their departures? Where do their souls fly, their love? Is it a clear path? What is this night that engulfed them so? On what dark way are they guided? Will they be reintroduced into some developing foetus, ready to come back, dressed with their new clothes of flesh? The place is free: Just a quick change and start again… Is it that easy? And what about my own soul? Am I dead in my bed at the edge of the Brenets’s lake and I derailed the usual way to leave myself for a place that was not mine, pushing away the previous occupant? Impossible. That would mean that the afterlife can fail… That the Almighty can make mistakes, dumplings, miscalculate the trajectories, the fates, swap referrals, tangling pens?

- « Yes. Life is really strange. But you're not crazy. Not more than me. Or we both are…»

- « So, let’s rise a toast to our madness!» she says while proudly putting a transparent bottle on the table with two glasses filled without delay, up to the edge, with a liquid I suppose not to be fresh water anymore...

- « Let’s rise our glasses to tomorrows instead...» I said, thinking about those two strange days that I’ve just had… In secret, I toast to the mystery of the unlikely moment which I can’t reveal. I toast to this dream of Amandine that I want to keep in my heart, real, intact. I toast to Steve, the abandoned man in his hotel room, there in Tokyo. I toast to myself, lost, right here. I toast to the next day to come, where I will start for good my searches for the reality, once I will be settled in this new man I now am, or another one if the nightmare keeps on going. Whatever, I will try… I have to. I toast to all that, to the reason for all this, finally revealed tomorrow at my reason or my madness, perhaps. To the madness of this incredible adventure. I toast to the future. To hope.

We hit our glasses once, then two, then three times dangerously levelling down the bottle… we toast to all who disappeared from the Earth… to all runaway loves… to all lost hopes… and those who will come back maybe… And we toast again. We drink soup and alcohol and laugh, loudly. Strange moment. Out of time, as seems to be this whole story since my first waking. The evening gently slides into the night, second after second, minute after minute, the mysterious sandglass of life. She and I, laugh like kids. We mourn too. Alcohol does not help.

Lying on the couch, head wedged on the thick sheepskin armrest, I look at the black ceiling of the room. I seem to see the sky, as if my gaze pierced it. As if the ceiling was glass and I could see through all the stars in the sky suddenly cleared from its low clouds. A slow and wonderful ballet of shapes, reflections of glittering stars, slow iridescent swirls in shades of black. It reminds me of the city’s glare in my cocktail yesterday, just before meeting Amandine. The whole universe within a glass, or on a ceiling. Is it the souls of all these whales, hunted today out of their graceful envelopes, these dolphins whose stolen lives with stabs of spears and pikes? Where do all those souls go? Where do they go? Will I follow them tonight? Will they guide me through this dark sky to find my place? Find Amandine? find myself?… or swallow me forever.

*

Everything turns into a magical and strange ballet. I hear the laughter of Kirsten, her fragile voice that tells me her imaginary stories of a lonely old woman.

I see the silhouette of her white hair waving above me, stroking my face as she puts a kiss on my forehead… as would a mother, a lover or a friend. Everything revolves endlessly. Is she an angel, is she a witch? I don’t know. I don’t care. I smile at her as she goes away, laughing:

- « Sleep well, little tramp…».

Everything turns inside me, around me. The wind blows over the plains. Whales, in the distance, sing their shrill complaints and I feel slowly sinking into the night, into some slow weightless and dark underwater, to the black abyss, slowly, slowly.

Am I dead? Am I leaving?

Wednesday

The answer is coming to me upon awakening: I open my eyes on a wide pale yellow space, and thus I remain laying still, without stirring, scanning the ceiling with my eyes. « Good point: I'm not dead… But it all changed again!» I said to myself, now almost used to it.

Obviously I'm no longer in the dark house beside the small road across the wide plains. I am no longer on the old sofa in the sheepskin that smells of wood fire. Here it’s a feel of clean, even perfume, a little. It smells of nature too. I am again somewhere else, a new time. It's hot, heavy. The air is filled with something exotic, tropical. The light is soft and clear, moving as are the reflections of the sky behind these fine pale curtains. Peaceful. Outside is sunny. I can feel it. I am no longer in the cold and windy grey island with low clouds. I left the old lonely woman and her strange world. Everything changed again. It’s a fact. It all starts again…

While digesting the information, a quiet sound of waves, the sea, behind the curtains, reaches my ears. I can also hear, in the distance, some music, without a doubt played by a radio or a CD, in a nearby room, but remote enough. It is low, but audible. It’s happy. There is life. It is reassuring: If there's music, I cannot be in hell… or in a squalid place, dangerous and harmful. That’s a good start.

I listen and acknowledge The Logical Song by Supertramp. I like this band, this song. The melody is cheerful, lively. I sit up on my elbows, still foggy by my near sleep, and observe the room: It is fairly large, clear. The bed is wide and clean, with a beautiful cream coloured duvet. There is a furniture that runs along the entire wall up to a large window that overlooks the trees which I see the top of, waving in the wind, between the curtains. A door is ajar on what seems to be a dressing room where are aligned various costumes and dresses. I stand out of bed and put a foot on the ground, feeling a smooth and warm floor, light wood texture. My feet are delicate, neat. Young. The nails are made up. How funny! That's something new again!

Deciding though not to dwell on this detail, I go to the window that is also a door opening onto a garden, indeed, with a splendid view on the sea. I feel light, slim. Facing the horizon which stretches its blue line over the sea, some big trees are shading one side of the garden as the sun crushes the rest of the lawn and the small stone slabs that lead to the sea. I venture myself, following their drawing. They are burning under my feet and I quickly jump off, in the grass, keeping on walking toward a small fence that borders a cliff overlooking the sea. The view is breathtaking, but there is no access to the water I can hear the rustling waves of, below.

The hot wind whips my hair. Sensation to be under a giant and invisible hairdryer. I notice my hair is long, very long. Well… It reminds me Kirsten’s long hair, but mine is brown. Why does it not surprise me more than that? I must be getting used to these morphological changes now. I don’t know if it's a good thing or not, but I have no choice but to adapt… to accept.

I look at the garden facing the sea, the perspective of the cliffs along the coast. “What a beautiful place” I tell myself. It smells good, sea air, trees, mowed lawn. I turn back to the house which I find immense and magnificent. What a difference with old Kirsten’s house! It sounds like a resort, one of these big houses you can see in luxury tourist guides offering some dream holiday very few can get, but all dream of! There is a large veranda with the wood floor, and some lounge chairs are patiently waiting their sunscreen creamed host. I get closer, hoping to find a bartender or someone from the hotel, but there is no one. I go so, gently, on my tip-toes, inside the building. Everything is deserted. A large room a bit dark but large and wooded, open to me. It has several couches and tables arranged on each side. There are shelves with books and cameras, an old silver Leica M6 and various objects which I can’t guess the value. I still hear the music… without knowing where it is coming from, but I'm getting closer to it. On the walls hang some paintings and old framed movie posters. There is also a bar, small, with a counter and tops stools. I remember Amandine, the bar in Tokyo. Her smile. It seems so far away.

I continue my progress, cat walk, between the sofas and furniture. Silently. Like a thief I am not, a neglected customer, and my eyes sweep the room from floor to ceiling. It doesn’t look like a hotel decor. Rather a dwelling or a possibly a guesthouse. The house of someone rich in any case. The music is getting louder as I walk. It seems to come from one of the doors located on both sides of the room. The house is very large, very beautiful, luxurious but not an ostentatious display of wealth. On the other side of the room, there is another bay window overlooking a green patio, with brown wooden floor boards, leading to a long swimming pool on the side and some shrubs. I approach the door where the music is played… I hear more clearly the chorus of the song that goes “Who i am?… who i aaaaam?”. Who am I? indeed: Who am I? I guess I will soon find out.

This logical song insists with its playful and offbeat rhythm in the middle of this illogical situation. But where is the logic within all this story? Is there some? It seems to still escape from me as they are escaping these music notes, this saxophone solo now, through that door, which I open obviously curious of my new adventure, without much hesitation.

I push the door that opens on a large kitchen, bright, where a man stands standing, apparently ending hastily a cup of coffee. He turns to me, looking surprised:

– « Ah, you're awake darling? I put the music too loud, forgive me. I have to go. Children are already gone. They’re not used to see you sleeping so late! I didn’t want to wake you up. You were sleeping so well! Are you ok? You're not sick? Good. By the way, they kiss you. They will sleep at Lisa’s tonight. She had a barbecue with Kim’s kids. I may return late as well. Don’t wait for me…» …he is telling me fast, without giving me a chance to say anything. Then, he gives me a short kiss on the mouth, gesture I do not have the reflex to slip away from, and leaves, through a door leading to another side of the garden. In a rush. Obviously late.

I stand there… speechless. First time in my life for that one: A kiss! From a man! I hear a door slam. Again. Looks like a slamming door’s house here again… It's a mania! I can then hear the engine of a car driving off on a soft crackling gravel.

No more noise. The silence is now wrapping the place, and I return to my solitary discovery of my new day, my new life within this big house that I do not know. A guy just snapped smack on my lips! Everything is fine. The world is upside down, but all is well. This is not hell… nor heaven… Just a house with a guy who drinks coffee and goes to work.

Before leaving the house, the man switched the music off, and I can concentrate on listening to the sounds of the house. I'm obviously alone. All alone in this big mansion. No other noise than the wind in the tree branches, outside, birds merrily happy about the weather, discussing with delicious whistling, but showing though some kind of disagreement about the turn of winds and the probability of a thunderstorm to come. I can also hear the sound of water flowing, somewhere.

I walk towards the half opened bay window and reach the patio. Against the wall, are standing two children bikes. Buoys too. I see a tennis court, orange, down the wooden patio behind a stone wall. Whoever I am, I must be sporty… and whatever, that's class… The pool is bright blue and light swirls, driven by an internal water stream to disorder the flat surface, playing with crystalline reflections of the sun. It's hot. It's summer. Nothing to do with yesterday’s plains. Yesterday was winter. Yesterday was sadness. Today is not. The water is clear. I remember the turbid waters from the small fishing port, the bloody bay, the slaughtered dolphins bobbing in the red splashes of sea water mixed with their own blood. I am far, again. I cast these images in blue tub of a pool. It's so quiet here. So beautiful.

As if I was the owner of the house, I walk on the hot timber and dip a toe in the water. My foot is thin and delicate. It’s good and warm. Holiday feeling. But where am I? What is this house? What country am I in now? And who was this man who kissed me? Didn’t have time to talk with him, to find out more before he ran away. I'll have to seek my own clues… The lieutenant Colombo I am, has swapped his old beige raincoat for silk bathrobe, today. Probably more pleasant to conduct the investigation… I keep on investigating then, while enjoying the place with all its luxurious details which I’m not familiar with…

I decide to swim in the beautiful blue pool to ease my mind and complete my awakening. I'm all alone, no one on the horizon… a little dive into the blue crystal water can’t do any wrong. The survey can wait a few minutes. So I take off the robe that’s on me, let it fall to my feet and, there, stupor: two pretty white valleys, over the perspective of my naked body. Far from the steep valleys of this cold and wild island where I was walking yesterday… No: Two soft and smooth valleys that swell my chest in a provocative insurance pointing their two small brown nipples at their end: Breasts… I have breasts! Not casual and vague muscular pecs, no: breasts! What about that? If I could have ever imagined stuff like that… But there is no doubt: I… am a woman! The clear polished nails on my toes did intrigue me indeed, but not that much actually, with my sleepy brain. And yet: What man puts some nail polish, frankly? I could have guessed… It was just out of my logic.

Shocked by this new intimate geography of mine, kind of a reflex, my hands are going right away to catch these both sensual and rounded things I now wear. Could not help but feel, weigh them, squeeze them, touch them. Look at them under this beautiful summer sun. Yes, beautiful woman breasts, shapely. One degree more over the scale of strangeness… First time I have breasts of mine! Weird experience, but not so bad after all. It's soft, and very sensitive to my touch! And in the process of this new discovery, following the logic investigation, I jump straight to the floor below, and boom: no more dishes! My man attributes are gone. Predictably! Logic. What could make more sense within this logical song? I am a woman… It’s official now. I put back and close the robe in hurry. Troubled. Almost angry… Steve, was not me then, nor the Viking erzatz, Erik… but now… being a woman, is beyond everything! Come on, I am 100% man! In my head, in my soul, I am a man. I have always been! I am Antoine, for god sake! A man who’s in love too, now! A man with a hard one… well, when he’s got the proper tools.

*

Amandine. I think of her breast that I didn’t have time to explore. I think of her eyes as blue as the water of this swimming pool, of this desire for her, when I had my tools. Before. The Steve’s tools. Everything gets more complicated now. How am I going to find her?… especially as a woman now! She seems to fly away from me a little more each day. A game of tracks where I seem to flee, despite myself, erasing my footsteps behind me.

Dejected, I sit on the edge of the pool, calves in clear water, and remains there, a long time, to think, staring at my nail-made feet that make slow moves underwater. After a long moment, I finally take off my robe and jump in the warm water. A soft feel is this caressing water on my skin. I swim, from one side to the other, as if I was on vacation with friends. Normal. Perhaps this going to help me to see a little bit more clearly. Snorkelling to resurface in my own waters, to recover. Hitting the bottom to go back up to the surface… Everything is cloudy and blue. I hear the gurgle of air bubbles blown out of my mouth, flying up in sparkling circles, with my ideas.

I stay in the water several minutes, motionless, then go to lie down on the lounge chair by the bay window. I wrung my long hair that annoy me a bit. Too long. Not practical. Not used to it. All naked, the sun is drying my skin. And I must say it is quite a nice feeling. Amandine shows up on the red screen of my closed eyelids. She smiles. How beautiful she is. I miss her. We spent so little time together, but it was so special. So fast. Well, for me… I see her eyes. Her smile. Where is she now? What is she thinking? Is she mad at me? Angry? Disappointed? … Probably. Or she just doesn’t care, this is just an anecdote for her and she is already in another man’s arms? No. Too early. She would not have done that. Her eyes couldn’t have been lying so… It just can’t be. I can’t be wrong on that. She could not do that. I can still see her eyes on mine, her eyes searching me. I think back to my desire to delve into her, too, in all possible ways. Our hugs. Our desires.

After a moment letting me drunk into her memory under the hot sun, I hear a door slam somewhere in the house -one more- and a woman’s voice with a slightly Spanish or Mexican accent, shouting:

- «Miss ? You are there ? It’s Maria !»

I quickly grab my robe and head at speed to the great dark, cool room with large sofas. The sun dazzled my eyes on the sunbed and I need some time to acclimatise to the relative darkness of the room. “Miss...”

- «Yes, yes, I'm here… Hello!» I say, guessing the question is for me. My voice is delicate and definitely feminine, this surprises me again. Sweet echo to my words. A voice not of mine. Even less than other times. I clear my throat, without any success.

- «Hello Madam. Did you sleep well?»

- «Yes. Thank you! » I reply to the shaded face that I still do not manage to discern clearly. I answer, of course, as if all that was normal… although a little double disturbed by the “Miss” Maria is serving me and the new voice going out of me! I'm burning with questions, but decide to hold my tongue and move forward into my new role in stealth mode, with all due caution not to reveal my deception. You never know. I’d better not make any mistake

- «I bought what you asked me. The pineapples are wonderful…» she says, smiling, satisfied while placing two of them in a large bowl already filled with fruits. «I still have to go back to the pharmacy in Malibu. They didn’t have your cream.»

-«Oh? Well, it’s ok…» pretending to understand what it is all about, while digesting the new clue that has been leaked by the way: Malibu! We are near Malibu. That's an interesting detail… If I'm not mistaken, this is about Los Angeles. That would match well with the climate, the sea, well: the ocean.

- «Oh yes, by the way, your agent said he will postpone your meeting to eleven. He has an appointment before and cannot make it at ten o'clock as planned… He apologises... »

- «Ah. Well. Thank you! »

What the heck should it make a difference that my appointment is postponed to ten o’clock?… though this is finally a new clue given on my new life. I should pay attention at all the details. It may be important: I have appointments to honour. Finally, at least one, at eleven o'clock, then.

Silently, I sit on one of the large leather sofas, and grab a bottle of mineral water on the table, to drink large sips of warm water, recalling of her words: My agent? What is there again? I think, silently, without showing my questions to the brave Maria, busy unpacking her shopping bags in the kitchen left vacant by the man a while ago, my husband probably.

Although I did not ask her, and without saying anything, Maria brings me a glass with ice cubes and mineral water.

- « Thank you… Maria. »

- «I may go to your room if you are no longer in? »

- «Yes. Thank you… Maria! » I replied absently, while noticing a phone at the end of the tinted glass table. A moment of hesitation and then, I think: after all, I'm home… I can use this phone if I want to! Nobody will tell me anything…

- «I like that when you call me Maria! How nice. You never do usually! » does she add in a smiling way.

I said nothing, focused on my target at the end of the table: the phone. My bond with the outside, with the reality may be. It requires a long crawling on the leather sofa to reach the device and grab it, but I’m finally not using it right away: The timing is tricky. Now laying on the big beige leather cushions, I look, thoughtful… I don’t know anymore. Some more time to hesitate. Apprehension has suddenly seized me. A deep anxiety that gradually invades all my female body: The fear to know, as I almost reach the goal. I want to dial my own number, at Les Brenets, but worry on what I will find at the other side of the phone. Me? Someone else? Who? Perhaps the announcement of bad news about me, about Antoine? Whatever, I guess I have to. This is my only link to my previous life, my real life. The only way to know… and I have to know. I don’t have any other options.

With one trembling finger, I then dial, feverishly, my own number, but I have to give a few tries to succeed in my mission, failing three attempts in a row. After a moment, finally, it rings. I hear the signal, intermittent, electronic pigeon cooing, which attests of the call, and activates the other side’s ring. I wait, anxious. Maria is vacuuming in the room aside, but far away enough to not bother me. Several rings. Nothing. Nothing happens! Nobody answers. Me nor anyone. I'm still waiting, while rehearsing at full speed the words I would have to say. I should have thought of that before! Not clever. What will I say to the person who will answer the phone? I have not prepared anything. «Hello, may I talk to Antoine?… » Well done. And then? What else? Anguish. We'll see. I will improvise. My mouth is dry. I nervously wait, listening to the intermittent cooing. Still nothing. I quickly drink some sips of water, now frozen, phone at ear, then, after a while, I decide to eventually hang up: There is obviously nobody at home. It is the most positive options to consider by now. I will try again later. Is that a good sign? A bad one? Who knows? This non-response sharpens a little more my questioning: What happened to me? I still can’t figure it out. I’m not more advanced, but will use this extra time to prepare myself about the words to say when the moment will come, depending on who will pick up the phone then. Several options are to be anticipated if I can. I have to be ready for any eventuality, shall it be the worst. Especially the worst!

So I put the phone back on the table. Maria walks back by me to the kitchen, in a pretty decided walk. I use this opportunity to ask her if she knows where the computer -that I very probably have- is… though understanding the slight incongruity of my question:

- «Sure Madam: It is… on the little desk in your room, by the window… as usual! I didn’t move it.» she replies, obviously surprised by my question. «I can prepare a breakfast now if you want... » she adds.

- «Oh Yes. Thank you… Maria. Nice of you! » Then I extract myself from the sofa, in a little too masculine manner, revealing my newly discovered intimate curves for all to see. Obviously a lack of feminine education. Fortunately, there is only Maria and she is facing the kitchen door. Well, I will have to learn how to tighten the legs to sit down, stand up, like a real educated woman. Matter of practice. Men don’t care about such things.

I return to the room I previously left at my awakening, but not through the garden this time, following the back path taken by Maria. Guided by the memory of the vacuum cleaner’s noise, I open a door and discover a small corridor, a private wooded bathroom, and I then find myself next to the dressing room that overlooks the large room, spruced up by the devoted Maria, facing the bay window’s door. The room is bright. Curtains open, the view, overlooking the blue ocean and the trees, is beautiful. A sweet perfume is enchanting my nose. Quite a nice room, where I find, indeed, a computer set on a small table used as a desk in a corner of the room. Haven’t noticed it at first glance. I press a key on the keyboard and it lights up a screen with three beautiful children laughing.

Yesss: I'm so glad to note that it’s not locked by a password and is ready for use. There are some icons. Skype, Google and others which I don’t know. Internet access is available, and this is all I need for now: Perform an internet search to find Amandine and, if possible, contact her. Quick. Call her with my female’s voice, hoping she will not hang up on me. Call her before she has permanently lost faith in me and the unbelievable story I told her. Before being catalogued in her mind as a pathological schizophrenic liar or whatever. Before her heart, disappointed, shuts on me. Before another man takes her away to the other end of life, to the other side of love…

Could I be a schizophrenic? This sudden eventuality is running through my head like a mouse in a barn. “They say some people can split in two personalities…” Well, what else am I? Perhaps I’m suffering from this disease? That would be horrible. That would mean that all this does not exist, that I just live an illusion born in the altered chemistry of my sick brain, that I invented everything! Even Amandine? No way!

I decide to quickly kick out these dark ideas and refocus on what seems real, concrete, unchallenged. Maria, the ocean, the wind, the furniture, the computer. All this cannot be unreal… I see it all for good. I feel it. It can’t be an invention… All at my reality momentum, I’m feverishly tapping on the keyboard. Google: Amandine + magazine + photographer... Enter.

A long list unfolds on the screen. I do find a Amandine, twenty-six years old, photographer in France, in Côtes d’Armor, but the picture does not match at all. She is pretty, but definitely not my Amandine. Brunette, with glasses. Nothing to see. I cross over other results with no more success, some Facebook pages, Instagram accounts, but none that matches with my Amandine… I search with other keywords: nothing. Nothing at all. All this is everything but successful. I just can’t find her. How could I pick my needle Amandine within this digital haystack? Annoyed, I fold the computer screen and lay on the bed again, staring at the ceiling as earlier. Worried at the idea of not being able to find her. Well, at least temporarily, as I am not ready to give up, that's for sure. I'll find a way. I have to. There must be a way, or another… Think. Think and do.

*

The bright room is quiet. Zen. Everything is peaceful. Serene. But me. I listen to the wind in the trees, the birds, the waves of the ocean in the distance… and then Maria’s voice who calls me from the house:

- «Miss? Breakfast is now ready! I set it at the patio! » is she shouting. I go to the dressing room and find a shirt and some jeans to put on. Great. Finally a normal outfit! That’s something that make me feel satisfied, at last. If I had to wear a dress, it would have been a pathetic nightmare!

Barefoot, I walk back the path in the garden and find, indeed, at the patio overlooking the ocean, a small tray on a table with two wicker chairs. “Quite a beautiful setting for a simple breakfast” I think. “I’m going to start enjoying being a rich woman!...” while grabbing a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Delicious. Sweet and fresh. Maria is visibly an expert!

- «I have put your newspaper on the table! They talk about you again… » she adds, holding back a little embarrassed laugh. «You are divorced or something, now, the newspaper says! » she concludes, completing the second half of her started laugh.

A little distracted by the discovery of ingredients on the plate, I listen to half of her sentence, while planting my fork into some hot scrambled eggs. Divorced? There are also some toasts and a sliced avocado. Jam, butter, and a cup of steaming coffee. This is a very full breakfast. I glance at the magazine lying on the table edge. What did she mean by that divorced? … and this They are talking about you? Am I famous? Weird.

Apparently a women's magazine, people. The kind of magazines found in waiting rooms of doctors or dentists, placed to think of anything but the next consultation. Not really my cup of tea, but then, if they talk about me, I will make an effort. It will help me move a little further in my investigation, to hopefully glean some additional clues, maybe helpful in solving this puzzle? “So who am I then? And what do they say about me? Let’s have a look…”

I take a bite into the avocado while looking at the magazine. The cover reminds me nothing special. Just photoshopped american famous TV stars, or singers that I do not know, posing with very artificial gestures, whitened teeth actresses, dark eyes actors. Nothing really exciting to me. I turn a few pages with a distracted finger, while holding with my other hand some buttered toast. I realise doing so all the absurdity of my situation, its ridiculous: Me, as a woman, almost casually, a rusk in hand, reading a magazine while being ten thousand miles away from home, from friends, and so much more far from my own life, and still without understanding why… My posture is unreal, almost indecent… but it is so beyond myself, that I keep on my absurd attitude and my reading. Slowly. The sea breeze seems more eager to turn the pages of the magazine than I am. I have to stop its will with the flat of my hand.

Various articles, illustrated with little blurry paparazzi’s photographs. Irrelevant, really. I turn the pages. Let the wind turn them. Parade of fake girls and guys faces, ephemeral and artificial stars of reality TV, out of some insipid soap operas. More famous actors and actresses too, whose private life spans, immoral, or gets invented across these tasteless pages. How can some read such nonsense? Buy them? Degree zero of intellect. Frankly, who’s interested into Maria Carey’s repeated diets? Who cares about childish mood of Justin Bieber, about the colour of his latest Ferrari? Who gets impassioned to know that Nicole Kidman desperately wants a fifth child, or Julia Roberts will divorce again for the umpteenth time?…

…Divorce…? The word suddenly stops my reading short.

- «Maria?»

Maria is busy in the kitchen. After some time, between two sips of coffee, I call her again, a little louder :

- «Maria?»

- «Miss? »

- «What did you say about the magazine that I would be involved in? »

- «Oh, nothing Miss, just usual nonsense. Don’t worry! They put out again the story of the couple about to split… Always the same. Just to sell their trash press! They’ve put again the same picture where you look like having cried. The one with the black sweater. It's ridiculous. You're going to sue them? You should. It's not nice what they do… They should be ashamed. They have no right to lie about people's lives, like this...». Then she leaves, going back to her cleaning in the house, grumbling some inaudible arguments I’m not listening anymore.

I do not answer, anxious to find the page about Julia Roberts and eventually stop on an article where her photo shows up with… a black sweater! Article revealing her alleged divorce, her terrible depression, etc. Without reading any further on, I drop the toast off my hand and suddenly get up from my chair to run on the lawn toward the bedroom. Find a mirror! Look at myself, my face, her face. No way. It just can’t be! That would be crazy! Damn. No mirror in the room, I rush to the bathroom discovered a little while before, next to the dressing room… get straight to the sink, and badaboom: Julia Roberts!

She stands in front of me, just on the other side of the mirror. A reversed Julia Roberts, without any make-up and looking flabbergasted to see me in her private bathroom, as was Steve, at the first day of my adventure! Incredible: I woke up in the body Julia Roberts… this actress I love, this actress everyone loves! In thoughts, I see her in a flash in Pretty Woman, her charm at the same time wild and childish, innocent and dangerous, her bright smile, both violent and fragile, her sublime and endless legs… and here she is, right there in front of me, watching me watching her.

But she doesn’t smile. She seems frozen in fear, like playing the role of a crazy one. It's unimaginable. This whole story is crazy. I'm crazy, no doubt. How else could it be? All this is unreal. Either am I dreaming, or became insane, my brain digressing with increasingly implausible hallucinations! Why her? Why me?... and how?

Her legs aren’t as long as they’re supposed to, but disappointment is not an option. I get near the mirror and take a close look at this face. Julia Roberts is so close now. I could kiss her if this all wasn’t through a mirror. I look at her skin, her eyes, her nose, a few centimetres near. She does the same, of course. I touch my face, look at her wrinkles over the nose, her mouth, open in amazement, her eyes into mine… her teeth. She now forces a wide smile to me, one of her famous dazzling smiles, unvarnished but radiant, giving so much feelings when watching it, so much light in dark rooms where one of her films is played… I observe the vein that vertically cross her forehead, seeming to express some kind of emotions. It's the case. She’s not as perfect as on the screen, made-up, lit, but still a real beauty, one of those that doesn’t cheat. I smile. She smiles. I like the shape of my nose, her nose. No, there's no denying it, she is really beautiful.

“Pretty woman, walking down the street, pretty woman, the kind I like to meet…”

I seem to hear this song floating in the air.

Then, slowly, her face goes off and the song fades out while I move backwards from the mirror, magic screen of this intimate theatre, stepping back, slowly, I stumble over a long bathtub placed behind me. I sit on its edge and watch my own reflection acting in this high magical mirror. Julia Roberts is there and says nothing. She stares at me. I pass my hand on my chest, and so is she, on her side of the mirror. I suddenly realised the weight of this incredible intimacy I share with her, being an intruder in her body. Almost a sacrilege, a visual rape. But what can I do? I never asked for such a thing… I'm just in it, inside, and I feel a bit like a burglar lurking in the shade. I feel ashamed to look at her so. She's beautiful, natural. But it's not her, it's me. A me and her mixed by some absurd magic. I feel crushed by the consciousness of this responsibility of my presence in her, this place that I mistakenly have to deal and the potential consequences of my actions on her life. My logic is trying to restore its basic concepts, but it’s hard. It seeks an exit through a few strong resolutions that I have to take, even just to try to discard my dreaded madness. I have now to pay attention to the very single detail of my gestures, of my looks. Not only for me, but for her… for this woman, this person, I temporarily live in. This is the first time I really become aware of this: My presence should not affect the life of the being I invested in spite of myself… It should be a golden rule that I absolutely have to follow if this story goes on her mad way. An imperious rule.

By formerly adding a few words on Steve’s letter back in the hotel room in Tokyo, my possible influence on my host had already appeared to me, but in a very light way, almost detached. It was like a joke. I mixed my words to his without thinking any further on the consequences, at the end of this crazy first day, with the laudable but vague idea to help this man by giving him the hope he seemed to have lost. Maybe draw hope for myself at the same time? But was it really right? Who am I to influence the destiny of others? And what can be the impact? I don’t know. But I have to think about it now. This is certainly not trivial.

Conversely, could it be my role, my mission, to change the course of things?… to alter the course of this life that is not mine, change its destiny?… Could it be the reason of all this? I don’t know. I have no mission’s written order. No set point. I’ve been sent here without any clue on what to do nor why… But in doubt, better be as neutral as possible. This seems to be the wisest, as I still can’t understand the reason for all this, if there is one. I'll stick to that, and then we'll see… Move nothing, touch nothing, change nothing. If I can.

About Erik, it appeared to have a less important impact: A basic character, rough, lost on this island of barbarians, whose only concerns seemed to resume into drinking Aquavit with his mates and go to kill whales on the bloody shore with friends. Sad friends. Happy and proud of their hatred and deadly power. Wretched destiny.

Unwittingly, while fleeing away of this massacre bay, I met Kirsten, an unusual woman which I would probably never have crossed paths with if not within my untimely appearance in this life not of mine. But after all, it might not be so bad? Perhaps a chance for him, or her. For both. A new start. A new vision of life. A chance or a disaster… who knows? This may be one as well as the other.

I try to imagine their awakening, for Steve and Erik... assuming they did wake up, of course. But I don’t want to imagine any other option. It would be terrible. No: they wake up the next day as if nothing had happened, with perhaps a few hours of blackout while I took their place. That’s it. Then they finally resume their lives just as before. Maybe better… Maybe Steve will read my words on his page? Maybe it will make him think about his condition, his decision, his life? Maybe he will decide to change the course of his journey and raise up the mainsail to the breath of hope for a brand new start on the ocean of life? It no longer depends on me. He will do what he wants. Maybe get it as a message, fallen from the sky, or understand nothing and all that will have no impact on the rest of his life. He will decide. Not me. I feel relieved a little: I do not act, I just deviate a little from the paths, but the balance hopefully reasserts itself, quickly, as it should.

On this rough island, without a doubt Erik will wake up, on the couch of the old woman, wondering what the heck he's doing there?… but maybe both will they manage to speak as we had done she and me? Laughing at the strangeness of the situation and consider further on their lives, both of them. Talk about the miracle of this life. Its luck. Its beauty. Perhaps with talking with Kirsten, if not definitely too stupid, he will thus become aware of the absurdity of his cruel hunting practised as a sadistic hobby and he will change his mind and the one of his bloody mates? Perhaps the price of life will get back to him? Nothing is less certain, but why not? A dream is always possible. Perhaps is he the disappeared sailor Kirsten has been waiting for so long?… her lost husband, or the child they never had. Perhaps will this be the beginning of a beautiful relationship, friendly, fraternal? So many maybes… so many doubts.

With Julia Roberts, I now suddenly understand the danger of any mistakes I might commit, the slightest deviation I could do with her life. This was true for the others as well, but less obvious. She is a public figure, paparazzi are stalking her. Journalists are writing each and every detail of her life, should they be revised or invented later… Fans are following her, are loving her… and any of my mistakes could take some unimaginable and disastrous proportions, I would be responsible of. It sucks. She is under the spotlights, always. I’m walking on eggshells in her shoes and I feel it strongly. I don’t want to dirty, or break, or disturb anything in her life, and I will have to manage the few hours with(in) her, with great care. For how long? I don’t know. Probably until tomorrow, if I judge on my short experience of this phenomenon that seems to be renewed on every awakening. Until then, pay attention to what I show, to what I touch, to what she says, to what we do together during our temporary merger.

I return to the room, then the garden, where I stop for a moment, bare feet in the grass looking at the ocean. The wind will help me catch my breath back, then I return to sit at breakfast table as if nothing had happened… For now, everything is fine, under control, as far as I can control anything here… No risk of too much disruption. But I must be careful.

- «Everything’s okay Miss? » Maria asks me, having seen me running away at the sight of this magazine page, while I sit back at the table.

- «Yes yes Maria. All is well… Very good this juice! » I believe it’s good to add in order to artificially accentuate my natural air and not arouse her suspicions! But how could she imagine such a story? Me, Antoine, undetectable, hidden deep in my actress look. However, I must pay attention to my words, the talks that could betray me. Should not speak too much. One more resolution to add on my list. I'm going to try. The "Very good this juice! " was a bit unsafe.

- «Thank you Miss. These are oranges bought this morning with some coconut juice… Nothing much! » Then she leaves and return to her tasks between the large sofas of the room. I see her silhouette outlined against the bay window overlooking the swimming pool. She grabs a glass, a bottle, replace a cushion. Active in his every gesture. “She’s a pearl...” I think, absently biting on the toast left here earlier.

*

A bell rings now. Maria shouts she’s going! I stay in my chair, in the patio’s shade, looking at the sea and finishing my cup of lukewarm coffee. Must be my appointment. I'll have to play tight. All this is a bit stressful. “We'll see...” I say to myself, staring at the dark blue skyline. Don’t talk too much. Let things come…

- «Your appointment is here! Apparently earlier than said! » confirms Maria with a cheerful voice.

