The five last chapters of my novella Winter I put too time to write and post. I apologize to my readers silent.
XI
I will never forget the evening we spent with Cindy. Such moments in life just keep on the fingers of one hand, their rarity, of course, determines the price. It is difficult to explain a posteriori why they appeared so harmonious, a pond of peace and love, joy and serenity, drowned in a sea of platitudes and horrors. What makes them so special is beauty not related to their importance. Thus the release of my debut album, no more than five reminders to the public at the end of my first concert, are among the moments of grace that I am trying to evoke here. Such successes have been made possible by a huge upstream work, thereby losing some of their magic. I believe that happiness is not engaged in our consciousness until many years after the time that saw flourish.
That night, Cindy has improvised an evening Asian understand: we, Cindy, Karen, Lesley and I ordered a Vietnamese dishes charming young man came to bring us. The boys, themselves, lying on the carpet in front of the television, were absorbed before The Lion King they knew by heart every time but rediscovered with enthusiasm. Drôlissimes anecdotes about the clips that she had collaborated with Karen overflowing. I suspect the storyteller to have a talent greater than the sum of the incidents she relates about the crappy filming she frequented. Swinging his way of approaching the final gag more often triggers laughter as the fall in its history. After a few beers and trade more intimate, inevitable girlfriends, Cindy, rather reserved so far, has led to the launch point a photo unbridled where we played one to turn the model, photographer and director. With the suits brought by Karen, they had accumulated Cindy according to his career as a fashion photographer and advertising, we had at our disposal a sufficient gear to transform the apartment, social gathering or in a brothel in the Parisian fashion of the past. After much laughter and hugs invaded drunk, we ended the evening with more intimate pictures. Cindy has performed with ease, without any preparation, portraits of us all, a portrait of a melancholy Karen Strikingly, even though Karen, just exhausted, had reached the point when so tender, a frenzied burst of energy, can only be followed by a moment of abandon as they were seen rarely, when you feel cradled in comfort created by friendship, trust, love, and maintained to the limits of reasonableness. Our friend was surprised, a few days later, when Cindy gave him his portrait. I see her comfortably wedged on the lounge chair, arms resting along the arm, without installation worked other than the moment that had to slouch after laughing continuously for more than ten minutes. The portrait of Lesley upset me too. Only the photographer's intuition has guided his eyes. Lesley had a moment alone on the side of Cindy's studio. She ran from the light stuff spread out on the long desk, contact sheets mixed with glossy pages of various magazines, letters to or ready to be sent, sketches on sheets Canson. The photo was taken while Lesley, receiving a presence, had raised his face towards the goal and had not yet had time to hide his smile behind the veil of his hand. I attended the scene and that is retained by Lesley I kept in memory. But the photographer was able to overtake it, so that the cliché, our friend sent us a beaming smile as impertinently, the smile of a net that has surprised the size lost in the skirt too full of his mother or eye makeup with mascara defended. There is another photo of Lesley that will haunt me forever. One in which she appears with her son Ben, seated on an armchair in the living room, arms folded across his legs, while his son, standing, based on one of the armrests, back up like a proud father of s' explain to his daughter. Cindy has captured what no one had ever seen. Ben, who seems so frail in everyday life, displays on the voluntary action shot of a man at the top of his life, while Lesley is like a young girl whose skirt with black lace and tulle blouse color carbon appear as a protection against the outside world.
When the girls are, I thought the best of the evening was behind us. With Cindy and Buster, we've just discussed the program the next day, before going to bed, overcome with fatigue as qu'épanouis after these few hours of recklessness. The sofa bed provided a decent enough of it unfold.
I woke up once that night. It took me a moment before remembering that I was sleeping in the apartment of Cindy, a condition which I have learned not to worry. When we no longer know identify where one sleeps, there is no need to panic, the space eventually revert to familiar little that has not been won by the anguish.
