I slept, I think. That's the word we use. There is neither tomorrow nor yesterday. Just a sequence of seconds wearing themselves out. The other selves, however, suffer from a misfortune: they must take care of their own existence.
Light T-shirt, thin trousers — I don't know why I still put anything on at all. Fortunately, I fall asleep dressed. Debris is scattered across the floor. I push it aside with my foot. Apparently, the others clean up. What for?
By the door, a crimson sheet. A letter.
I lie down on the floor and stare at the ceiling. Spiders decorate it; dust settles there continuously. I am nothing more than a parasite of the décor. Flesh turned into furniture, misplaced, unwelcome. So be it.
The smell of mildew seeps into my thoughts. It softens them. I should open the window.
I was told it is February.
Dead leaves — or perhaps old newspapers — serve as my fire. That's what lies on the floor. The hearth is far away, but I have recreated one at the center of the room.
I reach out: the letter was about to burn when a man picked it up.
My hand, however, remained in the flame. The pain surprised me, like an unwelcome visitor. I plunged my palm into an old bucket of rainwater. Steam rises. For a moment, I think I see my soul escaping. That would have been interesting to witness. Among us, curiosity is not a flaw. It is a habit that slowly kills.
I no longer know whether I can read. The paper trembles — or perhaps it is me. It is thin, as though it wants to vanish.
I open it carefully, afraid to break the little meaning it contains:
"Dead friend. Funeral next Friday. Municipal cemetery. Attendance required."
This is a mistake. It is only my second February, I think. Or my hundredth — what does it matter. The others are of no concern to me. I lived among them, before. On a train, I used to read. My last book, a study on solitude: it claimed it drives one mad, that tobacco would be less harmful.
A damned social being — that's what they say. They need others to exist. All of them, so it is said.
I need them to disappear. Sometimes, I forget they exist.
Through the window, I see them passing by, in pairs. Couples imitate one another, cling to each other, invent warmth. I am not cold.
The other selves will take care of it, if they wish.
I have granted them a blank check over reality. Let them do as they please — I don't care.
This existence suits me: little joy, little pain.
The rest is nothing more than a parenthesis between two silences.
A man approaches the door. White shirt, black tweed jacket, he lives next door.
The clock strikes. The sound reverberates. I walk toward it. Calmly, I dismantle the mechanism.
Knowing the time no longer matters to me. At some point, I resigned. Now, the only acceptable rhythms are silence, and sometimes this body.
A dull, repeated noise, like rocks falling into a lake.
The man in the shirt knows I am here. That is not what matters. He knocks again.
I will open the door. It must end.
— "Hello. Are you coming to the party tonight?"
I simply closed the door on him. Saying no would have cost me a word.
But there he goes again. At the window, he waves his arms wildly. His face contorts. The dew weighs down his beige trousers.
It matters to him. He narrows his eyes. Then, disgusted, he leaves.
— "That one will come back," I mutter.
Was that my voice? The vibration passes through me. No other sensation is quite the same when one has not spoken for a long time.
Yes, it was when I left that job. Promotions, prospects of a future — all of it repulsed me. This is better.
I can't get his face out of my head.
A party... I have never understood.
I was often taken for a madman. Since childhood, the others played, invited one another.
I, meanwhile, dreamed of a simple garden, with the scent of flowers, where birds would come to rest.
I could return whenever I wanted. That was the end of it.
Thinking that cleaning would be necessary prevented me from enjoying anything.
Now, I prefer time as a unit of life.
I had occupations, like everyone else. Painting, above all.
After small canvases, I had embarked on a larger project.
The first ones are in the attic, I think. The other, in the living room.
The palette, dry, lies beside it. It no longer inspires anything.
The same goes for what is in this pocket. The letter.
It is now only useful for making fire.
The problem — or the strength — with anything human is that it remains in memory.
Rain or shine, tomorrow I will have forgotten it. Not the message.
Before burning it, a scent reaches me: soft, ancient.