Must be my agent... I now understand better the word: A artist agent… Someone who takes care of my career, my interests, I guess. I don’t know much about the business, even less about show-business. I’m expecting to see a gentleman with a suit and a briefcase, but I suddenly see approaching a silhouette in the room lighting up by the patio light, a not very tall man, wearing short pants and a flowered shirt, with glasses, smiling, holding a folder of papers in the right hand.

- «What’s up love? » says cheerfully the man, imposing me a short hug against him. «Sorry for the confusion: an appointment that I thought would last longer, but eventually completed in ten minutes. Phew! The maid told you? » I clear my throat.

- «Yes, no worries… »…Arrgh... why did I have to add this no-worries thing?… ridiculous! Julia probably wouldn’t say that. I'm dumb. I speak too much. No need to show off like that.

To avoid having to talk further much and to justify so my non-eloquence, I pretend not to feel too well this morning and tell him «I slept badly that night, headache. Nothing serious… Just a little woozy... » (“woozy”, should do it.)

- «Oh, well. It happens… » he says, and begins to hold forth, somewhat cheerful, about a friend of his, sometimes taken from terrible migraines, very disabling, etc, etc… I get half of his monologue and vaguely smile while wondering what is he here to talk about, the purpose of this morning appointment, and how to keep as neutral as I can be with my answers not to reveal myself. After a few minutes talking to himself, almost giving me a genuine need of paracetamol, it eventually comes to the matter:

- «Look! I brought you a first draft of the contract. You tell me what you think. The terms are substantially similar as last time, you'll see. Nothing new. Read it when your headache is gone. It's not urgent. We have time to talk about it, but I preferred you to have it quickly. Always better. Is Danny okay? »

I guess Danny is the man who gave me that kiss before spinning, earlier in the morning. Uncertain, I remain elusive:

- «Yes. he’s fine. »

- «Okay, great. His project looks a bit complicated… but I’m sure he’ll make it. By the way, did you have time to read the script I sent to you? I know this story of home where you would play an old bedridden in wheelchair is not very glamorous at first sight, but the story is strong. And the flashbacks are full of emotion. No? You'd be off your comfort zone as to say… an act where you would not be expected in. Well, you should think about it. Really.»

I don’t know what to answer, and am happily saved by the arrival of Maria, coming to inquire about man’s thirst:

- «Would you like a drink Mr. Richard? »

Well. At least I know his name now: Richard. That will fuel my talks in order to keep natural.

- «No. Thanks. I won’t stay. I gotta go… Another appointment at the office… » Second matter of relief for me: he will not stay. Phew!

Maria leaves the room. While watching her going away, an idea comes to my mind:

- «Well, Richard, can you do me a favor? I would need you to do a search for me if you can… »

- «You call me Richard now? Wow… that must be an important request! » does he say, amused.

Oops. First blunder. Not thought of that. My hard trial to appear natural will turn against me. What an idiot. I mumble:

- «Yes. I actually like that name. It is classy! » I'm wading into what I hope to be an invisible embarrassment… Richard laughs:

- «Classy! Yes, I am very classy... Happy you eventually get it into consideration after so many years love! Yeah, Rick was a little cheap, wasn’t it? » does he end completing his laughter with a sigh of relief… «Well, joking aside, what is it about? What are you searching for? »

I swallow. Trying to refocus…

- «A photographer, French, whom I would like to get in touch with. I don’t have her contact information and can’t find it by myself… Could you help me on that? It's pretty urgent: I would like to call her today if possible… »

- «Oh wow!… today? Tough. Ok. I'll see what I can do. Have you got more details to feed my search? Because, even though i’m classy, this is rather short to start… » he says with a little restrained laugh, apparently slightly annoyed. His teeth are white, surely redone.

- «Her name is Amandine. That's all I know. She works for French magazines, I think… and was in Tokyo last weekend. That’s about it! »

- «Downright not much indeed… Do you have problems with that photographer? Hope not.»

- «No no, don’t worry. Just someone I would like to meet.»

- «Well. I'll see what I can do. But I can’t promise anything. I'm not the NSA, you know… What you’re asking me is rather difficult! Are you okay? You look strange today… »

- «Yes. I’m okay. Just slept not quite well. It’ll be alright! » …I am cautiously, weighing every single word in my mouth.

- «Good. Cool! »

Then the man stood up and I'm following him up to the front door of the house where already stands the ubiquitous Maria.

- «Bye sweetie. Take care. And rest a bit. You look tired. And, by the way, please put a bra if you get to meet people… » he adds with a wink… «It ‘s more classy… »

Sudden blush on my face. I feel ashamed.

- «Yes, I… well, sure I will. Promised! Bye. »

I'm relieved to see the appointment shortened that way… and especially with the mighty help in my search for Amandine. I don’t see how I could find her otherwise. On the other hand, having given him this mission goes a little against the cautions that I had set in order not to affect Julia’s life. Now, Amandine will become real in her life somehow. Our stories mingle. Our bonds get tighter: Me, Amandine, Julia, Richard… He will now seek for her, perhaps even ask his assistants for help… Phone calls will be sent, as well as emails about this mysterious Amandine. Many people will wonder who she is, what she’s got to do with me… Not as neutral as I wanted it to be, but well… I didn’t think too much when the idea came to my mind, and I want to think this all will stay more innocuous in the course of their lives than it is in mine. Just a ripple on the surface of the water, like in the swimming pool a while ago, when I have dipped my toe, ripple which will fade quickly on the borders of life.

The man in short pants leaves on his way towards the garden gate. No doubt he parked his car outside. He exits, and the gate closes behind him, automatically. I stay a moment on the stairs to look around the garden, the entrance side. There is a small palm tree and some beautiful flowering bushes. Everything looks well maintained. There must be a gardener here. Maria can’t do everything! The grass is mowed, shrubs are trimmed, blooming flowers are watered. Further away, on the lawn, hanging between two trees, is stretched a hammock. It reminds me of the little bench in the movie Notting Hill. I walk barefoot on the lukewarm grass and will lay in a moment. All is soft. The sky and the treetops sways in slow alternate moves. I close my eyes and let myself be lulled under the sun, with the warm grass and flowers fragrances.

After a while, I hear some barking in the distance, but getting closer, and then see a brown dog running towards me. Maria shouts: «I let Major out! I prepare him a bowl! » My first reaction, before realising he’s my dog, is to fear that he jumps on me and bite. I don’t really like dogs. They scare me. I jump out of the hammock ready to cope or run, but the dog stops, suddenly, three meters away from me and stares at me, wary. He whines and throws some worried glances at me, nodding. He seems to wonder… «Hi my dog… You good boy! » I say to the Labrador still staring at me, legs apart, doubtful. Apparently unconvinced by my words, he now starts to bark louder. He obviously understood, that I was not completely his mistress, that something had changed in her: Me. Animals have kept senses of which we deprived ourselves, we humans, clad in this intelligence we are so proud of, intelligence that took the whole place, crushing our instincts with its vainglorious omnipotence. Evolution wasn’t that good. He, can feel it. He can see. He doesn’t recognise me. His weeping Labrador’s eyes probed my soul, and have decoded at a glance who I really am: I’m discovered! They have seen through me. I'm trying to talk to him nicely, to make friends and do some stupid but kind noises with my mouth, but he keeps on barking the louder he can, very angry, to reveal my cheating to everyone, but fortunately no one gets it: «Who are you? You're not my mistress. Go away! Not her, you’re not her… » he barks desperately. «Go away… Go away! »

Maria hurries with the leash, distraught: «what’s wrong with him today? He’s never like this usually! What happen Major? Will you stop, yes? »

- «Not her… it's not her… I don’t know who it is… Go away you!... » he continues with his dog words, desperate. Maria attaches the leash to his collar and pulls him to the house, while he keeps on showing all his anger against me, going backwards.

- «I put him back in his enclosure, time to calm down. You’ll get him a walk later, it's better… »

- «Thank you Maria. Yes, it’s better… »

This episode upsets me. This stupid dog has almost revealed my intrusion. If he continues, the entire neighbourhood will be alerted and Maria will suspect something is wrong with me… Fortunately nobody understands dog language here, apart from other dogs probably, but I don’t really care about that. It makes me sad though. The poor dog looks so scared. He seems so loving and emotional with his watery eyes, seeking his mistress, disappeared in herself… It's touching. Angry dog, for sure, but not that bad. It is known that dogs resemble their master. Julia is certainly not a bad person neither, looking at her dog, his love for her, but she probably has got her own character too, no doubt. She must be strong. Actress and businesswoman… I smile. I didn’t imagine her with a dog. I would have rather seen her surrounded with cats. Or birds. Or nothing at all. I never thought about this matter actually. Who cares? Not me. Well, not me before! Everyone can make mistakes.

*

The wide garden overlooking the ocean finally regained its quietness. Major had been taken on the other side of the house, where I still haven’t been. No rush. He still barks over there, but less strong. Then he stops, probably busy to deal with a good plate brought by Maria.

The property is large. The park, full of trees, wide. I decide to have a walk around there, owner’s tour as to say. Still barefoot on the grass, I walk along flower beds and cactus plants. I go slowly, nostrils open on these tropical scents. Soft feeling. My thoughts wander, light and fluttering like butterflies. I think of Amandine. My hope and trials to contact her. Richard which may help to do so. I hope. At the price Julia must pay him, he will probably struggle to find her, according to my will… After all, I am Julia Roberts. All must bend to her will, no doubt... This is the sweet hope that caresses my temples under the hot Californian sun. I have nothing else to do but wait… hope and enjoy.

Tall trees are delimiting the property. The greenery is well protected from prying eyes by this immense and impenetrable hedge. A small paved road leads with a few curves to the waterfront, where I find a nice settled spot, sheltered from the wind by an old clear stones wall and covered with a canvas roof that gives the sunlight a beautiful orange colour. A sunbed is placed on a small wooden floor, facing the sea, with a small table. As it should be, I'm going to sit down, enjoy the beauty of the place, the comfort, the luxury. I am not used to it. And it may not last. Better to enjoy while it’s here. While I’m here. This is really beautiful. A place to relax, to rejuvenate facing the elements: the ocean, the wind, the sun. Julia must surely need moments like that, to recover from what I imagine to be a hectic life, filled with photo shoots, TV shows, cameras, lights, travels, interviews, and lots of people she doesn’t necessarily want to see but who are a part of her movie star life… In return, she’s got a lot of money, and this beautiful haven to shelter from all this, a nice dog and a brave and devoted Maria. I also noticed children's toys, balloons, by the pool and inside the large room. Definitely should she be mom. I know nothing of her life in fact. I don’t read gossip magazines… I just watch movies. It’s enough for me. So I now discover her life, her world, her face, that I can see with my unsophisticated eyes, no experts, but well spotted, sat first row in this puzzling privacy usually unreachable. From the inside so to speak... I feel both privileged and shameful. Weird dual sensation. Mixed feelings of happiness and discomfort. The large property, so empty right now, also gives me a strange feeling of melancholy, of sadness. No doubt Julia has children, a husband as far as I can see, many appointments as well, but I feel like a deep loneliness in the middle of it. Perhaps is it me who casts my own loneliness on her… I also imagine that this property is like a castle to shelter from the hordes of fans and paparazzis who are lurking outside. Waiting for her. It must be exhausting to endure the pressure of forced love from all these people who don’t measure the impact of their behaviour on her life, which she probably wishes to be simple, more peaceful. Again, I project myself… I wouldn’t like all that, anyway. Well, the house, I would, though, but not all the perks… Can she just go out of this house without having to fear the onslaught of fans wanting to touch their idol? What is her life outside this protective enclosure? Does she have a life?

Maria, having seen me settle on this long beach chair facing the ocean, brings me a glass, on a tray. She definitely seems to be concerned about my possible dehydration!

- «Just a fresh coconut juice, the way you like it... »

- «Oh that's sweet Maria! Thank you! » I say this very naturally. How funny. I'm in my role of Julia, as she certainly is, when she shoots a movie. Amusing. Her actress instinct probably going back to surface. Or is it my good education, my politeness, unaccustomed as I am to be served this way. Both, probably.

While she goes away by the flagstone path, I return to my meditation, facing the horizon, bathed with the light radiating from the orange canvas roof, and enjoying some fresh sips of this delicious coconut juice. The wind caresses my skin. All is sweetness, warmth, beauty.

I rewind in thoughts a few hours, a few days… Steve, Amandine, Erik, Kirsten… and all these characters I met during this wacky journey out of myself. That would do a movie really! All these people, these places, so different, so distant from each other, so foreign. Living parts of a broken puzzle I still cannot assemble. Do I have to? I don’t know. Do all these pieces necessarily have to fit? I'm not even sure. Could it be life alike, a succession of random events, without any links? Could this have just no meaning, no direction, no logic, but to be? And if my appearance in this foreign body was no more absurd than my birth in my Antoine’s body, seventy years ago? After all, all sticks to the main topic: Life! Its reason. Its meaning. Beginning one day and ending, another day. Why? What is there before? What is there after? Mystery… You’re born one morning as you wake up… and the day passes, like life, with its string of adventures and anecdotes, laughter, conversations, sun and rain, meetings… stretching until the evening… minute after minute, hour after hour… until nightfall, until bedtime, until death.

My thoughts get lost in the wind. I take another sip of coconut juice. Think, or not to think? Search, or not to search? I don’t know. I just know I'm here, facing the blue and calm ocean in the vast garden of this luxurious mansion, sipping a cocktail… Well-born today, awakened this morning in my luxurious condition in this beautiful and comfortable place. Me, who traveled so little in my other life, despite my age, and never gone far away. Me, who never took a plane and saw the Pacific ocean within movies only, TV shows… and now facing it, for real, under the hot sun and Malibu’s coconut trees, in Los Angeles, California!… Me, the simple retired man, so far now from my peaceful retirement. So far away from home. It all seems so futile. So abstract and unimportant now. No matter of my questioning, I'm here. I live. I pick this moment of sweetness, of delight, lost in the absurd of circumstances. Lost in this dream that doesn’t look like one. But so is life, basically. I picked another one, yesterday, of those moments, very different, and I will pick one again tomorrow, probably. Randomness of this trip. Randomness of life. Whoever we may be, wherever we may be, we all pick, each and every day, these little unique moments that make our lives what they are in the end.

Maria comes back and pulls me out of my deep thinking, ensconced in my snug seat. So have I dozed off in an unexpected nap and the voice of the good woman wakes me up:

- «I’m leaving now, Miss. Anything I can do before I go? I prepared a fruit salad. It’s in the fridge. Major ate. He is calm now. »

- «Alright Maria. No, I don’t need anything. Thank you. You can go… »

- «So, have good day Miss. See you tomorrow. »

- «See you tomorrow! » and Maria goes limping by the flagstone path, the lawn, by the house, the parking.

I slept… I think… and I’m waking up still at the same location within the same dream! Sleep would then not be the way out, the crossing? Ok. It doesn’t help much anyway.

Maria is gone. So here I am all alone in the middle of this luxurious dream, this amazing billionaire property. Yes, alone with my questions, my astonishment and my discovery of these sweet feelings of comfort and refinement. I shut my eyes again. Without any fear. I enjoy the moment. This moment will not last, I know. Because no moment lasts, especially mine, these days… So I make it last as much as I can, slowing its passage with a deep focus on it, on my senses of it. Garden perfumes blends with the ocean, the sand, down the cliff. I can hear the waves slapping the sand. Sea wind stirs all those sweet scents that delight my nostrils, soothe my thoughts. With my fingers, I caress the dew on the glass of juice. Take a sip. Wonderful harmony of sensations. Everything is perfect. Calm. Voluptuousness. Peace. How long will this last? Where will I be tomorrow? What is this trip? Sensation of flying, as a bird carried by the hot air streams towards the sky, pushed up and with no way to go down. I just fly, unsure of my direction, over the vast horizon that surrounds my life. I don’t decide anything. Have I ever decided? The wind takes me to the left, the right… and I let it do. What else? I look from above, to where he pushes me to, still slightly worried, but with faith. With some luck, I will go down one day, when time comes.

*

In the house behind me, I hear a phone ringing, nasal and distant. Well. Not my home. I don’t have to answer. Better not anyway. Stay away during the few hours to spend here. Don’t make waves. Let Julia’s world be as I found it. No touch, no move. I keep on my wise resolutions, as I think they should be. The ring stops. My meditation resumes.

After a long time laying on this beach chair in the shade of this small shelter by the sea, I finally decide to stand up, walk a few steps. Visit. Have a look onto where lives this beautiful actress, her intimate home, promising myself not to touch anything and keep this all secret. Who would believe me anyway? Watch, but not snoop around. I'm not like that. I'm not a voyeur. Just a little curious. After all, if some one put me here, I should have the right to watch a little, right?

I walk through the small path taken before, but the other way and notice a small round bungalow, facing the ocean, under the trees. Like a large yurt, but hard. All white, with a small terrace. Possibly a room for friends, guests, or an annex room, maybe a love nest for my husband and I? A romantic cocoon. What a beautiful place, really.

I keep on walking on the grass in the direction of the entrance gate. I pass the hammock without laying in. I did before. I walk along the entrance, looking over the wooden gate. Everything is calm. No screaming fans seeking autographs or selfies. The street is deserted, crushed with sun. It seems to lead to other houses, also hidden with hedges. Perhaps other Hollywood stars? Who knows? It's quiet anyway. There are only a few green and blue bins, contrasting with this neat landscape. I would go out to see further, but I'm barefoot and I have no idea, moreover, on how to open this gate. Looks automatic. Probably needs a remote control to operate it. Too complicated. I give up the idea… There is not much to see anyway… and also, I wear no bra, as Rick adroitly remarked! I then return back to the garden, walking on the grass beside the driveway still too hot for my feet. There is a small children's playground, and behind, the tennis court, desert, like the rest of the premises. I enter the house through a door leading to the kitchen, bright and clean. The coffee machine reminds me of the short meeting, this morning, with my presumed husband… Who else? A large electronic oven’s clock tells me that it's already 5:11pm. How fast time flies! Amazing how hours have soared, without me realising it. Probably because I feel good here, the setting, the luxury. Happy times flies always fast.

A little hunger gargoyles its presence inside my stomach. You bet! At least this time, I am not lost on a stony road in the middle of the arid plains of an isolated island! I open the large chrome fridge’s door. There are plenty of fruits, tidy milk bottles and various products that I don’t know. Sliced bread, butter. I take out a few ingredients I put on the large table in the center of the kitchen and prepare myself a small sandwich with what I find and I recognise. Surely Maria would have done better. Anyway… I eat it then, sat at this table laid out by her, while watching the trees swaying behind the windows. Then I go randomly for a large yogurt in the fridge, not very good though. A mix of coconut and soy. Yuck. It’ll be enough for now. My hunger is sated anyway. I'll stop there.

I clean off the crumbs, conscientiously, and stand up to throw the yogurt pot in the trash and pass a sponge on the table. My education. Should not leave a table dirty. I give up with coffee, given the complexity of the machine, as I did for the portal. I then go through the door I had opened before following the Supertramp song and find myself in the large room with leather sofas. The phone is still on the table, where I left it. Its view reminds me of my main mission: understand. Call Switzerland, me, someone… With no waiting, I dial again the number, that appears on the screen, obviously memorised from my last call. My number. I press the call button and wait. It rings. Once, twice, ten times. Nothing. Nobody answers. Still not. No answering machine to record my call. Well, yes, I have disabled it, not liking to have messages on a tape. How stupid! This would have helped a lot this time. I'm hanging up.

Keeping the phone in my hand, I returned to the door opening on the neat little hallway, passed the bathroom with its large bath, the dressing room and get eventually to my room. There, I let myself fall on the large bed and stare at the pale yellow ceiling for minutes... just like when I arrived here, waking up. The circle is complete. Back to the start. Ok. What’s next?

I shut my eyes again. Perhaps falling asleep would break this spell and would I wake up in my bed, in my place under my window facing Les Brenets lake, below? But I don’t fall asleep. I lay, wide awake, listening to the sound of the trees and the ocean on the rocks in the distance.

Suddenly, the phone that I still hold in my hand, rings its ugly sound previously heard, but much stronger, making me jump! I look at it: “Ricky” is digitally written on the screen. Probably Richard, my morning appointment. My agent… I pick.

- «Hey! How are you now? Feel any better?» he says.

- «Yes… yes Ricky. I’m OK now. I slept a bit. It was good… »

- «Right. No better thing to do! A little sleep, and off we go again! Say then, you know I've worked hard while you were sleeping… I’d be able to apply to the FBI! You’re pretty lucky: I found your photographer! »

At these words I jump off the bed:

- «Amandine? You found Amandine?... » I say without trying to hide my emotion…

- «Well, at least it brings you joy I see! I did not work in vain… You will have to explain to me though, as it seems so important! Who is this photographer? Do I have to worry about something? Probably not my concern, but a little bit still, as I take care of your image. So you better tell me if there’s anything wrong with that, ok? »

- «Yes, Yes. No worry. I'll explain… later. So? Have you got her number? »

- «Better than that: I spoke to her! To make it short, I called the magazine she’s working for, which forwarded me straight to her when I said who I was and who was asking for her… » he laughs. «I pretended a photo essay about you. They are really efficient these French. Not very cautious, but efficient. In less than one minute, I was switched to her personal phone line and woke her up… in middle of jetlag she said. Back from a trip in Asia, from what I understood… »

- «Yes that's it. Japan. »

- «Oh, well… you know then. Anyway. I told Julia Roberts wanted to contact her. She asked if it was a joke, but my kinda serious and professional tone, convinced her it wasn’t, and she mumbled how honoured she was with that request, etc, visibly impressed, and it would be a pleasure. Here we go! »

- «Awesome! This is just great!… You have her number then? »

- «Yes. She’s actually waiting for your call… For a while by the way. I phoned you earlier, but without success… You were probably asleep. Anyway, you got a pen? »

- «Wait, wait… » I run towards the small desk facing the sea, pulling the drawers to find a pencil, a paper and quickly write down the number on a small square pink sticky note.

- «Thank you! Really: awesome work! You worked well! »

- «Hey, you can tell! Not an easy one. We were three working on the case. It will cost you a bottle of Champagne! And a good one... not Prosecco... » he is laughing again. «Well, don’t forget to also check out the contract I brought. We’ll see at Beverly’s beauty saloon inauguration anyway. We'll talk more, if you have time… Ok… hugs. Bye. »

- «Bye!» …and I hung up the phone, so excited about the idea of calling Amandine… at last!

I rush to the kitchen to grab a bottle of fresh mineral water and go straight back to the room, lay down on the comfortable bed to call Amandine. I feel suddenly very thirsty. The excitement, probably. My mouth is dry. I drink some long sips of water before calming down, and then dial…

It's ringing. Not long. Click… and I hear Amandine’s soft voice, febrile:

- « Allô?»

- « Amandine? Is that you?»

- « Yes it's me. It's Amandine. I… I was expecting your call… Forgive me, your agent woke me up as I just returned from a trip. I am a little out, so to speak… but it is a great pleasure to have you on the phone! I'm a little impressed I must say. I've seen all your movies, I think! It is a great honour for me!…»

- «Amandine, it's Antoine!» am I interrupting her with my Julia’s voice.

- « … » Silence at the other end of the line. Obviously, this sentence has thrown some kind of disorder, if not more, in Amandine’s mind, abruptly stopped in her fan speech… Taken aback, or disappointed, I don’t know. Probably both… I reiterate my words:

- «It’s Antoine, Amandine! I am Antoine. The man in the Hyatt, Tokyo. It's me… Please!»

- « I… uh. Sorry. Je ne comprends pas…»

-« Yes, you understand… I’m sure you understand. Remember the story I told you?… The man with the nice Swiss watch… the bar cruiser with white hotel slippers!… well, it’s me… but I have changed again!»

- « … »

- « I know… I… It’s mad! It’s unbelievable… It’s all you can think of, but I didn’t tell no shit: It’s real and it’s happening again… Today I woke up in Los Angeles, in the body of… Julia Roberts! I can hardly accept to get these words out of my mouth myself, as it is sounding so absolutely insane, but you must trust me… It’s the truth! As crazy as it may sound…»

- « But, alors… Je… I mean you are not Julia Roberts then? I don’t get it. Your… your agent just called me. I’ve checked the number. And this voice… Pas de doute. I've seen all your movies in original version moreover and I would recognise it among a thousand!»

- «Yes, I am Julia Roberts, but not really… It’s me, Antoine, who speaks to you through her body! You know… I am Antoine, but inside Julia Roberts! You see? Same as for the man in Tokyo, in this hotel, where I woke up in his place! Remember? My story? How could I know all that if I were not Antoine? I don’t know why nor how this phenomenon happened again, but all this is true... I entrusted you there… Remember our walk at night, in the small park?… The small altar with columns at the top of the garden… our kiss? Don’t tell me you don’t remember...»

- «Oui. Bien-sûr, I remember… How could I have forgotten it… But that voice, everything… It's so crazy, indeed!»

- «I know. I can’t help it, you know… All this is beyond me… beyond us.» (an angel passes by). « Have you got a computer? Skype maybe?» do I ask, in a genius strike while seeing Julia’s laptop on the desk in front of me at the end of the bed…

- «Yes. Sure. I do have one!»

- «Okay. Then I call you, video mode, so you can see me… and I can see you too… Ok?»

She gives me her contact login and I rush to connect. After some long and agonising minutes, internet magic happens, then I see her face showing up on the screen, a little fuzzy and jerky, held in her trembling hands. But it's her. Still as charming and natural, but a bit tired and worried face, just out of bed. Julia Roberts’s face is framed in a smaller frame, aside, and the two women have substantially the same expression: Both poorly coiffed, with no make up…

I feel like watching an American movie, featuring Julia Roberts. Amandine's face looks a bit below mine. She stares at the screen in disbelief, to Julia's face appearing there in big… She seems dazed. Moved. Speechless. Both women’s faces are alike.

- «You see? I'm not cheating… it's me.»

- «Yes. I see… well, I see Julia Roberts talking to me, saying she is the man I met in Tokyo three days ago. It is crazy. It is… I don’t know. I can’t make my mind to believe it's really you… I mean, him, well, you…»

- «It's me, believe me: Antoine. It’s me who speaks to you, but with a different voice. Another body. The story I told you was true. It still is. You see? You did not believe me, did you?»

- «Well… yes. I did believe you. I mean, you know, you looked so much into the story, it was so much a part of yourself. You told it to me with the innocence of a child who tells his dream, his school day. It was pretty touching… I trusted you, though. A little. It was so romantic too… all this. Slightly off, a little bit crazy, but terribly charming, the hotel bar, the walk by the streets at night, the park. And it actually did match so well with you. I don’t know what I believed or not… Your eyes. Your eyes were so true, so pure, so beautiful. I didn’t see any lies in them, nor madness, though this story was crazy, really… But I didn’t mind too much. And I can find again this look in your new eyes now… there, in you, behind the screen. I don’t know how to say it… I still can’t quite link the image of Julia Roberts, I see on the screen there, with yours, with Antoine’s. The you, I finally have thus never really seen, as the man I met at the Hyatt was not really you either, so… Who are you? Antoine?… I have trouble saying that name in front of you Julia, You… that's doesn’t make any sense. I feel crazy, my turn… or maybe wrong to encourage you in your own madness. But you don’t look crazy… though. I don’t know what to think.»

- «I am what I have already told you I was, in Tokyo: A poor man, pulled from his bed in his own life, his own body... becoming a wandering spirit, out of his usual physical body of Antoine, inside of Steve’s, laying in his hotel room… without knowing why… Then again, the next day, in the body of this whales hunter in the Faeroe Islands, Erik, spending his day hiking alone in the heath and ending it up drinking alcohol with Kirsten, an old woman living a small house in the middle of nowhere, with her small and noisy dog… all this to end here, today, in this luxurious villa overlooking the ocean, in the body of this Hollywood star. It's all crazy, but this is my strange journey, until now… as hard to trust as it is!»

- «My God!… Yes so impossible to trust really! So enormous… I feel like being the subject of a prank, a large-scale prank, with an unlimited budget… and with you, in addition, to the casting… Hollywood. Still, you look so serious, so consistent… so real. I don’t know what to think. Are you a joke? Is it a prank and if so, why me?»

- «I agree. I don’t know what to think myself. But you must trust me… This is not a joke nor a prank… or if it is one, it is not mine, but hell’s, or heaven’s, I don’t know! All this is very real. Here, have a look… I don’t know if the network is good enough for you to catch this…» and I bring the laptop next to the terrace, the garden… «Can you see the ocean? Can you see this garden, this villa? You are in Julia Roberts’s home… Insane, right?»

- «Yes… insane! You can tell… But is there anybody with you? You look alone…»

- «No, there is no one. I am alone or… Maria is gone and my husband and children are away today apparently… I can listen to my own new voice… So strange: I speak just like her! It's weird!… Maybe I am mutating? Look at that… The house is so huge!» I walk back to the room and then through the small corridor heading to the large living room and to the patio with the swimming pool… « Look! There's even a Jacuzzi bath and a tennis court! Such a great luxury!»

- « … » The image of Amandine is then frozen on the screen. The connection seems poor. I head back to the room. I hear the sound of her voice, hatched, interspersed with blank moments, silences. Shit. Then she moves again, a short time, and speaks to me.

- «You… there? I see you… no m…» she says, motionless again. Communication looks complicated. All these cuts shear our interview, taking away any spontaneity, natural, out.

I put the computer back on the desk and quickly grab the phone to call her back. She answers:

- «It cut again. It’s all black…»

- «Yes, I know. Same here, the connection is bad. Anyway. It was good to see you. And then you can see with your eyes I was not lying… have you?»

- «Yes. All this is crazy. I cannot stop repeating it to me. So hard to believe… and in the same time I can feel that…» She stops… and I continue at her place:

- «…that all this is the reality? Yes. An unreal reality, but still reality… weird, impossible… anything you can say it is…»

- «Oui.»

- « … » My turn now to run out of words. My thought is locked. I would have too much to say, but how to do that? I am locked within this Julia Roberts’s disguise, thousands of miles away from her. A flood of thoughts, ideas, cross my mind, but none comes to arise, to translate my feelings into words. How much time left for me to be the actress? How to catch Amandine up, and under what appearance? Of course, I could run to the airport, take a flight to Paris, first class, and rush to meet her… but then, what would happen? At best, I’d finally succeed to reach her and so what? She would face Julia Roberts, woman to woman, everyone wondering what the hell the star is doing with her?… We couldn’t be happy. Journalists, would come to take pictures of us, and Richard would tear his hair wondering what is she doing there, unprotected… with this french woman. No. I can’t do that… Not to mention the possibility to fall asleep in my seat and wake up again in another country, even further away, leaving there Julia Roberts to emerge in this plane, wondering, her turn, what the hell is she doing here?… with all the complications due to her celebrity status, her alleged madness… the repercussions that could badly stick to her career, damaging her life, her children, her marriage… no. No way. I can’t do that to her. My resolutions: Not to make waves… but then, what to do? Wait it out? Wait until it vanishes as it came? Go and drink some coconut juice cocktail beside the Jacuzzi, as if nothing had happened, and wait? Wait for some witch to appear, snapping her fingers to bring me back to Les Brenets?

- «What can I do for you?» asks Amandine, now well aware of the situation… and probably having, during this short silence, analysed the problem finding the same options as I did myself… and coming to the same conclusions.

- «I don’t know Amandine! Nothing. I guess there is there nothing to do… Just wait, until the spell is gone. Until everything returns to normal. I don’t know if it's possible or not. I want to believe it. You can’t do anything, and me neither. I am drowned in the powerful stream of a river which carries me with it, on it. I don’t have a choice. I can only hope all this does not end up into a dizzying fall, a deadly shattering waterfall, at the end, into the noise and rain spray of death. Hope the river makes an unlikely loop to go back to its source… gently dropping me to my starting point… What else?»

Laying on the bed, our conversation lasted several hours, talking about everything and nothing, both of us each at the end of this phone cable. Tenuous and precious bind through electric wave from so far. When the battery of mine was finally totally exhausted, it switched off and communication cut, we already had time to say goodbye, promising to find the way to keep contact, whatever happens… Well, my job… obviously, Amandine having no way to know where I will land the next time… if only there is a next time.

We talked about her, about me. Our own lives, our real lives. I also told her about my former day, yesterday, Kirsten, the whales. The landscape of these rough islands. I spoke again about my Switzerland, my simple life, may it be some kind of disappointment for her… so banal compared to all these adventures I lived since I met her. She told me about her work, her travels around the world. Her first impression on seeing me with my slippers, wacky, sitting at the hotel bar in Tokyo. Her amusement. Her curiosity. Her disappointment also in the morning, not to see me showing up at breakfast, before heading to the airport. It had saddened her a bit. She was hoping, like me, to get back to our story… but I didn’t show up. She was about to call my room from the reception desk, but had given up and finally ate alone, without appetite, and then left the hotel. Disappointed. Like an echo to her last love story, ended in a similar disillusionment… But she wasn’t really mad at me, just disappointed. I was simply like the others, neither more nor less. Just a hope, a butterfly flown after a too short break over her heart. Hope in life. Hesitant butterfly with an erratic flight.

Although she would have said so, she had not fully coped with my tale of the previous day: My story of the Traveler, the wandering spirit. She just found me very inventive, but not quite persevering in my seducing task.

Not aware of my new exile, back to the other side of the planet, in this room, this small fishermen’s village on the shore of a fjord, she could not guess my dismay for having let her down on our first date, finding myself attending this marine carnage, this bloody horror. She could not imagine, of course. Me neither though. Who could I have?

Over the phone, we opened our hearts and lives to each other. We had some time to do so. Almost. We described our respective universes, our passions, our joys, our sorrows, weaving under the charm of our meeting, the bonds of our strange and distanced relationship. It was sweet. Gradually, Julia Roberts faded. There was just remaining Amandine and Antoine, who spoke at a distance but so close at the same time, from soul to soul. There was no more miles or continents between us. No more superstar and fan. No more age difference. Just two hearts, connected. Forever. A feeling, just as amazing, had born. We could feel it. As uncontrollable as it could be in this absurd situation.

Then, all of a sudden, it cut. As fate which decides to stop the tide of things. It was late. Night had fallen over the Pacific ocean, Malibu, Los Angeles. The lights of the villa remained off. I have not turned them on. I didn’t get up, staying on the big bed, in the dark, with the echo of Amandine’s voice in my mind… in the momentum of her words for me… and the sound of waves, the rustling of the trees in the garden to my ears.

I stayed so, a long time with her, from afar… imagining, laying just like me, phone in hand, thinking of each other…

And I fell asleep. Exhausted.

Thursday

- «Hello Mr. Ribeira! You had a good sleep?» shouts a cheerful and energetic voice.

