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Link to Extract 1
Link to Extract 2
Pain, a sadistic intruder, flails his flesh. As he retraces his steps, the ocean spray assails him, bringing in tow the memory of Carlota, the black sailing boat with its ochre sails, and that was once so dear to him.
He stops to take a deep breath of air redolent with the fragrance of his childhood.
He knows that he is completely alone.
”But are we not all alone at times like this?” he asks himself.
Just look at the case of his uncle, the eldest son of his paternal grandfather, felled two years ago, and in three months, by liver cancer. Unmarried and with no offspring, his was a wretched affair of a funeral, unredeemed by a straggle of mourners.
“And as for me, I too am alone, but show me a single soul who can say otherwise. No, it’s not our common lot that undoes me, but these blasted doctors. I mean, how am I supposed to know if what they say is true? Because if scientists keep on getting it wrong, then why not doctors too? So, time to stop harking to these know-it-alls, and get on with my life.”
As if clambering through the miasma of his thoughts, he edges his way through the town. By now besieged by the same trespasser that had made only a feint of leaving, the pain once again stabbing maniacally behind his forehead, he battles the onslaught of cars and passers-by as he heads for the newspaper office.
Maintenant la douleur cogne à ses tempes, martèle sa chair. Il revient sur ses pas, une petite brise s'est levée du large, il songe au grand ketch noir, La Carlota : nostalgie soudaine des voiles ocre, du vent et des embruns.
Il s'arrête pour respirer un grand coup, à fond, le goût de l'air a une saveur d’enfance, de son enfance.
Solitaire.
On est toujours seul dans ces cas-là, pense-t-il.
Il se souvient de son oncle, le fils aîné de son grand-père paternel, mort en trois mois d’un cancer du foie. Il y a deux ans. Ni femme ni enfant. Un enterrement sinistre, quelques personnes.
Bon, d'accord, seul. Comme tout le monde. Ce qui ne va pas, ce sont ces foutues analyses, comment savoir la vérité ? Y a-t-il une vérité ? Julio avait l'air sûr de lui.
Pourtant la science est aléatoire, et la médecine encore plus. Là-dessus je peux jouer, je me faufile. Voilà.
Tandis qu'il marche un stylet s'enfonce derrière ses yeux. Il entend à nouveau les bruits de la ville, distingue la circulation des voitures et les gens sur les trottoirs. Machinalement il se dirige vers le journal. Sa vue se brouille derrière ses lunettes. La douleur impose sa présence.
"The Power of Prose"
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