your knees up
close, hug them tight, your face contorted, Mélanie returns,wearing her coat, anguish, sorrow, but great resolve as well, she says
she’ll be back in an hour or two, but she already knows what the group’s
decision will be, she has no
- We won’t stop. We’ll start over, that’s all. I’m sure everyone’ll feel the
same. Even if that was Father Léo who died in the fire, it’s what he would’ve
wanted: for us to continue.
doubt in that regard, and her certainty makes her more beautiful than ever, and
you stare at her, your mouth ajar, as though her words have paralyzed you, you
clear your throat then, you take a big breath then, and your voice
- If you do start over, I . . . I’ll help you.
trembles, as do your limbs, as does your heart, and it’s Mélanie’s turn to take
a deep breath, Mélanie is moved, Mélanie nods, all suspicion gone from her eyes,
finally she turns to go but you call after her, you say that when she comes
back, you have something to tell her, so much to tell her, but she turns back
toward you, her expression solemn now, she mumbles you need feel no obligation,
you say you want to, yes, you want to, Mélanie says nothing, leaves, the banging
of the front door, you stay seated on the bed, your face visited by a thousand
conflicting emotions, twenty minutes, finally you get up, you wince slightly as
you feel the pain in your right shoulder, you stare at your filthy clothes on
the floor, you walk to the bathroom and look at yourself in themirror, your gaze appalled, you turn on the tap then, slide under the
shower and close your eyes, you let the water splash over you until it turns
cold, finally you wash your body, you wash your hair then you step out, for a
moment you contemplate a razor as though thinking of shaving off your beard, but
you drop the idea, you return to the bedroom but only pull on your pants, you
rummage through Mélanie’s drawers, find the biggest T-shirt she owns, plain
white, you slip it on, a bit tight but it will do, you find a pair of socks and
pull them on, you pick up your coat and head for the living room to drop it on
the armchair, but you seem to remember something, you dig through the coat
pocket and pull out the revolver, you open the cylinder, there’s still one
bullet left, you give the weapon a sharp look, then you slide it under your
T-shirt, you shrug into your coat, step outside, the snow has stopped, you turn
into the alley beside the building, make sure no one is watching, then throw the
revolver into a trash can, return to the building, to Mélanie’s apartment, to
the living room, you sit in an armchair and don’t move, one hour, one long hour,
sixty minutes during which your strained features slowly relax, little by
little, line by line, wrinkle by wrinkle, and at the end of the process you get
to your feet, and you walk over to the phone, you pick up the phone book, you
find the number to the closest police station, and you read the seven digits
several times, a deep heaving sigh, your hand reaches for the telephone, your
fingers touch it, and just then the phone rings, you give a start, pull your
hand away,hesitate, then dare answer, Mélanie’s voice, she
wanted to know if you were still there, she’s relieved to see you are, she tells
you she’ll be back very shortly, she’s leaving in five minutes’ time and she
wants to be sure you’ll wait for her, that you
- Wait for me, don’t do anything that . . . Wait for me, Okay? Promise!
won’t leave, you moisten your lips, you promise, she hangs up, as do you, your
eyes on the police number, then you close the phone book, wander through the
apartment, look at your surroundings, dirty dishes in the sink, you find some
soap, wash all the dishes, your face impassive, then you resume walking around
the apartment, the two framed pictures in the corner of the living room, you
step
close, hug them tight, your face contorted, Mélanie returns,wearing her coat, anguish, sorrow, but great resolve as well, she says
she’ll be back in an hour or two, but she already knows what the group’s
decision will be, she has no
- We won’t stop. We’ll start over, that’s all. I’m sure everyone’ll feel the
same. Even if that was Father Léo who died in the fire, it’s what he would’ve
wanted: for us to continue.
doubt in that regard, and her certainty makes her more beautiful than ever, and
you stare at her, your mouth ajar, as though her words have paralyzed you, you
clear your throat then, you take a big breath then, and your voice
- If you do start over, I . . . I’ll help you.
trembles, as do your limbs, as does your heart, and it’s Mélanie’s turn to take
a deep breath, Mélanie is moved, Mélanie nods, all suspicion gone from her eyes,
finally she turns to go but you call after her, you say that when she comes
back, you have something to tell her, so much to tell her, but she turns back
toward you, her expression solemn now, she mumbles you need feel no obligation,
you say you want to, yes, you want to, Mélanie says nothing, leaves, the banging
of the front door, you stay seated on the bed, your face visited by a thousand
conflicting emotions, twenty minutes, finally you get up, you wince slightly as
you feel the pain in your right shoulder, you stare at your filthy clothes on
the floor, you walk to the bathroom and look at yourself in themirror, your gaze appalled, you turn on the tap then, slide under the
shower and close your eyes, you let the water splash over you until it turns
cold, finally you wash your body, you wash your hair then you step out, for a
moment you contemplate a razor as though thinking of shaving off your beard, but
you drop the idea, you return to the bedroom but only pull on your pants, you
rummage through Mélanie’s drawers, find the biggest T-shirt she owns, plain
white, you slip it on, a bit tight but it will do, you find a pair of socks and
pull them on, you pick up your coat and head for the living room to drop it on
the armchair, but you seem to remember something, you dig through the coat
pocket and pull out the revolver, you open the cylinder, there’s still one
bullet left, you give the weapon a sharp look, then you slide it under your
T-shirt, you shrug into your coat, step outside, the snow has stopped, you turn
into the alley beside the building, make sure no one is watching, then throw the
revolver into a trash can, return to the building, to Mélanie’s apartment, to
the living room, you sit in an armchair and don’t move, one hour, one long hour,
sixty minutes during which your strained features slowly relax, little by
little, line by line, wrinkle by wrinkle, and at the end of the process you get
to your feet, and you walk over to the phone, you pick up the phone book, you
find the number to the closest police station, and you read the seven digits
several times, a deep heaving sigh, your hand reaches for the telephone, your
fingers touch it, and just then the phone rings, you give a start, pull your
hand away,hesitate, then dare answer, Mélanie’s voice, she
wanted to know if you were still there, she’s relieved to see you are, she tells
you she’ll be back very shortly, she’s leaving in five minutes’ time and she
wants to be sure you’ll wait for her, that you
- Wait for me, don’t do anything that . . . Wait for me, Okay? Promise!
won’t leave, you moisten your lips, you promise, she hangs up, as do you, your
eyes on the police number, then you close the phone book, wander through the
apartment, look at your surroundings, dirty dishes in the sink, you find some
soap, wash all the dishes, your face impassive, then you resume walking around
the apartment, the two framed pictures in the corner of the living room, you
step
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