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Link to Extract 2
Link to Extract 3
As he keeps on walking, conscious of nothing except for the sun’s rays that light up the path before him, he is alive only to the rapid, muffled beating of his own heart.
On reaching the port, he moves along the pier, at the end of which lies an infinity of sea, frolicking with flecks of reflected light.
He could not feel any more alone.
By now there is no more horizon, and no more sky, but solely the summer’s blinding whiteness that renders each contour indistinct.
Mindful that at any moment his heart will stop beating, he stands on the platform’s edge, swaying from side to side. The surf’s swell comes to him from afar, as if from the realm of dreams. The tang of the sea makes him hold back, anchoring his feet to the concrete jetty.
He has no idea where he has ended up.
Would he be able to distinguish the screeching of a seagull or the blast of a ship’s horn as it returned to harbour?
Or would these sounds be drowned out by the plangent revelation of Julio, his doctor who was also his childhood friend?
“The test results could not be worse, Roberto, this is going to be a real battle for you.”
“Tell me the worst, it’s cancer, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and at a very advanced stage.”
“Do I have a chance of getting better?”
“Minimal, I have to say, if indeed there is any hope at all. But we know what a fighter you are, and so even the most unlikely outcome is still possible.”
Rooted in denial, he looks up to meet Julio’s wan and wistful smile. As they gaze at each other, as if for aeons, he knows that every word he has been privy to is true. Reduced to less than a cipher, he gets up to leave the consulting room, more like a mangled puppet with each string severed irrevocably.
But had he not always been cut out to be the plaything of a higher hand?
Il marche. Sans rien entendre que les battements sourds et précipités de son cœur. Sans rien voir, sinon la coulée de soleil qui incendie la rue.
Il arrive au port. Avance sur la jetée. Au bout, plus rien, lui devant la mer scintillante de lumière.
Seul.
Pas d'horizon ni de ciel. Cette blancheur aveuglante de l'été qui rend tout incertain.
Debout, à l'extrême bord de la jetée, il oscille. Le cœur ne tape plus. Le bruit du ressac lui parvient amorti comme dans les rêves. Seule l'odeur de la mer le retient, rive ses pieds au ciment du môle.
Où est-il ?
Entend-il le cri d'une mouette ? Ou la corne d'un bateau rentrant au port ?
La voix de Julio, l’ami d'enfance de Roberto devenu médecin, résonne en lui.
« — Les analyses sont détestables. Ça va être très
difficile, Roberto.
—C'est un cancer, c'est ça ?
— Exact. Très avancé.
— Mes chances ?
— Minimes, très minimes, pour ainsi dire nulles. Mais tu vas te battre, je sais. Alors tout est possible. »
Il a levé les yeux, incrédule encore à cette seconde. Julio lui sourit, un sourire chaleureux, triste aussi. Il sait que c'est vrai. Longuement, ils se regardent. Puis Roberto sort du cabinet, muet, aveugle, sourd, marionnette aux fils tranchés par la faux du hasard.
Le hasard ?
"The Power of Prose"
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