A woman, in her fifties, most likely. Bourgeois, well-kept.
She is the one who wrote it. A postman with greasy hands, a coffee lover, delivered it to me.
I know I am right.
Tears flow, salty, onto my lips. I wipe them with my burned hand. The pain reminds me that I am still here.
A melody rises in my head. Opera, a vast voice.
A whole film unfolds. The opening credits: a white house, an oak tree in front.
Stop.
I don't care.
But the film continues. A horde approaches. Children, yes — it's Halloween.
The tears keep coming. Where do they come from? Not from the film.
My eyes drift toward the canvas.
Slowly, I come back to my senses.
Or rather, I have stopped thinking. For a moment, I was empty.
And that emptiness, at last, resembles me.
In this, I am no different from the others.
All strive for stability, aim for a fixed point. Happiness, wealth — in short.
I want nothing, yet I am made to seem more voracious.
All these thoughts for a letter. Ashes. So be it — I do not wish anyone else to go through this.
For this kind of thing, I hate life.
Time passes. My stomach makes strange noises. Hunger, I suppose. And what of it!
I bite my cuticles. I run. Without reason. I slip. A pain in my knee. I won't get up until later.
In front of me, a bank statement.
I laugh, without really knowing why.
The radical change in attitude from the teller must be the cause.
I don't know if there are words to describe that scene, that feeling of pleasure.
It was a few days ago. A nineteenth, from what I read.
As I passed by the bank, it began to rain.
A storm, in fact.
Once again, we must have behaved poorly.
We were many, returning from the market, and had taken refuge in that large building.
So much unused space makes no sense.
A crushed lemon by a butternut squash made me understand that this must be the end.
Right there, in that moment.
— "Hello, I'd like to withdraw," I said to the teller.
— "PIN code? Good. How much would you like to withdraw?"
— "Everything."
Surprised, she asked me to repeat myself, as if I might change my mind.
— "That's a lot of money, sir. What do you intend to do with it?"
— "Destroy it, I imagine."
— "Pardon?" she said, shocked, as though I had offended some kind of deity.
The manager arrived.
A large man, ruddy-faced, in a stained suit.
He explained to me the absurdity, in his view, of such a decision.
I then demonstrated to him the absurdity of not having made it sooner.
— "Listen," I told him in front of all the customers, "you are asking me to justify myself. It is already an act of kindness to grant you a response. You cannot give me my money? Very well. But let's be frank: you do not want to. What would I lose? Isn't that absurd? You see, this bank card—I pay for it every month. I'm told I am too poor to benefit from privileges such as loans. In the end, I lose everywhere. Is this money protected? Don't worry: I will burn it. All of it. The reason, you ask? Well, it asks too much of me. Without money, this has already happened to me. One accepts the situation. In my case, one lives in between: calculating, thinking, building a strategy. After many discussions, they accepted—outraged. Over time, I had accumulated a certain sum. Like everyone, I wanted to live well. The only thing I regret is not having done this sooner."
Done, I was applauded.
I insulted them. All of them.
Already, they were handing me the money.
Some slipped me kind words in order to recover even a single bill.
Behind me, I heard a buzzing of voices.
They were plotting.
The rain had stopped.
I lit a cigarette, stepped into the square, and slipped a few banknotes into my pocket.
The rest was in a bag.
On the base of a statue, I lay down.
They all watched me, incredulous.
They didn't believe I would dare.
I then placed the bag in front of them, and added my last pack of cigarettes.
Jackals, about ten meters away.
Parents abandoned their children.
Those in wheelchairs crawled.
I lit the cigarette.
Everything went up in smoke.
It was only paper, after all.
They barely had time to approach before they realized: nothing remained to be saved.
In rage, I was struck.
No one had seen the remaining bills.
Others called the police.
Destroying currency was no longer an offense—since when, I no longer know.
I was fined the amount corresponding to what I had left.
I left, amid a clamour echoing with calls for revenge.
They resented me for having committed the most serious of crimes: freedom.