I open my eyes: A young woman, dressed with a blue blouse, is opening the curtains of a large window overlooking buildings. I see her in a blur. Like if I had water in my eyes. Quite an unpleasant feeling. One sharp thing is: she’s not Maria: No accent, well, not the same. Different voice too. She also calls me mister. Not a good sign…

- «How are you today?» she goes on, cheerfully. Her voice is a little dull. Or maybe I have something covering my the ears.

I don’t say anything. I don’t see anything. I desperately try to focus on the white ceiling. Again different, although smooth and unadorned. Perhaps because it is blurry, too. Anyway, it has all changed again. Gone, therefore, Malibu, the villa, the sound of the ocean’s waves, the large and comfortable bed… My throat is tied and my chest swells painfully to let out a long and deep sigh of despair. I look around me, to furniture and objects, blurred. I am laying now on a single bed, narrow, bordered by two metal bars, obviously preventing a possible fall of myself.

-« What the hell is that?…» I say, looking at the woman.

- «It's breakfast time Mr. Ribeira! You're not hungry today?» says the woman with a slight accent, probably Russian or Polish. In the fog, she approaches me, delving into what I assume to be the drawer of a bedside table, and she puts a pair of glasses on my nose. The blur vanishes and I suddenly see clear, almost. The fog seems to be blown away by some wind and I can make a relative focus on the woman’s face. Short hair, smiling, middle-aged, black eyes, a rather prominent mole on the left cheek… hands on the hips, standing in the centre of a not very large room. Finally, it was better without glasses. Sharp reality looks far worse. I go on:

- «Thank you. Not very hungry, no...»

- «We will do the clean up and after we go to breakfast, okay?» she says, speaking to me like child… She then lowers one of the barriers on the left side of the bed and grabs me in her strong arms… “But what is this woman doing?” I say to myself, letting her do so, quite incapable of any resisting act. Then she undresses me, top, then bottom too, from the pyjamas I wear. “What naughty woman can she be? Who is this chick, about to abuse me?” I think. Pyjama bottoms removed, I can see myself wearing some fleece pants, all white, gripping my hips: Looks like panties for babies! “I wear diapers! No, no way! Here's another something to cope with! Am I then a child? Nope: A child called mister, it doesn’t match really…”

- «Come on, help me a little Mr. Ribeira, otherwise we will spend the morning doing this! I clean you all and we go to the dining room, right? We will do the full dress later, alright?»

I answer nothing. Afflicted. Shameful. Humiliated. I watch these two bare thighs that are mine, Thin and white, bony knees. I can see the veins, purple. It's ugly. I'm definitely not a child and not-more an adult to commit any erotic process with: No, I'm just an old, a very old man. How horrible is that… It looks like a living corpse. I realise that I just received the gift of quite a bunch of years of a sudden, well beyond what I have experienced so far. Nothing to do with my Antoine’s seventy-five. My feet are twisted, deformed, from having probably walked too much, damaged by the weight of this body worn for too long, the weight of years overpassing the age limit I had well exceeded. It's horrible.

The woman returns with a towel and a basin. She rubs my belly with no lust or love. She pulls up, with her Latex gloves, the small piece of flesh that must be my penis, passes the towel underneath with a perfumed spray, then dries me with a second towel and sets another diaper, new and clean, before donning brown pants on my thin legs, then slippers around my deformed feet with pronounced halluxvalgus, to end with a shirt and a sweater. How ridiculous is that. No taste. No chic. Nothing! Anyway. Not much choice. I have to endeavour this cleaning and this outfit that I did not choose. Have to. But it's not me… not really.

- «Here we are!» She says proudly. «Well done! We will be able to go to lunch now. It's good like this?» she asks while holding my arm, which I catch while descending slowly from the bed. Ouch. My limbs are painful, like numb, my legs and my hips shake when having to support my carcass up! It’s all of my body which seems bruised by the stillness of the night. I can hardly move my feet. Never felt that way. Looks like I have osteoarthritis everywhere. This is probably the case, given the likely age of my host...

- «We will not take the chair this morning, will we?» said the blouse woman, looking upset at seeing my wince.

- «No no. No need…» I bravely reply.

- «Good boy. You have to walk a bit, huh?…»

I walk, grabbing her arm, with cautious small steps, and leave the room while watching around. There is a little desk with a small lamp above. A wheelchair in the corner of the room with a pillow on it, beside the curtains, the window. It's simple. Basic. No luxury here. I will get used to it. The man does not live in the same circles as Julia Roberts.

We are moving slowly, passing in front of a door: The bathroom, which seems very small, narrow, compared to the one in Malibu. Light is off, but I can see a small white sink and a chair made in white plastic too, with a garden hose or shower, above. Some napkins. It's scary.

We leave the room and pass along a long green-apple painted corridor, with a shiny lino. My steps are slow. Nothing I can do, I feel rusty. Stuck. Every move is painful, so I have to take some precautions, rounding each movement, in order to lessen the pain. With one hand, I hold a ramp along the wall and on the other hand, the blouse woman is holding my arm. We meet old people’s silhouettes, a bit haggard, like zombies heading to what seems to be a common dining room, at the corner of two corridors. Some others are walking in the wrong direction and are put back in the right direction by the woman at my arm. I look at my feet, moving forward hesitantly, as if each step was the first one. No doubt I am in a home, a retirement home. I am an old man who’s taken to the dining room, helped to walk properly by a nurse. What a hard transition with yesterday, the grass, the ocean, the small path paved, the flowers!… I am so far away from it now. What a slump on the scale of the welfare and happiness of life. The scale of life. Moving from Maria to the blue blouse… from the villa with swimming pool to the medical home for the bedridden… from California to…? But where am I, by the way?

- «Where are we?» am I asking the woman who’s firmly holding my arm.

- «Oh, well Mr. Ribeira… come on! You know where we are! We are at the residence, you know… Your home. Well, I guess you are a bit lost again this morning, huh? No worries. It's okay. You'll get a good coffee and it will get better alright?…»

- «So, it’s no longer Malibu right?» I say, silly, to complete, if needed to be, the obvious fact of my new and obvious migration.

- «Oh well, not really… you are not in Malibu...» she replies, with some amusement tinting her sentence. I hear her say, without much discretion, to her colleague passing: «He doesn’t get better! He believes he is in Baywatch now!» Her colleague laughs: «Yeah! And me I am Pamela Anderson!…» she concluded with a pretty loud Caribbean laugh.

All this does not make me laugh. I feel like sinking at every step, a little deeper into my nightmare. At least yesterday, I had a nice and pleasant background for crossing this new day off of me and more easily accept this nonsense. This delirium. Yesterday, I was in the sun, facing the sea, in a beautiful flower garden. Today is just the opposite: I'm in the shade, stuck inside this hospital, far from the sea, far from the sun. Today is going to be a long day, I’m afraid. Long and unnecessary. Moreover, it stinks now. For real. Someone must have defecated on the floor in a room, somewhere. It's disgusting.

To this odour, yet immediately superimposes a strong detergent scent. It’s a little better. But just a little. We eventually arrive at the dining room where are already installed a dozen of people, sat around several tables. Everyone is silent, almost. It is pretty quiet for a canteen! Only two women seem to have a chat. One says to the other: «No, but it’s because I thought we were in the evening… I don’t like evenings. That's why!» and then she repeats the sentence several times to another lady who says nothing, watching me, and then watching straight ahead, looking tired.

I sit at a table where my place is visibly reserved and say “Hello” to the three persons who are already sat there. Nobody replies. Well. The woman says again that “she believed it was evening, she does not like evenings, that’s why…” and we are all waiting for the meal, patiently, like old people… Silent. Old ones waiting for breakfast in the dampness of a sad dining room. Old ones waiting for death to free them from the prison where they’re locked in, at the end of their lane, at the end of their lives. What else to do? Just wait, staring silently at each other, until some caregiver brings a bowl of coffee and stale milk. We depend on the small staff…

Glasses are brought to each and every one of us, one by one, with their own set of pills. It looks like a whole organisation, well oiled. I personally have three pills: two white and one pink, which I have to swallow in front of the nurse who stays to check I properly swallow them. She does the same with the woman sitting at my right side. So do we. No choice. No doubt this body I have today, needs it. Without doubt it helps relieve these pains that assail me, like vices crushing my joints. If it can relieve me a little, I’ll take… They know what they’re giving to me. These are medical prescriptions. I have to trust them. And I have to keep my resolutions not to change the habits of my host. Not to interfere… Pills swallowed, she takes my glass, unsmiling, and goes to the next one. It is the turn of the lady in front of me, who continues to say that she believed it was evening, but she does not like evenings, that's why… Her neighbour is still not looking at her. She looks ahead, like in a blur. I thought she was looking for some comfort from the woman at my left, facing her, but she’s not. She looks ahead, beyond the walls. The woman at my left, is looking at her bowl, still empty. She’s staring at it without moving. She has no pill to take visibly. She is lucky. She doesn’t have to do the checking-swallow thing.

I am the only man at this table. I rigidly turn my head to look across the room and realise that we are only four men here, for fifteen women! One of the men, at another table, does me a sign of complicity while crossing my eyes. Probably a friend… I smile at him back, raising with difficulty my arm as well. Then, I take my position back over my bowl. I look at the face of the woman in front of me. Her short curly hair, blue-grey coloured, unnatural. No doubt she recently had some hair styling, with some improbable hair colour that old people have sometimes. She looks at me, upset a bit: She thought it was evening, that's why… She does not like evenings. She takes me as a witness probably expecting some kind of approval from me. I smile, embarrassed, quickly looking away through the window on the opposite wall, an old building, to avoid her eyes. Outside it’s grey. No more sea. There is a just a wall, and some windows, shut. I wish never to end my days in such a place… Is this the life of this poor man? This Mr. Ribeira?… Is it what he has to live every day, at the end of his long life? An entire life behind, to eventually end here… at this table with these other old women and men, also on their end-of-the-way. A life filled with years of hard work, projects, hopes, friendships and loves, active days and peaceful nights one after the other, to finish here, at this table, prisoner of his aged body, with sore arms and legs who stick and no longer able to live normally. Did he have children? Friends?… other than those misfortune mates, stuck here just like him. What happened to his life? What was it before? I don’t know. I don’t know him.

A caregiver ties a bib to the woman's neck sat at my left, still motionless, while another one serves me a big bowl of coffee with milk, as expected. Finally. Some dry biscuits are placed on a plastic plate put in front of me. A bit of what seems to be jam, kind of pink jelly, is flanked without delicacy on a separate small cup. Looks like a crap, but pink. A small chemical shit, translucent. It's not very appetising. I timidly ask some butter to put on the biscuits, as I normally do: Biscuits, butter and jam.

- «Come on, Mr. Ribeira… You know you can’t eat butter. It's bad for your health!»

Displeased, I spread, with slow and inaccurate movements, the pink jelly on my rusk. My hand is shaking. It's terrible. What a horrific vision this is. What did I become? I put the toast in my mouth and bite into it. It hurts me. I visibly don’t have teeth anymore. I bite out on the gums. Ouch…

- «Dip the biscuit Mr. Ribeira! Dip the biscuit in your coffee to soften it, you will hurt yourself otherwise, you know!…». Oh yeah, I'm stupid. Didn’t think of that! Much easier indeed, but it requires an additional gesture. And then it drips on the table. Not practical. I slowly grab my bowl, like in slow motion, and bring it to my toothless mouth. Yuck. Not sweet. After waiting some more minutes, I ask the woman in the blouse, busy at the next table, if I could get some sugar.

- «Come on, Mr. Ribeira… You know you can’t eat sugar. It's bad for your health!»

Well, how unfortunate am I. What am I allowed to still eat then? What am I allowed to enjoy? What pleasure of life have I still the right to get? What is left good for me if I cannot eat with my taste, walk my own way, talk with my friends? How would I still laugh? Bite. Run. Everything is forbidden for me. Have I only got the right to drink some coffee in lukewarm milk, not even sweet, like this, stuck on my chair?… Is my life narrowed to this? What am I still entitled to do? Stuck in the funnel where the river of my life now reduces to this narrow stream of moves… this funnel towards death. Some say that the rivers are tiny streams at their source. Are they also at their outcome? Diluted in the sea, lost. As evacuees, gently, by the dirty pipe of a sewage outlet, hidden down a beach where nobody goes. What’s the point in living under these conditions? I said to myself. Or perhaps is it the goal of all that to deny me the taste for life, will make me want to forget, abandon or hate it… and then hasten my desire to leave this life? Demotivate, disabuse, to accelerate my will to die. Accept this fact, hopeless and terrible, yet so very dreaded, before. Convince me that there is no place anymore for me here within this living which became sore. This life, where joy is now gone, where friends have already fled, where hope is banned. Persuade me that my departure will be the best solution, the relief of all my troubles, all my pain… and the sooner the better. In addition, it will make a bed available for the next on the waiting list: Someone at home, sitting in his kitchen maybe, in his familiar environment, so cherished, and now pending by force to a room in this penultimate place. Forced by his doctor, his son or daughter, eager to get rid of that parent now burden. Eager to get the apartment back and renovate it, rent it, sell it. Make something useful of it, at last. Get some money out of it. Someone still waiting without knowing that all of what is left from his life, furniture, paintings, clothes… will be forever banned and thrown in the bucket of passing time. Forgotten. Deleted. He will have to give up all that, and so much more. Probably will he not suspect, when passing the step of his door, his apartment where he lived many wonderful years, he will then leave his life, already dead. First step in the grave entering this home yet so welcoming with its apple-green painted corridors and glossy linos. A long hallway leading, at the end, to the cemetery, with the women in blouses as guard of honour.

Ô rage, ô désespoir, ô vieillesse ennemie,
N’ai-je donc tant vécu que pour cette infamie ?

(Oh rage, Oh despair, Oh old age enemy,
Have I lived so long just for this infamy?)¹

I recall these few verses which seem so take all their meaning here: This man has gone through a lifetime, braved so many risks, escaped so many accidents, illness, survived so many friends that he had to see passing away with a heavy heart… overcome so many tragedies, all that to eventually end here, alone and dependent, disabled in the daily pain of his worn-out body, as a pathetic award for his long journey through the years. Sad trophy. Sad victory.

- «You have finished, Mr. Ribeira? Well done. You go sit on the chair at the entrance, as usual, ok?» says the caregiver, touching my arm to help me stand up. She really speaks to me as a retard!

- «Yes.» I reply, not wanting to deviate from the habits of this Mr. Ribeira whom I don’t even know the first name!… For everyone here, it seems that I'm simply Mr. Ribeira. That’s all. The woman is holding my arm while I painfully straightened my legs, and we walk slowly with small and tight steps, towards the entrance of the dining room, at the corner of two perpendicular corridors, where stands a chair. She helps me to sit in as well… and I then find myself on the best seat to observe what’s happening in the house, well, at this floor. Sad occupation. Sad sight.

- «No, but that's because I thought we were the evening… I don’t like evening. That's why… I thought… I don’t like… that's why…»

The woman passes next to my chair without seeing me, attempting to catch another woman’s attention, dressed with ridiculous pyjamas. Another one, leaving the dining room, asks: «What time do we eat?» …and a man, following her with his wheelchair, says: «Oh, shut up!». She pretends not to hear. Or she really doesn’t. It would probably be better. Everyone seems to regain their household, their room. Slowly. Long walking queue of night-gown zombies. Some silhouettes go to have a sit in a small recess of the hallway at my left, about ten meters away: The TV corner. There are a few chairs, and old people sitting on them, looking up, surely a screen, I can’t see from where I am, or simply look straight. The wall. Talking, together or alone. Or who doesn’t speak. Waiting… for the next event, dinner or whatever may happen in there… Waiting for the worse to come.

A man stops, sat in his wheelchair next to me. I recognise him: He’s the man who smiled at me just earlier. The man who said shut up to the other woman. I smile to him as he does to me.

- «You okay, this morning?» as he stops at my side.

- «I’m okay. As much as I can be! Thank you…» I answer him, trying to smile with my toothless mouth.

- «You bet! Well… Fancy a ride in the garden? I'll go take a breather. It's stifling here…»

- «Thank you. I prefer to stay here. I have sore legs, you know. I will go down later maybe…»

- «Up to you grand’pa. I will go stretch my wheels, me!» he answers, while giving some arm strokes on his chair in the direction of the elevator. Looks like a funny guy this one! But nice. At least he seems to have all his wits, that's something around here apparently. Waiting for the slow elevator to arrive, he now covers his head with a round English hat and starts to sing! He turns his head and looks at me, smiling. Then he raises his eyebrows, sad clown playing the fool. Ding. The elevator opens, and he disappears, him and his hat, pushing on his wheels. Yes, a funny guy.

*

I stand there some time, watching the people going and coming back. Nurses are going from room to room. The one that came to wake me up, says with her Polish accent while passing beside me: «I take care of Mrs. Toutou and we will go do the toilet after, ok?». Don’t really feel like doing my cleaning now, at least not with her... but I don’t think this proposal allows contradiction. I guess I will have to follow her, one way or another… so I wait. I'm not in a hurry. Who is, here?

Luckily, hopefully, all this will not last too long, and I'm just passing through this Mr. Ribeira… just for a few hours, it's only temporary, for me. Like a movie that I would watch from the inside, as a privileged spectator. Well, normally, if it continues tomorrow as it did yesterday and I'm off again to other horizons… I hope so! Hope that this bloody roulette will not stop on this Mr. Ribeira… Don’t want to get stuck here! That would be quite a bad luck. As to be stuck, I would have preferred Malibu, the swimming pool, the large garden, the cocktails and the rich actress… A much better option really!

Until that next start, dearly hoped, I have to accept to be this old man who stands on his sore legs, whose movements are thwarted by joint stiffness, very disabling. Forest hikes are forever prohibited for him. He has no luck… anymore.

Still a spectator, I meditate on his condition. What a terrible feeling to be the prisoner of your own body, that cell, increasingly cramped and dark over the years. I wonder what he can feel, he, all day, all night, locked in his old age reached, touching with his finger the end of life, down this terrible wall which signs the end of it all, this dead end, long corridor of death, cul-de-sac with no possible exit. How long has he been here? Has he resigned or is he still fighting? Can he? How? Why? I don’t know. What hope to cling to in these circumstances? For what project to carry on? Does he still keep some hope in life, Mr. Ribeira, with his slippers dragging on this glossy but obscure path leading to such narrow prospects now, at this ultimate step of his life. Is he still living on the thick carpet of his memories, accumulated during such a long life, or does he still manage to keep some hope shining for the future? Has he still got a star to follow from the eyes in this dark night sky with heavy clouds, predicting some storm to come very shortly and the inevitable striking flash that will put and end to the night, to the life, all of a sudden switching off all the stars in the sky? What does he think, Mr. Ribeira, of all that? Mystery. I'm not him enough to know.

A man, younger, appears through a back door. Probably a stair for staff. He is smartly dressed, with real shoes. He wears a black leather jacket. Probably a visitor. Someone from the outside. Seeing me, he does a small detour to come and shake my hand. He probably knows me.

- «Hello! How are you today?» he asks me, kindly, holding my hand in his…

Two ladies are passing by. Before I had time to answer him, one of them says to the other:

- «Ah, this is the man who comes to see her mother. Laurent I think he's called. You come to see your mom right?» she says to him, peremptorily…

- «Right!» the man replies with a smile, before turning back to me. Glad of her smartness, the woman takes her partner by the arm through the corridor, repeating that She was right: that man comes to see his mom… and I can finally answer:

- «Not too bad. As much as it can be…» I say, my face sketching again what I think to be a smile at this friendly man, who just inquires about me. He seems nice.

- «Ah. Well. Not too bad it's still better than not at all...» he replies, still smiling, with a sympathetic air. «Your daughter will surely visit. Will she? Good. I leave you… I'm going to see my mom, said the lady. Good luck Mr. Ribeira...» He pats my hand, then goes away, at a rapid pace, towards the end of the apple-green hallway, and enters a room, at the very end. The room of his mother, then.

- «Theresa! Do Mr. Ribeira! I will finish Mrs. Toutou…» shouts a nurse to her colleague, the one that already took care of me. “My God, in what delicate terms these things are said…” I think, hearing this pragmatic verbal exchange between the two bloused women: Do myself and finish Mrs. Toutou! What a program…

- «Mr. Ribeira? Let's go?» launches out the so named Theresa, standing in front of me, one arm in my direction. I cling to it and follow her… -what else to do?- towards my room, the bathroom, the plastic chair, the water jet… shame. This Theresa decidedly can’t help dropping down my pants, but it’s definitely not erotic at all.

Cleaning done, new baby-pants on, she dresses me up and takes me to the wheelchair I had seen while leaving the room earlier that morning. «Here we are!» she ends, mission accomplished. My foot on the footrests, my hands on the armrests, my head on the headrest, washed and briefly combed by her, I look at her getting out of the room. «See you later Mr Ribeira! I’ll pick you up to go to eat, okay?». Then she shuts the door without waiting for my reply, and I find myself alone in this big and noiseless room. Alone, motionless on my seat, put as a furniture in the corner of the room. What a strange feeling. Almost not human anymore. Almost not alive anymore: I am just furniture. Standing there, among other furniture. Waiting for storage.

I look at my room. Sober, to say the least. Emptied of any charm, of any life. Only the strict minimum. Emptied of all those little everyday objects that you gather along your life to recall the good times. These trinkets, each and every one, telling their story, their stories… the magic of a past that will not return, but still that existed, though. These objects you caress with one finger full of nostalgia, you tenderly clean from dust, gifts from missing friends, gone loves, or objects gleaned during distant and now blurry trips. Most of them are just shoddy items, but priceless to the eyes of those who received them, found them, kept them for years. A part of a life, a career… They are milestones items. But none of that here. Probably too complicated for the household. Or deemed unnecessary. Maybe even not compatible with the success of your stay in the premises. The past of Mr. Ribeira has obviously been cleaned, washed away, without qualms, as he has been cleaned himself just now. Without love.

The walls are clean, frames and pictures less so, except for one, a reproduction of a portrait from the painter Buffet. Can’t be less joyful really: The face of a sad clown, face drawn, with his big red nose and his yellow hair. Maybe he cries. Hard to say. What a strange idea to have such a frame on his wall and nothing else but this! So, is that all what’s left for him? All that remains from his past life? The depressing face of this ugly clown… That would put me down for the entire day. It really does, thinking about all this, so I look away from the image.

The window overlooks a small street. It looks like a childcare nursery on the other side, with a small garden, playground for children. A childcare nursery facing a home for elderly! Weird face-to-face. Kinda cynical. The beginning and the end, which are facing each other, separated by the concrete ground where people are walking on the sidewalk, where a car drives away, indifferent.

I look at my bed, set in high position, probably to deny my possible idea of going back to sleep. My bedside table, with a small plastic alarm clock and radio, set to off. A neon, off too, on the wall above the bed. There is also a small desk with a magazine for animals lovers on it, with a beautiful cover of a smiling young dog. That’s about it. Some literature! Without a doubt Mr. Ribeira likes animals. He also likes to play cards, according to the deck of cards laid next to the magazine. Small pathetic activities remaining in the waiting room of death which is this home. I look at my old hands, my woolly slippers, on those grey plastic foot docks. Why this chair? I can still walk a little. Not easily, it is true, but still. Probably for not having to worry about my low balance: Sitting, I risk nothing. Insurance stuff. My remaining autonomy, depends then on this little silent vehicle, too. If I want to move, and I can do it alone, without too much risk. I do so, then, after a while. I loosen the brakes holding my wheels and push my arms on the hoops. I ride in the room, between the bed and the desk, heading for the door. Not easy to open it from the inside, when you’re in the chair: it gets stuck! The door opens the wrong way. I finally succeed in my difficult mission after a few painful contortions, cursing the complexity of the manoeuver which is thus imposed on me. All this is really not practical. It tires me. It takes all strength away. I have no more.

The corridor is dark. Some light, at each end, is reflected on the linoleum gloss. Almost pretty. A ghostly silhouette, passes by at distance, slowly, then disappears in a room. I walk towards one end, the corner of the dining room, three doors away from mine. I hear a woman shouting «Mummy mummy...» in a locked room. An old woman's voice, like frightened, that breaks her voice to call her mom. What’s going on? I painfully open her door. She is lying between the narrow barriers of her bed. Upright on one elbow, her white messy hair on her head, she’s crying, all alone, slamming with one hand on to the metal bar enclosing the bed. The shutters of the room are half closed. It's dark. Just the small neon above her bed is on, spreading its dull glow light on the room. How sad is that all. So terribly sad. I talk to her, ask her if she’s ok? She doesn’t hear me and keeps calling her mum while hitting the bed’s bar rhythmically while looking at the opposite wall, the window… Her eyes are haggard, empty. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if there is even anything to do… The poor old one seems so far away…

Theresa arrives behind my back. I recognise her Polish accent: «Hey, what are you doing here, Mr. Ribeira? This is not your room… is it?» and I feel strongly pulled back towards the exit, drawn from the back. The old woman lying away in her bed suddenly disappears at the corner of the wall. She still asks for her mum… while the bloused woman puts me back in the hall, facing the light at the corner of the dining room, then shuts the door of the poor old one who continues to scream, behind. Then she leaves, as if nothing had happened. All this looks normal. I ask:

- «Is she ok the lady?»

- «Yes yes… She always cries like that, you know. It will pass. She'll calm down and go back to sleep when she'll be tired of screaming like that… Don’t worry!»

She pushes me forward a few meters more, to get away from the Lady’s door then leaves me there, as well, in the middle of this off corridor. I see her going away, busy for some other more important matters to be concerned with, no doubt. I'm still on my chair in the dark hallway. The Lady whose door had been shut, keeps on calling her mom, in her room, alone, muffled behind her shut door, with her frightened voice that sometimes derails into acute sounds, desperate into her fears. I can’t do anything for her I’m afraid. I then push on my wheels in the direction of the dining room, bright landmark in sight within this dark nightmare. I try not to hear the woman screaming, hunt these images in my eyes of her in her bed… Push my wheels and divert my thoughts. I have to. I'll go crazy, too, if not. So I concentrate my thoughts on my own adventure, the events of the recent days. I really have to! After a few laps, far enough away, her voice finally fades. I continue to push on my arms to escape in thoughts of those shiny but dark corridors. I recall that long walk through the desert fields on the windswept island. The hills overlooking the sea. The small stony path that led me to Kirsten. The lucky Kirsten, who lives in her Little house on the prairie, alone and old, but free to watch the horizon, the end of the winding road between the mountains. The end of the winding road of her life, too, but without the white blouses. Alone with her little noisy mutt, alone with her memories, by her fireplace, the crackling wood fire, where slowly boils some soup, surrounded by her books. Free.

*

I pass the elevator door. I wonder if I have the right to go… Well, we'll see… I am pressing the call button. After a moment, ding, the metal door opens on an empty stainless cabinet with a mirror. I get my chair into it and press the zero button. The big mirror then sends me the hideous image of the old man, centenary as I now am, or not very far off. My face is bony, with a prominent forehead, wearing some grey scattered hair, bushy eyebrows and a large multiple dimensioned nose. My eyes widened, are sunken behind the casual glasses I wear, so are my lips in the closed cavity of my toothless mouth. He's an old man I do not recognise. He is not me. I know he’s not me. I'm old, but not like this one, yet. I stare at his face with desolation some seconds… the duration of the descent to the ground floor and the door reopens on a lobby with a row of aligned chairs with old women sat silently on them. I pass this immobile audience scanning me without saying anything. Fast as I can, I’m driving my wheels to a large glass door that opens on a garden. The lady at the desk, behind the counter, says a «Hi Mr. Ribeira!» to which I reply, satisfied, by a Hello in return. Well, obviously, she knows me and I’m allowed to move off the building, well, off go to the garden at least. Better than nothing. So I pass the docile large glass door that opens at my approach, and arrive on a concrete small alley that seems to go around a small park with tall trees, a duck pond and a few flower beds. The fresh air fills my lungs with a nice shot of good feeling. Probably I needed it! Breathe…

In the distance I see my wheelchair mate, sitting on the edge of the grass, eyes closed. He seems to meditate under his black hat. Funny guy. I approach him and then he turns his head towards me by giving me a little wave with the hand, inviting me to park my vehicle next to his. I park and, as he does, look at the trunks of tall trees, the green grass in front of us, without saying anything.

- «It's good that you go out a bit! You don’t go out enough my friend. You need to get some air more often. Breathe…» he says, finally.

- «Yes, it’s good…» I reply with my toothless mouth, not knowing what to say about it and how to say it. «It feels good to breathe…» am I feeling compelled to add to link my words to his.

The man says nothing. He looks thoughtful. Finally daring to disturb his meditation, I ask:

- «Do you have some family that comes to visit you, here?»

- «Come on! Nobody comes. I have no-one! You know that well. Get your head together stupid. I am alone. I’m just a twat...» he says, readjusting his hat over his head. «I should have had children for my old age… Notice, they are people who have kids right here, but who just never visit them. What an investment… Years to wipe their ass for shit! Nothing back.» he says, grumpy. «Ungrateful… You, you have your daughter who comes to see you, not so bad. She looks kind. Me, I have nobody. It's like that! I played wrong. Lost myself. Now I pay…» After a moment thinking, he adds: «I've spent my life on the road. Never had someone for real, someone for long. Well, never really. No time for that. Just unimportant adventures. Dates in hotel rooms. Stupid sales rep I was. What a deal! Thought I was the king of the world. I was all alone actually… and not smart enough to realise it. Now, no more trips. Terminus! My life is gone. I missed it. I missed it all. That’s how things turn sometimes. You can’t buy another ticket to the road again, backwards, huh?… Well, I say that I was alone, but I had a dog too, for a few years. A damn fine dog I loved. Merlin. a beautiful Golden retriever. They are smart these dogs you know? He also loved me motherfucker bugger mutt… I think of him all the time. Who else? We went out together to walk the streets, even at night sometimes. He was always ready to go for a walk. We had great lovers dinners too. I loved food as much as he did. We got along well, him and me, without even speaking. We could not have anyway. And then he died. One day I found him lying in the living room. Steep. I didn’t hear anything. He passed away during the night. Poor one. He left me without saying goodbye, like this. In the dark. In silence. What a sorrow! For me it was the beginning of the end… Anyway, that was a beautiful story, him and me, with Merlin. So was life: Beautiful, great, and ends with peanuts.»

I don’t know, again, what to say. He seems so bitter. So brave at the same time. I understand better his gruff. We resume our silence, eyes to the grass. He thinks about the children he didn’t have. About his dog. About his life, which passed too quickly and he failed to hold back. About the ticket he will not redeem. Me, I think about my day, about Amandine. I feel like I'm losing her as well. She doesn’t even know where I am. I left her on that Julia Roberts’s phone call and I have to do it all over again… I have to find the means to call again. To reach her back. I have memorised her number this time. I just need a phone. But there is this new factor to take in consideration: My new appearance. The chair. I'm definitely not at my best. I’m ashamed. Well, who cares? She will not see me anyway.

- «Have you got a phone in your room?» I ask to my parking neighbour.

- «A phone? What the fuck would I need a phone for? You funny…»

- «Ah. Yes. I understand. Sorry. But I would really need to make a call. Do you think that would be possible some way? »

- «What’s wrong with you today? Don’t know. Ask your daughter, her cellphone. I don’t have one myself anyway. Who would call me?» Then, after some thinking, he adds: «There's perhaps the 103. I reckon she’s got a phone. But I doubt she'll let you call: She is completely nuts!»

- «Ah… Good. I can always try. You show me who it is?»

- «Well… the 103! Toutou! The blue hair! You eat in front of her four times a day! I can’t believe it: You also begin to burn off the tuft?… to lose your mind…»

I laughed at his words. «Yes. That must be it…»

- «Ok, I’ll go back. I'm starting to freeze…» he says, annoyed, while moving his wheels with a clever manoeuvre that allows him to get back in the right direction. «See ya!» … heading towards the glass door of the lobby while humming an inaudible song…

I keep standing here for a while watching the trees and the few people who keep on walking slowly on this small driveway that loops in the garden. They do some circles, as do the animals in zoo’s cages. No doubt they have their number of loops, their number of steps… their personal records, small end-of-life challenges, to see how far they can still go… within this world, more and more narrow, balancing on this increasingly uncertain wire. I release in turn, the brakes of my wheels fronting the small concrete ledge between grass and walkway and get myself back to the entrance hall, following from a few minutes, my friend on wheels.

While waiting for the elevator, I’m thinking about the room 103… and the possibility to find a telephone. I then slide silently into the first floor’s glossy hallway and return to my room, I didn’t note the number, but I find it with no difficulty. “The 107. Good. I will not have to go far to see. Just a few doors away. By the way, what prevents me to go check it out right now? Why should I have to wait?” I think to myself. So I continue to push on my wheels, looking attentively to the door numbers, next to which a name is written. Ribeira... Well, that’s mine, on 107. I pass beside a Grimaldi, a Cochet, a Khadija and, finally, the 103: Toutou. The famous Toutou!² With a name like that, she can’t be such a bad person the Toutou… I try to persuade myself for confidence.

I knock on the door. No answer. I listen: nothing. Not a sound. Perhaps is she deaf? Dead? I say a «Mrs. Toutou?» hesitantly, without success, but a nurse who hears me and replies, passing her head through another door:

- «She's in the TV room Mrs. Toutou! What do you want from her?»

- «No, no nothing. Nothing important. It can wait…» and the blouse woman, now reassured, pops her head back in the room, from where it first appeared. There is a green light above the door to indicate her presence. Very convenient these lights: it will allow me to locate the auxiliary nurses in their activities… I feel a bit like Clint Eastwood in Alcatraz, preparing my escape from this prison where I am unfairly detained.

Checking again with a last glance that I am alone in the hallway and no one sees me, I softly put my hand on the door’s handle. I have a warm lucky feeling to see it’s not locked! Like a thief, I enter the room, and push back, as much as I can, the door behind my chair to half close.

The room of Mrs. Toutou is, in all aspects, similar to mine, a table and a sad clown picture less though. I find indeed (second warm feeling of excitement) on the bedside table, a white plastic telephone with giant keys for visually impaired persons!

I get quickly by the phone, my wheelchair’s tires squealing on the linoleum, and grab the handset. The tone is very loud! A telephone for hearing impaired, too, apparently. How impaired is the Toutou! Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s even easier for me to dial. I press the numbers of the magical code that will led me to Amandine… Once is enough to do so, despite my shaking hands. The advantage of the big keys. It rings… loud. I listen to the tone while keeping an ear and blurry eye to the door, the hallway, hoping that my presence hasn’t been noticed. Then, click, I hear Amandine:

- «Allo?»

