- dans paris, c. honoré (2006)

- a. beaupain

- when love, love will tear us apart again.

once I woke up in the middle of the night with a stinging question burning beneath my eyelids. even though the blankets were thick enough, I trembled. why, I asked the darkness. the silence’s truth pierced my ears. fatigued, I was able to see coherence in the incoherent, purpose in the chaos. I couldn’t help but give in. the certainty that this why would be muffled, shut down by (and turned into) the dark silence itself, appeased me – and I fell soundly asleep again.

- Charley wasn’t home, so I went to the roof to smoke a cigarette – he began. you know it bothers her a lot when I smoke inside. when I was outside, I heard a loud crack noise right beside me. I almost fell from the roof when I saw an extremely strange creature floating on the air, five feet above the roof tiles, looking at me. it was an elf, and it talked to me. it said it had a gift it wanted to give me, and it showed me two books it was holding in each hand, one had a golden cover and the other, a silver one. in very flourished letters, I could read on them, “the Book of the Sun” and “the Book of the Moon”.

Pierre loved telling me fantastic stories, and I was a good listener. not rarely he came up with all sorts of stories about how he had seen witches or ghosts in the fringes of the forest at the backyard of his house. of course I let him continue, I appreciated his creativity. I had told him he should write children’s short stories based on them, but he was too busy a man for that kind of thing, as he replied. it isn’t, though, without feeling somehow guilty, that I am narrating this one, instead of leaving it for him to do it himself, which would surely make it a much more ensnaring tale. finishing his salad, he went on:

- the elf said the books were very valuable but they hadn’t been published on Earth yet. I still was, of course, barely being able to concentrate on the words it spoke. it wouldn’t reveal to me what was written in each book, but it could tell me the aftermaths which would befall if I chose either of them to be of my own authorship. I could choose only one of the books. if I chose the Book of the Sun, the elf told me, I would become a very famous author in less than a year. if I chose the Book of the Moon, people would start to hear my name in about a century. the Book of the Sun is what the current inhabitants of the globe are desiring to read in this exact moment. the Book of the Moon, on the other hand, is what humanity needs to read, but is still not very capable of deciphering.

the rabbits had arrived and we started eating them. an accordionist started to play at the back of the large room, and everyone else was focused on their own plates and cutlery. under the low and appeasing music, an even lower and calmer sound of the people’s chatting arrived at our table. Pierre chewed, and so did I, not willing to interrupt the unwinding of the storyline. he looked at me and I pretended I was more interested in the dish in front of me than in the end of his fable. I waited, and he resumed speaking.

- the elf explained me quite in details what would come to pass after my decision. I could be exceedingly wealthy, get to know many different places and people, and live a very pleasing life thanks to the Book of the Sun. however, this book would be forgotten by everyone before this same decade is ended. my richness would endure during all my life and my son’s life, though. at the same time – his voice was deep as he spoke -, there still was the opportunity of writing the Book of the Moon. by doing it I would change the most influential thinkers’ minds in the following century and my name would be the symbol of an important philosophical movement. yet, I wouldn’t be here to see any of that.

we asked for the bill, paid for it and went out of the restaurant. the chilly evening breeze brushed my cheeks and made me shiver a little, while it disarranged his hair. the streets were nearly desert. he stared up at the stars with his hands in his pockets as he walked. I tried to do the same but the effect of the red wine blurred my sight and I felt as though I could lose my balance, so I just closed the topmost button of my coat and followed Pierre. we sat on a bench in the middle of a yellow-illuminated square, he lit a cigarette and asked me if he could tell me a secret. intrigued, I consented.

- actually I do not want to simply tell you a secret. I want to show you one – as I nodded, starting to feel sort of nervous, he started slowly cuffing up the left leg of his pants. tied to his leg was a small, green, humanoid creature. it blinked many times, and its eyes, which were astonishingly human, seemed to ask me for help. its mouth was gagged. it hid the books with its magical powers – Pierre explained. it was harder than it might appear, my friend, to decide whether to have the Book of the Sun or the Book of the Moon. I’m just afraid I’m going to have to live my entire life with… it… attached to my leg.

depoimento de papilio demoleus #1504B8-0.

- je suis par délicates épingles argentées crucifiée. bannie du rituel de libation de l’hydromel chaud, liqueur qui nous fait tous nous envoler. destinée à supporter les firmaments opaques sur lesquels des ombres et des lumières informes se meuvent continuellement, en cercles et en spirales, un coup en disparaissant par la gauche, un coup en retournant par la droite, mal équipées de toute l’information à propos de la direction correcte à suivre. pour moi ne sont plus réservés, en plein air, les trônes dorés couverts par le velours succulent qui emprunte la splendeur solaire. pour moi il n’y a plus de matins ni de nuits, il n’y a plus le repos des vallées, ni le réveil des couleurs-arômes incommensurables de l’aube. les limbes autour de moi sont froids, secs et revêches, pourtant je leur serai éternellement reconnaissante de ne pas m’avoir abandonnée à un hasard tel que celui de ces âmes perdues que j’observe.

témoignage de papilio demoleus #1504B8-0.