Again, noise. The person, clearly. In any case, I remain on the ground.
— "Oh no, is he dead?" said a woman.
— "It's so filthy, it wouldn't be surprising," replied a man.
It's the man in the tweed jacket. I hear their footsteps. They walk quickly, by instinct, but control their pace out of disgust. A foot—male, I suppose—touches my shin.
— "Go away," I say.
They do nothing. So I get up. Papers remain stuck to my shirt. A slight shock: I know this woman. In fact, she is the only one left. Her husband, I imagine, has gone to the other part of the living room.
— "You have a dead friend," I tell her.
She does not understand. Nevertheless, in her style, her manner, and knowing she lives nearby, there is little doubt.
— "This morning, a letter arrived to me. No, don't try to look for it. You must sense it. A friend is dead. His funeral is next Friday at the municipal cemetery. Leave now."
I don't know what possessed me to tell her this. Already, I open the door for her. A whistle: her husband is calling her. I lie down on the floor. It is soft, soothing.
— "Shut up!" I shouted.
These people always do the opposite. I imagine they wash after getting dressed.
— "Sir, that canvas, where does it come from?" said the woman.
— "It looks like a N. That famous artist, you know..."
— "Hurry. Or rather, do as you wish, but elsewhere. No—leave!"
My name—I hadn't heard it for some time. It was only a nothing they had liked. When I had offered only nothing, I was hated.
Others arrive. They cover their noses, stare at me but don't care. I close my eyes. A crowd arrives. It felt as though the entire little town wanted to merge here, in this old house.
It has become a museum. Sometimes a zoo, with a single animal. No, rather a bourgeois experiment. I hear laughter.
— "It's awful, but so interesting."
The staircase creaked. They seeped in everywhere. At times, "Sir, are you dead?" These words always came with others:
— "Never mind, come on, we brought pastries."
An unfinished painting by N, here, in this miserable town!
It had become a private viewing next door. I feel like a coaster, on the floor. But I am human. Rage was rising.
— "Shut up! Shut up!" I said.
Nothing. At best, they reacted with "A savage!" "We can't even enjoy ourselves!"
While some were stuffing themselves, others continued their invasion. Every room had to be inspected. One group even went up to the attic. From there, they came back down completely frantic.
— "They're here, and even more!" they said, out of breath.
A permanent smile prevented them from speaking properly. I, deprived of sight, heard all this and tore at my hair.
Apparently, they were taking down all my old canvases. Dust filled the room. So they opened the windows. Most of them even had a fan, in the middle of winter.
It was too much. I got up as a dead man might have. I walked through the living room. They stared and whispered:
— "A thief."
— "Look at him, with a piece of art."
As if all the care of a house had been concentrated in a single secluded corner. In one corner, I grabbed a bottle of alcohol and downed it. Even the most hardened drunk would have struggled to match such a performance.
That was more or less the extent of my interest in them. They had carved out their own space. Everything had been cleaned and thrown elsewhere. The decor was already being changed. The room reeked of bleach. Perfume grotesquely masked that smell.
Now, in front of the hearth, no one was watching me.
— "All of you, leave!" I said.
Without giving them time, I grabbed a tissue stuck to my shirt and set it alight. With a simple gesture, I threw it to the ground. Very quickly, the fire spread through the room behind me.
In front of them, I stared at them. They all followed me as if I were about to show them the main room. In fact, I was leading them into the kitchen. It is the dirtiest room of all. The white tiles had turned to slate. Mushrooms grew everywhere.
A smell reached their nostrils: burning. Only then did the heat become noticeable. The paintings were doomed. Some cried trying to put them out. It was too late.
Then I returned to lie on the floor. The fire approached me. First a warm breeze. The ethanol rose to my head. The heat of the flames caressed my skin. For the first time in a long while, I felt alive.
Very quickly, I understood it would become fatal.
The others were watching me.
At the very moment I was about to meet death, some laughed.
I cried at not being alone, even then.
I comforted myself: the other selves will never know the harsh experience of life.