- «Amandine? It's me. Antoine…» I am whispering with my old burglar’s voice.

- « … »

- «I have… I changed again, I transformed again, you hear me? It happened again: I am no longer Julia Roberts… but it's still me. Amandine, are you there?»

- «Antoine…»

- «Yes. It's me… The nightmare goes on! Can you believe it, I am now an old man, skinny and disabled, even with the mouth! Do you hear how I speak? It's horrible. Nothing like yesterday. It's creepy where I am now, but I managed to find a phone. Though, I mustn’t speak too loud as I call you from a room that is not mine… and didn’t ask for permission… I may get caught at any moment!»

- «Where are you?»

- «Well… Good question. I don’t know actually. Didn’t have time or means to find out yet. I'm in a retirement home, with nurses and surrounded by lots of old ones like me. That's all I know…».

A sudden need of crying invades me. My voice waves, but I hold back myself immediately: «It looks like a big city from what I can see by the window. There are large buildings outside, with a street in between. I even saw a children nursery downstairs…»

- «Ah. But you’re ok? You’ve got a funny voice indeed…»

- «Not funny… but indeed, I have. Yes, I am fine. I speak strangely not to make noise but also because I don’t have enough teeth to sound normal. It's really an awful feeling. Fortunately, I will hopefully not stay in this old man for long… Well, I hope... God, yes, I hope! Enough of me. What about you? Are you okay, since yesterday?…»

- «Yes. Despite a bad sleep. I had to write a paper this morning, but I can’t really… No way to concentrate on writing. I have not stopped thinking about you, about what is happening to you… to us… It's crazy. I don’t understand. I feel delirious… and I can’t tell anyone. My boss called me early this morning. She wanted to know where I was up to with Julia Roberts… when was I about to fly to L.A… “That it'll make a great article… as she was difficult to approach, therefore it will be great for the newspaper, and of course for my own career, etc.” The scoop! I don’t know what to say now. So I remained evasive. How to land on my feet without losing face with my staff?… If I say I’m not doing it, the report, they will think that I failed. I will lose credibility. It's damaging. If I say why, it will be even worse: They will think I’m crazy. It's even more damaging. I don’t know. But hey, I'm talking about my problems at the newspaper and this is nothing compared to what you have to endure yourself… Forgive me.»

- «No. I should myself ask you for forgiveness! I put you in trouble, even though unintentionally. This is what I feared. I knew it! Since the beginning, I never should have talked to anyone. In Tokyo, I should have stayed in my room, in my bed, waiting it out. Neutral. See no one. Touch nothing. I didn’t think early enough about the consequences of my actions… Not smart. I just wanted to understand, to wake up… And then, there was you, at the end of the long counter at the bar, like in a strange perspective, literally and figuratively. Like a star, like a dream within my dream. As if all had to happen to meet you as a result… for this reason only. As if everything revolved around you. Then… that evening, some made me leave again, slip away. It's incomprehensible. Why meet you, if I must leave you that soon? It makes no sense… Could it be just a coincidence lost in this absurd journey? A random chance? Do you believe in luck, you? »

- «I don’t know Antoine. I don’t know what to believe or not… Your life, your adventure, put everything back into question…»

- «Hold on… I hear some noise in the hallway… No. It's okay. Sorry.»

- «Your number looks like it is in France this time, I see on the phone's screen. This is our chance! I'll search where you are and possibly come to see you… You okay?»

Hearing this, I am both invaded with a wild hope, but also with great concern: Is this the right time? She'll see me in the pale old features of elderly, of that bedridden man which is not me… Is it a good idea and wouldn’t it risk ruining everything?… I do not know what to say.

- «You could?» I say, incredulously.

- «Don’t know. But I can try…»

- «But… you know, I am no longer the beautiful American man you met in Tokyo! Could be a shock: I'm an old, bedridden and toothless man in his wheelchair. It is not that pretty… I don’t know if that's such a good idea. Probably not. Perhaps it would be best to wait… Don’t rush things?»

- «You don’t want to see me?»

- «Yes, sure… sure I want to see you, but now I am an old man, very ugly and repulsive… and I don’t want to see that in your eyes. You understand? It's hard enough like that.»

- «Don’t worry about that. I will overcome these considerations… see the circumstances! And we must meet again, even only to try to understand… to find solutions, if we can…»

- «I don’t know… Whatever. Well, sorry, I really have to hang up! I hear someone in the hall. I'm going to be caught… I'll call you again as soon as I can… I kiss you. Miss you so much.»

- « … »

…and I hang up quickly, hearing people discussing beside the door. Two women. I fear that Toutou is in the batch, going back to her room, but eventually the two voices recede in the corridor, muttering inaudible objections. Phew! I get by the door and redo the same complicated maneuvre that I had to do in my own room to get out, cursing the same way on the non-ergonomic side of things. I put my head out, bowing my scrawny chest with sore ribs: nobody! The way is clear. I quickly leave the room and push on my wheels in the direction of the angle of the two lobbies that converge, a little further, to the dining room. I sigh to have been able to commit my mischief without getting caught. Phew. I slow down the pace, now away, and move slowly on the linoleum, gliding like a boat at night, on a glassy sea.

My mind gets calmer. So does my body. I whisper, remembering the words of Amandine, her proposal to come and find me here, in this sad place. No. It would really not be a good idea. The more I think of it, the more I'm convinced. It would be a mistake. I should call her back and tell her not to come. Tell her to wait. But I would love so to see her, to hug her, against me. So much. But what would this do? Would I just be able to, decrepit old man as I now am? No. I would scare her. Repulse her. It would be everything but natural. I can’t imagine it, how horrible it would be. It would do more harm than anything else… On the other hand, the opportunities to meet up are scarce, considering my situation and the risk I have to fly away again, at the other side of Earth… and if she’d had, indeed, the possibility to join me, it might be an unmissable opportunity to catch? A chance like we probably won’t have so often…

I don’t know what to think. I gather the positive reasons to meet her versus the negative ones, weigh the pros and cons… and all of this in the middle of all this nonsense I live for days. What a paradox! What a stupidity, as well. I think too much. If there is a lesson to retain from all this, it must be to focus on the present moment, keeping in mind its involuntary and ephemeral character. Focus on its magic, its unstoppable evidence. These days are a little like a concentrate of existence: As if every day was a new life, a new birth. A new death, too. I never decided to be that Mr. Ribeira, this morning at my awakening, my birthday… nor this Julia Roberts in her beautiful villa under the hot California sun, yesterday… nor that Steve or that Erik… as I never decided either to be born as that Antoine... appearing one day into this world, to La Chaux-de-fonds, bleeding out the belly of a woman I didn’t know before she became my mother and took care of me over the years. Educated me, loved me. Before our filial ties and I start to love her too. Who could have had this idea anyway: be born at La Chaux-de-fonds? Not that I am complaining about it, -I could have as well been born in a slum in India- but that idea is finally equally devoid of reason as the one to pop up in Tokyo or in Malibu! To wake up there, suddenly. To shake there my soul. Well, I think… Science is probably against me. But hey, science shows its limitations today: Those of our mind… What do we know of all this? What do we know about life, about death?

Will I discover, one day, the reason of my birth on this earth? Is there one? Aside from the hackneyed cliches about love between my father and my mother… their desire, one day, to make it, driven by some animal instincts of reproduction, irrepressible, leading, by well known biological laws to the creation of my embryo of Antoine… That still doesn’t explain the presence of my parents, themselves born from my grandparents’ desire, etc… an endless succession of chances, meetings and love-makings since the beginning of time! Well. I digress. These lustrous linoleums corridor’s considerations are leading nowhere. I will not discover the meaning of life today, at the door of this dining room. It's certain. I shrug. I am nothing. A nothing who does not understand why he's there and when will stop this lottery of hell, if it ever stops one day.

*

The roulette is launched, but the idea to remain in this version of me, named Mr. Ribeira, is thrilling me. As to have my ball stuck on a number, I would have rather preferred to keep being Steve, within this grand hotel. Waking up another morning into his fine leather shoes, or even into his white slippers and being able to go to breakfast with the wonderful young woman I met yesterday. Keep on building our budding romance, extraordinary. Magical. Grow it, as it was so short… so frightfully short. Truncated.

But all this still implies many questions with no answers: Was it the handsome mature man’s appearance, well dressed, American, stylish, wealthy, who had seduced Amandine? Or was it me? Me, Antoine? …disguised. Would I have been as successful if we had been introduced, under the same circumstances, with my small stature of old and retired Swiss man?… Certainly not. Probably she would not even have looked at me. Or, if she did, see me as a little man, maybe a staff member from the hotel, there to clean the carpet or something similar from my low condition. Maybe a nice grandfather, at best, lost there, whom to respond with courtesy. Anyway, I would never have had the opportunity to go to this bar, to cross her way, her eyes, Tokyo and all, me, the little retired man from Le Locle. No. All these questions are absurd. Like everything. It leads to nowhere. Who was I that night? Who am I today? How to disassociate myself from this envelope of flesh? I have a headache.

The dining room is empty. The chairs are close to the tables over which are already set cutlery for lunch. I have no idea of what the time is. Mr. Ribeira doesn’t wear a watch. There is no clock on the wall. Some nurses are passing, laughing behind me and enter a room that seems to be reserved for staff, locked with a code. I stay a while there, indecisive, stuck in my chair at this intersection without traffic. I eventually decide to regain the 107, my bedroom. Get isolated a little, as is if I wasn’t already isolated enough.

The room is quiet. The bed, up, mocks me in its inaccessible position. I would willingly lay down in it, but the maneuvre is impossible, obviously prohibited. So I stay on my chair, which I park in front of the small desk. I read the magazine about pets, with a distracted eye. I don’t really have the spirit to read articles about the reproduction of Chihuahuas. So I close it. Don’t want to play cards neither. I slide towards the window and, nose glued to the curtains, I look at the street. Nothing happens there. Some cars, randomly passing from left to right, a bicycle, two walkers that discuss together. I push my chair back and shut my eyes. My back hurts. Amandine's face fills my eyelids. Her eyes, so dark, so deep. Will I see her again one day? Stop the questions. My thoughts float toward my reflection of Julia in the large bathroom, her smile, the hot grass in the garden, the ocean away, the patio, Maria. Her cocktails. I think about it as I would recall a dream of holidays from which I would have come back too quickly, spent in a wink in the sun. Memories of fragrances, sensations, beauty. I think of the dolphins, too, splattering their own blood on the rampaging men, weapons in hands, massacring them. Horrible vision. Memories of ugliness, shame and disgust. Then my thoughts fade a little, intertwine and cancel each other. I just hear the silence of the large room. But someone is crying, somewhere in a nearby room. Shouts dimmed by the various walls to cross. Sounds of nursing home for the elderly. Casual echoes resonant on the high walls of this sad prison. The sound of the doors to death, slamming, perhaps coming to take one of us by its dark hand. Maybe me?… or the Toutou. Or anyone. Whenever. When in the right mood. Like that. Because the next on the list, because the time came…

- «Come on mister Ribeira! It's time to go to eat…» shouts Theresa, vigorously manoeuvering my chair while I wake up suddenly.

I slept! A while. Maybe one hour, maybe more… and I'm still Mr. Ribeira! My fear to get stuck here comes back. Hope not! Hope it will not last. But if sleeping is not the pass through gate, then what? «Damn. I'm not going to stay there forever?»…

- «But… Why? This is your place Mr. Ribeira! It is your table, as usual!» she says with her Polish accent, answering my probably asked aloud question without realising it, inserting myself in the empty space of the table, like a Tetris brick, facing mother Toutou and her blue-curly hair looking at me unhappy.

The nightmare goes on! My table mates look at each other without speaking, except Mrs. Toutou that suddenly says the loop sentence about the fact that she hopes not to have fish on her plate this afternoon because she’s disgusted with fish... and this since she’s a child! The woman at my right looks at me again, wryly, then absent, as if she would have been able to disconnect. The one at my left focuses on her cutlery. We all expect the service. It’s getting long. The pills and medics are finally brought, after four or five loops from Mrs. Toutou... who doesn’t like fish…

The breakfast scenario repeats, but in front of plates this time. I obviously wish that there will be no fish served. That would be a drama then. We wait. The ritual is well-ordered, established. Framed. It has to be. Order of things, almost military, reassuring. Some liquid is filling my blue plastic glass. Apple juice. Apparently I like it, seeing the bumper that is served to me! Then the solid is delivered on a dolly, locked in insulated stainless steel boxes. Everyone gets his. Different regimes, no doubt. Personally, I receive an unidentified mixture, probably some mixed meat with mashed potatoes around… all this without any salt… «because salt is not good for you Mr. Ribeira, you know it!». Luckily, Mrs. Toutou gets some chicken, or something alike. Not fish. She says nothing. She just eats, frowning. Nobody says anything in the dining room now, and after a few minutes, we can only hear the clatter of cutlery on plates, the sound of plastic glasses. A burp sometimes. A fart. A rattle. A spoon, falling on the floor. A remonstrance, launched as to a guilty child, by one of the nurses in duty. Lunch goes smoothly. It's long lasting. It's sad. It is tasteless, just like the mashed potatoes.

I look at the next table, the other white-haired heads, or blue or bald, like at the other side tables… My friend, the singer on wheels at his table, a little further, now silent and just as busy as everybody with eating his own mixture plate. Stomach’s call has no age. All these women and men are hunched over their plates, silent. Focusing on their painful chews, their swallowing task. The adventure of the day. All these women, these men, reaching the end of their own lives, their own stories… gathered in such a dull place to finish their remaining path together. Together and alone at the same time. Strangers to one another, yet related by a similar fate and forced to mingle. Equally sentenced, everyone guilty of not to have died earlier. To be still here. A little. Next to each other. On the waiting line… queuing in file.

The Toutou is the first one to stand up from the table, yogurt finished. She said she hopes that there will be no chicken tonight because she can’t stand chicken… I'm following her, after a few minutes, just letting her going ahead on the lino, to avoid having to undergo her conversation. She returns to her room. Me, to the elevator. Want to take some air, down in he garden… Need to breathe. Again. Feel the wind, smell the leaves, the trees. Feel life somehow…

My wheelchair buddy sticks to my wheels in the elevator:

- «Let’s get out of here!» I hear behind my back. I recognise his voice and it makes me smile. Always so much energy in that guy! «I’ve got some cigarettes out from 121. Can have a smoke somewhere out of sight in the garden. Let's hope that there is no one, not like yesterday! Always have to be a moron dragging his canes at the wrong time». He looks likes a real kid, thief, running away after his theft, excited and happy.

Ding. Better placed, he gets out first from the elevator, and I follow him on the garden path. He's faster than me. Matter of practice, he’s trained, no doubt. Matter of age too. I see him disappear behind a low wooden wall which defines the small vegetable garden. I'm painfully pushing on my wheel, and eventually get my chair next to his, beside the still green tomato plants. Proud, he takes off of his hat a tissue with two cigarettes, one of which is already half smoked, which he rekindles first, having screwed back the round hat over his head. He hands the other one to me. I declined the offer saying that I did not want to smoke today… He looks surprised:

- «Are you kidding me? It is well the first time… Are you sure?»

- «Yes Yes. Thank you. I’d rather not smoke, really!»

- «As you wish buddy… Me, I smoke it right away!» while pulling his first puff and exhaling to the sky in a satisfied breath.

I look at the man. What did he ever do to end up here? Caught between these walls, in this wheelchair, yet so valiant, in speeches at least, and in some of his actions. No children did he say. Nobody, then, to help with his disability. So straight to the nursing home to celebrate his -at least- eighty springs. Though, he seems to keep some kind of positivism and even a certain propensity to rebellion. Just a way to prove that he is still alive, that he's there, in full capacity to piss on the world if he wants to. Some very thin freedom in life, as limited it may be.

*

We stay here, still without speaking. I am looking at him. He looks at the trees, the lawn, the end of his smoking cigarette. He seems to think.

- «What are you thinking about?» I ventured to ask him in order to break the silence. He laughs:

- «About nothing. About everything. About everything and nothing. I tell myself how deep I’m getting bored… What else can we do here, but being bored? Huh? What else to do? Go back to bed and take a nap? …go to the afternoon bite, the four o’clock tea time with these dressing gown zombies, to get pissed in a group? What a program! Probably have to get used to it, but it’s kinda hard for me. Not for you? For God sake… we’re now in deep shit, I tell you my friend. Then, I think of everything and nothing, things I did, people I’ve met, girls I’ve fucked. Trips. Thinking about life, how it was before. Before it became this unnamed and ever growing shit, that inexorable drift to death in this linoleum hospice where we are treated like kids. As if we returned to the nursery, less hope, less future, despair added, frankly a lot…»

What to add to this sharp description? Nothing. I remain silent. He said it all. Summarised my fears in a few simple words, confirmed my thoughts. Nothing is left for old people like we are than to expect, wait, with all the others… and fill emptiness of days with trivial distractions, from meal to meal, fill afternoon snacks with silly games, with what’s left of mobility, agility. Linking the morning with the evening because that's how it should be. The order of things. Killing time before time kills us, for good, and we eventually reach the departure's top of the list.

As for me, I will keep my secret hope of escaping from this trap very soon… but I won’t tell him, obviously. We stay there for a while, at the edge of this grass area under the large trees. As for him, he finishes his cigarette, the second one, and then we go back to the elevator.

- «Do you play Crapette³?» he’s asking me while we move into the first floor hallway.

- «Well… yes, but it's been a long time since I last played! Have to remember the rules…» and we end up in his room, the 119, our two chairs facing each other, separated by a small wooden table from the 40’s, playing cards on a small green cover napkin that seems to be dedicated to this. It reminds me of the games with my grandmother when I was a child. The winner was the one who said Crapette the first, and this was often ending the game making faces, she and I being poor players who didn’t like to loose!

We thus spend some time playing without seeing time passing. At my third Crapette shouting, just like my grandmother did, he tries a grin and says he is tired of this stupid game. I was jubilant. Like me, a bad loser. I understand from his musty air that I’d better leave him alone to digest my Crapettes, and I get out his room, claiming a need to rest. He doesn’t say anything. Grumpy, he lets me go without even looking at me. What a pig's head.

Just when I get out his room, after the ritual and painful manoeuver of opening and shutting the door, I fall on the mother Toutou who says that «some did disturb her for nothing, she doesn't know this woman, and how unacceptable it is to bother people without reason… She will complain to management, etc.»… She is heading back to her room and then slams the door while keeping on grumbling, through the door, about the inconvenience caused…

Then I hear «Antoine? Antoine!» shouted from the staff stairs whose door opens suddenly. A second voice says: «No… you can’t access the floors like that miss, it’s forbidden!»… and I see my Amandine landing at the corner of the dining room, still calling «Antoine? Antoine!» with a loud voice… followed by the running blushing nurse.

- «Here!! I'm here Amandine! Right here…» while shaking painfully both arms on my chair so she can see who I am and where… The nursing auxiliary, to her chaotic pursuit of Amandine, turns to me: «Do you know this person Mr. Ribeira?»

- «Yes, yes… I absolutely do know her. She is a friend!» I rush to answer, looking at Amandine, whose gaze, dumbfounded, stares at me.

For a few seconds, I can read in her eyes just what I feared: surprise, disgust, even some kind of sadness… The shock of discovering my old age appearance, so far from the handsome man in Tokyo, with his luxury watch and fine clothes. I am no longer draped with his charm, his tender and assured charisma, his beautiful sharp face’s features and his low voice. She understands now. Quite a bitter surprise. However, she quickly resumes:

- «Antoine…»

The nurse, in the momentum of her unbridled Starsky & Hutch racing pursuit, keeps on holding her investigation aloud: «He is NOT! He’s Mr. Ribeira! Your name is not Antoine, Mr. Ribeira, Huh?»

- «What's the fuck is going on now?» launches my Crapette’s buddy poking his head out of the room, attracted by the noise.

- «Yes. Yes. It is… my middle name! Don’t worry, we know each other very well… You can leave! Thank you.»

After a moment of reflection, but apparently not quite convinced and still very doubtful, the nurse turns her heels back to the door, not without some hesitation, and returns to the back stairs, while announcing: «But you will still have to sign the register, when you leave, ok? … Can’t go in and out like that…»

The man at his door, stares at me without saying anything, stunned, then stares at Amandine… His eyes are gazing between us two, incredulous. He stays there, just to watch, desperately trying to understand, but obviously without any kind of success. All this doesn’t match.

- «I… The phone number you called me with was attributed to a certain Toutou Denise…» says Amandine. «The address was indeed this home, right in Paris… How lucky! I then rushed here and asked for her at reception for some help to find you, but she wasn’t very cooperative… So I thought I had to push through… I have then followed her and called you loudly! A bit shameful, but I knew you were here, you would hear me somehow… I was pretty sure!» she says, actually looking a little confused, but pleased to have been right, and a little proud too about her good move. I can read it in her eyes.

I am, my turn, short with words. How to express what I feel at this very moment? An indescribable happiness mixed with discomfort. Almost shame. She looks at me, staring at me gravely, sat on my wheelchair, and I am now ashamed, yes. She's standing there, her pretty silhouette drawing on the smooth walls, like a dream to me, sat like a little bundle of bones, shapeless, useless. She, has not changed… still beautiful and young, arrived to find me, me, the ugly old man. She finds me so. I am ashamed and full of hope at the same time. She is a fairy came to free myself from some kind of evil spell. A fairy, so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful, contrasting with the ruthless ugliness tattooed with the seal of time on all these faces around, staring at us, stunned. On my face too, old Ribeira toothless and decreased. A fairy who must put her beautiful and pure hands in the putrid mud of my new condition, her beautiful light dress getting dirt at the sight of my hollow wrinkles. A fairy who would be into the wrong dream, a fairy out of place in this dark corridor leading to me where she is standing now, looking at me intensely. But a fairy, now real in my life. In my dream.

I have to fill with some words the awkward silence of our meeting… I mumble:

- «…I am so happy to see you Amandine… but, well… you see… see what I now am… I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to see me like this… It's terrible.»

- «Stop saying sorry… Don’t be ashamed. It's not your fault. Wait, and let me have a look at you…» A moment passes. We stare at each other, motionless in the middle of the long corridor. She scrutinises my face. That confuses me. My Crapette’s opponent is still there, holding the door open with his chair, comfortably sat to watch the performance of our unlikely meeting. He seems not to fully understand what is happening here. How could he?

«It's funny, but I can recognise you...» she says eventually. «I can’t really explain how… Your gaze, or maybe the way you talk, your words. Despite the handicap, I know it's you. It’s like an amazing puzzle with pieces out from different sources but which eventually fit perfectly. You're not the same man, not the one in Tokyo, it is true, but you're still the same person… that’s for sure. I know it. I can feel it. It is strange. I am today facing an unknown old man, certainly, but it's a bit like meeting a relative I had not seen for a long time. Your stranger’s face, I seem familiar with, beyond the lines, beyond physical forms. I figure, if I had to cross your way, somewhere, in the street, with a new look, I’d recognise you… I don’t know why, but I am convinced of that.»

- «Really? Oh. Thank you. I was so afraid you would you run away with this vision of me and, more generally, you’d wish to escape from this nonsensical story in which I've been embedded into… and I’ve embedded yourself as well! I could understand, you know? »

- «Yes. It could be one or the other: Run away and pretend it never happened, or accept this crazy story and let me leap in its incredible whirlwind. Try to understand it. Defeat it. I don’t think I could ever act again as if nothing had happened now… It's too late. I let myself being seduced by what I thought to be this handsome man in the hotel bar. I shouldn’t have started to play his game when he narrated his crazy story… It's too late now. You told me your life, your adventure, and I believed you. As crazy as it may sound. I’ve let myself be captivated by your words. By you. I let you speak, and I entered into this adventure… I thought you were probably a great talker, a cruiser, but this, your story, your pace, was so incredibly romantic… and sounded at the same time, so true. Every word out of your mouth was like music notes flowing from a magical melody, taking me with it. I wanted to believe your story. To believe in this music that suddenly permeated my heart. So I couldn’t resist. I entered without trying too hard to analyse the Cartesian way. Without seeking some logic in it. Just let me fly away and see where it would lead me. That’s how love stories should start, right? Let oneself embark on a journey along an unknown river which you don’t know where the end will be, the fall… Probably also my journalist skill, my love for stories, for tales. How to miss out on such an adventure? Shut this door just open? No. I couldn’t have… And you were very attractive, I must say…»

- «Yes. I was...»

- «Excuse me, how silly! I did not mean that…»

- «See? You apologise too!» I laugh with my toothless mouth. «Don’t worry. All you do is tell the truth, and I thank you for that… I feel really lucky to have met you. No doubt another one would have slammed the door at my face, as attractive I could have been!… with my white slippers.» Amandine laughed:

- «Probably so!» She looks down and sees my slippers. The new ones, for the old one. I blush again. I feel ashamed. I try to hide my shame with words, to make her eyes rise up to mine:

- «Well, can we go outside? It will be quieter to talk…» I say to indicate, with a slight inclination of the head, the man’s presence at his doorstep staring at us. She continues:

- «Yes. Good idea! Can you go out the house? I saw a coffee at the corner. I owe you a drink!» while grasping the handles of my chair.

…and we're both quick in the elevator, then down at the reception, her behind me, pushing me towards the exit, as if she was a relative of mine, coming to visit me.

- «I go out a little while!» I say to the attention of the young woman at her desk behind the counter.

- «Ah. Do they know about it, upstairs?»

- «Yes, yes, don’t worry…» am I reassuringly saying, cleverly hiding my lie with a toothless smile. «Just leaving a short while…»

- «I’ll bring him back soon, I promise…» adds Amandine to give more weight to my light lie.

- «Ok. Good. So, see you soon, Mr. Ribeira… Have a nice ride!» she says without further checking… reassured. «And don’t forget to sign the register miss when you come back, okay?» she says to the attention of Amandine who nods in return.

*

We are going so, along the small street, towards this little café at the corner of the streets… and sit at its terrace, where a young man with a white apron comes to take our order, smiling at the sight of this pretty young woman and her grandfather…

It’s sweet. So sweet to be there, in the sun, sitting next to Amandine. My ally. Feel a little out of my nightmare, finally escaped from the dark house with the smell of death. This prison for all these elderly people, already imprisoned in their isolation, double sentence. Double trouble. Double walls. But walls that I managed to overcome thanks to the complicity of Amandine. For a moment at least, given to Mr. Ribeira through these few moments of freedom. A few stolen moments over death.

Can he just feel it, Mr. Ribeira? Can he feel the sun on his skin, or the taste of this fresh Porto, although prohibited, flowing down his throat? Can he see the beautiful look of Amandine smiling at him/me? Her tender look of compassion for us? The deep smile in her blue eyes, its light. Will he remember all this if I leave tonight and he goes back to the fragile commands of his life? Mystery. Probably not. How could I know… Does Julia Roberts remember my visit? Or Erik? Or Steve? Are they back in their lives, taken their places, in order?…the order of things. I should contact them, my turn, to see… but impossible. How? And after all, what would be the point? My passages are so short. I prefer, at least now, to spend my time with Amandine, my light in this dark tunnel. My escape. My hope. Somehow will I get, throughout my uncertain future, the key to these questions?

Meanwhile I enjoy, for two, those moments of sunlight at the terrace… Amandine is there, in front of me, incredibly beautiful, incredibly here. I am all for her. I listen to her telling a little about her life. Our phone conversation from Malibu goes on, deepens. It's so strange. Both of us, here, this terrace, this Mr. Ribeira. Me… This feeling that grips me since we met, so far away. Our kiss while I was another. Our inability to repeat the experience, toothless old man, in his sad and inexorable decline. Disgusting. Platonic relation today, obviously.

She talks about her work again, the newspaper, her boss, her photographs, her trips. Tokyo where she already has been many times and where she never met anyone but Japanese guides bending backwards on each of her demands to satisfy her professional queries. No other man with white slippers. She talks about her Provence where her parents live and where she has an apartment overlooking the sea, Marseille, Aix. A touch of french southern accent pearls indeed on her words, her laughter. It's cute. It's singing, but not too much. She also tells me about Paris where she has a base camp, as to say, in the sixteenth district and where she comes so often that she almost feels she lives there. But she misses the cicadas, the nature, the easy living. The climate. Can’t really cope with the Parisian speed. She tells her wonder at the shadow of a green tree’s leaves illuminated from above. Her love of countryside, of sea. She thus opens to me, without retaining her words. No filter or discomfort. As would do a child. I feel her intense desire to share all this with me, this and many other things… She doesn’t speak about her unrequited love, her past relationships. Good. I don’t want to know… I'm just guessing it, in her eyes, her distant gaze… plus it’s not my business. I myself give her some scraps of my life, before, my real life as to say, when I was me, Antoine. In bulk. She will sort it out later… I describe to her Les Brenets, my house with the large terrace and small garden where flowers and various salads are mixed, at the forest’s threshold. I tell her the road to Le Saut du Doubs, the waterfalls, road under the tall pines in the forest with sweet scented mists, overlooking the river below. I tell her about my friends, Daniel and Pierre, our hiking weekends, our laughs. A simple life of retired, insignificant, but filled with good moments and friendship, time passing and fresh air. Lonely life too, a little. Bachelor.

Our passions are not so distant too, and even melt through our love of nature, its simplicity, its beauty without cheating. Our bubbles are joining, merging, gradually. We are searching for each other… and are finding each other… beyond our figures, so different, our contrasts, our antipodes: she, the girl and I, the old gentleman. She, Amandine, and me, Antoine.

*

In the flood of words that blend between alcohol and coffee, we remain so until the end of the day, the nightfall. Time passes without measure. We feel so very close. It's magical… unreal, like everything else. It's wonderful, like nothing else. Nothing I've known. But I suddenly feel like a liquid heat that spreads slowly in my child-bed. If that's what I think, I'm peeing and some dirty odour may ruin the magic of this intense reunion. I am ashamed. But what can I do? Fortunately, she’s saving me from this sordid epilogue, after having cast a glance at her watch:

- «Damn. It's late! I should probably take you back now, right? They will worry, I think…»

- «Yes. You're probably right: They must worry. I am not free of my actions or my decisions right here, alas… well, Mr. Ribeira isn’t…»

- «Yes…» she sadly agrees.

- «You know, I have the feeling that I have to respect this man. I have already thought about it. If I don’t behave right or do some bullshit in his life, I don’t know what will be the impact for him… and for me too by the way. Changing a small detail, replacing or moving a small thing, could cause a great upheaval. I don’t know. I think. I imagine. See, just these glasses of Porto, this coffee, I shouldn’t have!» She laughs:

- «Okay… I bring you back»

…and we leave this delightful terrace, and ride the hundred meters separating us from the residence’s gate… where I have to be… Bringing back, too, this poor Mr. Ribeira to his sad refrain… his glossy linoleum corridors, the dining room, the tasteless snacks, to someone who can replace his child-beds, to his infamous toilet… Bringing him back to Mrs. Toutou and his Crapette’s buddy. Bringing him back to his life, or what remains of it. To his death, to come slowly, surely. Bringing him back to his expectations… and putting him back into place, quietly, as if nothing had happened, as a trinket put precisely back into its trace of dust it was taken off for a day. Let him rest, gently, casually, and let the life tide flow for him.

Unwillingly, I ask her to leave me there, at the door, and to go without looking back, if possible. «We'll meet again, I'm sure… I'll call you as soon as I can!» I feel compelled to add, to reassure her. To reassure myself too. Allow her to let me go. Her hand takes off of my shoulder. With the back of two fingers, she caresses my cheek with a gesture of infinite tenderness. Sitting in my chair, I can see her eyes shine a bit, getting wet. Then she goes, without looking back, as I’ve asked her, and disappears really fast at the corner of this street invaded with night. That’s it. She left. She is far, again. My old eyes are blurred with tears. Glasses can’t help. The street disintegrates into some abstract shapes where lights of cars are breaking up the dark sky. The sidewalk collapses. The world liquefies. That’s the way.

I hold myself back and ring the doorbell, while wiping my face with the back of the sleeve. I wait for the gates of the jail to open, repentant escapee who returns to his jailers. The street is empty. The trees in the garden, motionless. Impassive. Unconcerned with my pain. A carer suddenly comes to meet me, walking eagerly, looking not happy… and I'm getting so copiously told off as she bluntly pushes my chair towards the elevator and then to the dining room, empty. The meal is over for half an hour and it is with discontent that she finally gives me the warm tray intended for me. Ashamed laggard.

- «You cannot leave like that, without saying anything…» she repeats. «What about if something happened to you, huh? It would have been my fault, my responsibility!… I was about to call the police with your nonsense! Just about! Do you want me to get fired, yes? And the entrance book was not even signed! Now, take your pills.»

I apologise profusely and promise that it will not happen again, but it seems to have no effect on her bad mood. My last spoon finished, my last pill swallowed, she brings me back to my room, puts me with not much care in pyjamas then in between the bed’s metal barriers. Boom. Locked. Without asking me, she removes the glasses off my nose and puts them in the bedside table’s fuzzy drawer.

- «Here you go! Goodnight now. Sleep! I'm late because of you. That's clever! All this is your fault…» she adds while shutting the door behind her, after turning off the light without asking my opinion, of course. But I don’t care now: Amandine is in my head, in my eyes, in my heart. I don’t need anything else. Just the memory of her. Her face smiling to me. I saw Amandine! We met each other! The unthinkable has come true. She was there, in front of me, for real. Second meeting. That's wonderful. I haven’t lost her! I am happy. I smile to the ceiling.

*

I’m back in that same bed I left this morning. Today’s loop is complete. Laying in the darkness of the room, just lit by some orange light, from further in the street, I keep my eyes open a little more. The lights of a passing car are, times to times, caressing the ceiling with a slow light stripping. No doubt the usual nightly sight for this Mr. Ribeira, who sleeps with me, elongate his painful bones. Silent show. Smooth night rhythm of light waves, orange stripes, fuzzy and abstract into patients shadows. Reassuring choreography, bright and liquid, to get carried away, sleeping, have sweet dreams. Last fireworks in this extended life. I hear the distant memory of a Bach prelude, the one in C major. It rises within myself by little aerial touches and captivates my mind, floating in the air, like a weightless feather... It surrounds me with its timeless melody, sweet and full of melancholy… My eyes are now shut. A woman screams in the distance, in another room, and then remains silent. The piano notes slowly fade through the night. It's beautiful. It takes me away, flies me away. And I'm falling asleep. Slowly.

Amandine came.