The darkness at the heart of why I woke up at first proved a lure: a tiny light source, but not intense enough to locate it, I was both relieved and puzzled. Slowly, silently, I'm standing on my elbows, then taking conscience of the empty place left by Cindy to my side. As I turned to the office, I recognized my friend, standing motionless, highly concentrated on an object that escaped me. Carefully, I put forward on all fours on the carpet, hesitating to get up for fear of disturbing the intimacy of the photographer that I saw only the back. She seemed to write, what confirmed me rubbing a pencil on paper. Sometimes the friction increasing rate so frantic. I saw sniffles, spaced, episodic, but profound. A tilt of her back, I realized she had to bury his head, and his suffering in his hands. How long had she left the bed? Had she slept a little? Was it the next day's work that concern the point of sacrificing his sleep? Suddenly she pulled away from the office and started toward the windows, some return, without seeming to notice me. Constantly gnawed fingers between her lips, she could not stop, caught in a chaotic drive me informed about the nature of his anxious attitude. And when she had approached a step towards solving the enigma of the latter three steps away from her in response. I'm not intervened in the heart of this creative process because it sends me naturally to some sleepless nights I had face to harmoniously match my words about music that I composed at the piano.
So she joined the bed where I had lengthened, I pretended to sleep, waiting for her to turn sank into sleep to get up slowly and direct me to the office barefoot, Cindy had to leave. I lighted the lamp which has projected his circle of light on a series of photographs scattered. Some image refers to the children of Cindy, portraits of her elementary school classes, portraits of her and clasped her girlfriends at the age of friendship burning and exalted, when we still believed that our best friends live eternally with us. Other photographs, a print format oldest, shows a man at different periods of his life. I recognized Mr. Palmano in person, his expression serious, almost austere, in all circumstances, both at family celebrations as travel souvenirs. Discover this man that I had to cross two or three times before me, surprisingly. I never see him again, and this certainty gave the pictures a force for suspicion that was not in the know. I thought one of my aunts caved to fifty-five years ago of a cancer that has been cursed because its vitality but never his courage or his love life. The picture of Cindy looked at his desk, his head trapped in his hands, has pierced the screen of my tears. It seemed to vibrate still hear the sobs of my friend.
The computer was in standby. By clicking a button at random, I saw the screen light up and appear on any page of short paragraphs separated by two spaces. Cindy had recorded his thoughts, since I did not know when. But the list of his thoughts kept me awake for several minutes, not that my reading has been difficult but the proximity of the words of Cindy was such that I felt invaded by chills. The words rattled, terrible, sweet or sharp, anger or regret infinite.
" You were right, Dad, the picture is a stopgap. Nobody, no artist can pride themselves on having grasped the essence of life, the essence of a being, even the most beloved. "
" Oh, what have you regretted not understood earlier! What a pain this void in me again! Your death put me on the trail dug your steps, and I intend to follow your heart to the refuge in winter. "
" You taught me that no smile is not proper to insensitivity. You burn with fever unspeakable. The austerity that was only the veil lives you protect yourself from the vulgarity of the world. "
" You did not need to spread your generosity. It was revealed to me by all that you left in the lurch. "
Besides the computer, sketches scribbled in haste, blackened by the keys of a charcoal pencil. My friend had traced nervously several passes outline drawings. On each sheet in the same rectangle repeated ad infinitum, which oozes out a character. Sketched the clothing in the devil, I recognized the same identifier shot an opening in the wall of the studio. This was the famous opening shot of the clip on which we were floor, the moment before the flight time of my crossing. Because I represented the face of currently straddle the frame, I knew it was the closure plan, that we still had to wrap the return of the woman after her trip resuscitated landscapes of his childhood. Each sketch ended inevitably erased a question mark which invaded the leaf at the same time what were repeated the words " woman" and "child". There was even written on one of them: "What good , Dad? Why beat a dead horse to seize this moment indescribable? Who can translate? Claim, all that! "
I stood quietly, I heard my breath when I went to lie down next to Cindy. The peculiar texture of silence reminded me of a feeling that I had never shared with anyone else: the feeling of being an intruder, do not deserve what I had discovered and had stolen from my friend.
Just lying, I felt behind me against my neck, a murmur, soft and warm. Thank-
you, Tori.
I went back to sleep, his heart heavy and light at a time.
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