Franketienne - Ready to Burst

— Raynand, I trust you.

Deeply troubled, Solange stood up suddenly. With a trembling voice, she tried to explain why she couldn’t stay out much longer. Raynand took her hand for a moment and said to her shyly:

— I’m crazy, truly crazy about you. What more can I tell you, now that I bear what feels like a centuries-old love for you?

— Don’t say anything more.

— When can we see one another again?

— I don’t know.

Solange begged Raynand to let her leave and walked away pensively. She crossed the road, visibly unnerved by Raynand’s persistent stare piercing the nape of her neck and her spine with strange little pricks.

A week later, they were supposed to see one another again at the Bicentennial, the same spot. Raynand had been waiting there for half an hour, thinking to himself that his own heart had conspired against him. He smoked incessantly. Looked every which way. If only Solange would get there already! Of course, she’ll come … The world has revolved a million times on its axis. And each morning the sun rises again … She’ll come. Every rib of our sensual, hysterical planet has shuddered. Yet with each dawn, a fresh breeze gives the plants a brand-new hairdo. She’ll come, I just know it. She’ll come …

Seeing Solange arrive from the other corner of Exposition Boulevard nearly took his breath away. Nervously, she came to sit down. Raynand could feel the heat of her body. Pressed against one another for a long while, they forgot there was any such thing as time, as things, as the sound of waves crashing against the jetty, as the passerby who looked at them oddly. They didn’t even notice that the stars had disappeared and that menacing clouds had begun to darken the sky through the cracks between the streaks of rain. The first drops brought them back to the reality of the outside world. They had just enough time to cross the street and hail a taxi, which brought them first to Solange’s house, giving Raynand the opportunity to discover where she lived.

The next day, at six in the evening, Raynand was in the Saint Antoine area, prowling around Solange’s house, hoping to catch sight of her.

He came. He went. He lay in wait. Not even thinking about the fact that people in the neighborhood might take him for a suspicious character, a burglar even … taking careful stock of the surroundings in preparation for a potential heist. What must they be imagining, her neighbors? Merely that I’m a bit odd … A madman … Well, yes, I’m crazy about her. Ah! Her house! The iron gate is open. There’s a tree in the courtyard. Branches. Leaves. Light. No, that’s not her home. I alone am her home. I breathe her in. She is in me. If only I could go inside for a moment. See her. Speak to her …

— Is anyone there?

And just like that Raynand found himself knocking timidly on the entryway door that opened onto the brick-paved gallery. A young girl came to let him in, invited him to take a seat in the salon, and went to let Solange’s mother know of his visit.

Raynand took a quick glance around the room. Nestled himself into an overstuffed chair placed right in front of a rectangular mirror hanging on the wall. Like that he’d be able to look at himself from time to time. To keep an eye on his posture. To monitor his gestures. His psychology professor, speaking on the subject of behaviorism, had said that one’s body language could give away certain psychological secrets. He looked at himself in the mirror. I’m not too bad-looking with my square forehead and thick eyebrows. But I’d look better with a little tuft of hair. It seems my left eye is smaller than the right one. I have a wide nose, flattened at the base, with gaping nostrils that look like they belong on an ox. Dear God! Is it possible I’m a little bit ugly? Could I be unpleasant to look at? Solange’s parents seem so well-off. The most elegant house in the neighborhood … A lovely salon. A television set. A stereo. I’ll move in here. I’ll stay here. A rolling stone gathers no moss. I’ll live with my in-laws. Ha! There they are now.

— Good evening, young man.

— Good evening.

Solange’s mother, a young woman, and her husband, slightly older, take a seat on the sofa to Raynand’s right.

— I’m Monsieur Raynand.

— Aha! Lovely. Solange has told us about you.

— Really?

— We’ve made you wait. Please excuse us.

— Oh, no, not at all! I should be the one apologizing. I should have let you know I’d be visiting … Well, I mean … I should have warned you. Terribly gauche of me.

— Never mind all that, Monsieur Raynand, it’s no matter. On the contrary, we’re very happy you’ve come to visit.

— Well, then, thank you.

— Solange has spoken of you in such flattering terms that we’ve been quite keen to meet you.

— I certainly hope she hasn’t overstated things!

— I don’t believe she’s overstated anything, or that she’s made any mistake, Monsieur Raynand.

Rosie, Solange’s mother, had excused herself from the room. Meanwhile, the two men had begun a meandering conversation, going over various current events. It was a veritable duel of information in which, out of fatuousness and pedantry on both sides, the most sophisticated expressions, the most unusual words, scholarly terms, Latin citations, newspaper columns, film titles, actors’ names trampled any common sense, destroyed basic reason. Raynand understood from the outset that this was a fencing match of which the only honorable outcome could be complete and total victory over his adversary. The salon was immediately transformed into a veritable arena where farcical gladiators faced off against one another in the winds of hollow phrases. A fight between cocks armed with fake spurs. Unfortunately for Raynand, he wasn’t a mere spectator. He was the one doing battle in the middle of the amphitheater. A 100-watt lightbulb over his skull. He was sweating. The sweat was running down his temples in rapid little streams. Naturally, Vietnam was high on the list of topics. The devaluation of the British pound put Great Britain in a delicate position and ultimately gave rise to an idiotic analysis of the ravages of inflation and the fragility of the American dollar. Third World countries should stake it all on the hostility between the two major political blocks and just move back and forth between capitalism and socialism, a third way thus opening like a new canal called on to link extreme poles and reconcile the major ideologies of the twentieth century. Doctor Christiaan Barnard in South Africa had successfully performed a sensational heart transplant. Russian and American rockets had landed on the moon. The verbal battle raged on between Raynand and Solange’s father. The attacks and the feints multiplied. Raynand was sweating. The sweat pooled in little beads on his forehead. He blotted his face elegantly while looking at himself in the mirror.

Rosie had returned with a tray bearing three small cocktail glasses. Raynand was served first. He immediately began sipping the sweet-smelling pink liquid, pretending to find it delightful, whereas he would have much preferred a nice glass of rum. He courageously withstood the sugary drink, which wasn’t easy, given that his palate, if it could be called that, was accustomed to stiffer stuff. He took longer than necessary to finish his drink. He had to take advantage of the unexpected pause. He knew full well the terms of engagement, the detours, the traps, the infernal itinerary of this exhausting intellectual adventure. And where it was all leading. The assaults would become even more violent. The key questions hadn’t yet been touched upon. But he had to triumph, whatever the cost, or at the very least manage a tie. He had a feeling the hits were going to keep coming. Even after a half hour of dialogue, the look in his adversary’s eyes was by no means comforting. Thus he didn’t dare ask after Solange. He had to be a good sport, hide his weaknesses, trust his own armor, he said to himself. He’s already in the ring. He’s got to pick up the challenge. Suddenly, the gong broke the silence. Round two. The enemy harassed him with questions at once pertinent and skillful. Driven back either against the ropes or into a corner, on some diagonal without exit, Raynand was determined to answer blow for blow, even if he had to transgress all rules of fair play, all rules of chivalry. He wouldn’t even consider giving up. Never. He had to win. Solange’s father put down his empty glass and leaned in closer to his interlocutor.