Friday

Like a barrel, a slow and steady move is rocking me as I’m awaking. A background noise, monotone. It looks like a machinery, an engine. It's dark, almost. Just a small ray of light passes through what appears to be a curtain stuck to a small window at my right side. I sit up suddenly and hit my head on the ceiling, which is visibly near. It's like I was cramped in a box, a coffin. I barely have room to stand on my elbows. But there are blankets, sheets: I'm in bed, a bunk, in a very narrow cabin. Pretty tiny indeed. At my left, another curtain hangs and gently ripples the entire length of the mattress. I slide it away with a wave of the hand. It opens on a corridor, dark and narrow, too. Where am I this time? In a sleeper train? No. The noise isn’t like a train. It's cozy. Padded. None of the recognisable noises of steel wheels slamming rails in their joints on a regular beat. I can’t hear it. But it all moves, that is for sure. I'm in a moving thing… Well. New awakening. At least I left the elderly home’s room. “Ciao Mr. Ribeira” I am whispering as I pass the legs outside of what appears to be my bunk, resigned to discover the location of this new episode of my improbable adventure. The good news is I can see clearly now! That’s a very good point that fills me with joy!

A soft dim light illuminates a narrow corridor where are facing two rows of curtains like the one I just moved away. Other berths, on two levels then. One is open, empty. The sheets inside are loose, like mine. I'm at the highest level. On the floor, some round small LED lights in two straight lines are illuminating the way. I get down, holding my bed by its edge and set a foot on a plastic floor, warm and smooth. It moves a little, like if I was drunk. I’m obviously not. There I stand, wondering which way to go. I decide for the left door. A small sliding door heads to a small living room with black leather seats positioned as a U around a small table. Windows encircle the U as a small room and open the view on a moving motorway, but in reverse, through the dark mist of a cold early morning. A landscape almost black and white so the colours are absent. The road below, stretches at the rhythm of dotted white lines which are drawn on. I'm in a coach. No doubt. A furnished bus… quite luxurious, and traveling at high speed on a four-lane road.

I watch for a while the dark treadmill of concrete fleeing towards the horizon and waving his long curves. Then I sit on the leather sofa beside a polar blanket, a book of Hemingway and one red sock, isolated, lost, ridiculous and unnecessary, just like me. There is also a guitar, standing in front of me, abandoned too, over a stack of papers, some poems or song lyrics handwritten, I don’t know… Two cans of beer, empty, are ending the picture, standing guard on the table, defying a third one laying on the floor. I look at my legs: I'm still in my pyjamas. Like yesterday. But I am not the same man. Not the same pyjamas, more refined, kind of richer. It's funny. Some men still wear pyjamas then, more than I’d thought… Yes, another good point: I'm still a man: I’ve checked that right away, with my left hand, nimble and worrying. A natural reflex to grab my dishes. How comforting to find they were there! Phew… Again: it's always that!

Just like yesterday and the day before, I need some time to reach out and activate all my sleepy neurons, put them in the same direction. Put everything back into place as much as possible, given the situation. Useless, however, to ask myself too many questions, I know: the answers will come naturally as I move forward in my new role. No need to rush things. But waking up, inevitably, the same questions, material, practical, basic, necessary are coming back to me: Where am I? Who am I? Am I a man? a woman? An animal this time… Well, yes, indeed: why not an animal? Why should I wake up only as a human? This question, first thoughts as I wake up, still misty, suddenly freezes my blood: And what if I’d wake up tomorrow, one day, as an animal?…Why not? Could be a cat, lying on a soft couch purring under the caresses of a beautiful woman in silk negligee, in the privacy of her bedroom?… It wouldn’t be so bad actually, at least for a day… It could also be a rat, in a putrid sewer? A cow, chewing tasty grass in her field… or worse, not chewing, in a slaughterhouse hangar ready to be suspended by one leg and slaughtered for meat? I sweat. I chase this idea with some more exotic one, but hardly safer: A gazelle, lost in the bush in the middle of hungry beasts? Or, less dangerous but more creepy into a fly, rubbing its front legs with joy, landed on a creamy dog shit, or on the flange of a filled trash smelling waste? Huh? Why order, or rather to say disorder of things, should it restrict me to the only condition of human? Everything is possible in this great chaos of the impossible… Waking up in human is finally pretty fine by me… The adventure is spicy enough like that.

I shake my head to complete my awakening and extricate myself from these weird thoughts about my possible reincarnations. I move on, walking in my beautiful striped pyjamas, barefoot, between the dotted lights on the floor, holding on to the walls in the dark corridor with aligned curtains masking the berths where I can hear some snoring. I look at my feet: They seem pretty young. I notice no pain. It's a good point.

The ending of the cramped corridor heads to another seating area, empty as well, and a kind of dressing room with some clothes hung on hangers, swinging, vertical, at the whim of the bus movements. At left, a bathroom, tiny, in which I do not enter to avoid discovering too soon my reflection. To the right, a narrow staircase leads the lower level, guided by other dotted, dim lights under the ramp. I am following these lights to another corridor bordered by a counter, with a coffee machine set above, a toaster surrounded by crumbs and some glasses attached to the wall. A gentle coffee smell comes to my nose. This must be the kitchen, which opens onto another room with more leather seats facing more windows to the outside. Now, it does look like a bus! A luxury bus, but a bus still, with seats and windows.

On one seat, sits a man with long hair, wearing glasses, reading a music magazine while drinking a cup of coffee with his left hand. He looks at me and says, with a smile:

- «Hey! You're up pretty early today!»

He looks friendly and obviously knows me. He speaks English. I don’t even think about this, just a fact… My brain seems to be formatted to it again. Like with Julia: It seems to be my natural language.

- «Well, yes. Not sleepy anymore. Thirsty too…»

- «Make yourself a coffee. There is still plenty. It’s going to be a long day again… I'm reading an article about Mike Stern. Just insane!»

As this is not supposed to call any answer, I say nothing and turn my back to him in order to activate the machine and try to put the coffee capsule in the device just like putting my ideas and my attitude to come in my mind. I will have to play my new role again when I will have found out about it, do as if nothing had happened, as if I was used to all that… while gleaning some information allowing me to make a picture on where I came this time. Well, in a bus so far, heading to somewhere with a guy who apparently knows me, and other people at the upper level, still asleep in their bunks. Given the number of places, I would say ten passengers maximum. This is not much for a big bus like that, but still a lot for me to handle at once. Especially in a small space where I have nowhere to escape. No way to get out. I have never been in such a vehicle, which must be reserved for a very specific clientele which I’m not a part of, normally. The only bus in which I can ever board in, are the yellow postal buses, to go to La Brévine or Neuchâtel. Nothing to compare with this. I wonder: Who uses this kind of transportation to travel? Rich people, or fairground perhaps, luxury gypsies? Circus staff? Or tourists? Do cruise buses exist? No, I doubt it. What a funny idea! Maybe then one of those tour buses for musicians?

«Yes… well done!» I managed to insert this damn capsule! The coffee is brewing. Seeing the face of my new friend, sat and reading his article in a British or American rock magazine, I would opt for this rather musicians-on-tour bus option. Anyway, let's see. The last drops of coffee fall into my cup. I turn off the machine and turn back to the guy, pretending I’m relaxed:

- «Nice reading?»

- «Yeah, absolutely! Did you know he had played with Miles Davis?… not mentioning the others, of course… What a career! Unbelievable. Must say he deserves it. This guy is like a God!»

- «Yes. Sure!…» I reply, as if I knew the musician he is talking about…

- «This guy is a model! Well, for guitarists like me at least… There's nothing to say. You just bow. Deserves some respect. You watch, you listen and then you'll cry… or you go back to your guitar and you work like mad to attempt to reproduce his phrasing, his riffs... his virtuosity, mostly without success!»

Ok: The guy is guitarist. That’s a tip. He’s having the appropriate face indeed, with his long curly hair. It fits with his image. He goes on:

- «Do you have a model yourself? I mean, as sax guy? Is there anyone, a musician you admire over all?»

Second tip: I am saxophonist! Bloody hell. What will I do with that?… a saxophonist in a tour bus with a guitarist… The bad smell of some concert to come rises to my mind... It stinks, frankly! Cold sweat. Couldn’t have I rather found myself as an electrician? Something simple to manage, something I can do… something within the range of my little knowledge… No. I had to fall on a musician… Me, who has never set a foot on a stage! If it’s true, it’s going to be a disaster! I will ruin his show, him and his cronies! Maybe his entire career, who knows? It will be a shame. Nobody will ever again take the risk to hire him again… No, impossible. Can’t do that. I have to avoid this at all cost, even if I have to run away, which will in any case not be very good for his future reputation! So what? Say that I am sick? Not credible. But hey, I should really calm down, maybe nothing of this will happen. Let's just wait and see. Maybe it is completely different. I play the saxophone, but I'm there just to make coffee, carry the bags, then something simple… and not to play a concert!

Trying to turn away from these annoying perspectives, I dig my memory in order to bring back some famous saxophonists names, and answer the question. Fortunately, my poor musical culture still allows me to mention a few. Without taking much risk, I start by the most popular, without a doubt:

- «Charlie Parker…»

- «Yeah. True…» he says with an agreeing look. My answer seems to suit him. I'm doing pretty good on this one, and I then take the opportunity, boosted by this regain of self confidence, to go on:

- «Do you know what time we will arrive? Do you have any details?»

- «No. Sometime in the morning I think. We’ll go to the hotel first before going to the soundcheck this time. A good bath will do us good, right?… as will a good night in a real bed! It won’t be a luxury!»

I put myself in a big leather chair, kind of business class, and watch the landscape scrolling behind the window. I feel cold. The air conditioning must be set to max but the heat of the coffee is infused into my body from my hands gripping the cup. I will not say another word. My silence doesn’t seem to bother the hairy guy, busy reading his magazine.

*

Outside, it's dark, grey and dull. It is early morning, very early, a little hazy… The kind of mornings that make you want to stay home, go back to bed. Not to go out. Trees are scratching the low clouds at a constant speed. Meadows alternate with fields with short grass with here and there some buildings, gas stations. Where are we going? Amandine's face appears on the window’s cold glass. She seems to scroll with the landscape, blurred. She seems to leave. She’s sad. In thoughts, she seems to be angry at me. Her brows pucker between the black trees. How not to agree? I took her on a nonsensical love affair… and I have to leave her every evening... with the inability to make any promises, to give her any hope, even the simplest: the one to see her again. To find her. How could I do that, while I don’t even know myself what to expect?… and if I'm going to find myself back as well! How to give her a date in this great fog where we’re getting lost?

The landscape, misty too and monotonous, sliding behind the glass, finally got me. I pretend a need of extra sleep to take leave of my new mate. He didn’t even look up, absorbed in his reading, and mutters what appears to be an endorsement. I put my cup, empty, in the small stainless steel sink counter, after spilling a little water on it and go back to the narrow staircase and the upper level. Julia Roberts’s face crosses my mind. Her eyes. My bunk is open. I slowly slide the curtain below and find, not a sleepy fellow, but some musical instrument cases, seeming to rest, too. A large armoured suitcase is open and shows two gold saxophones with various bits of hardware and cables, while a third one is lying at its side, its glossy copper gently shining at the weak light of the corridor. Nice instruments that unfortunately leave no doubt about my activities: I am a saxophonist... Sigh.

The curtain of the next bunk opens suddenly by itself, and the smiling face, though crumpled to sleep, of a second guy who barely wakes up, shows up:

- «So? Dry? They breathed well?…» he says, amused.

- «What?»

- «Well, yes: your saxes… they dried well last night? You always say they need some breath at night, after the gig… moisture, etc. So? They are OK today?»

- «Ah… huh, yes. It's all good!» I say, pretending I know what he’s talking about.

- «Well, great! Me, I'm still not completely dry yet, if you know what I mean… I'll go get myself a nice coffee to get back in line!»

Disheveled and wearing a shirt and underpants as wrinkled as his face, he goes slowly, hitting his shoulders on the two walls, one after another. I close the curtain on my saxophones and finally lie down on the bunk I left earlier, when knocking my head. I wrapped myself into sheets. The feeling of warmth under the covers relaxes me a little and I go back to sleep fairly quickly, lulled by the monotonous purr of the bus.

It’s noon when I finally emerge from my second sleep. Still in the bus though. Still stuck in the small berth with low ceiling. I can hear voices talking, laughter. It comes from below. Lower level. The corridor is less dark. It is illuminated by natural light that comes from the small rear compartment. I drag myself out of bed and jump on the floor. To my left on the U seat, a young man is sitting, long hair, too, who plays guitar. An electric guitar but not plugged in and I can barely hear without the resonance. He seems to do some exercises for his fingers. He greets me with a broad smile:

- «Hey, Chris! Slept well? You're the last one today! You know what that means? It will be you to pay first drinks tonight!» he is laughing. I smiled at his joke. It must be a ritual. I glean in passing another info: my name: Chris.

- «Hi! Yes, I went back to some more sleep today. You know where we are?»

- «No… Not really. We just crossed the border. Shouldn’t be very long now. Toronto is an hour or two from the US said the driver. The others are down. By the way, I’m working on a passage for tonight… I think the third verse of Fat boy should be started in F-major! It would sound damn better... What do you think? Listen to this…» and he plays a part in his soundless guitar, looking at me hoping for some approval.

That's a question to pick me out of bed! What to say? I can just answer randomly, hoping it will be appropriate. Or remain elusive. Better not to start some talking that can only betray me, lose myself. I listen, interested. Have to. But I must say it's pretty. He plays well.

- «Yes. it's good…» I say, without needing to lie, to the guy apparently satisfied of my answer, back into his muted guitar while humming some lyrics: “Fat boy, you're just a fat boy…”. He’s not looking at me anymore, all to his music and his F-major. I leave and return to the dark corridor with aligned curtains. Chris must have a cell phone, surely, somewhere. Also need to put on clothes and discard these ridiculous pyjamas. Inside a small box at the end of my bunk, I finally found some pants with large pockets, and a shirt. Not bad. Everything is neatly folded. The man is meticulous. Seeing his pyjamas, he must be. But hey, after all. Why not. It is not unpleasant to wear.

There is indeed an iphone, charging. I also see a pair of white sneakers under the lower bunk. I suppose they are mine. They fit me anyway… I put them. Here we are. I seem ready. Quick go to the bathroom to freshen up my face and discover at the same time what I look alike: Well, not so bad. Not very nice, but a face with some character, blue eyes, a three-day beard, slightly greying, shoulder-length hair, grey-white too, with a nice cut. I’d give myself forty-five, fifty years of age. Better, much better than yesterday, anyway. Well, not as handsome as Steve, but still better than Mr. Ribeira. At least I'm up and healthy. Such a relief! I can feel my legs, strong, who support my weight without fail, my gestures, easy and smooth. Another character to play. Another disguise… Other friends to meet. Another life. I’m starting to get used to it. That may be the craziest in this story: To get used to these daily rebirths, these teleport awakenings, these night mutations. Find it almost normal now, waking up into one others and reacting with these new parameters in this strange journey out of me, where reason has no place yet.

*

Before going to discover my new mates I can hear talking loudly downstairs, I return to my bunk to disconnect the iPhone and call Amandine. The guitarist, still there on the couch working in loop on his F-major, I decide to rather stay in the narrow corridor between the bunks, for calling. The cellphone unlocks easily with my brand new fingerprints and I can dial the number. It rings for a while and then I hear the sweet voice of Amandine on the other end of the line "Unfortunately not available at the moment but if you leave a message on the answering machine she’ll call back very quickly... Beep…".

- «Amandine, it’s me! It’s Antoine. I left Paris. I'm in a bus on a road, in Canada this time. Lucky me, I'm not the old man anymore… Well. Apparently you’re not there. I'll call you later, when I’ll know more about my new situation. I kiss you… Miss you terribly…» …and I hung up, annoyed of this unsuccessful trial. Sad, a little. Fatalistic. She is so far away again… Paris! …and I’m somewhere in Canada, from what I understood, then.

I remain standing in the dim hallway, phone in hand, thinking. How can my mind travel so, across plains and oceans, continents, and insert myself into someone else?… I will probably never have the answer to this question but how could I not ask it to myself, every single day now… still trying to find some logic, some path to follow to guide me, enlighten me on what is happening to me… and hopefully help me get out, if ever possible. My biggest dream now is to become myself again: Go back to Antoine, this quiet retired and uneventful man. How ironic: Even though my life seemed so banal and tasteless, I would now give anything to get it back! Be me, again… Just me, where I normally live… in my Switzerland. Not this musician standing in this bus with other unknown guys playing their F-major which I don’t understand… or all these other characters in which I sucked myself in since Monday. No. Just be me. Like before. Like always. Without dreams or ambitions beyond the boundaries of my own world. Find my banality, my quiet life. My garden. Find myself…

I decided to dial my own number again in Switzerland. I still don’t know what I'm going to say if it answers, but I want to clear this up. Maybe I'll have a tip, then, a clue of what happened to me. Will a friend answer to me? Or a neighbour, a policeman?…I wait feverishly. I fear. It's ringing. A long time. Still no answer. My answering machine doesn’t switch on. Nobody. I'm hanging up. Second failure. I don’t see who else I could call. Daniel and Pierre? Can’t remember their numbers. Looking on the internet, the phone book app? The yellow pages?… but nothing. They are probably not listed. So there isn’t anyone I can call. And so, afterwards? Who would believe my story anyway? Who could? One would think this is the call from a crazy person. A poor idle boy who spends his time talking nonsense on the phone to create a world he hasn’t got. No-one could recognise my voice… as it isn’t my voice anymore. No chance to get help this way, whatever I could say to explain. They probably would hang up directly… So? Call the police? They would advise me to contact a mental health centre, that's all. No. Nobody can help me. Nobody can believe my unbelievable tale. Nobody can know. It’s hopeless. Only Amandine knows. She is my only hope. My only connection with the reality of my life. But if she doesn’t answer, this phone will be useless… and I’ll have lost everything.

I chase away these dark thoughts by focusing on looking more closely at the phone contents, poking a bit in the digital life of this Chris: Musical applications, press. Some games. A Scrabble, a Master-mind. I like these games. Perhaps I'll play some to pass the time until my next reboot, to soothe my anxiety, if I have time? There are also some unread emails, which I don’t read. It would be indiscreet and useless. I'm not like that. And I wouldn’t understand a bit of their content, and it will therefore get me nowhere…

Google maps tells me that we are near lake Erie and lake Ontario, a distance from Buffalo. On our way to Toronto then, from what I understand. I slide the photo-gallery with my finger: Many pictures of concerts, stages, full or empty and also some musical instruments. Pictures of dining rooms too, restaurants, with mouth-watering dishes. Grinning faces. Even a pair of buttocks! I also can recognise the faces of the two men I've already met, among others. It is obvious now that I’m part of a tour band. No doubt. I'm not a cook or a roadie: I'm the saxophonist of the band. Several selfies to attest. Tsss... bad luck. I turn off the phone, put it on the mattress and go down the small stairway. The laughs get stronger. Everybody looks relaxed and happy. I feel like joining a classroom of teenagers in a summer camp. Seeing me, everyone exclaims: «Oh, well, here he is! Another long sleep for mister sax?» says a cheerful voice.

- «Hello everyone!» am I reply, forcing a joyful voice to stick to the surrounding state of mind as well as my new character…

- «I can certify that he was up early… Indeed! He joined me for coffee at six’o’clock…» confirms the first man I had indeed met earlier. «But didn’t stay long, you lazy bone! Huh?»… Everybody laughs.

- «Don’t listen to them baby. You are right!» says a sweet female voice with a strong Italian accent or something like this: A very pretty girl, with wide dark eyes, is smiling at me, protective, partner in crime. I returned her smile. She is beautiful, very beautiful… and moreover the only girl here, surrounded by the four relaxed men who don’t seem at all impressed by her beauty. Jaded. As older brothers…

- «Yeah Marina, yes…» says one of them. «Protect him, your sweet little darling!» And everyone goes with another laugh. She smiles. Then the previous conversations resume, as I prepare myself a second coffee in the small kitchen area downstairs. I'm targeting the espresso machine, which I finally understood how to fit the capsules into, when I feel two hands embracing my waist… «Did you sleep well baby? I had weird dreams… It's probably because I was alone in my bed… Missed you. I’ll have better dreams tonight at the hotel, for sure...». Gulp!

I gulp of surprise at this unexpected hug! The girl seems to like me pretty much!… it gets complicated! No doubt she and Chris are having an affair, but, despite her being good looking, I don’t really have any such desire to share any tenderness with her. However, I guess I have to play the game, without making any waves: Stay as natural as I can to stick to what Chris would have been. Improvise. But how to do that? I don’t know him. How does he usually behave? I still have very few clues… I can only presume the attitude to have in these circumstances to refine my new role… I manage to elude the grasp of the young woman pretending to look for something in a slider… and telling her, again, about a headache and a restless night to explain my bad manners. My distance. Kind of a Julia Roberts’s excuse! But it works! She pouts, then leaves.

- «Good. You come back to me when you are better ok?… I don’t like it when you are like that. I feel that it's me… I will give you a massage tonight when we get in the bedroom…» she says with a sexy eye wink and a kiss mimed with her lips… Hot. I smile, to reassure her, hiding my embarrassment as much as I can. She returns to sit in the middle of the loud-talking guys, looking a little concerned now. Heck: A second problem to manage! The day announce to be long and complicated…

Displeased by the new settings to integrate with this new situation, I sit on the same chair I was earlier in the morning, a little away from the group, which is just fine by me at the moment. I listen absentmindedly to their discussions without having to get involved. Marina looks at me tenderly, from afar, above the others. Her eyes bother me a little, I turn away and watch the landscape passing by. She must think I am angry, upset. Never mind. What can I do? I don’t really know how else to behave. I just know it’s physically impossible for me to express the affection she awaits of me, which I reserve to my Amandine, I miss her so much, especially at this moment. Never felt that way. Strange. I know her, if we can say so, since the beginning of the week -but what a week!- and I yet feel already so incredibly tied to her… What is this magic happening from her to me? What is going on? Is it the situation that does that? Is it because I feel frightfully lost and she seems to be the only link, tenuous, that binds me to life now? To reason? …reason to live, reason to hope… reason not to sink into the utter madness and permanently lose my footing in the dark depths of the nightmare repeating day after day? Would I have felt such a feeling, so strong, if I had met her in normal circumstances? Would she even be interested in me, if I had not been this Ubiquitus, this migrant soul in distress?… Would I know how to keep her attention, with my dull life of little this Swiss man in his green countryside, his mountains of Jura? Probably not. Normally, I would never got to Tokyo, and even so, I would never have had the idea of accosting her anyway.

*

The endless landscape scrolling by the window leaves me bored. There is nothing to look at the long bitumen tape at my left, but a few cars, in more of a hurry than us, overtaking the bus. I shut my eyes. I’d like to sleep, stop thinking, but it's impossible. I keep on reviewing over and over the events from recent days, the absolute implausibility of all that is happening right now in my life. All this, the bus, the guys, the girl, these nonsense discussions I hear next to me are real. I am not crazy. It can’t be just in my head. I can see it, hear it, touch it. What about Amandine? I didn’t invent her! She exists… bloody well she does… I met her, touched her too, even kissed her!

Yet despite this perennial sensation of reality, in the perverse intention of my tortured mind, irrepressibly comes up a new question, in the form of a horrible new anxiety: The hypothesis of perhaps being for her nothing more than a simple story to write about… a scoop, an unexpected new item… not to miss and which has to be covered because she is the only one on it by now and it'll make a great paper… The idea of being nothing but an investigation on what she probably thinks to be a strong case of casual madness… or extraordinary madness, it depends. Best case, a prime event on metaphysics, able to get her the Pulitzer, who knows? A very good paper then. This question takes up my thoughts, torments me, obsesses me: Would she been interested in me, if I hadn’t been all that? Would she have looked up to me? In addition, aren’t our mutual interests biased by this tragic and supernatural event that alters as much her judgment as mine? Maybe… probably. Surely.

But what’s the point, after all, to ask myself all these questions? I swim in troubled waters that I did not choose to swim in, and I need to get out of it. No choice. Whatever the cost. Whatever the way. I need to find the exit. I need to keep on swimming, to keep on moving… We'll see. Meanwhile, the beautiful hope she gives to me, seems to keep me alive, and gives me strength to hold the reins, fragile, of my reason.

She is the light that guides me through this darkness, the polar star in the sky showing me the North… and I am following it. As artificial it may be, at least she sort of enlightens my way. It's the only thing that counts. So, why torture my mind with sterile questions? I have to keep this feeling, so beautiful, so warm… yes, that warmth in me for her… and keep on trusting it’s real. Always. As long as I can. I don’t know much about love, but I want to keep this simplicity: When in love, no need to ask why… Love has its reasons. So: I love her, and that's it. It’s enough to me, for now. Love helps me, and this much right now… To have met her, precisely under these circumstances is, undoubtedly, a great chance. That's all I need to remember. Just that… It gives me hope, a dream… and if I ever survive this, it will be thanks to her… and for her! To find her rather than find myself. It is my gift from heaven, my key to paradise brought at the gates of hell. I am sure…

*

The bus left the highway. It slows down, turns, stops, starts. It now follows the large avenues of a city with modern and tall buildings. The weather is nice. There is no traffic. I opened my eyes. Maybe I have slept again? No idea where we are. Obviously. How should I know? The bus slowly manoeuvres to finally park along a modern building, lined with small trees. 4141 Living Arts Drive is written by the wall. The engine finally stops its purr, punctuated by a long psssschhhhh... indicating the final and non-negotiable stop. The machine seems relieved to finally rest, its turn. Its pschhh is unambiguous.

Everyone is now busy, within the bus, as the door, near the stairs, opens outwards in a second pschhh, a lighter one, letting in a fresh breeze that wakes me with a striking thrill. Already out, stretching legs and arms, are three of my companions. I see for the first time the bus driver, who finally quit his driving seat, his face tired and gets off to open a few doors along his bus. His sweater is crumpled in the back from driving hours. Next to the bus, is also parked a semi-trailer truck with both drivers out approximately simultaneously. They talk, tell jokes. I had not noticed this big truck ahead of us, on the road. No doubt the equipment truck, well, I guess…

On the advice of one of the guys taking his bags together, I go back to my bunk and put back as I can the saxophones in their respective cases, and shut the large and heavy flight case. I grab the phone on the blanket and the jacket which is supposed to be mine. Marina, behind me, says, with a soft voice:

- «Can I get your sax?…» I'm blushing. A little, not knowing if the sentence is kind of ambiguous or not. I think it is… like the smile in her eyes, which I can’t really decode yet. Is it simply naive or a subtle provocation? Hard to say.

- «Yes thanks. How nice!» and I give her the saxophone shaped bag. She passes in front of me. My eyes can’t resist to land on the advantageous curves of her graceful body waddling down under my eyes. Phew... If I were a car salesman, I would tell about the genius of Pininfarina and add she has got all options included! Natural gait or gently seductive? Doesn’t really matter after all.

The flightcase weighs a ton and I hardly manage to get down the small cramped staircase without hitting the walls. It is as heavy as the burden of my questions, my doubts. I finally manage to extricate myself from the vehicle and put my heavy black trunk beside similar ones, lined up along the bus. I look at the building, modern with a fine architecture. Its forms are graceful and rounded, like the hips of the beautiful Marina who gives me back my saxophone case with a distant smile. She says nothing. No doubt is she sad of my aloofness. Annoyed perhaps… about the ineffectiveness of her courtship. Angry even, who knows? I don’t have enough perspective on their relation, between her and Chris to picture it all very clearly, but one sure thing is my coldness towards her that hurts her so. She wasn’t like that this morning, hugging me, before I’d turn away from her. Well. After all, this is their story, not mine. I will now have to walk on eggshells in order not to damage the story and leave them both intact when I’ll leave. Not an easy task really. But I am not Chris, despite appearances. I'm not in love with this Marina whose eyes are blinking at me. What can I do? How could I pretend and fake it? I don’t know her. I have no past with her. Neither have I a future. She didn’t have time to seduce me, to intrigue me, to charm me… With Amandine, it was all different: It was our history in a way. For real, so to speak… Our meeting, the first discovery of each other. Nothing to compare with. I didn’t jump into the story from nowhere: I was at its start. Our bases, as uncertain as they can be, with this shell of Steve I have on. And most of all, it was love at first sight! Can’t force or control this kind of lightning strike… Today I don’t feel as being Chris. Can’t carry his feelings. And I'm already in love which makes a big difference!

Discretely, without her noticing it, I look at Marina. She seems absent, despite her attempts to share some chat with friends. She is really pretty, no doubt, but not my style… Pretty, I would look at her if I was in a bar, like the man that I am, like all other men. But that’s it. I'm observing her carefully, but senseless. She’s a stranger, in love with another stranger, and I watch them both from my secret spot. My place is not between both of them. She’s in love with Chris, not with Antoine... (how could she be?) and she didn’t get yet the trick… and I do want to keep being this Antoine, with all his love for Amandine. This is the real me! I'm not an actor. I can’t take the role of Chris, well, not completely, not that much. And I don’t want to. I can just pretend, for a day, improvise, dodge. That's all. Knowing this will only last one day is like a frame limit that secures me a bit. It’s a defined space, like a music stage, where to play my role before returning backstage into the darkness. It’s all superficial, fake. Invented. No choice. Marina will have to cope with it. She will take it as a mood swing of Chris, a bad day to pass. Tomorrow, he will be back to normal again, in love, tender and careful… well, I guess. He will be himself… and she will be happy again. They will resume their story where they had left it the previous day. Oh, of course, Chris will be troubled by the lack of memories about this blank day… but that's the price to pay, for him as well as for the others. Can’t do much about it…

*

… Just like you, dear Serge! -Yes, I found your British passport in the desktop’s drawer, but don’t worry, I haven’t searched any further…- You, who have just been troubled for the same reasons, with this missing Saturday on your calendar. Chris will get over it. He will not understand what happened to him, but will not have the explanation which you are reading now, with this pile of papers where I scribble, as fast as I can, those pages so to leave a trace of my passage.

You're luckier than him! Does it help you feel a little better? I have no idea. Maybe am I delving myself even more deeply into a flow of endless questions. Tomorrow, when you’ll read this text, I will not be there anymore to provide additional details, to answer your questions. I cannot even tell you where I will be. You’ll have to stick with these pages. I still hope they have put a little light onto all this darkness, if not reassuring you.

In the old man’s bedroom, in Paris, I already had time to think about the usefulness of writing what is happening to me… to leave a trace, even just a few lines to show I’ve been there, for real… Think about the benefit of doing it. But circumstances didn’t match. Nothing to write on, old eyes problem, tiredness of my arthritic hands. I gave up, but kept thinking it would be something to do, if the opportunity would ever come. It came today… or almost. But I must now quickly resume my writing… because I feel exhausted and I don’t have much time left with you, I'm afraid… I want to be able end this story. So I go back to it now…

*

Marina is now walking ahead of me, with the band, towards a door at the back of the building, which a man keeps open for us. My car’s salesman-eyes are waving their glance on the undulations of Marina’s pretty aerodynamic structure. At the sight of these curves, a libido kept asleep for years is now waking up. “A fucking nice ass” I say to myself, with a vulgarity that I thought had disappeared from me, as I finally enter the building, last in line. The semi-trailer rests, bottom sucked on a large door at the exact trailer’s dimensions, to unload equipment. Men are busy, unceremoniously pushing big wheeled trunks out of the truck, sliding and squealing one after the other, to the inside of the building.

I enter. It's dark. All is painted black, from floor to ceiling, and after a short maze of corridors, we arrive at the place. Kind of a silent and dark cathedral with such a high ceiling you can barely see. I’m on a stage!… draped with black curtains and vertical ropes, and opening onto a huge lush of red seats, arranged on three levels: the venue! Majestic. It's very impressive, all these rows of seats in several mezzanines fronting me: There must be thousands of chairs, all empty at the moment. Never seen such a large room and also… so empty! Small walkways leading to stairs at their end, cut each level into three parts. Everything is hushed, carpeted set, tidy, and air-conditioned. I’m on the stage of a theater, a large theater. On the planks, as we say in Switzerland. The floor is, indeed, wood-made, and painted in black… and resonates under our soldiers boot-steps discovering their quarters. Some electrical cables are also aligned, linking devices placed on the floor. Undoubtedly lighting, fuse boxes, how could I know? The stage, facing the venue, is immensely wide and deep. A tennis court could easily fit into the space, maybe even two! I look up and see some rows of black curtains that come down at various levels, topped with metal beams on which are hung many spotlights, off, with various ropes and pulleys to power their movements.

I am then the only one to stay, staring that way on these strange mechanisms I just discovered, and dazzled at the vision of this huge room and red seats. The others are used to it, obviously. Just a few seconds were enough for them to gauge the atmosphere of the place, its space. They now are already heading to dressing rooms, checking buffet, showers, toilets, wifi… all gone without delay with their cases and suits on the shoulder. I am now the last one, slowly rotating on myself, surrounded by rushing technicians unpacking the contents now open of numerous flightcases. I quickly feel this is not where I should be right now, and I walk away, in turn, looking for these dressing rooms where we will probably spend more time to get prepared, eat, wait, than playing on the stage. The phone vibrates in my pocket. The screen shows a call from a Johanna, with her picture, smiling. I don’t answer. What would I say? I must be careful, I promised not to make waves, blunders. Johanna gives up. The phone turns off and I turn it back to call again Amandine. Without any success. Always her voicemail. Disappointment. I’m not leaving any message, and resume my quest to find the dressing rooms, disappointed.

I have trouble finding my way. Many doors open onto long and deserted corridors. I’m lost. It's a maze. I finally cue to the noise, the voices of my mates, calling me from a distance and finally enter in a large room decorated with multiple mirrors, sofas and a large table, buffet, where everyone seems to enjoy themselves.

- «That's what I call catering!» says one of them, satisfied, filling his plate of ham and various ingredients unrelated to each other. Its beautiful and heavy loaded plate in hand, he returns to sit in one of the sofas and starts to eat. Marina, at the end of the table, seems to peck, from plate to plate, holding her fork with a finger upraised. I get by her side:

- «Are you okay?» am I smiling to her. She slowly looked up at me:

- «I don’t know. You tell me…» she replies, dryly. I understand…

- «Sorry about that. I'm not feeling so well today. Don’t pay attention. I will pull a little away, but not for long… I promise. Tomorrow you'll see, I’ll be ok…»

- «Ya Sure?»

- «Yes Yes. Trust me...» I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, as tender as I can be at the moment. Marina smiles a somewhat weary smile. A smile of acceptance, self-denial. I stare at her beautiful face, her wide and sad black eyes, thinly made-up. She says nothing. I'm terribly embarrassed to feel the discomfort that I put on her. But what else could I do? I grab a plate and put various pieces of food, without much thinking. I also get a glass of white wine and give it to her: She smiles and takes it, as a truce, a finger still up like an invader⁴… I get a second glass and have a toast with her. She drinks, her wide black eyes into mine… then puts her glass, her eyes, back on the table.

