Franketienne - Ready to Burst

— Paulin, mind if I make a slightly harsh comment?

— I’m listening.

— Your theories are riddled with contradictions.

— Raynand, my friend, we live in a world in the middle of a metamorphosis. A universe of uncertainties. Life itself appears to be a cinema of illusions. Truth, always fleeting, often takes refuge in the opposite of what we call reality. Me, I’ve chosen to practice the paradox and the aesthetic of the aleatory.

Paulin is quiet for a moment. Gets up. Takes his pipe from a formica shelf. Fills it with tobacco. And carefully sparks the purple flame of a lovely little yellow lighter. Agitated, he inhales two successive puffs. The suave aroma of the tobacco invades the room in the silent escalation of the gray smoke as it rises to the cardboard roof. Raynand looks at his watch. Stands up. Stretches his arms up above his head. Moves toward the door.

— Okay, then. Paulin, I’m leaving. I’m going to the Rex to see this week’s film. I need a break. In any case, I thank you for this afternoon. I’ll be back. I’m intrigued by everything you’ve said.

— I’m at your disposal, Raynand. I’ll be waiting. Let’s stay in touch. I’m always here in the afternoon.

Passing by the bookcase, Raynand stops for a moment. Looks at a large photo of a smiling woman, positioned on the upper shelf. At the bottom and next to the woman’s heart, Raynand calmly reads the dedication written in pen: “To my beloved Paulin, with my unchanging love. Sincerely, Marina.”

— Hey, Paulin. Seems like you really love this one. If this picture is any indication, she’s quite beautiful.”

— Yes … very beautiful.

— All right, I’m going to head out now. I’ll be back to see you some afternoon. Next week.

Raynand rubs his head with the flat of his hand. Takes off. And then disappears around the corner of a little street that somehow recalls the irregular arc of a half-bent elbow.

Paulin returns to his room. Pensive. He stands up next to the bookcase. Chin leaning against the edge of the shelf where the smiling photo of Marina is posed. He looks at it for a while. Backs up a bit. Looks at it again. More intently. A large medal pulls on the necklace hanging from Marina’s neck. Her cheeks are rosy, flush with freshness and good health. A pair of triangular earrings. Two beauty marks. A little dot of brown flesh on the right nostril. Her delicate lips, made to measure, slightly parted to reveal a brilliant row of white teeth. Her hair like a flower crowning her wide forehead. Island Marina with her slanted eyes! Paulin looks at her. Even more deeply. Desperately. Passionately. His eyelids raise. His eyes widen with sudden illumination. The frame of the photo grows disproportionately larger. The cardboard rectangle bends into a curve. Pushes against the glass. And Marina comes alive, stepping gently out of the photo. Standing in the middle of Paulin’s room. Smiling. Her back against the wall.

— Marina, do you love me?

— I cannot love. Because of men, my mother suffered her entire life. She is a slave to my father. And I don’t want to be a slave to anyone. I lived up close with the cynicism and nastiness of men. They all behave like despots when it comes to women. Me, I … don’t want to love anymore. I want no part of such a prison.

— You live curled up like a snail. In the end, you’re the one who’s built a prison for yourself. To protect yourself from a world you find too aggressive. You cultivate your mother’s disappointments in yourself. You’ve made a shell for yourself and closed yourself up within it. Avoiding all contact with the world, which, in your eyes, has your father’s face.

— Is it my fault if I feel like I’m made of ice?

— The ice that’s hardened your heart is nothing more than a fear of confronting life. In fact, you’re not really living. You’re fast asleep. Having chosen, like a coward, to live life in slow motion, like a hibernating animal. Do you think life will have meaning after your death? It won’t and it won’t have been worth anything for your fellow creatures, your brothers and sisters who suffer. Because you won’t have been anything more than an obscure absence in the great human adventure.

— But what would you have me do? You think it’s easy to be present, to not live on the margins?

— You, you’re not living at all. You don’t dare. You choose to flee to save your honor. You always pull back whenever you think you’re about to do something foolish. You’re afraid of being born. Of knowing yourself. Of acknowledging yourself. Yet life is right there, and it goes by without waiting for you. The alternative is tragic. Live or die. And if you choose to live, you can’t not make mistakes. Only death is infallible.

— I have no desire to live chained to evil and suffering until dying, in the end, like a dog.

— If it happens that I die like a dog, I’ll have no regrets … I will have lived to the fullest my dog’s life.

— With some other dog faithfully attached to your feet to keep you company.

— I’m not chaining you to me, Marina. I’m merely extending an invitation.

— But, Paulin, might not that invitation be selfishness in disguise? Might you be trying to satisfy your own pride?

— You call me selfish. You’re wrong. I’m suffering. I’m tortured. Shattered. Crazy with the need to give my love. My weakness. My strength. My worth. I exist. I live. I’m present. I measure my weight in pain and joy. The scale’s needle veers off course. It’s no longer calm. Even in my deepest nights, my eyes shine far more than the wan paleness of death.

— You want to give me your life? All of it … Every last drop … Do you really believe we can be the exception to failure? That we can escape total collapse?

— Marina, believe me. I love you. I won’t leave this world with anything at all. Much less with love, which cannot be hoarded.

— And if I accept? What would you ask me to do?

— To hold my hand as we travel new roads together. Risking our lives in stormy places. We need one another.

— Paulin, you think we’ll overcome all obstacles, that we’ll make it to the end? Is that a sure thing? Reassure me, I’m begging you.

— Marina, don’t let conformity plant its evil flag in you. Death is conservative. Join me in taking the first steps to tear down the old ways, the patina of a universe paralyzed by normalcy.

— I love you too, Paulin. I’ve always forced myself to hide that from you. Today, I can’t do it any longer. I love you. It’s just that you’re so violent …

— Violence isn’t the thing to fear. Love smolders most powerfully in a storm. It’s the moment when the tempest calms that should be feared. That would mean the death of our love.

— I know that only too well. I’ve long been aware that your life is not about still waters. Even your love is a raging sea on which only those with strong stomachs dare venture.

— Do you think you’ve got a strong stomach?

— I’ll have to give it a try.

— You’ve got it right. Because I’m not promising you a path blanketed with flowers. My current existence may be couched in relative stability. But who knows whether tomorrow will be filled with privations … With persecutions? With torments? A man’s path is not often strewn with roses and laurels. I have no idea yet what my life has in store for me. Each day calls for its portion of blood and sweat.

— I’m well aware. Paulin, this heart that I’ve never resigned myself to offering to anyone else — I’m handing it over to you without any precautions. Even if I end up suffering for it. I’ll regret nothing. I am yours entirely. You’ve already tamed me.

— No. That must never happen. I would despise you. Never forget this word of advice: always keep your exchanges equal with your man. Never crawl on your belly. Never let yourself be tamed, not even by me.