And, a minute later, threw himself at his feet:
‘Yes, it’s true … I never won Ouarzazate-Casablanca! Sorry, sorry!’
Hector returned from his sensual voyage. The pain from the blows suddenly imposed itself everywhere. He promised not to say anything to anyone; in any case, he was not even certain to still possess a tongue capable of forming words. He tried to get up, and Gérard helped him. A great incomprehension about what they had just lived through made them feel uncomfortable. The struggle had opposed two nice men, both of whose sensitivity had been attacked: the potential glory for one, the potential erotic for the other. Two nice men trapped by the ambition to safeguard their lives from sorrow at all costs.
On that common point, they embraced.
Hector went home walking, vaguely finding geographic landmarks in his drift. People were staring at him in the street, which had not happened since the day of his suicide; he could therefore definitely classify that day with the anti-prize list of his glories. He walked into a pharmacy to buy something to disinfect himself with and stick some bandages on his face. The numerous wounds forced him to cover himself almost completely. On his way out, he heard a voice compare him to the invisible man. It was stupid, he could not look like the invisible man, because no one had ever seen the invisible man.
At the bottom of his building, Hector lit a cigarette to the great astonishment of his lungs. He smoked like an adult, swallowing plumes of stillborn smoke. After the cigarette, if no woman was falling from the sky, he could try to continue to live normally. His ideas were taking back a coherent form in their sequence. He was regretting having wanted to blackmail the cyclist. Everything would be simpler if the women we love did not wash the windows. Overflowing with love, he would have resigned himself to this sexual misconduct and would have forgiven her. They could maybe have gone to see a psychologist for unstable couples? They would have been told why they need other bodies so much to advance, why they are carnivores gorging themselves with alien flesh. They would have sat on a couch and the doctor would have also wanted to see them separately. To compare, to close in on the problem; to understand why Hector’s wife, such an erotic woman in her homeliness, felt the urge to be taken standing in the familial living room. There was surely a reason for this.
Hector regained consciousness of his pain. He could not believe that he had thus returned to the glorious times of his pitiful episodes. How had he accepted such humiliation? The window washing was sublime, but did he have the right to lower himself to this point? Just as in the greatest moment of compulsive hoarding, he was squashing his dignity for an object. That was his problem, he did not value himself more than an object. He was nothing, and at the moment where he thought this thought he walked in front of a mirror to really remind himself of his invisibility. I am an object, he thought. To get cured, he would maybe have to try to collect himself! He wanted to smile but his smile was confined in disinfectant bandages. He did not want to go home; he looked to see if the lights were on. No, no one. His wife was maybe having an orgasm at that moment.
Hector had no more tears.
Far from his wife’s hypothetical orgasm, Hector slipped on a soft and odorous mass. There were many dogs in this almost completely Chinese neighbourhood. Four adorable onlookers stopped in front of the non-artistic skating amateur, not to help him up, but to regret in concert to have missed such a fall. He stood up, more frightened than hurt, as they say; but often, we forget that
la peur
, the infamous fright bone, is very small and located near the hip. At the doctor’s the following Tuesday late afternoon – ‘Doctor Seymour will try to see you between two appointments’ Dolores the temporary assistant said – the radiologist he
‘Yes, it’s true … I never won Ouarzazate-Casablanca! Sorry, sorry!’
Hector returned from his sensual voyage. The pain from the blows suddenly imposed itself everywhere. He promised not to say anything to anyone; in any case, he was not even certain to still possess a tongue capable of forming words. He tried to get up, and Gérard helped him. A great incomprehension about what they had just lived through made them feel uncomfortable. The struggle had opposed two nice men, both of whose sensitivity had been attacked: the potential glory for one, the potential erotic for the other. Two nice men trapped by the ambition to safeguard their lives from sorrow at all costs.
On that common point, they embraced.
Hector went home walking, vaguely finding geographic landmarks in his drift. People were staring at him in the street, which had not happened since the day of his suicide; he could therefore definitely classify that day with the anti-prize list of his glories. He walked into a pharmacy to buy something to disinfect himself with and stick some bandages on his face. The numerous wounds forced him to cover himself almost completely. On his way out, he heard a voice compare him to the invisible man. It was stupid, he could not look like the invisible man, because no one had ever seen the invisible man.
At the bottom of his building, Hector lit a cigarette to the great astonishment of his lungs. He smoked like an adult, swallowing plumes of stillborn smoke. After the cigarette, if no woman was falling from the sky, he could try to continue to live normally. His ideas were taking back a coherent form in their sequence. He was regretting having wanted to blackmail the cyclist. Everything would be simpler if the women we love did not wash the windows. Overflowing with love, he would have resigned himself to this sexual misconduct and would have forgiven her. They could maybe have gone to see a psychologist for unstable couples? They would have been told why they need other bodies so much to advance, why they are carnivores gorging themselves with alien flesh. They would have sat on a couch and the doctor would have also wanted to see them separately. To compare, to close in on the problem; to understand why Hector’s wife, such an erotic woman in her homeliness, felt the urge to be taken standing in the familial living room. There was surely a reason for this.
Hector regained consciousness of his pain. He could not believe that he had thus returned to the glorious times of his pitiful episodes. How had he accepted such humiliation? The window washing was sublime, but did he have the right to lower himself to this point? Just as in the greatest moment of compulsive hoarding, he was squashing his dignity for an object. That was his problem, he did not value himself more than an object. He was nothing, and at the moment where he thought this thought he walked in front of a mirror to really remind himself of his invisibility. I am an object, he thought. To get cured, he would maybe have to try to collect himself! He wanted to smile but his smile was confined in disinfectant bandages. He did not want to go home; he looked to see if the lights were on. No, no one. His wife was maybe having an orgasm at that moment.
Hector had no more tears.
Far from his wife’s hypothetical orgasm, Hector slipped on a soft and odorous mass. There were many dogs in this almost completely Chinese neighbourhood. Four adorable onlookers stopped in front of the non-artistic skating amateur, not to help him up, but to regret in concert to have missed such a fall. He stood up, more frightened than hurt, as they say; but often, we forget that
la peur
, the infamous fright bone, is very small and located near the hip. At the doctor’s the following Tuesday late afternoon – ‘Doctor Seymour will try to see you between two appointments’ Dolores the temporary assistant said – the radiologist he
Similar Books
