At fifteen, she knows almost nothing of literature; she knows how to eat all the fruits with cutlery. She is destined for law school, possibly medicine. She will find a good husband there, it seems.
His wife was raising their three children alone. He lived in an apartment located about twenty kilometers away. Sometimes he tolerated a female presence. Nevermore than six months.
Réthorick, a chestnut horse that she rode every time her owner had an impediment. These men knew each other.
Easter exams: she got very good grades. Too good maybe. Jacques Martin, Sunday on television, begins to weary.
How did she approach him? The context of the first words exchanged is unknown to me. There already, the man arouses the admiration …
In June, she will never forget the date, for fear of the consequences of a delay, she agreed that he drove her to her parents. She took a seat in the vehicle. He parked it one kilometer from the house and cut off the contact.
She will be late. Gestures engraved in each of its atoms. Indelible, forever misunderstood.
She studied neither law nor medicine. She eats fruits with her fingers. She has a daughter. Him too.
An acquaintance speaks to her of Jacques Roubaud, of a meeting which occurred twice. She reads My life with Dr. Lacan.
In blue ink, she writes on an ivory leaf. She writes. Words, sentences, and emotions. She writes. In a drawer, she piles up sheets and notebooks. She continues to write.
No blank. Never. In blue ink, she bleeds.
She submits her work to a reading committee; follows the invitation to a literary café in a renowned bookstore.
Our eyes met, silently. Bullfighting.
He had become a bookseller. I started my career in the literary world.
Tomorrow, I’ll go get the prize on his behalf …
