Or How did we get here?
It was raining that day. I do not remember much, but it's the only explanation. Usually we prefer to play in the garden, with gravel drives and four red expanses of lawns. Each had its usefulness. In the background there were planted the son for hanging clothes, but it was obviously not what interested us. No, what we liked, it was the wood of conifers where you could play at the Battle of the Bulge, and the pile that had formed at the place where, year after year, they threw the herbs harvested after mowing. This, we were told, had been found at the end of the war a German grenade. Finally, this parcel was where we played the least, especially since it was the only place where the fence was low enough that we can see the neighbors - and especially to conflict with their kids. The rest of the garden, away, we thought, looks, was much more pleasant: one would forget as we wanted. There was also the part of the lawn swing. It was used very often goal to football games that I played sometimes alone, sometimes with my brother. On the right, was the sacred lawn, one where we had planted a chestnut tree, more or less at the time of my birth. I was proud to see him grow, but a little jealous to see him still so small compared to the huge basswood. I particularly regret not knowing what became of the last eight years. The most exciting part of the garden was actually the one who was right hand when it came down from the terrace. After a few meters of grassy area, there was a mini-grove that we seemed to have the size of a deep forest. There, it was possible to dig holes, build huts, climbing trees, taking guns and helmets and observe the Boche in the street without they see us. It would spend whole afternoons in ambush, even drinking from the bottle and making sure that the enemy will never penetrate the perimeter with guard our responsibility. The only way to work this out, it was on the stroke of five, calling us to take tea. Once the cup and the tea drunk swallowed up, we rushed outside, already regretting having left his position, ready to sacrifice our lives if the enemy had treacherously introduced by making holes in the fence that we wanted to call barbed wire. But the worst opponent we could meet always appeared in the guise of our parents, who came in the early evening trying to rescue us from our stronghold and let us go home. The greatest misfortune? They always won. It was almost as if the stay of the week in Stalag was essential to our military escapades of the weekend.
No, that's for sure, it was raining so we are not outside. If it snowed, we would have been trying to make a snowman - try is the word in my memory we have never been beautiful. It was raining and having a bicycle race on TV. Because it's true, deprived of TV all week at home, visiting the weekend could prompt us to abandon our outpost for the comfort of a sofa lazily watch the best series in the history of world. I remember that at that time there, not always aware of the realities television, I was sure that if the presenter looked into my eyes, she saw me really. I was paralyzed, not knowing what to do. I could not scratch my nose, I could not watch anything other than the screen, I could not even change channels as I was afraid to see the look of shame on the person in front of me. I never talked about it to anyone, because even back then, although I caught the idiocy of this belief and was no more ready to suffer the ridicule that would follow inevitably these revelations to abandon it completely. To stay in the area of confessions, it is precisely this belief that I owe my first emotion, or at least my first memory of sexual excitement. I was alone I do not know why, and I watched music videos on RTL I think. And this song of Mecano is passed, the tube was the moment, the classic: "A woman with a woman." I could not understand the lyrics, and I do not see at all how was the clip - I did not want to see him, but I remember that Ana Torroja upset me completely. I well should have realized it was happening something not normal and ashamed, because when I heard a car passing in the street, I rushed to the living room window. It was my grandparents who were returning. I immediately turned off the television, despite the air of both reproach and sadness that I could clearly see the beautiful face of Ana and myself grabbed a toy to make believe I was busy all Another thing that this disorder who had seized my brain.
No, there must be one of those racing cyclists during which my grandfather monopolized the TV, otherwise it's in the living room that we would have been. Now the mystery remains: why did not play with plastic soldiers in our room? There was a small farmhouse in which we could place the soldiers would defend themselves or else they unknowingly reinvented the war of position among the animals that went with the farm. My brother had the Americans, me, of course, was the English. The Nazis, we'll deal with both, the important thing is that they lose in the end. We could also be playing the gardener, or hide and seek hide and seek or even the Cowboy wrestling on the beds. I still remember the WWF programming on RTL radio Saturday night before we could see the football on the RTBF only if we were nice. We loved, of course, Hulk Hogan. Not without perversity, Big Boss Man we liked too.
No, it should be a day of cycling, because if I was on the second floor, it was certainly to get on the bike and take me to Greg LeMond or Stephen Roche. It does was not often on the second floor. It was far, it seemed the end of the world, and once there, we were not greeted by the reassuring but bearing surface through a glass door through which we saw drop. It was uncomfortable at the time of opening, since he was still on the stairs, and stairs, I thought that from the moment they stopped rising, they were sure fall. It was therefore necessary to rely on the handle, but even that did not reassure because then the door creaked, and then once inside, should be closed so the cat does not climb the glass and then made a noise that seemed unbearable, not only because he was announcing our presence as surely as a barking dog that when we do not even know if we had really the right we find, but also because it meant that we were alone, cut off from the world in this strange room where nobody ever seemed to come so it was a house in the house. Because on the right, there was the kitchen, but it was a strange kitchen, as if there was an old fridge, cupboards and sink, there was as a pot, hammers, cutlery, nails, cans, paint cans, food, white spirit. Next to the kitchen, bathroom. Oh God, this bathroom. Narrow and dark, really scary, how stupid could well await us? We were returning there ever. At left, a bedroom with wardrobes and more or less empty bed in which nobody ever slept - now there's something strange, even if it does not scare. Little wonder then, that before these oddities, the only way was straight ahead to enter the two adjoining rooms, which corresponded in size and location, exactly to the two rooms on the first and the living room and dining room on the ground floor. There he had the bike. But before we get there, there was the astonishing spectacle of a long wooden table littered with papers and boxes and shelves sagging under the documents, books, etc.. It was not surprising in the home of a university professor, dean of the Faculty of Philosophy and NEWSLETTEROFTHECOMMIT, but it was still a shock to us to face this chaos Absolute, representative, I thought Then, a mass of paper larger than the children's library we attended once or twice a month.
Yes, I would probably go on this bike green, black seat, with his speedometer. I wonder still why my attention was diverted by this mysterious door that led nowhere. I had already seen plenty of times, in other rainy Sunday when there was a bicycle race on TV, I knew she did not in closets of the room next door, I knew that 'There were no holes for passing a man, I knew without a doubt it also concealed a shelf full of books. I knew it, and yet I opened the door and saw all these books. And I do not know why, rather than just settle for the confirmation of my knowledge and close the door and get on this bike, I observed more closely. And I realized, thinking to be seeing things beginning with astonishment that these books were all the same. Or rather, they were all different but they were three names that I did not reorder. The author could be Adolphe Benjamin Constant, Adolphe Benjamin Constant, Benjamin Constant Adolphe, it should be that, because books explain how to outward appearances as different, but all with the same name? After a moment of perplexity, the truth came upon me: it was thousands of copies of the same book, and they were marked with the name of my brother Benjamin, clear proof that he was the favorite ...
I do not know what I did afterwards. The first thing I think is that I forgot the story of my brother-on-favorite because too improbable: I was nicer, prettier and smarter. I would never breathe a word of my discovery, that's for sure, because it would put funny ideas in his head. So maybe I'm finally on the bike, fighting with my brother instead, or are we down to get away from this floor just too strange to play soldiers or we sit on the chair next to our grandfather to watch the race. I do not know. Maybe I wanted to acquire at this precise moment, all the best in the world of vampire stories, because it seemed fair, it seemed the best way to make a work that you gave so much a little love, a little attention. The only thing I am certain that I did not tell anyone about this strange experience. Yet, it never left me, and I probably, looking back almost twenty years later, seeing the birth of fetishism which I suffer daily, who, from hand contact with the paper creates sheer ecstasy.
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