“You could have told me beforehand.”
Rémi turns toward Victor, in the bed.
“It was a spontaneous idea. For three weeks. You won’t die from it.”
Victor, Rémi knows all too well, does not like anyone invading his home. He is becoming more and more like his profession, Rémi thinks, as immovable as a notarized deed. Unlike his father, Victor had not acquired the lightness of spirit and the forced, muffled smile of circumstance that archivists adopt before the constant racket of human activity.
Rémi places a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s only for three weeks.”
Victor does not answer. Rémi withdraws his hand. He turns over without ceremony, manages to wish good night, but Victor remains silent. Rémi focuses on his breathing, the only one that really matters, observing the shadows haunting Armand’s pavilion. He likes returning here, harvesting the fruit of his memories. He sees Armand’s sick eyes imploring him to undress, just to look at him. Armand again, seated in the other room, explaining to him the harmonious and constraining entanglements of his sky chart. The old man’s cough, his weeping, his anger, his few laughs, his insistence on speaking of the taste—almost unknown to him—that skin has for lips.
Rémi nods silently. Stéphane, in the sauna, a body so soft, flavours and scents of hazelnut in his hair, his smiling teeth, strong with pure ivory, the detachment of the nomad—for Stéphane seemed to come from nowhere—intensely tasting, in passing, every fruit of the earth. Yes, the taste of Stéphane. And then, at high noon, the new, almost acidic, degrading taste of Luc. Rémi moistens his lips, wants to make peace, return to Armand. “Taste, my boy, do not be afraid to nourish yourself. The time will come soon enough when everything tastes painfully bland. Taste, grow fat on sensation.”
Armand exaggerated. By gulping down too much, one vomits; by wanting too much, one gets dizzy.
Rémi refocuses on his breathing, the only nurturer of his days. He chases away frustrations, rather lets them run their course; he spies on them, thinking he can thus reach the capricious sources of his motivations. Images flash by, reasoning weaves links, memories moisten the fabric, mixing the dyes. One must start over, chase thoughts away, go back, move forward, live intensely, yes, live calmly, yes. As if night were but a silent and infinite revelation. He breathes, falls asleep.
Wakes up two hours later. Baker’s reflex. He tries to fall back asleep but to no avail. His frustrations have formed a vinegar lake around his stomach. The moonlight gives the furniture a cold patina. He yawns. Victor snores discreetly. The dream, memories, and reality fuse. Ten years ago, Rémi was lying next to Armand, observing a similar moon, furniture equally stingy with shadow. The place is clearer now, looks more like a hotel room than the peaceful graveyard of things Armand had acquired. Almost nothing on the walls, whereas the old man had covered them with paintings and photos, sometimes very suggestive and on the edge of good taste. Only the bed seems to have remarkably survived Armand’s death. Rémi touches the wood of the headboard. The mattress has been changed; Armand slept in an ocean of angry springs, and every movement was immediately announced by a rusty complaint. Rémi sits up in the bed. Total silence, testifying to the expertise of the sleep industry. He catches sight of the moon at the window.
The night, alive with crickets, reaches him. Footsteps on the porch. Cats? No. The moon, at the window, is suddenly obscured by an imposing mass, which stops, presses against the glass to look inside. Luc. His silhouette retreats, sits down. Like a lightning bolt, a matchstick outlines the man’s features, which give way to a small reddish dot and a nervous fog.
Rémi gets up quickly. He retrieves his underwear, opens the door. Naked, he pulls it on in front of Luc, who looks at him saying softly:
“Hi. I gambled on you not being asleep.”
“That’s often the case with the full moon.”
“I would have come to get you otherwise.”
“Really? You would have dared?”
“Yes.”
Rémi sits down next to him, points to the cigarette.
“I didn’t know you had that vice.”
“It’s new; I’ve taken a liking to it. Plus, since Marie-Claire doesn’t want me to smoke in the house.”
“You should quit right away.”
“I’m in the mood to fuck.”
Luc says no more. Silence returns.
“You’ve got some nerve, with everyone right here,” Rémi tries to joke.
Anger rises along with his desire.
“They’re all asleep; you know that well.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Victor is sleeping.”
“And she’s sleeping there, with the light on?”
Luc glances at Lucienne’s cottage.
“You think she’s spying on us?”
“Let old people have their indiscretion,” Rémi answers. “They hurt no one.”
Luc pulls on his cigarette, lets a few minutes pass. Rémi does not try to break this thin ice of intimacy. Luc takes one last drag before flicking the butt into the night with a snap of his index finger. Falling, the butt does not go out immediately. Rémi watches the reddish glow turn black.
“Don’t you want me?” asks Luc, in an uncertain voice.
“Yes… and no. It’s just desire.”
Luc chuckles, swiftly grabs his cock through his underwear. Rémi absorbs the sensation.
“Tell that to your dick, which, if I understand correctly, doesn’t seem to hate it…”
Rémi suppresses a yawn, but spreads his legs anyway, happy to let his blood swell his sex in Luc’s palm.
“What are you looking for?”
Luc withdraws his hand.
“To fuck. These days, it’s beyond my understanding. And with Marie-Claire, since she’s about to give birth… It’s easy: we lower our pants, stimulate ourselves, and ejaculate. The deed is done, and we don’t talk about it anymore.”
“That’s called mutual masturbation.”
“I’ve got the guts to do it tonight, Rémi.”
“You’ve changed. You’ve hardened.”
“Touch; you’ll see how hard it is.”
“Don’t play stupid with that. I’m not your fuck buddy.”
Luc laughs.
“You would have liked that.”
“Yes, I’d still like that.”
“So?”
“What good will it do?”
“A good time. You’re right, I’ve changed. I don’t know anymore. I just want it; I don’t want to think. Take advantage!”
“It’s like you’re imploring me.”
“Go fuck yourself. It might amuse you to see me like this.”
Luc gets up, descends the stairs, disappears into the dark. Rémi fears he has really left, thus missing the opportunity he had been waiting for. The situation is ironic. He had sworn to have him, and when he can obtain it, he says more than he means, handing the reins to his unconscious superego. Fuck Freud.
To his great relief, Luc returns as quickly as he left; he climbs back onto the porch and drops down beside him without ceremony.
Rémi places his index on Luc’s forehead.
“Nothing is simple in there, I know…”
“I’m not into men, Rémi.”
“Well, no…”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Do I really have to believe in something? In the night, everything is grey, and perhaps that’s better anyway.”
Rémi gets up, descends the steps, takes a few paces in front of Luc, intentionally puffs out his chest. Luc chuckles.
“And now he’s playing the tease.”
Rémi moves away and heads toward the beach. He hears Luc following him. He is not happy about what he is doing, but he wants it too much. He descends the steps leading to the beach. The roughness of the sand against his feet reminds him that his eyes are of no use in the dark against the obstacles ahead. And so he lowers his last remaining defence: modesty.
No doubt believing that Rémi has stopped to await the first waves of caresses, Luc embraces him, spins him around, plunges his hands into Rémi’s underwear, and strokes his buttocks. Fuck, Rémi thinks.