I move away and think of the name displayed on the phone: Johanna. Who can she be? Chris’s regular girlfriend? Fiancée, wife? This would mean he’s cheating on her with Marina… in front of everyone? Sounds weird. No. He wouldn’t dare. His tour mates must know a little about his life, his couple, and could not cope with it, as they seemed to when, in the bus, Marina embraced me this morning. Anyway, I keep going blindfolded with my assumptions. I know nothing about his life and I have no right to judge. Johanna is maybe simply his sister or just a good friend, a colleague, a cousin... what do I know? Maybe an ex? Whatever. I move forward, dodging surprises and avoiding blunders as much as possible. He will resume his story, his affair, tomorrow, and all his adventures, his problems, projects and lies. Not my business.

The meal goes on in a hubbub of fun and jokes told among musicians, which I pretend to participate without risking to talk too much. Then, a woman opens the door of the large room and shouts that «the van for the hotel is waiting for us, when we’re ready…» Within a minute, satiated, and happy about the idea of ending up finally in a comfortable hotel room with bathroom, everyone stands up and rushes loudly in the long corridors leading to the exit. I join ranks quickly not to be left behind by the group and get lost again.

Parked next to the large bus, stands a small white van, door wide open, in which we jump quickly. The ride takes a few minutes. The hotel is only two blocks away from the venue. We could easily get there without a van, but ok, walking doesn’t seem to be a very fashionable custom up in the North American continent, given the few pedestrians on the useless sidewalks. We then get off the vehicle almost immediately and cross a large hall, to the counter where hostesses are greeting us. Rooms keys in hand. Surprisingly we are scattered to different floors. I'm in the room 1026, at the tenth floor. Marina is the 712, seventh: Phew! One guy, the one who was working his F-major, in the bus, is in room 1024, next to mine. Marina looks at him, disappointed. I smile… Not her.

The woman asks us to be in the lobby at five o'clock sharp to go to the soundcheck. Then, everyone disappears rapidly through several lifts. My room neighbour, Matt, -That’s his name, I heard it-, shuts his door. So do I.

*

My room is large and bright. This is more like a suite, very comfortable with a large bed, a sofa, a desk and a TV with a wide screen mounted on the wall. Above the bed hangs a large frame with a black and white picture featuring Westminster of London, Big Ben. I don’t see the point, here. Well, that's unimportant. This or that? Who cares?

I approach the bay window that opens onto a small terrace. On the long translucent falling curtain fronting the window, a beautiful butterfly with spread wings is oddly waiting, ready to fly. He is perfectly still. I slowly get closer and observe the beautiful drawings on his wings, black lace and gold, almost transparent. I have never seen such a beautiful butterfly, and never imagined that there could be some of them in this area. Actually, there is so much that I could not have imagined a few days ago! This butterfly is the least of it.

I gently slide the white veil of the curtain and then he flies away silently, quickly finding his way through the opening of the high window that I push to go lean on the balcony. We are high up, and I view the area with its modern buildings from nearly the top. It reminds me Tokyo, the Hyatt. It overlooks the large avenues down my feet and at the few high buildings standing in front of me. The butterfly flutters a few metres, probably happy to have been freed and to fly at such an altitude. Like drunk. He is lucky. I follow him with my eyes a while, then scan the valley, with its clusters of residences connected by roads, far away. Doesn’t look like a city. Looks like… I don’t know: Nothing. A kitchen tablecloth with squares shapes, laid on the valley, abstract and ugly. Equally ugly as the butterfly was beautiful. Contrast. A suburb without character. Buildings, roads, highways away. No nature. No flowers for butterflies. I wonder how some can live here, especially when you are a butterfly. From above, it looks soulless, lifeless. Some car noises are coming up to me from downstairs, brought by a little breeze that whips my hair. The sky is clear, the afternoon, quiet. People working at their desks, some others going to appointments in their big cars, riding on the avenue, ten floors below. I just hang out in my suite, watching the scenery, doing nothing, waiting for the evening. Rest. Prepare myself. A musician on the road’s main activity I guess.

I decide to treat myself to a hot bath in the big tub of the bathroom. As the water flows loudly, I open the minibar and grab a bottle of white wine. I fill up a large glass to bring with me in the bathtub. I stay there a long time to relax in warm water. I don’t sleep, but let myself be carried by a gentle lethargy in the perfumed and hot liquid.

It is the will to call Amandine again that motivates me to go out of the bath. I put on a large bathsuit on my wet shoulders, like in Tokyo, and lie down on the bed with the phone to dial her number… it rings, and finally, her voice:

- «Allo? Yes?»

- «Amandine, it's me! Antoine...»

- «Oh Antoine!… My God, it always strikes me, your voice… Always different. Disturbing… I have to accept… I heard your message: You are on a bus, right?»

- «Yes. Well, actually no… I was, when I left this message to you. I'm now in a hotel suite… which terribly reminds me Tokyo also. The room, the bathroom… Haven’t been to the bar yet to end the picture… searching for you, sitting with a cocktail that I would offer you… I miss you so much…» She remains silent a few seconds.

- «Looks like I am near Toronto. A small soulless town that rather looks like a large suburb. I will look at my location on mobile to know precisely. I'm in the area anyway. What about you? Are you okay?»

- «Yes, I am fine. Listen, I have a meeting in ten minutes with the staff. Late meeting. They always do that. I don’t know when I’ll be back home with all that. By the way, can you believe that the Julia Roberts’s agent called me! He asked many questions. Obviously very concerned about the psychological state of his protected one. He wanted to know what Julia told me on the phone, the content of our conversation, even our relationship. I couldn’t have more info about her… I guess she doesn’t remember having called me… and must be scared too. The article is apparently still on!… well for now. Not quite sure it will happen though. They will probably cancel, given the situation of the actress.»

- «Well, at least, it reassures me: She survived my transit… It's rather good news!»

- «Yes. She looks ok. Amnesiac but ok.»

-«Good. The question is whether this disruption, as small as it in her life, will have no subsequent impact of unintended consequences… Time will tell. I hope not. Anyway, that's great: you'll probably be able to meet her for real…»

- «Yes. I could have kept on living without that actually. But it will perhaps finally give me the opportunity to understand what is happening… to find the clues, pick up the pieces. Having an extra piece to add to this puzzle… Do you think I should tell her the truth? Put her in on the confidence? Explain the reason for her one-day-absence? I don’t know…»

-«Probably not… It would be worse I think. She wouldn't believe you anyway! You would be taken as a fool, a mad woman yourself!»

- «Right. No doubt. Well, listen, I really have to go. Can I call you back at this number when I'm back home? Is it a cellphone?»

- «Today’s phone, yes! But I don’t know how the evening will go… Can you believe I am with musicians?… and we will play in a large theatre tonight… I am a saxophonist ! How crazy is that?»

- «Wow? A sax player! That's cool… Sax is sexy!» she adds with an amused voice, to ease down a bit the conversation.

- «Yep. Just a small detail: I don’t know how to play saxophone… it sucks! I don’t see how I'll manage that this time!»

-«Indeed. That’s a problem… Well, a new adventure I’m afraid! Well, good luck then. I call you as soon as I can, okay?… I really have to go!»

- «Thank you. I kiss you...»

- «Me too...» and she hangs up. Quick.

Our discussion, so short, leaves me a little bitter, with quite an unfinished feeling: She is the only one I can talk to, my only link to reality, the reality of this feeling of love that keeps me into life, and she has no time to talk with me… as if everything was normal and we call back later. Easy. She is the only person in the world to know my secret, my peril, catapulted through black magic to the other side of the Earth, but she must go to her meeting... and I remain alone in the silence of my large room, with that ridiculous bathrobe, smartphone in hand. Absurd.

The news that Julia Roberts recovers from my visit, however, reduces me to a heavy weight in the heart: I'm not that involuntary serial killer, that life’s thief. I'm just a wretched soul pilfering one day and puts it back in place after use… intact if possible. I haven’t killed the beautiful actress! This is rather good news coupled with a valuable clue that will brighten perhaps a bit this dark mystery. By assembling all those pieces together, this frame will perhaps finally make sense at the end… She is the living proof that all this is true, real… Hopefully she will remember some detail that can put us on a track… If Amandine can meet her, maybe we'll know a little more?… But will she? I have no way to contact my other guests. I have neither their names nor their contact information… Maybe Mr. Ribeira? Amandine noted the phone number, the address. I could try to get in touch with him, talk to him… But to say what? “Hey Mr. Ribeira! How are you doing? You don’t know me, but I lived within yourself, yesterday, the whole day… How is it going?” No. Obviously, I can’t. The poor old man would have a heart attack or would simply not get it at all. How could he? No doubt, too, he has forgotten this day anyway and his nurses, when he complained about the fact, just blamed that on senility, the advanced age of old man. What could be more logical ? If only they knew…

*

The afternoon passes. I remain lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. I wish not to think anymore. Just can’t. I want to sleep… I can’t neither. I can’t anything.

A moment later, the phone rings. I rush to grab it, thinking it was Amandine, but I see with quite a disappointment the head of the guitar player showing on the screen. He asks what am I bloody doing. Everybody already left for soundcheck, without me as I didn’t show up. I say «it doesn’t matter, I will walk to the venue which isn’t not far.» So, that’s what I do, after I hastened to put on Chris’s clothes and run for a lonely few hundred metres walk, to the theatre, set on his turf, by the car park.

One of the roadies, a big grumpy and unshaven Canadian guy, smokes his cigarette outside the door, which he opens for me while coughing, after I managed to convince him I was in the band. I enter the dark hallway and walk. The heavy metronome and quite powerful sound of a drum kick, is growing as I approach the door open onto the large cathedral.

The drummer, sat behind his shiny kit, is following the instructions of the technician who tells him which tom to strike, to adjust the volume of the microphones. After the kick, it is the turn of the snare drum and, then, other toms and cymbals. I watch his keystrokes, disjointed, and finally the whole play of the full drum. Impressive. The sound resonates throughout the hall, still empty. The reverberation of strokes is overkill and the entire theatre is shaking from it!

While the drummer is keeping on testing the nuclear power of his instrument, other musicians are silently busy at their respective places. Everyone is focused on adjusting his own electric cable, or microphone, or effects pedals. To adjust his kit, tune his instrument if necessary. The pianist is surrounded by multiple keyboards and synthesizers, forming a small room around him, at hands’ reach. He sits on a high swivel stool in the middle of his office decorated with black and white keys. Anthony pulls me out of my passive musical contemplation by a peremptory sign of his chin, inviting me to get on the stage, to my place on the left side! I see my flightcase and the tenor saxophone case leaning by. Okay. I guess I have to go now! I'm a bit in a rush… Moment of truth. I get by the big square case and open it. I can see, already installed for me on stage, a face beveled loudspeaker on the ground, two microphone stands and small curved stands, which I deduce from their shape they’re made to hold some saxophones. Convenient. I first take out the soprano and place it on one of the stands that seems to be the most appropriate. I then grab the alto sax and pull it off its foam shape. Inside the instrument, hides the upper part of it, wrapped in a blue cloth, with the mouthpiece mounted thereon, which I grab too. Looks like a spout. I adjust both. Not very complicated. I do the same with the bigger one, the tenor sax. Here we are. All the instruments are now in position, facing directly the rows of red seats. Fight order. A technician finally adjust my microphone, while a lights guy, top, in limbo, shines a powerful spotlight on me. It all takes shape, looking like a real concert now. I have always wondered what would be the feeling to be on a real stage, with all the lights in the face. Well, I see now… or should I say: I don’t see: I am dazzled.

It is now the turn of the bassist to slap the heavy strings of his bass guitar that now fills the room of its powerful vibrations. Then the two musicians join to jam a few bars of a powerful and melodic mutual rhythm. Apparently satisfied with their settings, they stop. This is now Anthony’s turn with his electric guitar, screaming painful strings then casting some gentle melancholy melodies in the air. With a very precise foot, he activates various pedals on the floor. His guitar’s sound then changes colour, volume, texture, intensity, style… a bit like me every morning these days! Same musician, same guitar, but different sounds, different worlds. It's magic. He has an incredible range of sounds at his disposal and knows how to use them. Lucky him.

The pianist now plays his delicate hands over the long bunk keyboards, from left to right, up and down, his arms sometimes making major but carefully studied deviations to switch to another synth. He adjusts knobs, pulls faders… and other harmonies are flying to fill up the dark space of the room, now with lights off. I can no longer distinguish the red seats. I just know they are there… in the dark. In front of me. Waiting to welcome their thousands of bottoms.

- «Sax please!» shouts a voice in the loudspeaker.

- «Yes.» Okay, this one is for me… I can’t go back. Can’t escape the light now. What to do anyway? Run away? Pretend to be sick, yet very true in this particular moment, with my stomach knot. Should I faint? No. I wouldn’t dare. Ridicule would kill me for good. So I do, as slow as I can… hoping for some sudden disaster, fire or earthquake (any of those would do to me!) to extricate myself from this situation and cancel the show for force majeure… But nothing happens. Everything remains calm. No hand is stretched to me for an escape. The sound man is getting impatient, so I finally take the soprano saxophone in hands: It is the one that resembles the most my clarinet. I look at its pads. Doesn’t look so complex. Well, there is quite a few more keys of course, but no holes to plug with the fingers. Those are just valves motioned by the hands. I look for a moment at the beauty of the instrument in my hands while trying to understand the mechanism. It's beautiful. You have to admit: sexier than clarinet, Amandine is right! The gold copper body with finely engraved designs, chromed and gold mixture with its silver pads is splendid. The brass is warm and sensual, almost carnal. There is an engraved inscription: Selmer - Paris. The instrument looks old, but sparkles and shimmers under the white projector pointing to me as a vengeful finger, seeming to say, «It's yours! You must play now!»

«Yes, yes… okay… I play! Damn.» The saxophone in hand is however, surprisingly familiar. It's funny. My fingers place themselves on the small circled pearl buttons without hesitation, almost naturally… and it is with less apprehension than expected, that I put the horn to my lips and blow out my first note… then my second… then an entire phrase that comes out… miraculous, amazing, coming from… nowhere. From the depths of my soul… or rather Chris’s soul, who comes to rescue me, up from his unconscious sleep, perhaps? Just like this capacity, discovered the past few days during my foreign guests visits, to understand their language, and feel able to speak, think, naturally, as if it was mine. The musical language seems to own the same properties: I can speak it without thinking. The notes are coming out by themselves, easily… and I listen to them with amazement and wonder, as they fly in the dark space of this large room, reflected and amplified through the sound system. I want to laugh, to look at my friends and share my amazement, my cheerful feeling of being able to play… knowing how to play… but nobody seems to give a shit about that. Of course, it is obvious for them that I can play the saxophone, otherwise I wouldn’t be in this band. But still, I’m overwhelmed with joy! Anyway... I have to swallow it back, and play my role of pro musician, as if everything was normal… I now test the tenor sax with equal ease. Equal pleasure now. The sound is round and warm, it vibrates gently with emotion and I can hear it singing out… resonating throughout the room. It’s like I have always played… It's crazy: I play, for good, for real! I know exactly where to put my fingers, how to balance my breath, how to handle the pressure of my lips on the mouthpiece. I seem to master the necessary fingering sequences to achieve these melodies that I seem to know by heart… but without ever having learned them! All this is absolutely mind boggling.

The band finally starts a song where all musicians are in… The parts where my saxophone is required, are natural: I know when, how, and which saxophone to play… and my fingers seem to know their way too, their movements, by themselves! No need to think, to worry I am guided by Chris’s instinct… I know this song, without having ever learned it. I can’t tell the title, or even anticipate the verses to come, but everything seems to fall this time right in place. Naturally.

«If only it could be the same with my story...» I say to myself, while playing. If only the pieces could fit so easily, I probably would find answers faster to my questions. This is unfortunately not the case, or the tempo is wrong. I will have to be more patient. The song this adventure is, extends to a longer scale. The lines are weeks, bars are days… Round, white, black, eighth and sixteenth’s notes, are the events that mark the rhythm of their coded succession, the hours and minutes of my adventure.

The song is stopped before completion. No need to play everything apparently. No applause, of course, because there is no audience. The silence is soon filled by short exchange between musicians and the sound man to adjust the settings: who wants what in his monitor… more guitar here, less bass there, more vocals… Marina, the pretty backing singer, wants more sax!… She gives me a sideways glance. I smile. She smiles too. Small game between her and Chris. I let go…

Some bars of the same song are played again, just a verse, to see if all is good. We stop. The singer says «Thanks, all is good for us!» in the microphone, and everyone goes away, leaving instruments to wait still on their respective stands for the evening concert to come… The calm of the musicians amazes me. They look so confident, so used to how things are running. So confident that everything will be okay tonight. No sign of any stress on their faces. They are joking, laughing, like a bunch of teenagers in a playground, squabble, heckle, play on their phones texting, reading their e-mails, checking their Facebook… They are applauded night after night, to play the same songs in the same order. A routine, rather extraordinary, to which they are used to, during this tour. Only the places change, but not that much finally. It is, basically, always the same: Same configuration, standard venues and settings. Same codes, same rituals while unloading the bus, getting to the premises, setting the instruments on the stage. Same songs played, probably every night during soundcheck. Everything is square, framed. No surprise. And then, everyone’s back to dressing rooms, while technicians are adjusting the final details, aligning the last cables, placing meticulously small rubber tape on the ground, hiding back the large trunks on wheels behind the black curtains offside the stage. Lights are low, before turning into suns during concert, and a gentle mist, warm and bitter, artificial, blown by some devices placed on the floor, behind the stage, slowly fills the room. That will give presence to the light effects and fill the space on the beat of the music. Everything is in place. I’m backstage at a rock concert! Amazing. Two hours before the show now. I’m the last to leave the stage, now silent, and walk through the long corridor leading to the dressing rooms.

The audience gathers at the doors of the building, arriving in small groups filtered by the muscly security guards in black suits at the lobby. Some people are going to the bar to wait, standing, waiting for the main room’s doors to open on the red seats rows. I see it all through a back window that I found while going through the long secret corridors for artists and technicians. Down the hall, everyone enters slowly, walking in a gentle stream to their seats, splitting into small groups and scattering between the rows of seats. I’m stressed now. All these people came to see us play on this huge stage. It's pretty scary. Like an arena. The first spectators to sit are chatting, watching the lonely instruments waiting on the stage, from afar. Impatient, they read the program. Some are helping others reach their seats… and I watch the scene of this concert hall before the battle, yet sparse, but less and less.

I take the phone in my pocket to call Amandine. I’d love her to be there, next to me… I'm about to dial when I suddenly feel two arms tenderly embracing me. It's not Amandine, but Marina, obviously. Damn!

- «Who you’re calling?» she asks with her Italian accent.

- «Huh… no one. Just checking the forecast...» I answer, putting the phone back in my pocket, upset.

- «The weather is very hot tonight... just like me, you know?»

Ouch! Here she’s back… back on the attack! I stay still and let her hug me. I can feel her head stuck to my back. Very embarrassing, but what else could I do? I keep on staring at the room, the people, while her hands slip under my shirt and caress my skin. I must admit, she has some skills… and I’m finally saved by the intervention of the same lady, passing by the corridor next to us and saying:

- «Guys, the van is waiting! Dinner time!» and she walks towards the dressing rooms from where the guys are quickly getting out, their appetite having no need to be proven.

Marina and I are the first ones to enter the van, sitting on the back seats. She snuggled against me, grabs my hand and squeezes her fingers with mine. Her rings hurts me, but I don’t say anything, I let her do, putting myself in the role of Chris, well obliged, maybe just a little distant air. An air that will not last, I told her, I promised. Tomorrow… tomorrow it will get better. “Tomorrow I will be gone...” I think inwardly, almost relieved. I think about Amandine, unable to call her, upset. Our laughing mates come in loudly. Everyone sits in the van and we leave on the main avenue, diving into the night. The theatre building, shining with all its lights, seems to slide away and I look at all these cars entering the parking, all these people already arriving, and the growing queues at the ticket offices now open. A crowd more and more compact by the doors of the venue. “But what am I doing here?” I ask myself, while Marina bites my right ear lobe in a desperate attempt to pull up some heat in me… Thankfully, we arrive in a few minutes to a beautiful restaurant, very stylish.

As we enter, now silently, the staff welcome us with big smiles, respectful bows… Classy. As soon as we are all in, a young girl takes us to a beautiful room with tall glass chandeliers, where a large table is reserved for us, a little away from the other customers looking at us, smiling too. No doubt they recognised us.

It’s a weird feeling to be part of this small circle of artists, apparently a little famous. I feel like being invited to a party in a private club where I normally would never have my place, but where I’m now welcomed as a super-premium gold extra mile member… I stay silent, proud of my VIP position although with a shamefully misused feeling. I feel like being an actor of a luxury deception, wearing the finest clothes which are not mine. A masked ball where no one would realise my vile deceit.

I have to take it as an experience, ephemeral, to live. Quick, as it will not last. I know that now. Nothing ever lasts, even less these days… But hey, that's not really unpleasant. I'm simply not me and all these looks, smiles, respect, are not for me. They are for Chris. I'm like behind a window pane, observing without being able to touch. Nothing belongs to me. Everything passes, happens, scrolls, and I can’t do anything but watch and follow. Nothing can slow down or hold back. Nothing I can manage. After all, is it not, ultimately, the essence of life? Mine or anyone’s…

Chris is rather lucky with his. Well, I think he is. But is he really so? Does he really like this life of his? I’d be keen to say Yes, but I'm not so sure actually. How could I be? I can only speculate on the matter. At least, he has managed to turn his passion, his talent, into a profession that pays him, that allows him to travel… and to be bitten on the ear lobe by a beautiful girl in love. Could be worse…

While I attack, with my silver cutlery, a delicious rather frugal dish but quite artistically set in my plate, the phone vibrates again in my pocket. It is Amandine! At last! I leave the table in rush, under Marina’s inquisitor eye watching me get away.

- «Amandine! »

- «Yes! It’s me. Sorry if I did not call you before… I wanted to be quiet to call. It's a bloody mess here! I just got back home! Not a single minute for myself today. It looks like they do it on purpose…»

- «Don’t worry. I was rather pretty busy too…»

- «Are you okay? You get to manage all this freak? You don’t freak out? I worry about you, you know…»

- «No, it's fine. All this is so unbelievable anyway, I manage to log out: I’m like a viewer now, sat in a theatre watching an act. It's surprising. I’m not really scared anymore, I just wonder if it will ever stop one day… and when? And how?»

- «I can imagine. The important thing is that you can keep your mind clear… There is a reason for all this… Be patient. We’re going to find out...»

- «I don’t know. I hope. I cling on… Note, it could have been worse: So far, my guests were rather nice and pleasant. This is also one of my haste now: to wake up tomorrow, one day, in a much less welcoming environment… Why not? Could find myself trapped in the body of some psychotic, murderer, prisoner… or into terrible conditions of life… what do I know? And what would I do then?»

-«Oh, don’t think about all that. It’s an unnecessary pain. Wherever you are, you will always remain you as in recent days. Don’t you forget it… You must not identify yourself with those people you cross in life. They are not you. You are not them... Well, kind of. Hold on to this Antoine you don’t want to get lost. Keep your north. Your direction. Think about Switzerland, think about your friends, your life… and hold on!»

Despite her persuasive and confident speech, I can feel like some kind of hesitation in her voice. She spaces her sentences with short silences. Sighs.

- «Yes. It’s true. I also think a lot about you. This is what keeps me going, you know? I cling on to this miracle, born within absurdity: My meeting with you, while being another one… All this seems so unrealistic… but yet so beautiful! You are a fragrant cloud of mist that I can’t capture nor touch and which evaporates each day as I reappear elsewhere, dropped by this hellish lottery. This is both a great happiness to feel in me all this love for you, but also a great suffering as it seems impossible to grasp, to achieve. To live.»

- «Yes. I know…»

Another silence, a little longer, then she goes on. Her voice slightly changed, I can hear it.

- «It's hard to live, indeed. For me too. Yes. You… It's like you were an air stream, without weight, impalpable. As the mist you speak about. It's beautiful, it's magic, but it is excruciatingly painful. You appear, one day, in the shape of a handsome man, and then you disappear right way to reappear, the next day, on a different continent, as a different being… The fog is you. It's painful for you, it's painful for me… and a terrible nonsense, as can dreams sometimes be. Except it's not a dream…»

Silence. Then she goes on: «It's hard! Where do I fit in this?… Where is my place? and where is yours? Where is our place? Do we have one? Where are we and where are we going this way? What relationship can we expect, exactly, decently? I can’t help thinking about it. Will the lottery of your random appearances let us have the chance to meet for real, face-to-face… I mean your real face… To meet in the same space at the same time, to cross hypothetical paths we could eventually lock for good… And even then, who will you be? What shape will you have then? Over which square will the roulette stop? The one of an old man, like yesterday?… or a woman? and how to share our love then? How to enjoy it and keep it alive? How would it be able to grow? How could our feelings be fed over the wrong shape? A flower doesn’t grow with wine, even good wine. Will I be able to overcome this? Can I be strong enough? And you? Can you?» -Silence- «I need someone real, someone with me… Someone who stays by my side… someone I can rely on, well, you know what I mean… This spell leaves no place to that. It’s insoluble. Nothing you can do about it. Neither can I. I'm tossing and turning it in my head, I don’t see a way to get out.» -Silence- Her voice is moved, she retains her tears. I can hear it. So do I. «I need to see you, to touch you, to feel you… To know you are here for good, for real, the real you. I need to make love with you, feel this attraction I had in Tokyo with Steve. I need to get accustomed to your body. To know it, by heart, to possess it, in a way, with physical sensations to be in love with, too. You understand? It's like chemistry. A chemistry between our skins, essential, which can’t exist at the moment, because you change skin all the time. I need your smell, your heat, the one of Antoine… Need to see your hands, to know them, to feel them on me by the chills they give me… but, by now, that's just impossible! In the best case, we can share looks, talks… behind the window pane of your appearances. We can exchange phone calls, by chance, far away, sometimes in the middle of the night… when you can. I don’t know what to tell you, Antoine. This love’s crazy. All that burns me from the inside. I feel crazy myself… I feel drawn, loving, troubled, but I don’t know with who! …Steve, the man who seduced me that first evening by its elegance, has gone away already and I still don’t know what Antoine is looking like, the one who spoke to me that night though, but under the wrong appearance… What does he look like, really…» -Another silence is passing- «The light and perfumed mist of feelings is turning into smoke, a black toxic smoke. My soul is coughing. My heart is choking. I can’t see clearly. I can hardly see the way forward to meet you. To love you. To share with you. I can’t see you, neither now. Who are you? Where are you? How are you? I don’t know what I should do… May we have the chance to love each other someday? And how? As lovers, friends? As father and daughter, if ever you get your life back as Antoine? I can’t love just a soul. I need a body, a face, a look, a caress. I open my heart to you. Sorry. I shouldn't tell you all that. I'm an idiot!…»

I listen her voice, speaking to me, hesitant, trembling and desolate, cutting sentences with eloquent silences. I can feel her confusion, her pain. Her frankness, her reflection. Her words resonate in the cold cave of my despair. My throat is tied. Two invisible hands, powerful, slowly tighten my throat and the rest of my naive hopes. My eyes are blurred with tears. The restaurant’s flowered carpet disappears into abstract coloured waves at my feet… quicksand swallowing me. Everything revolves. What can I say, reply? She’s so damn right. Of course she's right! I know all that… but this love is the only thing that keeps me alive, that gives a semblance of meaning to this nonsensical adventure… the only nail to hang my reason onto. So how the hell to accept? If I lose that, that hope, that dream, that love, I lose everything! I will become myself unreal. A useless ghost, wandering soul drifting aimlessly, a homeless mind flying like a butterfly, hesitant, and landing, randomly, upon air stream blows rerouting its flight. If I lose that, it’s like I lose my own existence.

Amandine’s analysis, pragmatic, Cartesian, female, is unanswerable. Alas… I know it. Nothing to add, to deny. Nothing to say. I stay silent.

-«Antoine?… You're still here?» she asks, worriedly, after a long silence.

- «Yes. I'm here...» I say while the carpet keeps on swallowing me in blurred coloured waves.

- «Forgive me for what I just said. I'm so stupid! It's tiredness. It's late… I did not want to hurt you… you know? It's just that… well, I’m a bit lost at the moment, you understand?»

- «Hmm…» I have no words. Nothing but Hmm… to express my thoughts, in response, a tight throat.

- «Everything went so fast… A few days ago I didn’t know you and now we’re linked by this incredible and impossible feeling. It's crazy! I can hardly cope with this… digest the whole thing. It will take me some time, I guess… If only I was sure to make it… to be able to find you… it would change everything. But we can’t be sure of anything… We can just be just sure that nothing is sure…»

I pull myself together and straighten the head. Have to. Have to grab something and extricate myself from this carpet. At least she is honest: She opens her heart to me, her doubts. It is a touching sign of love, too. Isn’t it? We are bound, yes, one way or another, by this puzzle. That’s all I need to know and I must now help her answer these questions, propose answers, search for some… together… to keep on going forward. I say:

- «I'm like you. What to do but hope? Such an illusory hope. I understand how you feel. I’m not cross… How could I? Everything you said is right. I have nothing better to offer than this chimera of love that leads to nowhere. Not crossed, just sad. If only I knew myself where I’m going to… You know, if you think it's better, I will not call you anymore. I don’t want you to suffer because of me. I've already thought about that.»

- «I don’t know Antoine. I don’t know… No, I don’t want you to stop calling me. It's just… I don’t know what happens… Probably I need some time to think about all this… Take a step back. Investigate more. Get a clue. I don’t know.»

- «Well, listen, we'll see where I'll be tomorrow anyway. If there is a way, if I'm still here, alive, I’ll get in touch… and if you don’t answer me, I’ll understand…» I say to cut short this painful talk.

- «No no. I will answer you… Don’t be silly. I'm just a bit lost… Understand me…»

- «I understand. But you're the only person to know what is happening to me. To trust me. You're the only link that still connects me back to reality… that does not make me doubt my own mind. So, just knowing I can call you, even five minutes, is kind of vital to me. No blackmail… You don’t have to engage with me. Physically. Maybe we could just write? Letters, emails… take refuge into epistolary, until something better can come… and protect this link of ours by keeping it safe in this little box of writing, away, on sheets of paper. I don’t know, Amandine… Don’t want to lose you. Need to know you exist… and keep on believing that reality is not an invention of my own madness.»

- «I'm here. I exist…»

- «Thank you! Well, I have to go… Wish me good luck for the concert…» I say to end our conversation on a smile.

- «Good luck, Antoine…» and I hang up, over these casual words, while the carpet is blurring again into abstract movements at my feet which are no longer feet.

I walk around, a moment in the great hall. The restaurant doorman is looking at me, wondering what am I doing. If I want to go out or not. If he should open the door to me or not, confused. I decide go back to sit at the long table where the loud band discusses. The man seems relieved of my decision.

- «You've been away a long time! We are at dessert man! Keep the timing… We are not on vacation!»

- «Okay. I wasn’t very hungry anyway…» I say while attacking a piece of fairly indigestible chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and maple syrup, which replaced my plate… Not long before the lady who takes care of the band rushes us to head back to the theatre.

I don’t know if the ball I feel in my stomach is due to the phone call or the chocolate cake, but I feel now a bit disgusted, knotted, seated in this van riding on this large and dark avenue of this mystery town… I watch the yellow streetlights sliding by, stars fallen down the street from the sky and attached to the ground by their metal stands… just like my dreams of love. The city scrolls behind the windows… aligned with its big yellow stars, like a guard of honour lining the sidewalks. It’s life passing before the eyes of Chris, going to his concert with his friends, and me, crouched inside… sitting next to Marina who says nothing. Sad, too. Angry maybe… Jealous of that phone call which so upset her lover and must wonder who’s that woman on the phone, because it can only be a woman, obviously… I smile. She’s not. She looks away.

Amandine is right: How could we set a normal relationship in these abnormal conditions? It's impossible. We must first unravel this absurd tangle, and seek for a meaning if there is ever one. Clear a horizon where to move towards, together… Can we? Will this fog be cleared someday? Will I stop changing skin like this, every night, every morning, and get back to the normal course of my existence after all these incongruous detours? Be me again… and then, will she still love me under my seemingly trivial appearance found back? Not quite sure. I can just hope, but hope is yet so thin. What else to do? Write to each other, yes… maybe. Like so many distant lovers have done, after all. Set an epistolary relationship, platonic, and stick to it. Better than nothing after all. Keep on knowing each other better, but without any physical representations, visual, carnal. Just spiritual and… let things happen… Walk on this winding path, twisted, beyond limits of understanding, trying not to let down the golden wire that connects us. Oversight of conventional patterns of lovers who meet and establish their union framed with logic and healthy hopes. For us, it will be different. Obviously. We aren’t walking on a solid ground. We’re like trying absurdly to walk on the sea… a sea of unanswered questions… and then, we sink, of course… How else could it be? Sad and terrible fate.

*

The van pulls up at the back of the building, beside our big bus. We get off and enter the building through the back door and follow the corridors towards dressing rooms. «Sold out guys!» says the happy lady who proudly shows us the way. I’m following her, the group, like an automaton, in the fog. I think of Amandine, her words, her trouble. I still have that knot in the stomach. The band enters the dressing room. I keep on walking alone a little further in search for the bathroom, to freshen up my face with water. I'm sad. Mix of sorrow and disgust. Angry too, at what is happening to me, at this curse, even at Chris who didn’t do anything wrong to me but who’s now looking at me with his stupid blue eyes through the mirror. Anger at the events fighting against my wishes, my love. Anger at all this absurd rubbish, this kidnapping out of my life, out my hopes, out of me. I want to scream. To bang my fist on the edge of this white sink, rebelling… But what for? I'm stuck here, and it makes me rage. All my life is flipping out on these roads that aren’t mine. It’s not fair. What have I done to deserve this?

Marina enters the toilets, her turn, silently. She actually followed me into the men's room. Not saying a word, she's looking at me, through the mirror, standing by the door shut behind her. She also makes me angry. A furious anger I do not understand, sharpened by all this madness that upsets my life for a few days.

