going to lag behind. He dived after her to where the darkness deepened, surrounded you, held you in an ever tighter, ever colder grip. He had already lost sight of her but could feel the vibrations of the mass of water she displaced, and he heard her sing in the gloom close by. She was calling. She was calling
him
, and he answered, also with a song, because that was how you communicated when you were a whale – you sang into the void, unafraid of the darkness that grew ever darker, ever deeper.
12
A kid is shouting
he’s waving his stick about
he just scored a goal
The little girl screams
On the window ledge
she has seen a centipede
On the clothes line in the yard
the washing freezes
and sparrows shiver
My neighbour Aimée
gardens in a floral dress
You would water her
* * *
January was wreaking its havoc. It had already been three months since Bilodo moved into Grandpré’s place. He now felt perfectly at home there but continued to think ‘at Grandpré’s place’. It was automatic, but also a mark of respect for the man to whom he owed so much happiness. He only went over to his old apartment when it suited him, to pick up his scanty post and delete from his voicemail the smutty propositions that kept flooding into it. His furniture and most of his things were still there. He had hardly moved anything into Grandpré’s place, not wanting to alter its pleasing Oriental atmosphere. He could have sublet his old apartment now that he didn’t need it any more, but had decided not to, because he used that official address as both a cover and an alibi so as to preserve the tranquillity of the parallel life he led in his lair on rue des Hêtres. That way,he didn’t have to fear either visits from unwelcome guests or ill-timed intrusions by Robert. Bilodo hadn’t told the clerk anything, and the mere thought of him turning up with his huge clogs in the muffled seclusion of his Japanese sanctuary made him shudder. Robert, who was no fool, suspected something, of course. It struck him as odd that Bilodo never answered the phone and was never home when he stopped by. Robert’s questions were becoming embarrassing and Bilodo found it more and more difficult to evade them.
Apart from Robert’s nosy queries, the outside world rarely intervened in Bilodo’s cloistered life, centred completely on his imaginary romance. There was Tania, at the Madelinot, who never missed an opportunity to gab and ask how his research into Japanese poetry was coming along. As a matter of fact, Bilodo had got into the habit of devoting his lunch break, after dessert, to the revision of haiku he meant to send to Ségolène, and Tania, puzzled, often asked him what he was writing and if she could read it. He refused as nicely as possible, on the pretext that it was too personal, but the young waitress continued to show a keen interest in his writings, which was rather touching. He was sorry he always had to say no to Tania. And because he wanted her to like him, he promised he’d write a haiku especially for her one day. She seemed thrilled.
Apart from that, Bilodo saw practically no one. There was Madame Brochu, with whom he exchanged the occasional polite remark, although more briefly since a recent incident: when she came knocking at his door to ask him to turn down the volume of his Chinese music, the lady had looked shocked at seeing him wearing Grandpré’s kimono. She had been less cordial after that and eyed Bilodo suspiciously ever since. It was understandable, he thought. Judged from the outside, his behaviour was certainly surprising. Judged from the inside as well: living the way he did, having slipped into someone else’s mind and clothing, surely denoted a high degree of eccentricity. But he fully accepted beingodd in this respect, no matter what other people might think. The important point was never to lose sight of the deeper logic.
* * *
A wandering man
found frozen to death
on a bench, today at dawn
La
him
, and he answered, also with a song, because that was how you communicated when you were a whale – you sang into the void, unafraid of the darkness that grew ever darker, ever deeper.
12
A kid is shouting
he’s waving his stick about
he just scored a goal
The little girl screams
On the window ledge
she has seen a centipede
On the clothes line in the yard
the washing freezes
and sparrows shiver
My neighbour Aimée
gardens in a floral dress
You would water her
* * *
January was wreaking its havoc. It had already been three months since Bilodo moved into Grandpré’s place. He now felt perfectly at home there but continued to think ‘at Grandpré’s place’. It was automatic, but also a mark of respect for the man to whom he owed so much happiness. He only went over to his old apartment when it suited him, to pick up his scanty post and delete from his voicemail the smutty propositions that kept flooding into it. His furniture and most of his things were still there. He had hardly moved anything into Grandpré’s place, not wanting to alter its pleasing Oriental atmosphere. He could have sublet his old apartment now that he didn’t need it any more, but had decided not to, because he used that official address as both a cover and an alibi so as to preserve the tranquillity of the parallel life he led in his lair on rue des Hêtres. That way,he didn’t have to fear either visits from unwelcome guests or ill-timed intrusions by Robert. Bilodo hadn’t told the clerk anything, and the mere thought of him turning up with his huge clogs in the muffled seclusion of his Japanese sanctuary made him shudder. Robert, who was no fool, suspected something, of course. It struck him as odd that Bilodo never answered the phone and was never home when he stopped by. Robert’s questions were becoming embarrassing and Bilodo found it more and more difficult to evade them.
Apart from Robert’s nosy queries, the outside world rarely intervened in Bilodo’s cloistered life, centred completely on his imaginary romance. There was Tania, at the Madelinot, who never missed an opportunity to gab and ask how his research into Japanese poetry was coming along. As a matter of fact, Bilodo had got into the habit of devoting his lunch break, after dessert, to the revision of haiku he meant to send to Ségolène, and Tania, puzzled, often asked him what he was writing and if she could read it. He refused as nicely as possible, on the pretext that it was too personal, but the young waitress continued to show a keen interest in his writings, which was rather touching. He was sorry he always had to say no to Tania. And because he wanted her to like him, he promised he’d write a haiku especially for her one day. She seemed thrilled.
Apart from that, Bilodo saw practically no one. There was Madame Brochu, with whom he exchanged the occasional polite remark, although more briefly since a recent incident: when she came knocking at his door to ask him to turn down the volume of his Chinese music, the lady had looked shocked at seeing him wearing Grandpré’s kimono. She had been less cordial after that and eyed Bilodo suspiciously ever since. It was understandable, he thought. Judged from the outside, his behaviour was certainly surprising. Judged from the inside as well: living the way he did, having slipped into someone else’s mind and clothing, surely denoted a high degree of eccentricity. But he fully accepted beingodd in this respect, no matter what other people might think. The important point was never to lose sight of the deeper logic.
* * *
A wandering man
found frozen to death
on a bench, today at dawn
La
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