Previous episode : https://nathjy.travel.blog/2020/10/18/the-purple-rose-bouquet-episode-v-lucie/

Breathless, Lucie draws her last strength from her to succeed in covering the last few metres that separate her from Pier 21. One last effort, just a few more steps. Exhausted, she arrives at the end of platform 21 to see the two round and red lights of the last wagon of the train already in the distance.

Place 18, place 26, place 32, a little further on, here is my place, 46. Hop, the bag in the gallery and finally I can collapse on the seat. After a totally sleepless night, I think I could sleep everywhere, including on an old, discarded, stoned armchair from an old SNCF Corail car. That’s good, that’s what’s under my buttocks. Phew! Despite the fatigue, the events of the night come back to me in force, and the emotions that go with it. Lucie, first of all. Of course, Lucie! How could it be possible that Lucie comes out of my thoughts? What a blow she has dealt me here. She really knows how to make herself wanted, and « wanted » is a weak word. She makes you feel bad, and the result is that she doesn’t leave your thoughts anymore! Between 3 and 4 o’clock, she was in my head on a loop. « Anxious ruminations » would say a psychiatrist. Which means that the same questions go round in circles in the head, obsessively. The more you think about it, the less answers you find, and so you think about it even more. It reminds me of the time after we last met ten years ago. It lasted exactly ten days. Ten days of brooding. Ten days during which Fred – and yes, my lifelong friend was already in my life – so ten days during which Fred advised me, first gently, then more and more insistently and finally threatening me with the worst abuse, to see a doctor. Ten days of brooding. Nine sleepless nights. In the end, I was so frightening to see that, bursting into my room at the crowing of the rooster, Fred, Paul and Abi had taken me by force to the emergency room in Cochin. There we had bumped into the intern on the psychiatric ward, who was badly shaved and exhausted too. He had started by listening, or pretending, then with a little more interest, understanding the situation, a broad smile lit up his face. And finally, hilariously, he had taken out his prescription, scribbled three lines on it, signed it, stamped it and added « you take this every night for a week, it won’t bring her back, but you’ll get better anyway ». So I had taken this « Alprazolam » the same evening, and I immediately stopped being a cow. I had slept twelve hours straight, to Fred’s great relief. Indeed, the cow, if it chews its cud all the time, it’s to live, whereas for me it kills me. So, it would be more accurate this time to talk about « love ruminations », because if they have indeed prevented me from sleeping, it was not unpleasant for all that. What was unpleasant was Fred’s arrival. At 4 o’clock, as I was beginning to slip into sleep, the door opened with a bang and Fred came in… well, to be exact, he made a slide that took him from the front door to the foot of my mattress. Completely drunk, he lost his balance as he pushed the door open, and was carried away by his usual impetuosity exacerbated by 3 or 4 grams. He slipped and I jumped out, because I must admit that he scared me. My brain went back to normal and I wondered how he had managed such a slip on the linoleum. My nose gave me the answer. Not only did this idiot fall down, but he simultaneously and generously emptied the gastric contents of an evening that had been far too drunk… when I thought about it, he must have been close to 5 grams. In short, with such a lubricant and without the mattress on the way, he would have fractured his skull against the back wall.

4h to 4h30 was then my caregiver period: undressing, evacuation of soiled linen, complete toilet of a guy in a state of tetraplegia or almost tetraplegia, pyjamas and installation in a semi-seated position. The floor was washed with water and the flat was well ventilated. Then from 4.30 to 6 am, nursing period: rehydrate, treat (paracetamol) and keep the patient awake as any return of vomit could be fatal, not to mention the risk of an ethylic coma. And finally, from 6am to 9am, psychologist period, because Fred having regained his senses, I had to listen to the full account of his exploits, or the immensity of his misfortune, call it what you like. Because the Fred had finally found – for the 1000th time in his life – the chosen one in his heart. A perfect approach, thanks to great experience – like the film « Un jour sans fin », because it is at least his 1000th – and a perfect ending, in the bed of the chosen one, on board a cute little barge moored near the Pont Neuf.

A dream story until… he falls asleep, and, with horror, the famous chosen one wakes up with a start, understanding in an instant that any love story was doomed to failure with such a snorer. Add to this the fact that, not even thirty seconds after the start of the concert, two Paris firemen, then on duty on the barge « Commandant Besnier » moored just behind, came running, worried about the indescribable racket coming from their usually very quiet neighbour’s house. In no time at all, Fred found himself on the quay with his clothes on his arms, a final rejection and a disappointment equal to his hopes once again.

What to do in these cases? Going home to find your old friend just passing through… and another cruel disappointment, because I hadn’t returned home yet, because the metro was already closed, you know the story. Then his old demons took him back and he went home when no bar would serve him anymore. 9am, out of danger, finally a little consoled, Fred falls asleep on a new promise to consult an ENT to find a solution to his problem n°1…  » Promised! « and an addictologist for his problem n°2… but this is much less promised. Completely exhausted, I then realise that if I go back to bed, I am sure I will miss my train. So shower, « high concentration » coffee, pantagruelic breakfast – indeed, I realize once again that sleep is anorexic – and… I’m still far too early for the 10:30 am train, I still have at least an hour to kill… or rather to ruminate. What can I do? Go and find her? That’s the risk of making salads, and losing my salads. Phone her? It’s the risk of a new misunderstanding, there are things that can only be said « in person », non-verbal communication being essential. Send her a text message? A text message, no. But sending something symbolic, yes. And what could be more symbolic than what was at the very centre of our separation ten years ago? Yes, no doubt, we have to come full circle and start again from the beginning. Where’s my mobile, I have ten minutes left. Inter Flora. That’s it. Bouquet of cut flowers. Ok. Roses. Purple… yes and no, not that, the situation is not exactly the same any more… it takes a little coded message for her to understand that with me too she has to show a little empathy. Without thorns. Essential. To pay. Oulala, my banker is going to call me again to lecture me… too bad. Code. Validate. Order confirmed. Will be delivered within the hour, perfect. My bag, and off we go to the station. Metro. Find the right platform. It’s not possible in a station like this, a cat would lose its young! After asking 5 times, here I am on the right platform, then in the right car. Place 18, place 26, place 32, a little further on, here is my place, place 46. Hop, the bag in the gallery and as soon as my buttocks touch the seat, I fall asleep.

Par Jean-Yves

Previous episode : https://nathjy.travel.blog/2020/11/19/the-purple-rose-bouquet-episode-vii-lucie/

Translated with http://www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)