She stands there, right, slim and beautiful… with this innocent misunderstanding in the eyes that irritates me most. She is also in her own love deception. I see her wide black eyes staring at me… her beautiful face of an Italian girl cleverly made-up to be even more attractive, her luscious and terribly sexy lips, not smiling anymore. Unreal. fictional character of this movie playing on the screen of nonsense. I see, in the mirror, the curve of her beautiful young woman’s silhouette, her body’s sexy shape, her seductive neckline, suggestive, revealing that mole on her skin. I am Chris. She is Marina. Two strangers. But she is no-one for me, Antoine. She doesn’t even know I exist anyway. She can only see Chris. I do not exist… This is a science fiction movie, a bad movie, a bad plot, but with a beautiful girl who appears in front me… in three dimensions… and says: «Take me! I’m yours.»

What's the point for all this? Anger. I turned to her and move in a rapid move that surprises her. That surprises myself even first. I'm not like that. The gentle, peaceful retiree is transforming into a fiery hot male. Could I have one day imagined such an adventure? She goes backwards, until stopped by the door, and keeps on looking into my eyes. I flatten myself against her and kiss her passionately as she grabs me and pulls me by her with even more strength and passion… I don’t know what I'm doing. I don’t care. I am Chris and that’s all. There is no Amandine. Amandine who doesn’t want me. Amandine who preserves herself. Amandine who doesn’t know. Fuck! I don’t give a shit about anything now. Just this body glued to mine counts now, this tongue in my mouth, these warm lips… With a forgotten skill that surprises me, I catch and remove her panties down with one hand, and take her, like this… quick and strong against the door which is shaking under my humps… pounding her with all the strength I get from this anger which suddenly comes out of me… and it does not last long: short and strong… a few shots are enough for me to come in her against the door… and then I withdraw, just the same way I approached her, without any sign of affection. Hot and fast rabbit, which made his case in a minute’s time! I put my pants back on and return to the sink to weep there…

In the mirror, behind me, Marina puts her pants back too, more slowly, and adjusts her skirt. She looks at me again, seemingly not understanding. Her face is pink, blushing, from this brief and violent pleasure, her eyes dark of from a long sadness. I can read a mix of surprise and pity. She says nothing, looks at herself briefly in the mirror too, then leaves the room. The door shuts and I then I cry like a child… without being able to stop, sometimes shouting Amandine’s name. Long minutes to flow, through the salt water of those eyes, all the pain of my soul.

«Show time in ten minutes!» suddenly shouts to the musicians a male voice from speakers stuck on the ceiling. I must behave. My Chris eyes are all swollen and reddened. I refresh my face again with cold water, readjusts my clothes too and return to the large room where the band finish to prepare for the show… Marina is at the end of the room, doing some make-up close to a mirror. I don’t want to look at her. I regret what I just did, but it's too late. I can’t ask for forgiveness now. That would be ridiculous. And, after all, she searched for it!

- «You don’t get dressed, Chris?» asks Anthony, while doing some flexibility exercises. I grab my clothes prepared for me on a chair. Trousers, shirt, jacket… It takes me a minute to put on. I tell myself that I should have cleaned my penis after this coitus with Marina… It sticks a little to my underpants now. Silly… Whatever. I'm ready. Well, kind of. I wait for the signal.

«Show time in two minutes…» announces the voice again. Stress increases. The band is a little more quiet now, everybody dressed, standing, ready to go. Some adjusts their jacket, some their hair. One is coughing. Then silence.

- «Gentlemen, let's go!» tells the lady… passing her head by the dressing room’s door.

I am again the last one to leave the room, following the queue of musicians, silent this time… to the backstage of the large dark cathedral where we can feel the rumble of the audience. We remain in the dark for a few moments behind the tall black curtains on the side of the stage… waiting for the last signal… then the darkness is eventually total… while a soft blue light invades the stage. We walk there, smiling, as the audience is greeting us with large applause, happy the waiting is ending.

What a strange feeling. I am suddenly like sucked into a vortex of decibels, light effects and I watch with amazement all these faces staring at us and changing colour by the reflection of the stage lights. Hundreds of smiling faces, watching this great platform where life explodes of all that music played and launched in the air. This is a place where I would never have thought I could ever be, a moment that I never thought to live one day in my Antoine’s life… stealing from Chris his privileged position to attend this show that way.

I let myself sail over the stream of music, the tide of heads. Minutes are passing, songs are scrolling, like the wave of a fiery torrent, impossible to control. I so control nothing, and am again pretty surprised with this natural ease I find with these saxophones: I don’t have to think, or ask myself any questions. I seize the tenor saxophone, or the alto, the soprano, depending on the songs, the verses… It’s like natural and I play well! Notes are flying, light and harmonious, to the high ceiling of the venue, over the audience. I’m a spectator in myself, letting Chris’s instincts and talent work. Everyone looks happy, both in the audience and on stage. My mates are totally into their music, both focused on their instruments and generous with this public facing us. Marina, a little in the back, behind her straight standing microphone, seems more concentrated than the others. She looks away, wearing her smiling mask, waving her hips at the music tempo. Not a glance at me. My penis, stuck in my cotton pants, with dry sperm remaining, bothers me a little, but I cannot scratch it like that, in front of everyone… I try not to think about it. The saxophone mouthpiece comes up to my face, I bite the end and the sun shines on me as I start to blow a melody, sad and angry at the same time, quite related with my inner feelings. The bass guitar and drums give me the pulse to drive me forward on their powerful zephyr. The guitar and keyboards are enveloping my notes with their aerial harmonies like a dry fog… and I fly toward the light of this magical sunset over the sea of faces.

A few songs later, the coast on the horizon is in sight. We leave the stage under loud applause and a standing ovation. I think it’s finished, but I see the band returning to the stage. Two more pieces before the ship really arrives the port and the concert ends for good. Already! One hour? Two hours? I don’t know. It all went so fast. The house lights are on again over the audience standing up for final applause… We are putting our instruments back on their respective stands, then move, in lane, to the front of the stage, almost to the edge, and bow, holding each other by the hips and facing the audience who continues to applaud warmly… Then we set off again, waving goodbye to the room, personally inappropriate as far as I’m concerned, and we leave the large cathedral, still in a single line, passing by a few technicians who applaud us in backstage. Then, the long corridor, the dressing rooms we find as we left them… the buffet, soft drinks, beers… The pressure drops. We sit, laugh, take off our shoes. Some make fun of a mistake during the act. One takes off his soaked shirt… The room smells of sweat and deodorant, feet and peanuts. Guys are talking, while getting undressed. Some are going to showers. Some already drink shots. Everyone looks happy with their performance. Even Marina, laughing with Matt and Anthony and who ignores me.

All this made me hungry and I grab a bag of chips. Oily salty fingers, I uncapped a bottle of beer and one of the guys, the drummer, comes to smack it… before heavily falling on one of the couches.

- «Well done Chris! You were amazing tonight! I loved your solos… What did you eat or smoke? It was really good!» he says. I smile without answering, lifting my beer bottle to him. That's a good one… If he’d only knew!

I look at all these people. It's strange. What a funny atmosphere. Pre-concert jitters replaced with a sweaty relaxed time, a general sloppiness around the rest of the buffet by these large mirrors in which nobody looks to anymore. Anthony says he will get his guitars. I follow him in the long corridor. The room has lights back on. Some people who end up leaving, over there, guided by big security men in black suits. Atmosphere of game ending, calm after the storm. The artificial fog has not yet dissipated and the place is like imbued with all the decibels, the vibrations from the past two hours.

On stage, technicians are busy doing their things in silence. It seems everybody knows his task and everything is made upon a very organised plan. It must. Electrical cables are wound, boxes are filled with various materials. Flightcases are open everywhere. Climbers are already on the ceiling, hanging from ropes, loud speakers are taken down. I carefully put Chris’ saxophones into the large black trunk after wiping them, as I imagine he would have done: I have to be conscientious in my role until the end… It's the least of politeness to my host. Already, the first musicians return to the van waiting outside. “They didn’t waste much time!” I think… and I find myself quickly sat in the van to wait until it is full to return to the hotel. Some fans are coming by the van, filled with all their musical bliss. They managed to find the back door, the artists entrance. Matt and another guy sign some autographs. I pretend to sleep. I don’t see myself signing anything! Then, they leave, thanking us again several times.

The rest of the band is late to come. It's getting long… We’re tired, for good. But after a while, everyone is there and we finally leave. Marina sits in the front, away from me. Good. I don’t know what attitude to have. I'm low profile now… They will both handle this tomorrow. It's no longer my problem.

We eventually all split up in the hotel lobby, at the elevators. Everyone goes back to his room. Two decide to go for a last drink in the hotel bar. I decline the offer and returned to my 1026, relieved to smoothly reach the end of the day… Marina has already disappeared. It's probably better. I shut my door. The silence of my room with dim lights is an unspeakable happy feeling. I lay on the bed and check the phone. Nothing. Just the missed call of Johanna, earlier in the evening. Amandine didn’t call. Normal. I sigh.

I get up, unfold my clothes again impregnated with the sweat of the concert, and open my sax cases, thinking back of what the guy in the bus told me this morning. I have to aerate the instruments, let them breathe… get dry. Chris will be happy. I was a good host.

Once these attentions given to my new brass companions, I slide under a warm shower which helps me to sleep and get ready for it. The day is over. My mission is accomplished. I was Chris. The best I could. I did his job, played his saxophones, ate his chips, kissed his girlfriend… and even more! I did everything, almost. I may, now, sleep… and go. Leave his story to go and probably slip into another… so is my strange mission. Mix of relief and fear.

The room light is soft. Wearing a beautiful thick white bath suit, I approach the window for a last look at the illuminated buildings, outside, the city and the faint stars scattered on the ground, glittering on the valley behind. With a weary and mechanical gesture, I pull the large velvet curtain that slides like a theatre’s after a performance. End of the show. I turn around. The bed is here, large, empty and white, in the middle of the night, long, unpredictable and dark. A white door towards the unknown. Full of mysteries to come, of risky destinations that are plotted for me in the shadows. I lay in there the saxophonist body, and shut my eyes, his eyes. A new representation is waiting for me. What will it be? Mystery.

«Bye Chris...» and I switch off the light.

Saturday

I wake up, in the middle of the night this time. I open my eyes, but there is no light so I can’t see a possible new change or not. Did I sleep? Possibly. Enough? No idea. Can’t see anything but the thin vertical line of low light between the two curtains. Not enough to illuminate the place. Probably am I still in the room 1026… But it's so dark. I remain a moment without moving. Wish to go back to sleep, as certainly I slept not enough to take off for another destination, another destiny. So I stay in the bed, motionless, lying on my back, unsuccessfully trying to get a second go at sleep. My mouth is dry. I'm thirsty again. The white wine I had, no question, in the bathtub, dried my tongue and my rotten breath. But getting up now would destroy my chances of a quick fall into sleep and delay my boarding in the great airport of dreams. Night dilemma. Oh well, after a while, I cannot stand it any longer, too thirsty: I decide to get myself one of those small bottles of mineral water seen in the minibar… for the road… I’ll return to bed right after. Can’t be bad. Convinced by this nice and refreshing perspective, I stand on the bed, in the dark, searching for the switch on the bedside lamp which I used earlier. Can’t find it. Damn… No way to put my hand on it. So I get out of bed, cautiously blind, towards the partially open curtain and use the benefits of the external lights…

With careful steps, I walk towards the window, arms outstretched in front of me to prevent any incongruous obstacle, and finally slide the curtain off to clear the window of the thick mask. Outside, it’s still night but, as feared, it’s not at all the same window now, the same city, the same buildings that I see! I’m no longer at this tenth floor hotel, over looking a modern city with a distant valley in the back. It rather looks like a first floor sight, opening on a small garden, dark, dimly lit by the orange glow of clouds above, reflecting the city lights of a probably very large city. The garden looks long, enclosed by a wooden fence and some shrubbery. At its centre, still, a fox is staring at me for a while, then quickly runs away with agile leaps, along the fence, jumping away soon into an adjacent garden. Strange vision.

Here we are: The spell worked again! Meaning I really slept, for good. I took off and landed again somewhere… Migrated. The low external light isn’t enough yet to show me where. I move away from the window and then head towards what seems to be the door of my room. I open it. Everything is dark. I listen a moment to the silence of the place, searching for any noise that may reveal a human presence… But nothing. I am alone. Just to my left, the sound of a car passing in a street, behind another window. I walk towards it, still cautiously, in another room just as unenlightened as the first one, but where I can distinguish another luminous thread between other shut curtains. The light, behind, looks brighter, more direct. Keeping my arms outstretched, I walk to its direction, but it does not prevent me bumping against what appears to be a small cabinet, heavy, wooden as far as I can feel with my touch. I walk around it and finally make it to the ajar curtains, which I eventually open wide.

This time it opens on a street view, a small street, slightly in slope, lit by some orange street lights planted every thirty metres or so, with cars parked underneath. There are some trees also, between street lights. The ground is wet. It must have rained. On the other side of the street, there are small houses, all similar, glued to each other, with the same peers and the same plastic rubbish bins in front. I can also see a small park with large trees standing in the night, on the side. Everything is quiet. The dawn is coming, but night hasn’t given up yet.

I stay still, nose at the window, watching the new street. A few cars are passing. I notice they roll on the wrong side of the road, on the left. The architecture of small houses that face me, is also a bit special, too, different. “Well: I'm not back in Switzerland, that is for sure…” I say to myself while turning back to the small piece of furniture that has bruised my hip a moment before. It looks like a table, small but massive, heavy, or a desk. There is a lamp over it and I easily found the button, this time, to turn it on.

The light is not very bright, but enough for me to avoid other upcoming accidents. This is a desk, wooden, with a green leather blotter. I look at my hands. They are brown… Nice and large, with long fingers. I smile, sigh, and look up to see what’s around… The place is simple, no frills. It smells musty. The furniture in the room has no particular charm.

I feel again like a thief in the dark, discovering the place. There is a sofa, shelves with books, a dresser, some records. On the wall, a cross: Jesus. I turn back towards the door through which I entered the room. A small hallway leads to another room: It’s a kitchen. Off lights, too, but without curtains at the window, and outside lighting is enough to give it some shape. I see the silhouette of a small table on which is placed a large bowl with fruit on top, a sink with washed glasses and a fridge almost as big as me. I open its door, which illuminates one side of the room with a pale glow. With relief, I find a jug full of cold water. Without turning on the light, I fill a large glass. Then a second. The water is very cold, but I was so thirsty. I close the fridge and go back to the street’s windows, beside the small desk lit by the lamp with a golden stand. Passing through the hallway, I see a clock indicating it is 4:50. Seeing the outside, no doubt it is “am”. A sudden urge to pee takes me to the bathroom where I meet, in the mirror, the image of a mixed race man's face with wide lips and tanned skin. Dark but rather nice looking. It's me. My new me... I then pee, while thinking that it is not a legend: black men really have a bigger one. Shit! It's not fair. I smile again and then I turn off the light and re-enter the room where stands the centred wooden desk.

The apartment is pretty empty. I’m alone. It's better like that. I'm more relaxed. Wouldn’t want to deal with human relations at the moment. Bored of improvising and trying not to be unmasked.

This small desk, fronting the window, is singular. I observe it a while. I'm thinking. Could its presence here have a meaning, a reason. Probably I should bow to the evidence: It’s like it was inviting me to sit and have a talk. It seems to say, “Come! Come and write… it's time! That’s why I’m here for… I’m waiting for you!”.

Can’t help seeing the evidence, like if nothing else mattered now and this wooden desk was suddenly the centre of the world, the centre of this new story… the centre of all these stories I just lived… Like it was there to finally welcome them… collect them. The eye of the storm of this breathtaking adventure.

Despite my still misty asleep ideas, this thought turns in my head as I’m looking at it from a distance. Yes: This offer is more and more clearly drawing in my mind: What if I was using this place, this day, to just tell what happened to me last weekend and the past few days? To write it?… Tokyo, Amandine, the dolphins, Julia Roberts and all the rest. Could that be the time to testify, to write down my story so far? To leave a trace? What if I quickly shut back these curtains on this street, without seeking to learn more about this city, these cars driving on the left? What if, today, I‘d stay caulked, hidden, just for writing down this crazy adventure? Why search for my new identity, my new appearance? What for? It wouldn’t help. I'm leaving again tonight anyway… So is the rule, the new rule, the terrible rule of my life now. What if I tried? …what if …what if... so many “what ifs”. What about why not? Forget about this new day, for a good reason, an honest task. Shut back the curtains for good to not see the outside and just keep the light of that lamp, to focus on my story to tell. Nothing else today. No looking… Just telling. As an aside to this trip, a stopover, blind but not mute, on a nightly shore not to trample nor discover.

This idea in mind, there’s nothing else I can think about now: I have to write… as much as I can. Tell what I’ve been living through, and do it fast. Time is short. I have just one day! Fortunately, it is still early in the morning… I will still have to gather everything I need, find a pen and some paper to put myself to this task: Write down everything that happened to me… until today.

I walk to the desk and sit on its comfortable chair. I smile. Even though I’m now sat, I feel tall! Funny. Anyway, the place is a bit narrow, but ok. With my long coffee-coloured hands, I pull, one by one, the drawers and find, just like if it was planned for, all I can dream to carry my mission on. All the tools are there, at my disposal: There is a pile of blank sheets, a whole package that seems to be waiting for me. In another drawer, I find other papers. These are handwritten. My host seems to love writing, it's a chance. I start reading a few sheets, of what appears to be a novel, rather rambling. A bit bizarre, nonsensical. Some unfinished love letters, to a Melanie. Drafts. Well, all this is perfect. I'll use the man’s tools, to write my story. Deal. His story too, in a way…

What a strange coincidence indeed: A writer! Couldn’t have been better. I smile again: The man possesses several pens and pen-holders and a small bottle of blue ink. Possibly a maniac, a nostalgic of the old days at least! There are also pencils, but I noticed that the drafts in his drawer, are written, for most of them, with the blue ink, the nib. All of this adds to the solemn of the mission that I am about to perform. I feel like an adventurer of the seventeenth century, about to write by a petrol light his wild adventures. Tell his extraordinary story to the future generations. This mission is sacred, I’m now convinced of that… and I must carry it out with no delay.

On the other side of the desk, there is a telephone, old style too, black relic of the twentieth century. I hold the handset and miracle: It works! I so much need to call Amandine. I hesitate still. What will I say? I don’t know… Is she even expecting my phone call? Not even sure… She looked so disillusioned when we last talked, yesterday…

I go back to the kitchen to drink two more glasses of cold water. I grab an apple, placed with other fruits in a large bowl on the table in the middle of the room and bite its yellow skin while looking at the garden below. Some vitamins will not be an option to stay awake all day. The fox is gone. The garden is draped with some cold fog. Everything seems asleep. Not me. I think about what I will write, and above all, how I will write it… I am not myself a writer and I put my hopes, once more, over the talent of this man to carry out my mission. After all, I was able to play the saxophone in front of two thousand people last night… The transfer of powers should work again today, there are no reasons why not. I just need to put myself in condition. Sit in front of the writer’s desk and let go, without thinking too much. Let the pen run by itself, let it slip over these blank pages, as it wants, free. Let out of me this flood of words, this torrent of amazement that I must pour out before he drowns me. And if I can’t fully pick his verve, his clever turn of phrase, it doesn’t really matter, I will do as I can with my own words. After all, the style is superfluous compared to the strength of this testimony on what happened to me. The trace, black over white, of my visit here today.

But how to do that? How to start? Where to start? I wonder, while biting into this apple, staring towards the dark garden and thick groves. Probably should I start by writing a letter to the man whom I know nothing about, but who welcomes me in his home today… kind of a preface to my story. Explain to him what I’m doing here before going further and tell everything that has happened since Sunday… Yes, should be a good start. He will be my very first reader. The survival of my testimony depends on him. I have to introduce myself to him, even briefly. Pure politeness. Explain what I’m doing here, by his desk, with his writing tools. It's personal a pen, right? Tell him who I am, where I come from… before taking him with me through this crazy story from day one… since I woke up in that hotel room in Tokyo. Since Amandine…

Filled with all these good intentions of polite writing, I therefore return to the desk, shut the curtains on the orange street lamps and prepare carefully my equipment for this literary long term cruise that I'm about to do. Every detail counts: Once the dive into the stormy horizon of this ocean of words has started, there will be no turning back. I will have no time to have a pause in my journey.

I take out of the drawer some sheets of paper, blank, and place them on my left, piously. I unscrew the small black cap from the inkwell, select a pen, wet it in the blue ink and start a first line on the sheet placed in front of me. The line is rude, uncertain. Just like me. Not knowing what else to trace and thinking about this reader who will receive it, I write to whom by right… which I underline with two irregular lines. Well, it works! I will need however to be careful not to press the pen too much at the risk of spoiling ink. And then let dry. There is a genuine technique to write with a pen and inkwell, but I like it. It is stylish.

The old black phone set at the corner of the desk mocks me. He eyes me with an ironic reflection. The reason for its presence here, in front of me seems obvious, as was this desk in the middle of the room: Call Amandine! I miss her so much. Just to hear her voice, tell her I'm still here, well, elsewhere, but still alive. I hesitate. She wanted to step back. Maybe too early? Can’t resist. I finally grab the handset and dial her number… She picks up the phone quickly:

- «Amandine? It’s Antoine!»

- «Antoine… I was dreaming of you. So funny… You woke me up.»

- «Sorry about that. It's early, I know. I wanted to hear you. To hear your voice… to give me some strength. I need it…»

- «I think a lot about you too you know…» she says with a sleepy voice.

- «Thank you. You know what, I decided to devote this day to writing what is happening to me, everything, in the right order, up until today… Tell the whole thing in detail, day after day… Kind of a shifted diary, a written testimony of what I saw, lived, been through. I'm now in an apartment and there is all I need to do so… I think this is the right time, before the details fade out in my memory or there are too many days to tell…»

- «Yes, it's a good idea!» she adds, ending it with a yawn. A silence follows which I hasten to interrupt:

- «Okay, you're tired. I will let you sleep. You probably also have a long day to come… I don’t want to disturb…»

- «Yes, probably I will have. But it’s good to hear from you…» After a short while, she adds: “Tell me, I see your phone number starts with forty four. That is England isn’t it? Do you know exactly where you are?»

- «No, I don’t. Didn’t search for it. Don’t really want to know actually. It's better that way I think!»

An evasive chat follows, superficial. Shifted. I tell her I miss her, but the silences between sentences are heavy. Maybe the early hour. We cut it short with a common agreement and a virtual hug, from her phone to mine. She added that she regretted being so far away, asking me to call back when possible, to keep her up to date. I say I will. She kisses me. Then I slowly put the handset back on the phone and stay still for a while, staring at the curtains… while repeating myself her keep me up to date I can hardly swallow. But what else to say? What could I expect? I understand her distance. She protects herself. Fair enough. We talked about it yesterday, but it's still hard. I must find a way to get away. For me. For her.

With these utopic resolutions, I stand up, grab the pen, the inkwell, and then my first sheet of paper on which is already written: To whom by right... That’s where I was. Not very advanced… Okay. Enough of dreaming. I have to put myself to the task and quick…

This page will be the cover of my story, its title so to speak… that's it! A rather good introduction, a good invitation to reading. I flip it and place the second one right at the centre. Two pages… Improving, Improving… Everything is ready. I dip the pen again in the ink, drain it…

*

…And so have I started writing all those pages you’ve just read. A writing run. It was exhausting, but, as a writer yourself, you probably know better than me about this matter. A marathon of words, a race against time that is counted for me today, with you. Today as always should I say… Yes, time is running out, always. Maybe this was the positive point of this adventure: Allow me to understand the speed of time. Like if every day was a life, every morning a birth, with a death at every night. Cycle after cycle, moving towards something, never knowing what it is, but it doesn’t matter: That’s the rule. Nothing seems bound and yet it all is, may be… and life goes on… We wake up, we live, we fall asleep, we die. End of the cycle. Beginning of the next one… well, hopefully. Where? Nobody knows.

My task today was disrupted a few times by the phone. I didn’t answer, not wanting in any possible manner to interfere with your own life. This text will be far more disturbing for you, I can imagine. But you will do what you want. All will be in your hands after today… I leave it to you, somehow, to carry this testimony of mine, to refine it, and pass it on. What else can I do?

Long after starting to write, just a few pages ago, I told myself that I should have written it all with this computer of yours I saw by the wall. It would have been more efficient, and probably cleaner, easier to read for you… this thought came too late. Never mind. I'm now at the end of this manuscript version for you, so I will resume it by pen, with all the panache of this gesture with no return! So you will inherit these pages, blued by you, by me. By us…

Someone rang the doorbell downstairs. End of the morning I think. I didn’t answer. Just looked through the curtain. I think it was the postman, or some deliveryman. He left without insisting too much, and I immediately got back to the small desk to continue my writing.

The second doorbell ring was the most incredible moment of the day! Like a miracle. An incredible and unsuspected surprise was standing at the door step: Like a sun suddenly showing up in the middle of the night: Amandine! She was there, at the door, feet and head down, waiting until someone opens it! She had, by I-don't-know-what journalist’s cunning, managed to investigate my UK’s phone number, found the address, name, and had finally arrived here in London, in the late afternoon, after a tumultuous journey by Eurostar. I had time to write most of the pages by then… and there she was. She found me…

Amazing Amandine… by that door, breathless and feverish, wearing her large beige raincoat London special she said. Regretting her words on the phone earlier, so cold and distant, she said too. Tired by her crazy race from Paris to here, also, but she was here for good, in front of me… with me. No time anymore to think about my appearance, whether mine or hers visibly, and we hugged strongly, with an indescribable happiness despite our mutual tiredness. Happiness to feel all that strength and powerful magic as ephemeral it might also be. Feel her, the precious moment we know not to last for long. The price to pay…

I will never know how she could ever cope with this new appearance I now have, or any other I might take… She seems to overcome it, she seems to see beyond that. I honestly don’t know if I would ever be that strong. Whoever I was today, apparently a tall curly hair mixed race man hugging this little French cutie in my arms. That didn’t seem to matter. Only the pleasure of being together, eyes closed, one against the other, without even looking at each other. Without even knowing how we look alike. Only the feeling of our mixed warmth counted, of our wildly beating hearts, next to one another. Nothing else mattered. She was there with me, finally. That's all that mattered really. She managed to overcome her doubts and disregard my new man’s shape, seemingly loving me for who I was, or who I was not. How was that possible? And, ultimately, wasn’t this the most miraculous phenomenon: that love, thus defying appearances? Loving Amandine!

Would I have, at her place, been capable of such an abandonment of these love’s benchmarks which have always been so important for me? I don’t think so. I don’t know… Would I have hugged her that strong if she had appeared to me as a fat and ugly woman? Probably not. Alas. I don’t have this clarity of mind and I need to appreciate the container before the content, the outside before the inside, unlike her who, despite her doubts, was able to accept me as I showed myself to her… Today, my container must not have been too bad though…

It was a love pause, intense, very intense should I say, stopping for a few hours my valiant paperwork mission. I will not include more details on these pages, you will easily understand why… Some things can’t be told. I don’t have much time anyway and it would have added nothing to the story. A little dangerous event, but so beautiful, so soft. And I didn’t want to interfere in your life, but this was a nice interference should I say! I could even have given up resuming my story and left you those endless pages in order to stay a little longer with her, but we then would definitely have gone towards another chaos of your awakenings… for both of you.

She then went back to Paris in the evening… unwillingly. We obviously couldn’t take the risk of falling asleep side by side during my very probable departure, my mutation. It was even not necessary to discuss the matter so aware were we of it. We remained entwined in silence, skin by skin, holding back the time before sadly ungluing, not without difficulty, and separating, at the top of that stairway that leads to the front door of the building. A taxi took her away.

Shall we ever meet again? Will we have more chances to rejoin? Will we have sometime more than a few more hours to be together? Always the same terrible uncertainty. Impossible to say. Everything seems so precarious, so random in this endless circle. But so is life, isn’t it?

I shut the building door on her, eyes wet, and I quickly climb the stairs and get quickly back to my work. Diverting the flow of pain in a last throw of words. Resume the last lines of this long letter. Put an end to this absurd novel or, at least, some suspension dots…

It's getting late now. I must say that I have a little trouble seeing clear: Your eyes are tired, dry. Your body too. Sorry for that. It is almost midnight now. I don’t know how I could hold out until now… Thanks to Amandine perhaps? Or this survival instinct that drove me to hold on to those words… to leave a trace of my life… a trace of your life. I hope my lines are not too confused. I started to re-read them as well, correct them, but I thought it was a waste of time, so I then wrote with no turning back. Never mind the mistakes, the lengths and repetition, the style. I'm sure you will deal with it. After all, it is also your work. I pass on the relay, somehow… It’s all about the result of our improbable meeting. You will have more time than me to improve it if you want to.

Night has fallen, one more time, since several hours. Amandine is away now. Back in her life. Back in Paris. Maybe still on her way, Gare du nord, in the subway, the suburban train?… or already back home to rest from this crazy day and try to digest it as she can. The light, behind your heavy curtains, is now gone, too. The city faded out. I feel ready to go, again. Leave you, my turn. I've done my part, I think, today. I now have to sleep, leave, die a little as the poet said, and be reborn tomorrow… if so is my destiny. This act is over, the curtains are drawn. When you’ll reopen them, I'll be gone. You will be yourself again. I hope. I like this velvet. It’s pretty. Looks like in a theatre. You have well chosen.

I'll leave you to rest from this long day, putting me/us into bed. I will dream about this possible love, and hopefully future reunions. Dreaming about the skin of Amandine, her delight, her intoxicating scent that lingers in the sheets of the bed and in my soul. Dreaming my life will resume, one day, normal, I'll be back into my own life... and find Amandine, at last, somewhere at some crossroads over the destiny. My feeling for her is so strong. That’s probably the craziest thing in this story: This love, born in these conditions. An impossible love in the middle of an impossible story. Can the impossibles cancel each other? I don’t know. At this point in my writing, I don’t have the clue to this enigma. I just have to live with this heavy ball in the heart. This dark mystery in the soul.

I will have to leave now. Other paths are waiting for me. May they lead me to her… to where my hopes are… guide me to find her, join her, my turn. Day after day, night after night. Wherever my random jumps will take me. I still trust in it. I must. But all this isn’t your problem anymore. This is the following of my very own adventure. My strange journey. Well, yours a little too, somehow, it’s true… during this very one day, but for you, it all stops here. You're kind of lucky. You will be allowed to resume your normal life, get back with yourself… Anyway, I hope you will forgive my intrusion in your day -but you understand now that it’s all beyond my will- and the inconvenience it may have caused. I must sleep now. I drop that pen. Finally! The tiredness of your body clutches me horribly. I struggled to keep a clear mind, and hopefully a right and consistent pen. Struggling to keep these eyes open. My words are now blurred, scrambled, as my thoughts are by now. I hope this all makes sense, though. No time nor courage to read back, to check. No more strength. It’s over now. Alea jacta est.

Thank you for your help, how unintentional it was. And, again, forgive me for all that! Please accept, dear host, my respectful greetings and very best wishes of peace and retrieve your life taken this day. May you have a good use of this letter. It is no longer mine. It is yours…

Sincerely, Antoine.

The end

Serge remained motionless for a long time, staring at this last page from the stack of sheets now all left flipped. Incredulous. Groggy. Rooted to his seat without daring a move in fear of cracking the wall ahead of him. The wall of reason. Stunned by the extraordinary improbability of this story, this stack of sheets that should never have been there, and stunned by these hours reading all these pages, without stopping, or almost…

He had read it all in one go, and night had arrived for him too, falling on this opaque mystery. He let himself dive into the reading without seeing his Sunday passing, all absorbed by this crazy story that was now pouring like an oil slick, slimy, flooding the quiet logic of his life with a dark and absurd bad luck.

A long letter written to him, just for him, or by him, through him, and left there, abandoned, on his small desk, usually tidy. He had read like holding back his breath throughout the rainy Sunday and not even picked up the phone which recalled him though three times to reality. Surely Natasha… or anyone noticing his absence at church for the Sunday choir. Whatever. He needed to know, to pursue this incredible reading. Unable to detach. Ingest it all one way or another and try to understand. The Lord will forgive him his no show today. Force majeure… Admitting that He wasn’t at the origin of this paper appearing.

Reading over, a burst of laughter belched out of his mouth, immediately followed with the hiccup of a sob. Should he laugh, cry? This story, in which he had left himself get embarked for hours, making him even miss the Mass, was as extravagant as incoherent. It showed no other plot than this man’s, banal, probably lost in madness, lost in his imaginary journey across impossible countries through samples of some ordinary lives. A banality yet inserted skillfully within the extraordinary. Contrast, again, absurd. So what?

This man... (?) But what man? Who could he ever be anyway, that man... unreal, out of nowhere? The improbable story recounted on these pages had no moral, no epilogue, no particular drama or pitch. No solid ground. It was just… impossible. The protagonists of his surreal odyssey were, for most of them, fellows, with no connection between each other, and with individually a story of life objectively not interesting. They were not heroes, nor fantastic characters like the mind sometimes creates during sleep. They were not gods or angels. No. They were just people, randomly picked up in the middle of their daily life, their mundane day suddenly put between brackets. Nothing more. This story was nothing majestic. It shone with no special light and lit up nothing of his soul of a lost sheep. No moral nor direction. It was just …absurd… And yet he could not help but devote all those hours to reading, caught by its delirious whirl, the man taking him as a witness within its parallel journey.

Simple slices of life, experienced as a viewer, reader. Nothing else. Just this stack of sheets over the desk was about the extraordinary: An exhilarating absurdity sized A4. Detailed explanations of some travel days that were described therein, yet seemed so realistic and true. Extremely disturbing. What to think? What to trust? Could all this really have happened? For real? Could a man have inserted into himself like that, quietly, taking his place the time of a day, the time of a story? Time to write this long testimony no one could ever believe, him as first. Was it possible? No! Obviously not.

Then, could he have himself, Serge, invented all these characters, places, cities? Have imagined all these situations? …and under what strange hypnosis could he have written such a prose? A pretty heavy puzzle to solve, certainly, this pile of sheets, there in front of him… so real.

Tired of not understanding and exhausted by this reading-marathon, he flipped back, with a slow movement, the last sheet on the back of the stack and finally stood up, unfolding his long legs, numbed by this too long time idle, and went stretching his blushed eyes at the window. Breathe.

The street was quiet, peaceful, normal, with its usual orange streetlights, its gleaming floor, and some cars passing by. An ordinary and reassuring vision, yet powerless to quell his cruel anguish seething in him like the magma of a volcano ready to hatch its next eruption. Felt like vomiting, as well. Quite a strange uneasiness, linking mind and body in a slow spasm of agony, nausea. Of fear.

