were no innocent Cains, not in life and not in art.
Bruno went to bed very late, and alone, that went without saying. He moved as if heâd been burned, he had given up alcohol but drank coffee after coffee as if it were a transfusion. I felt only gratitude, and a desire to write all the texts the next day, to parade my knowledge and to stir up once again our small circle, who settled into provocation as if it were a bed of fleecy clouds and who returned to the fascism of their fathers â the Quebec version of it, which was always foreshortened and fearful. Bruno seemed to find it very interesting.
The next day, Vitalie, I saw the question in your eyes. Had I touched Bruno, had he taken me? No, only with words. You remember, we went with Cain to spend some time in the most saffron autumn of all, I breathed as if all my creatures could be reconciled, nothing in my life was a greater privilege than you, with all your trust. I thought of introducing you to Bruno, you said no, kicking up the leaves with your long tawny boots, you resembled the still warm trees.
After Bruno had gone to bed, later and later, I would call you in the middle of the night, as if I needed to reassure you. Nonetheless I stayed close to him, it seemed to me he needed someone there when he awoke â later and later as well. The last night, around eleven, he wanted wine. I poured him a great deal, I was worried. He sat at my feet, on the grey carpet, with my blue cat on his lap. He told me that he would not come here again, that he soon would die, looking down on the Lago di Bracciano, that was why he was letting his house go to rack and ruin. He spoke of death as of a work of art, his words dry. The appetites that dwindle, the jealousies that fade away, the anxieties that end, the lies before the mirror. âWhat is strangest, he said, is the skin. It comes away from the bones before one is even at deathâs door, it prepares itself to leave its place, it bruises and sometimes it hangs â from the bones in the neck, from the buttocks, the elbows. It changes colour. He showed me a black spot beneath one earlobe and another on his forehead, which his hair no longer concealed. âAs if hell were already licking at me,â he sighed.
He took my hand, he insisted, his eyes were the eyes of a child wanting sweets. I wonât tell you that I wanted to participate in his end, Vitalie, or that I found it fascinating and terrible to taste it and so to make of Bruno a unique memory. Iâd been drinking, I pitied him, above all I was still hungry for him as I had been in Nice, exactly. He fucked with a rage that gave the lie to his dissertations on death, I was appeased.
I thought he had cancer, was being gnawed at like so many others by the beast that clutches at remorse and at regrets, he certainly shared that destiny. I still did not altogether understand the rumour in the city, in the cities, announcing a plague that afflicted men who love their own sex. Iâm sure that he didnât want to kill me, that I pleased him outside the fishbowl where he had shimmered before so many passing fools.
I told you everything about that night long before I knew. You shuddered, I saw it even though you claimed yet again to understand. Perhaps you stopped loving me for a moment, there is always a moment when it is too bright. The light damages the print a little, it fades but stays clear, you could see my shadow, you wouldnât forget it now. But one does not necessarily abandon someone, Bruno was going to die, his tragedy was more lavish than ours.
And so you found your Rimbaud, Vitalie. The one with gangrene.
Gangrene. It took us some time to recognize it, coiled as it was inside the most beautiful late autumn in history. Cain-Pierre seemed to have mellowed, youâd been lending him friends since school had started again, they surrounded you in the caféteria at lunchtime, they thought you were lively and laughing, you walked in
Bruno went to bed very late, and alone, that went without saying. He moved as if heâd been burned, he had given up alcohol but drank coffee after coffee as if it were a transfusion. I felt only gratitude, and a desire to write all the texts the next day, to parade my knowledge and to stir up once again our small circle, who settled into provocation as if it were a bed of fleecy clouds and who returned to the fascism of their fathers â the Quebec version of it, which was always foreshortened and fearful. Bruno seemed to find it very interesting.
The next day, Vitalie, I saw the question in your eyes. Had I touched Bruno, had he taken me? No, only with words. You remember, we went with Cain to spend some time in the most saffron autumn of all, I breathed as if all my creatures could be reconciled, nothing in my life was a greater privilege than you, with all your trust. I thought of introducing you to Bruno, you said no, kicking up the leaves with your long tawny boots, you resembled the still warm trees.
After Bruno had gone to bed, later and later, I would call you in the middle of the night, as if I needed to reassure you. Nonetheless I stayed close to him, it seemed to me he needed someone there when he awoke â later and later as well. The last night, around eleven, he wanted wine. I poured him a great deal, I was worried. He sat at my feet, on the grey carpet, with my blue cat on his lap. He told me that he would not come here again, that he soon would die, looking down on the Lago di Bracciano, that was why he was letting his house go to rack and ruin. He spoke of death as of a work of art, his words dry. The appetites that dwindle, the jealousies that fade away, the anxieties that end, the lies before the mirror. âWhat is strangest, he said, is the skin. It comes away from the bones before one is even at deathâs door, it prepares itself to leave its place, it bruises and sometimes it hangs â from the bones in the neck, from the buttocks, the elbows. It changes colour. He showed me a black spot beneath one earlobe and another on his forehead, which his hair no longer concealed. âAs if hell were already licking at me,â he sighed.
He took my hand, he insisted, his eyes were the eyes of a child wanting sweets. I wonât tell you that I wanted to participate in his end, Vitalie, or that I found it fascinating and terrible to taste it and so to make of Bruno a unique memory. Iâd been drinking, I pitied him, above all I was still hungry for him as I had been in Nice, exactly. He fucked with a rage that gave the lie to his dissertations on death, I was appeased.
I thought he had cancer, was being gnawed at like so many others by the beast that clutches at remorse and at regrets, he certainly shared that destiny. I still did not altogether understand the rumour in the city, in the cities, announcing a plague that afflicted men who love their own sex. Iâm sure that he didnât want to kill me, that I pleased him outside the fishbowl where he had shimmered before so many passing fools.
I told you everything about that night long before I knew. You shuddered, I saw it even though you claimed yet again to understand. Perhaps you stopped loving me for a moment, there is always a moment when it is too bright. The light damages the print a little, it fades but stays clear, you could see my shadow, you wouldnât forget it now. But one does not necessarily abandon someone, Bruno was going to die, his tragedy was more lavish than ours.
And so you found your Rimbaud, Vitalie. The one with gangrene.
Gangrene. It took us some time to recognize it, coiled as it was inside the most beautiful late autumn in history. Cain-Pierre seemed to have mellowed, youâd been lending him friends since school had started again, they surrounded you in the caféteria at lunchtime, they thought you were lively and laughing, you walked in
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