His rumpled clothes clinging to his clammy skin, Victor sleeps on the living-room sofa. He did not open the windows when he came in; the air holds nothing but carbon mingled with dreams. Rémi flings the living-room windows wide and opens the dining-room patio door. The night’s tentative coolness soon lightens the air inside, if only a little. Rémi leans against the wall. He has drunk too much. No one can intoxicate an evening quite like Irène. In the kitchen, Victor made himself a sandwich and left everything lying around. The jar of mayonnaise was not put back in the refrigerator. Ruined. He thrusts it brutally under the tap and floods it with water. He tidies the kitchen, then returns to the living room and sits in the armchair beside the sofa.
Victor has noticed nothing. He sleeps the sleep of the just, something Rémi has always admired about him.
How can he sleep like that, his nose buried in the cushions? Was he waiting for him? Perhaps he wanted to talk. Why did he fall asleep, then? It is not so late. Still, Victor came home at dawn. He is recovering. It is logical. Acceptable.
Rémi moves closer and smells him. No unpleasant odour. Victor is nothing but health. His abundant sweat tastes of mead.
Rémi would like to talk to him, to put an end to the silence. After a day spent in the company of the talkative Irène, the simplicity of the moment weighs on him like warm leather against the skin. Victor has removed only his shoes and socks. Rémi will never stop desiring. Victor is available. If he woke him, what would happen? Victor would probably be annoyed at being pulled from the comfort of his sleep.
Victor coughs. He half opens his eyes, closes them again, then realizes he is not alone.
“You’re here…” he says, rubbing his face and yawning. “Where were you?”
“With the neighbour, Irène. We walked all afternoon. I took her to see the bakery. Then we got drunk. You left the jar of mayonnaise on the counter. It’s ruined.”
Victor does not answer. He gets up looking like a little boy too sleepy to decide what to do. Rémi approaches, unbuttons his shirt and removes it. Victor lets him. Rémi tackles his trousers next. Victor leans against him when Rémi tells him to lift one leg, then the other. He heads for the stairs like a sleepwalker. He climbs without saying good night. Rémi hears him walk towards the bathroom. A stream plunges forcefully into the toilet bowl and goes on for a long time. Another of Victor’s defining traits. He pisses like a horse. He ejaculates like a stallion. Brute force, simple, proper.
Victor finishes urinating and drags his feet towards his bed. Rémi hears him collapse. He has not even taken a shower to cool himself down. Tomorrow he will wake fresh and rested, his skin entirely respectable, reddened only by the acidity of the sheets.
Today will not be the day they finally lance the boil. Rémi checks the time and goes out onto the patio. The night seems to welcome him like an old regular, making a little room for him beneath its great coat. Across the way, Cobra is sitting on his own patio. Rémi waves. Cobra raises his beer in invitation. To his right, Émile is also on his balcony, holding a bottle of beer. Rémi greets him. Émile imitates Cobra.
Rémi staggers towards the pool, undresses and dives in. The shock of the water catches him by surprise; he swallows great gulps of it. He panics, feels as though he might vomit in the water. He manages to reach the surface. The sounds of the night suddenly seem shrill, then return to an acceptable level.
Acceptable. He climbs out of the water and looks for a towel he might have left nearby. It is there, on the lounge chair. The thought of having a beer with Cobra crosses his mind. He removes his briefs, wraps the towel around his waist, lies down on the chair and spits out more chlorinated water.
He hears Cobra moving on his balcony. Too easy, he thinks, and too many desires. “Be reasonable.” “But you could have that one too. He’s only waiting for it.” Too easy, too easy, too easy. Too many desires still. He would have liked to make love to Victor, to mend what was broken. Too little, too late. Too old, so late.
Cobra is not far away. Where is Émile? Rémi cannot see him. If he gets up, he will send too many conflicting signals to too many people. Too many? Two people. If only Cobra could suck him off, right there, and then go home. Too many implications. He knows his neighbour is prowling. Is he prowling? Rémi listens. The wind has risen. Perhaps he is simply too drunk. He touches himself. His erection is hard. He turns his chair towards the hedge. Tempting. The hedge becomes a screen for him. Cobra, behind it, cannot cross. Émile is watching. Rémi is protected; if Cobra tries to come through, he will flee. His honour is safe. He unwraps the towel.