Serge went to the kitchen to drink a few glasses of fresh water drawn from the tap, as the jug was empty, laid alone in the sink… In the bowl of fruits, on the table, refilled the day before, or so to say the day before the day before, remained just a plum and an apricot. Gone were the apples, pears, or bananas. He ate the three remaining small fruits in a row, then searched feverishly in the kitchen drawers some leftover Weed to smoke and relax. Natural medicine. Couldn't find any, and concluded ultimately that this was better that way. In his condition, it might have been a bad idea. This perhaps could also have been the source of his inkstand delirium, who knows? Never experienced that until today, yesterday… Smoking sometimes brings surprising effects, but writing so many pages in such a short time and remembering it, was another matter of questioning…

Those questions in mind, he headed to the bathroom: A long rain of warm water on his head and body would be good, no doubt. To relax, was the major point at the moment. Wash all this sticky inconsistency in his mind, on its skin like a past sweat… He thought about Steve in his Tokyo hotel bathroom, or Chris, back from his concert in Canada… both in their respective showers. Amusing mimicry. “Damn, how crazy is that? Japan, then Canada! Where the hell that was coming out from?” he was asking himself, eyes shut under the warm shower rain. “What could have had given birth, within his night imagination, to all these characters described in their own daily lives? Where has he picked them from? Needless to say about Julia Roberts… The cherry on the cake! No, all this didn’t make sense…” he repeated to himself, in the bathroom steam. At all!

After a long time, tired of feeling the water on his face, he cut off the jet and dried himself quickly. He then dressed, grabbed his keys, shut the apartment door and heavily trod down the carpeted wood stairs leading to ground floor. Need of fresh air. Breathe. Look far ahead. Wake up from this nightmare. Move away.

In front of the small building, despite the plastic bins placed on the sidewalk, he stood there for a while to fill his lungs with the fresh air of the street, the cool wind of reality. Invigorating contrast with the mild wetness of the shower. A short walk would do him good. It was a must. Need to get some air, walk. Anywhere. Go down this street up to the local pub, for example. Drinking a pint of fresh beer, even two… See people, speak to anyone on this Sunday evening, to chill out from these crazy hours of solitary reading of the letter of this Antoine, this unreal tête-à-tête with him. Try to keep some distance with this enigma, this fear, this nonsense. Soothe his soul and fill it with oxygen, reality.

Walking down the street at night and having forgotten to look at the clock, Serge hurried up, hoping the pub wasn’t already closed. He then was so relieved when arriving at the crossroads, finding its front door still open and lights on. He quickly entered and saw, with no great surprise, the few customers still present. The clock above the fireplace, was showing ten o’clock, quite a bit late, it’s true, for the place. The bartender was nonchalantly cleaning some glasses while watching from afar a TV screen, muted, broadcasting a football match. A new waiter, he didn’t know. Probably the Sunday guy. Indeed, usually, Sunday is not his favourite night to go to the pub. He ordered him a pint of Guinness knowing it’s specially good here… He drank two gulps and smiled at the pleasure derived from its sweet tingling inside his mouth. This little bitter taste too, on the tongue, was a pure delight. Soft return to the reality of things, the concrete sensations, palpable. Everything was coming back to normal, through the simple feeling on the drink in his mouth. The buds, then open, reminded Serge of the hunger he would be unable to satisfy alas, as the kitchen of the pub was already closed. Too late. The black board announcing the best fish and chips in the neighbourhood written with chalk would make him salivate in vain. So, back on the peanuts, not without thinking about Steve in his hotel room, when he had robbed the mini bar that first night.

The pub occasionally welcomed small jazz bands, duets or trios. That was apparently the case this evening, seeing the three musicians busy packing up their equipment. Too late, he missed it… Given their silent and rueful faces, the night hadn’t been very lucrative. Well, jazz is not known to be, especially in Sunday night pubs.

He remembered having seen them once before. Regulars of the place, like him, who came from time to time to play their sets in front of a sparse audience, busy chatting and clink glasses rather than listen to some outdated jazz standards. The bassist had already put his large instrument under its black cover and the drummer was closing his plastic cases while muttering. The last of the trio had his case open on a bench near an empty pool table and was conscientiously wiping a part of his saxophone with a yellow cloth. Late night atmosphere. The man was quite slender, with grey hair, almost white, nicely cut, with a small unshaven beard, white, too.

All focused on his Irish enjoyment, hunched over the brass bar counter, Serge was thinking of the described landscapes within the chapter about the island with the old woman and the dolphins, and said to himself it all could just as well have happened in Ireland. Irish landscapes could have been imagined by Serge when reading this part. When writing it (?). He knew nothing of the remote islands described, but this large one called Ireland, yes. He went there, long ago, with Melanie. Possible inspiration, hints of distant memories.

Swallowing peanuts one after the other with his greasy and salty fingers, he thought back, in disorder, about several passages of the story. Serge, Antoine? Antoine, Serge? Has he written these pages himself, or was it really this Antoine, through him, through his hands, through his thoughts… Imaginary man, invented by him… or real one, a body borrower?

The possibility envisaged that someone else could have come and sit by his desk to write all these pages, with his pen, was too absurd to be possible. Who would have imitated his writing this way for a long story? A stranger entering his apartment to write all this while he was asleep in the next room? No. Ridiculous. And then that did not explain the confusion of the day: the missing Saturday validating more the first version. No, no, it was obviously him the author of these pages… but this was not very comforting. What him? Him Serge or him Antoine? Back to zero. Between these two options, none was really reassuring.

Could he have invented this Antoine? Imagine and tell the story of the unreal man?… or really be possessed by him and serve him the pen in a forced sleep, like guided? Dictated? In both cases, something frightfully strange had happened. Some kind of nature oddity, he was the victim of, and he now had to rely on God for kicking the devil out of him, or gather its logical and methodical mind in the hope of finding some rational explanation. Draw a statement, probabilities, gather the pluses and the minuses… the pros and the cons… and try to state if possible the less improbable accounting result over both… Not easy. He chose the second option, leaving the Lord to handle the rest.

Caught between the tall pillars of reason casting their long shadows over his Christian faith, he let as an air blow, fly his ideas along the landscapes narrated on these pages, over the people, the places, the feelings. He remembered the description of the arid windswept plains, the bloody port, the dolphins, the small house described after the long hike and the white-haired woman. What a strange story. Imaginary journey along unknown countries, told through this blue ink pen, from the hand of this strange man… or his. What to believe?

Puzzled, Serge stared at the small rectangle sponge towel with the colours of an ale brand, on the bar counter. Could alcohol have had such an effect on his brain? Cause such an absence, such an unconsciousness filled with unreal images and memories? «Where are these Faroe Islands? I don’t even know!» he said to the bartender who did not answer. He stared at the foam drawings clinging inside the empty glass. He would have to look, back home, at a map.

At a corner of the bar, an old man in a wheelchair was putting an end to his solitary cards game, visibly upset. He put, one by one, the cards on the table’s polished wood, focused on his careful gesture. An empty pint was waiting next to him for someone to relieve it from the area. A regular visitor, too. Lonely, just like him. Serge emptied the peanuts cup and hesitated to ask for a second Guinness, but, given the gloomy face of the man ending his dish washing, and the poor atmosphere of the pub close to closing time, he gave up, paid and silently left the place without looking any further at the few faces that were not looking at him at all neither.

Serge crossed the street deserted and followed it to finally enter a small park plunged into darkness. He walked the dark alleys a little while, up to the top of a hill covered with grass and overlooking London where he eventually sat down.

The Telegraph Hill Park, took its name from a semaphore telegraph used in the eighteenth century, having notably being used to announce the victory of the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. The park was also the location of a telegraph transmitter posted on its heights during World War II, which had been bombed several times, with varying degrees of accuracy. A bomb had even hit the roof of Serge’s house, who wasn’t yet born, of course, at that time. He had started to write a novel from these historical facts, but never completed his work. Some unfinished pages were still stored in the desk’s drawer, the publisher, among other secret projects attesting his valiant attempts, awaiting a hypothetical conclusion.

From this natural bumpy hill, the view over the city is beautiful. Serge likes watching London, its Shard building, illuminated and pointing up to the sky like a glass shell, the London Eye, tiny bicycle wheel in the distance… and the millions of electrical stars placed on the ground, out of sight. There he comes occasionally, sits and watches the view. Nothing to compare with the Canadian provincial town described by this Chris, well, this Antoine is telling his story as a Chris at the end of the manuscript. Where the hell could he have got this from? Serge smiled: Fantasy and reality facing each other, or melted, almost appearing similar in their illusion of authenticity and realism. No doubt this Canadian city doesn’t exist nor its architectural theatre, its grand hotel… What an invention!

Quite some time would be necessary to analyse all this, understand why and how to resolve its mystery paper enigma, link Antoine to Serge, a one and the same person, and stop seeing this pile of sheets as a long letter written for him by a stranger putting to test, but rather well by himself. Antoine would then just be a kind of fantasy representation of himself, described through these weird trips along unknown countries, among unknown persons. Another him, shifted in another life, other lives…

Usually not that powerful, the Guinness gradually seemed to yield some effect on Serge's body. A gentle slowdown on his gestures and thoughts, probably increased by the tiredness of a long day spent reading all these pages, with an empty stomach, or almost. Going to bed would be a wise decision at this point. Let his body rest, and so his mind, battered by this crazy story. Let it sleep, if ever possible… Could he?

After a moment, Serge unstuck his bottom off the wet grass, unfolded his long legs, and resumed his slow walk on the dark driveway of the small park. Along the way he crossed the way of an elegant man’s silhouette, humming while walking with his dog. The man greeted him, from below, raising his round hat with a quaint gesture. He could not manage to recognise him, because of darkness, but he bowed to him in return. Civility among neighbourhood residents. The man had probably not recognised him neither. Whatever. A very British politeness in this small London borough overlooking the city, giving him the impression of being a part of a nice quiet community, a reassuring fact.

Out of the park, a little further down the street towards home, he also met an old woman, with long white hair, walking too, with her dog, a small black Dachshund waddling flush to the ground… She was a neighbour, living in a small house similar to his, just a few steps away. He used to often see her from his window, taking her little canine companion out for a pee at strictly fixed hours. Eleven fifteen sharp: The lady was on time! Serge smiled. Strange woman. He bowed to her and she stared at him briefly in return and went on her way without saying anything. The little dog did not even look at him, too busy targeting a next tree to deliver his brief pee.

Back to the apartment, after having laboriously and heavily climbed the stairs, he hung his jacket behind the door and took off his shoes. A little detour through the living room to close the curtains, as usual. Bedtime ritual. The woman passed under his windows, the other way, the-dog’s-pee mission apparently successfully completed, and he joined the two curtains together which closed in a heavy and graceful ripple.

The pile of sheets was still there, proud like a bad joke that persists, though not very funny. He put it right and straight, aligning the pages with a few taps and replaced it the where he had found it, well centred over the leather, beside the blotter, with the title sheet “To whom by right”, on the top.

Back to the start. Normally, he would have put back these sheets within the publisher, in the right hand drawer, on top of the other ones, but now it was different. Not too sure whether he should consider them as his own or not and in which square to fit them, in which drawer. For now he just saw them, as improbable it may seem, as a deposit, a loan, a bequeath. Well, not really his then. Not quite. Having therefore no place to put them, he left the whole thing there. He would see this later, with clearer ideas and a more rested mind, able to think about all that. Sleeping, before anything else. His priority. Recover from this strange weekend when he really wasn’t fully himself… Well, not all the time.

Serge went to bed but, despite the fatigue, found himself unable to sleep. All the faces of this strange story were swirling in his thoughts taking away any chance of sleep. How else could it be? His mind was totally focused on this strange story… obviously. Focused on trying to understand the physical presence of these papers, written by his own hand. Understand the reason for the missing Saturday in his memory, this disturbing blackout day. What else to think about? The clues written by this alleged Antoine, on the first pages seemed so consistent. Absurdly consistent! Annoyingly consistent throughout all this inconsistency… So accurate within this hazy blur. What a paradox. Quite difficult to integrate this into a calm reflection, a calm reasoning and then enjoy a quiet sleep.

What the hell could have become this Saturday? Stolen, as written on these pages? Usurped in such an irrational way by the soul of a stranger slipping inside him while deactivating his conscience, just for one day, to take his place? Serge wasn’t ready to wholeheartedly endorse this absurd hypothesis. More reasonable would be to start by searching the rational and pragmatic possibilities of a prolonged sleep… A sleep probably due to some reason still to be clarified. Possible weed effect on his brain, or a Friday night’s drunkenness that would have issued the amnesia, an alcoholic coma monitoring this writing delirium… What else? Could this be the symptom of a more serious and worrisome medical problem? It would definitely investigate the matter and find… He had to. It was all about his health, both physical and psychic now. It was even vital to cling on to that. What happened to him wasn’t normal. Maybe even he would need some care? He had to find the source of the problem… going up the thread of his reality until the tight knot of this improbability… and unravel it.

No longer able to stand the questions, and considering this lost sleep would be anyway impossible to find, Serge got up to go search on the internet, grab some information on the subject, starting with medical topics. Have a clear mind about it. Finding a scientific justification for this story, was the priority to follow in his unlikely investigation to explain this forgotten episode of life, this missing Saturday in his memory. It would be a good start. Probably would he discover that such phenomena had already happened to many other people and were ultimately not so severe or exceptional… Perhaps this kind of daytime somnambulism with memory loss, was a well-known case of medicine. Banal and treatable. No doubt any doctor with a little experience, would raise shoulders in a jaded and reassuring gesture at the statement of these symptoms… He would state then, with a serious and calm voice, about a lack of magnesium, calcium… added to some stress… or something alike, able to trigger a physiological response, more or less intense, such as a transient amnesia. Mysteries of the human body’s chemistry! Magic of the biology… A small treatment would do it, based on vitamins, light medicines, or even simply a readjustment diet would be enough. That is what the doctor would scribble on his prescription, before handing it to him then in a comforting way.

So was the kind of confirmation he would focus his research on, well, at first. If necessary, he would later consult a specialist doctor, just to be sure. You never know. Meanwhile, he would try to confirm this hypothesis, the most plausible one: Serge had slept all Saturday, hence the lack of memories. As bizarre as it may sound, he would have got up, motioned by this strange sleepwalking and would have written himself these pages… feeding his imaginary adventures with characters crossed in his every day life, in a pub, a bus or in the street. Absurd phenomenon, for sure, but possible and at least scientifically explainable.

Eyes tired, he scrolled down, with this hope, many web pages, some medically very rigorous, but with a frightfully worrying complexity: the Greek and Latin names of multiple variants of brain tumors, strokes, were listed, all this documented with quantities of medical photographs about bloody dissections and abstract diagrams. Numerous cases of memory diseases or psychiatry were also evoked… Nothing very reassuring actually.

Serge, like most people reading this kind of literature, did actually recognise as his all the related symptoms, precisely matching with his own situation, leaving him with brain cancer, coupled with severe psychiatric disorders and, why not, a beginning of Alzheimer as a bonus. After all, he could take the total package. To say it short, according to these pages, he was fucked up in the very short term!

Other websites, whose scientific reliability remained to be established, were relating a possible abduction by aliens, or many instances of terrible demonic possession, voodoo or other spells requiring some exorcism with no delay… based on dolls and needles, garlic or dried owl droppings. His grandmother had told him about these ancestral rites, in Caribbean, but he never really believed in them. They were just fables. Could someone have put a spell on him? No. He rejected that idea, shaking his head… and self-deprecating with humour to release the stress: “Well. It’s getting better and better! A marabout now! And what about the owl nest, where am I going to find one in London, huh?” Serge smiled at the thought, imagining himself collecting some droppings at the foot of a cage in a zoo. Pathetic.

He also read, on a forum, the story of a man in the fifties, who left home one morning, leaving his wife and children for an entire week, and woke up six hundred kilometres away from home, having completely forgotten what he had done during these days. He had walked, hitchhiked, slept in barns, killed chickens without having any memory of it. He was diagnosed with some signs of a probable and potentially dangerous dementia due to the assassination of the poor hen, and as a security measure for himself and his family, he was interned an entire year with a heavy handicapping neurotic treatment. His wife left him, taking the children away, and the man, finally released from his asylum, ended his life homeless, abandoned by everyone… and became, finally, definitely crazy. Sad story…

Serge rubbed his eyes, sliding a little away from the screen. He was not crazy. He was certain of that. The other medical options possible didn’t seem to match his case neither, well, so was he hoping. This research eventually was unsuccessful… The option of him having written himself all these pages, was then keeping, logically enough, the first place in the possible hierarchy of things, although the story told under the scope of sleep, was still quite disturbing. All these details, these characters: If it was him the author of these pages, where could he have got all this?

The coincidence of the today's musician playing saxophone in the pub or the old white-haired woman with the dog, could imply that the characters of the story are thus all drawn from his personal collection of visual memories: Some people, met randomly along the streets, a restaurant, a pub, and subliminally stored in a corner of his memory, then emerged through this unconscious writing. All this was actually quite concrete, explainable: Without doubt he had thus crossed the way of the well-dressed businessman, the Steve with his beautiful watch, one day, somewhere, even having no memory of it. The beautiful girl with an Italian accent, probably caught his attention during some reality TV show on which he zapped on a dull evening. Same for the tourbus, the concert backstage, on TV, by watching some documentary, and his brain had stuck in there the pub’s saxophonist… with the Italian girl, as an extra. And same for the other ones… So many characters printing their unconscious trace in Serge’s memory. With further investigation, it would certainly be able to recall the face of each character, crossed in a more or less past, and fit the jigsaw pieces together.

Now at the end of his extreme fatigue, Serge’s brain was struggling to achieve clearing all the players that have taken place in the manuscript. A mist had gradually invaded his mind, more and more confused. Some characters remained uncertain though. Julia Roberts, obviously requiring no research as to where he had seen her, he then tried to turn his attention to Maria, her housekeeper and Ricky, the agent with the flowered shirt, without finding any conclusive visual cues, as for the other characters of the story, probably unimportant. Just people among others, stored randomly in his brain. That's all. No doubt he would see clearer after a good night's sleep. But how to stop his thinking, his research? At the edge of exhaustion, Serge nevertheless decided to keep on investigating. He went to the kitchen to drink some more water, out of the tap, refresh his face, then returned to his questioning.

The main point was undoubtedly this Amandine, returning so intensely within his story, along the days, and whose meeting and glowing romance seemed to strike him that much, strike this Antoine… The harder he tried to dig into his memory, tossing and turning faces of friends of friends of friends… colleagues or crossed characters, nothing worked: He didn’t have any recollection. Absolutely none… A woman like that, so beautiful and disturbing, was certainly not born of his own imagination, his lonely fantasy, even if she got all the features to… She didn’t look like Melanie at all, his great but lost love. But the memory of her seemed accurate, detailed. Its visualisation, clear. He could almost even have drawn her by memory… but no way to relocate any possible meeting with her, her passage so ephemeral it may have been, in his real life, when he had her then unconsciously memorised. Perhaps this beauty was ultimately just a mix of several women crossing his way, his life, rolled into one at the opportunity of this crazy story. Just a feminine cocktail somehow, joining all the desired qualities by him for a woman… The perfect woman, the woman of his dreams. So was she, for good, indeed. Possible too…

Besides the accurate precision of the girl’s physical details, the one about the scenes described was also very confusing, Serge, having never been in Japan, neither to the Faroe Islands, and even less in Malibu, in the property of a movie star! Could all this be just pure invention? A pure amnesic-sleepwalker’s imaginary creation?

Serge checked on Google maps if a town called Les Brenets existed, and did find it, as described in the story, along the Doubs river. Small town of a thousand inhabitants, located in the canton of Neuchâtel at the border with France. So weird! Had he heard a conversation about it one day? A documentary on TV again? An article in a newspaper relating this city? Mystery. Probably. A man’s brain is so complex.

He then sought about a Hyatt hotel in Tokyo and was half surprised that the hotel did exist but much more surprised how the details were matching in all aspects with its written descriptions: from lifts to floor tiles, from doors to ceilings… and even the bar! Maybe just an ordinary big modern hotel, like all big modern hotels in the world… probably seen too in a movie, or an advertisement!

Digging a little more, he found several articles on a yearly Dolphins’s massacre which were effectively taking place on some Danish islands, despite the physical and virulent opposition of an environmental organisation named Sea Shepherd… Then again, the possible memorisation, as subliminal as it may have been on some TV news report, was the most likely explanation, the most convincing one… Imagination feeds itself from the stored information within memory, like a painter who dips his pencil on the different colours of his palette to draw his picture. He remembers seeing a red tree, then it puts some red on the leaves, even if it’s not exactly the same red, or the same tree… nor even if it was the green that should have been put.

Until proven otherwise, Serge would satisfy himself with this hypothetical but, at least, logical explanation: Just a mix of data, stored in a corner of his sub-vitamined brain, and that's it… He would, then, be himself the author of these pages. This was consistent. Faces, places. All this was taking place, somehow. All in all, it was even reassuring compared to the preposterous version of having been possessed by a spirit!

No way to move Serge’s curiosity off of this Amandine though. Who was she? Where was she coming from? Was she real? Existing for good, somewhere? He could remember so well her long blond hair, her blue eyes with lashes, her small and mutineer nose, her graceful face, her cheeky but charming smile. He could almost remember the feel of her hand in his, the touch of her skin, her caressing forearm laid against him. A carnal sensation. Tactile memory. The curves of a body were looming. The charm of a glance as well, of a smile, of a haunting perfume. He had been very sensible to it, as a reader as well as an author writing these lines. This woman had actually agitated him, through this reading. However, impossible to determine the origin of that face. Where could this beautiful stranger come from? Has he met her some time ago, and where?

Another aspect was also monopolising his drunk thoughts in need of sleep: The letter of this imaginatively named Antoine, addressed to him Serge… Why Antoine? Why not John or Robert? Where from came this bizarre name too? Where did his brain go fishing this? He knew no Antoine. Had never crossed the path of one.

Like a genuine partner, the so-called Antoine spoke to him through the sheets of this long letter, took him as a witness of his adventures, explaining to him his presence, even entrusted him with disconcerting simplicity, his own and similar incomprehension facing this equally irrational experience to live for himself. So, from the deepest of his possible somnambulism, would it been possible to have split in two, writing to himself as if he was talking to another? Insider witness of his own split personality… Was this also possible? This letter, though, really looked like having being written for him by a stranger, an other, and certainly not by himself. Quite disturbing. Such a dichotomy, even through sleep, could also be the symptom of a very deep schizophrenia, showing up this way… Scary idea. Is a schizophrenic aware of his first personality when he enrols the second one? Can he link the two? Could this psychiatric syndrome, although against his feeling of having both feet on the ground, to be Cartesian, sane, testify that?

Could this madness be the result of some alcohol or weed excess? Some neuronal harm? The simple idea of being an alcoholic never came to his mind before. Should he quit drinking? Or smoking? Have a cure? A retreat? The thought was depressing. Seeing a doctor, would then be like throwing himself into the lion's den. He would be forbidden to drink, to smoke. He would be given pills to sleep, and become a vegetable, gradually losing his love of life, his friends, his work… Maybe even he’d become smaller, bent under the weight of tranquilisers… No way. Impossible. Option definitively rejected. It can’t be that…

This search for information on the net really hadn’t been a good idea. He would not do it again. Better to stay on the first simple deduction, as weird as it may be, of a likely sleepwalking day, a passionate writing, implying that amnesia: He had spent the day in a kind of sleep, and could not remember it. Here we go. Must be that. That's not important then, not too serious. Weird, but acceptable.

A strange opportunity for his writing talent to emerge, innate but unconscious, to finally reveal, expressing through this burlesque manner with this character external to life, while embroidering some personal memories gleaned in time, subliminal. Stop.

*

Serge yawned. He thought of his next working day and the few hours of sleep remaining before attacking the week and restart the daily life routine. It would be quite a feat after this weekend… He turned the computer off and took the sheets stacked in a pile. He flipped some a last time, impressed by the thickness of it and the number of lines written on each page. Never in his lifetime, awake, had he managed to write so many pages, and moreover within so little time. A novel like this would probably require five or six years to be completed, at least… but that, boom, within a day, it was done! Unbelievable. Unexpected. A gift from heaven! And yet… it was not magic. This pile of sheets was real, this package, heavy, in his hands… The weight of its incoherent reality. The weight of real work done. Serge was now almost proud: It was in a way his novel, his incredible adventure, lived in parallel through this Antoine, therefore invented. His proof.

He smiled at the thought of these men and women described, banal and special at the same time, taking life from his writing, randomly extracted from their insipid reality at a glance, furtive, in a street. Passing each other without seeing them, almost, they suddenly took a different dimension, a different role in these pages. The anonymous passers-by became sensible beings, sometimes in love, endowed with dreams and sorrows. He had instilled their feelings, given them names, professions, talents and ultimately a life they probably hadn’t. Another life, invented by him for them, still banal, but a little less. At their size… or his. He had filled their souls with his own dreams, his inner hopes, had guided them on the path of dreams. He had narrated them through some life of adventurers, travellers, artists, probably as he wanted to be himself. Got them to meet for some and love for some others. This love he never knew, or so few, so badly and disappointing, painful with the treacherous Melanie, he had recreated it, between this imaginary Amandine and Antoine, through these pages. He made it possible again... the space of a day, the time of a dream… and tomorrow he would go to the office, as if nothing had happened. Just a little more tired than usual.

*

Serge switched off the small golden desk-lamp. The imaginary face of Amandine rippled under his sore eyes. Invented or real? Dreamt or met? Eyes shut, lying in his bed, he began to dream of meeting her for real… Would it be possible one day? Would chance put her back on his way, passing each other in a street, in a double-decker bus or a train? Would she push, one day, the door of the pub? And if so, would he be able then to look up at her, see her, recognise her and talk to her… Would he be brave enough to tell his story, revealing his secret, like Antoine did in this bar, in Tokyo? Brave to give life to this embryo of love barely designed on these pages and too quickly abandoned the next morning… left behind, incomplete, between her and Antoine… between them. This would then be the beginning of a long and beautiful love story, born in the magic of his own unconscious, his imagination. He would became Antoine and she would be Amandine or whatever her real name would be. Certainly. And then all would make sense within this absurd jumble. He would recover that emotion of love. He would forget Melanie. He would believe again… believe in love, true love…

Romantic and absurd dreams, undulating, impalpable chimeras sinking during sleep. Sweet scents combining light to the darkness of the night and open the way to future dreams. Serge fell asleep.

Tomorrow, at his awaking, life would keep on going, however a little different. He would now be both actor and spectator of it. Some new colours in the prism of life, the view of world ahead of him, more intense, more luminous perhaps, if not clearer. Another vision on people waiting at the red light to cross the street or in the subway, sitting in front of him, anonymous crowd with their individually own lives, own stories, own sorrows, own dreams… like surrounded by an invisible and impenetrable bubble.

A few billion people on Earth, each with their own unique course, dull or extraordinary. Banal to others, extraordinary and valuable in their inner secret, hope, life plan. Billions of novels for those billions of lives, billions of adventures, sometimes intertwined, sometimes parallel. Billions of births and deaths, laughter and tears, here and there, but everywhere, randomly around the world. Giant ant hill of humans.

During his sleepwalker day, he had so glimpsed some of them, opening a few short parentheses on unknown lives, isolated in their ordinary course. From anonymous faces, indifferent, crossed and stored without thinking, he narrated, within his trance, samples of lives. He isolated and inhabited some moments of destinies assembled into this patchwork, his imagination knitting the scarf of recorded images. In the dark antechamber of dreams, during this day-break of his own consciousness, his mind had highlighted with his literary sketches, small figures ending drawn in the lottery of memories… the lottery in the world. Strangers.

If the question of how appeared set, the one of why would probably remain unanswered. He should then accommodate with this mystery and accept the fact that things don’t necessarily need to make sense to happen, or need explanations to realise. Why necessarily wonder why? Things happen, that's all… with their own reasons or even for no reason at all… and not trying to understand is perhaps the main rule to remember: Live. Accept what happens. Be yourself, before leaving… leaving each other, leaving life… and if all this has a meaning, a purpose, a reason, it would appear naturally to him, one day or another. Or not. The good will of the Lord of Destiny, that giant hand which puts you here, or there, or here… watching you grow, perhaps.

Life would go on, finding its way, its comfortable landmarks, its direction, its logic. Days would scroll on again, normally, Tuesday after Monday, February following January and so on, in a recovered order of things. Formatting of life, with its precise cutting, well ordered. Square.

He would go to the mass on Sunday, thank the Lord for this gift, his light illuminating the way, his message of hope, his secret… his lesson, his curtain aside on protected scenes. His glance…

The stack of sheets of paper would be the only thing reminding him of that glitch of time. As a reminder to the absurdity of things in life, these little mysteries that fuel the great one… the mystery of existence. The mystery of birth, the mystery of death. The great why of all these emotions that one feels, the joys, the sorrows, the fears. Their meaning, The faith he would pull out of.

*

Serge slept straight until the morning. He was awakened by the phone ringing and realised, with the violence of a kick, the late hour: His alarm hadn’t rung… and he was now going to be fucking late at the office this morning… Damn! Who could the hell call? Probably a colleague already at the office, or worse, his boss noticing his unacceptable absence. Panicking, he rushed to the phone and picked up quickly, stammering an awkward Hello which he wanted clear and awake but, unlike his early fears, this was not his superior or a colleague. It was Natasha, his jogging partner:

– «Hello Serge ? What are you doing? You’re having lie-in ? »

Serge remained silent and mouth open for a moment. Some time was necessary to reconnect it all: the late hour, the delay at work, Natasha. It was all too confusing and brutal to get the precise picture.

- «Nat! What's going on? Why are you calling me… on a Monday morning?»

- «A Monday morning? What's wrong with you? You've obviously overslept. Come on, let’s go! Hello! Wake up! Today is Sunday and it is gone nine… You have jogging with Nat your buddy!… Remember your friend Nat? Yes? So move on! Jump into your sneakers and come down!» she said, with a peremptory tone, a tad edgy, before hanging up without even give it time to argue or shut his mouth.

Jogging?? But what jogging? Sunday? What Sunday? Serge tried to get his senses together, still tangled between his panic of being late at office and Nat’s call telling him about their supposed Sunday’s appointment, as if it was today! Was that a joke? She didn’t seem to be joking though. Unpleasant sensation of an already seen, an already lived moment…

The screen on the phone didn’t allow any doubt on today's date: Bloody well Sunday, and not Monday. Sunday, day Lord!... Incidentally day of jogging with Nat as well. Time was suddenly losing its marks again, its meaning, by distending again one day to the next… elastic calendar confusion, black hole sucking time, memory and sense. Inexplicable shifting of days that don’t follow anymore like they should and reveal messy and wrong at the awakening. Shifting going on, again.

After a moment unsuccessfully trying to put his ideas back in place, to order the boxes in the right direction, Serge rushed into the small desk room to open the curtains then turned, stating with an indescribable terror, the manuscript was no longer there! The green leather blotter over the small cabinet was free of any object, as usual. Desk perfectly tidy, with its small golden lamp at the corner and the black phone at the other side. Nothing else. Not a single sheet of paper. Nothing. Just one empty space reflecting the terrible question and confirming his feeling…

Serge started then to search feverishly into the drawers looking for it, perhaps he would have put it back in a row, without thinking, confused and tired, yesterday, but in vain. No pile of written pages in any drawer. Just blank paper in the left one, a very thick pack, in its usual place. On the right, the publisher, a few pages, stacked, handwritten though, but nothing to do with the story found the day before, the manuscript of this Antoine and his to whom it May concern as a title.

He looked all around, scanning the room with the tenuous hope to see some pile of sheets placed on a shelf, a furniture… Maybe had he, unlike its memory, bring it on the couch to take a last look before going to bed, as unlikely as it was? But no. Nothing. There no more. No trace. Nowhere. From the living room to the kitchen, through the bedroom, no more pile of pages: The manuscript was gone, as strangely as it had appeared the day before or the day before, Serge didn’t know. Had it only ever appeared? Nothing less sure. Or someone had it stolen? Carried away?

He stuck his forehead against the window. He was hot. The window, cold. The street, quiet and gray like a Sunday. Some cars, scattered, were passing by here and then, slowly towards their unknown destinations under the hedge of the small black trees along the sidewalks, still frozen in the cold of the night. Serge’s breath drew on the transparent glass, a small halo of mist. All appeared so normal… so usual. The halo fog widens with a deeper sigh. It was it all just that? Was it all been only a dream, a strange dream that this pile of papers on his desk? A strange dream containing another dream… All these stories, these characters related in these unreal writings, would have only been a sleep’s rambling. A nocturnal delirium giving birth to a drawers story, like the desk, but with even more drawers in drawers and a lot of confusion on the top, and all around. Serge didn’t know. He was lost, again. His thoughts drowned in the foggy sighs by the window.

In the distance, a small figure crossed the street in a sport suit. It was Natasha arriving with small jogging steps. Arriving downstairs in front of the door. Without even opening the window, he made a sign to her, apologetically, saying that he would not come. She raised her eyes to the sky, nodded her head and resumed her trot on the sidewalk and fog, rewarding him with a middle finger well deserved.

Serge smiled. Yes, no doubt had he deserved it. He would apologise later. He watched a moment the young woman leaving, then left the window and sat on the big leather sofa with its deformed cushions in which he fell heavily. There he remained so, motionless, idle, staring at the ceiling, not thinking of anything.

He then thought about these other ceilings, white, pale yellow, dark or light, with or without mouldings, high or low, near or far. He watched them scroll as an ending theme. Lots of ceilings as unreal as many moving skies above his head, unanswered questions, mixing with absurd shapes and washed out colours.

A very strange dream, a very weird story… Maybe he would have to write it down for good, as he had done in his dream, giving it that reality it had not. Perhaps. Why not. Write this nonsensical story before forgetting it. Maybe this was the great novel, the great adventure he’d always been waiting for?

Serge slowly unfolded off the sofa, and went back to bed, an illusory shelter if there ever was one … or lion's mouth perhaps… A trap. He slipped under the duvet and closed his eyes. A sweet feeling of forgotten happiness.

A strange smell was emanating off the sheets, off the pillow, intense and haunting…

… a woman's perfume.

From the french novel
“L’esprit vagabond”
(written in 2017 – Non published)

English translation by
Anthony Clayton, London (UK)

© 2021 - Laurent Hunziker

All rights reserved.
Copyrighted SACD #000491523

http://roman.laurenthunziker.com

Notes

[←1]

      Le Cid, Corneille – Scène I, acte IV

[←2]

      (Toutou =« Doggie » in French.)

[←3]

      Cards game

[←4]

      Related to an American television serie (1967)