couldn’t someone who’d only ever seen Grandpré in a photograph be fooled as well?
Transfigured, Bilodo put down his razor. The autumn rendezvous was suddenly becoming possible, wasn’t it?
Why not seize this unique chance of welcoming Ségolène to his place? He longed to commune with her through the flesh as much as through words, didn’t he? He yearned to love her in another way than in a dream, even though his body would take the place of Grandpré’s, to truly love her as she deserved, as they both deserved, and finally start living for real.
Could he ignore such a wonderful opportunity to reverse fate? Did he even have the right?
So why was he still hesitating? What was keeping him from asking her to come and spend the autumn, the glorious Canadian autumn she had been dreaming about, in his company?
* * *
Fly to the autumn
It’s waiting just for you to
display its brilliance
In his euphoria, Bilodo already pictured himself at the airport, welcoming the Guadeloupean woman as she timidly appearedat the arrivals gate, and imagined himself driving along with her through a magnificent, postcard autumn landscape, their hair streaming in the wind. Already he savoured their first kiss, anticipated the fiery first embrace, lost his way in Ségolène’s morning hair spilled across the pillow. But for these wonderful visions to become reality, his haiku needed to be posted.
Bilodo had just put a stamp on the envelope when the sky rumbled outside. Thunder. Having threatened all morning, the storm was finally breaking; its first heavy drops crashed against the window glass in the living room. Bilodo refused to let the bad weather stop the poem being sent, so he grabbed an umbrella and went out. While he was still on the landing, a flash of lightning illuminated the street, followed instantly by a loud cracking noise, and suddenly the shower looked like a monsoon. On the other side of the street, through the sheet of rain, he glimpsed a postal van. Post collection time already? It must be, since Robert was there, in the downpour, hurriedly transferring the contents of the box to a sack. Bilodo hesitated. The clerk’s presence bothered him. He hadn’t spoken to Robert since the spring incidents and had no desire to be subjected to his taunts. Besides, Robert wasn’t alone; there was a postman with him, most likely the one substituting for Bilodo in the area, a guy he didn’t know, had never even seen, but whom he’d lately grown distrustful of, for he suspected him of trying to open some of Ségolène’s letters.
The rain now came down in buckets. Robert, rushing to get out of the storm, closed the postbox again and chucked the sack into the van. He’d be leaving any minute now. Bilodo’s wish to post the haiku prevailed over any other consideration: he resigned himself to swallowing his pride and let out a great shout to draw the clerk’s attention. Robert turned around, spotted him. Brandishing his letter, Bilodo tore down the stairs and dashed out onto the flooded road. The other guy, the postman, started motioning with his arms, called out somethingindistinct to him. The blast of a horn pierced the air. Then there was a crash.
The world spun around Bilodo, in slow motion, as in a dream. He whirled around in space, wondering what was happening to him, then there was another crash, and the world became steady again, heavy, and hard beneath his back. The sky flashed and thundered, pelted his eyes with rain. He tried to move, but found he couldn’t, and noticed he was in terrible pain. A figure placed itself between the storm and him. A familiar face, Robert’s. Then another face appeared, the postman’s, familiar too, but for a completely different reason: it was his own. The postman’s face was that of the old Bilodo, Bilodo before the metamorphosis, the clean-shaven, clear-eyed Bilodo he had once been.
It was he himself, his former self, looking down at him from up there.
23
How could he find
Transfigured, Bilodo put down his razor. The autumn rendezvous was suddenly becoming possible, wasn’t it?
Why not seize this unique chance of welcoming Ségolène to his place? He longed to commune with her through the flesh as much as through words, didn’t he? He yearned to love her in another way than in a dream, even though his body would take the place of Grandpré’s, to truly love her as she deserved, as they both deserved, and finally start living for real.
Could he ignore such a wonderful opportunity to reverse fate? Did he even have the right?
So why was he still hesitating? What was keeping him from asking her to come and spend the autumn, the glorious Canadian autumn she had been dreaming about, in his company?
* * *
Fly to the autumn
It’s waiting just for you to
display its brilliance
In his euphoria, Bilodo already pictured himself at the airport, welcoming the Guadeloupean woman as she timidly appearedat the arrivals gate, and imagined himself driving along with her through a magnificent, postcard autumn landscape, their hair streaming in the wind. Already he savoured their first kiss, anticipated the fiery first embrace, lost his way in Ségolène’s morning hair spilled across the pillow. But for these wonderful visions to become reality, his haiku needed to be posted.
Bilodo had just put a stamp on the envelope when the sky rumbled outside. Thunder. Having threatened all morning, the storm was finally breaking; its first heavy drops crashed against the window glass in the living room. Bilodo refused to let the bad weather stop the poem being sent, so he grabbed an umbrella and went out. While he was still on the landing, a flash of lightning illuminated the street, followed instantly by a loud cracking noise, and suddenly the shower looked like a monsoon. On the other side of the street, through the sheet of rain, he glimpsed a postal van. Post collection time already? It must be, since Robert was there, in the downpour, hurriedly transferring the contents of the box to a sack. Bilodo hesitated. The clerk’s presence bothered him. He hadn’t spoken to Robert since the spring incidents and had no desire to be subjected to his taunts. Besides, Robert wasn’t alone; there was a postman with him, most likely the one substituting for Bilodo in the area, a guy he didn’t know, had never even seen, but whom he’d lately grown distrustful of, for he suspected him of trying to open some of Ségolène’s letters.
The rain now came down in buckets. Robert, rushing to get out of the storm, closed the postbox again and chucked the sack into the van. He’d be leaving any minute now. Bilodo’s wish to post the haiku prevailed over any other consideration: he resigned himself to swallowing his pride and let out a great shout to draw the clerk’s attention. Robert turned around, spotted him. Brandishing his letter, Bilodo tore down the stairs and dashed out onto the flooded road. The other guy, the postman, started motioning with his arms, called out somethingindistinct to him. The blast of a horn pierced the air. Then there was a crash.
The world spun around Bilodo, in slow motion, as in a dream. He whirled around in space, wondering what was happening to him, then there was another crash, and the world became steady again, heavy, and hard beneath his back. The sky flashed and thundered, pelted his eyes with rain. He tried to move, but found he couldn’t, and noticed he was in terrible pain. A figure placed itself between the storm and him. A familiar face, Robert’s. Then another face appeared, the postman’s, familiar too, but for a completely different reason: it was his own. The postman’s face was that of the old Bilodo, Bilodo before the metamorphosis, the clean-shaven, clear-eyed Bilodo he had once been.
It was he himself, his former self, looking down at him from up there.
23
How could he find
Similar Books
