Under The Summer Sun. Emmanuel Bodin

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      3.

      At home, Frank took a shower before going to bed. Exhausted, but delighted, he had woken up after only four hours of sleep. For once, the cause of a long exhausting night was not his annoying neighbour. The man acted as if he was the master of the building. He did not care and he hated the other tenants, often staring at them with a superior air.

      At work, firstly, Frank had checked the trash room of the building. He had to create some order after the chaos of the weekend. All the containers were filthy with rubbish to the ground. Such a sight quickly gave way to sickness. He then started cleaning up the place. He had swept the hall and mopped the floor to remove the grime. It is hard to find yourself further away from your deep aspirations. Over the years, he had begun to understand that he would certainly never succeed in his photographic work. He did not know it yet, but the future reserved for him something different and more fulfilling.

      In the buildings, the less he got along with the residents, the better the stay was. He always hid somebody to remind him of its fate, even involuntarily. He only needed a few negative thoughts and words to undermine his self-esteem. He had to remain a stranger, to avoid indulging too much, to work like a bear, to speak as little as possible of his ambitions, even if the most curious ones often proved the most enjoyable people to mingle with. The problem came from gossip that spread very quickly. Revealing to someone a desire for success in the artistic community while cleaning vestibules for many years was difficult and could represent the fantasy of an absurd person who forgot to keep their feet on Earth, far removed from any economic reality.

      The cleaning over and Frank was lying on the bench, waiting for the postman to arrive. He was trying to relax his body a bit from the exhaustion.

      As soon as he received the mail, he sorted the letters and then distributed them to the residents. Then, his role would be nothing more than being present, waiting, in the event that an occupant would need a service or that some and rare trouble would occur in the residence.

      It was finally 8 pm and the end of his work day. Frank had hurried to close the door to go to the metro; direction Montparnasse. As he got to the address where Svetlana was staying, he had called her. She was still getting ready. She had gone down nearly ten minutes later. They smiled at each other. Svetlana had thrown herself into his arms, they languorously kissed each other. Frank took her hand and they returned to Montparnasse station to go to the Gare du Nord.

      Svetlana and Frank were sitting side by side as she rested her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. They seemed like a young couple very much in love. Yet less than twenty-four hours separated them from their first kiss. Frank appreciated those moments that seemed like nothing, but to him magical in the course of life. They are rare and very precious.

      They radiated the harmony you feel reflected the image of a sweet and touching painting you admire. Sitting in front of them, a man watched them. His eyes were red, as if sadness had invaded him. Frank had examined him with a fleeting glance. He had drawn this conclusion. To make sure of that, he had once again glanced at the man who was still looking at them deeply. This attitude intrigued him. Was it their lovey-dovey behaviour towards each other that put him in this state? Did he recall, for example, a former companion, whom he had long been in love with before she left him? Frank felt affliction for this stranger. But, to each one his trouble to carry. Frank too had been through the painful experience of such a disappointment in the past, with the feeling of dereliction and isolation when love rejects you. He knew that loneliness is a hard test to go through. He was aware that the more the suffering persists and the more the joy will be amplified when a new happiness will be invited in your life.

      The Thalys train was ready to go. Frank had accompanied Svetlana to the right car. They kissed each other some more, prolonging their separation for a few minutes. The travellers went aboard the train as their kisses continued. A ticket inspector waited calmly beside the door. The departure time arrived. The travellers went aboard the train as their kisses continued. A ticket inspector waited calmly beside the door. It was time to leave. Svetlana freed herself from the arms that embraced her. She had left her pink jacket with Frank. The weather forecast was hot and humid. She asked him to give it back to her when she returned. It was a way to test a form of trust between them. Would Frank come looking for her, with her coat in hand or forget her? Would this man be reliable and serious, or would he prove to be just another joke among the mass of Parisian playboys? A short test that would offer initial answers.

      Frank quickly waved Svetlana goodbye as she disappeared inside the train.

      With the jacket around his arm, Frank went back to the station. He paid particular attention to the precious garment that had just been handed to him.

      Going up a flight of stairs, his cheerful smile had vanished. Frank found himself face to face with a paramilitary triad that stared at him, barracked and armed with famas. This pink coat around his arm looked suspicious! What did this fag stash away below?

      This kind of ghost that roamed the Parisian railway stations presented a double vision of unpleasant aggression in the urban landscape, through their rifles and their greenish costumes—the colour of the bad days—perpetuating year by year a sad parade. Safety ostentation cannot produce anything good. Even if it offers a lure of security to the French, the government deploys above all the fear among the citizens and perhaps also a little dislike. The best result is obtained with an invisible protection. That way, there is no provocation or exasperation, like the civilian police dispersed or concealed throughout Paris. No need to sugar coat anything and gratify the inhabitants—neither the tourists—of a very ugly image: that of a France who is afraid, of a France on the defensive, vigipirated in the red since 2005! Moreover, could these soldiers distinguish a terrorist from an average citizen? For sure such an individual would pass under their radar unnoticed. Because, immersed in a crowd, they remain undetectable. No offense to those who rule us…

      These soldiers stroll up and down like puppets. They themselves are tired of walking СКАЧАТЬ