His cream linen jacket, custom-tailored, hung miserably, the shoulders sagging, the flaps distorted by the humidity. He did not move, except for his fingers that opened and closed slowly, as if struggling to contain a reaction. Passersby, slowing for a moment, noticed, with furtive glances, the dark stain running down his collar, along his neck, and the droplets clinging to the lapels like heavy grapes ready to give way. His polished leather shoes no longer reflected light, only the splashes, marked with brown stains, like wounds.
His beige linen trousers, once supple and light, now creased, clung to his legs, revealing the exact shape of his knees; the fine weave had turned coarse, the seams strained, almost ready to burst. His sleeves, hastily rolled up, exposed streaming forearms, from which round, steady drops fell rhythmically into a puddle that shimmered strangely in the gray afternoon light.
His shirt, dazzlingly white only moments earlier, was blotched with pale halos, turning a dirty gray. It stuck against his chest, revealing through the wet cotton the blurred outline of an undershirt. He lowered his head, staring at his wrists, the black leather watch soaked, the cuff limp, as if broken. Then he jerked his head up and fixed his gaze on the top of the building with the stiffness of someone who no longer knows whether to cry out or to laugh.
I had stopped, struck by the scene, feeling the fabric of my own dress, a veil of floral cotton, cling damply to my legs. My sandals, thin leather straps, slipped on the cobblestones, forcing me to lean against a lamppost, my elbow scraping against the rough metal, cold as the mood of the day.
I lifted my eyes, squinting, scanning the plain façade of the six-story building. The balconies stacked, bare, but at one level—perhaps the fourth—one balcony burst with color: an abundance of roses—white, crimson, salmon—mingled with upright tulips, orange, like tiny flames frozen in time. That balcony alone seemed to celebrate summer.
I savored its brilliance, fascinated, when suddenly, a dark green shape caught my attention: there, between two flower boxes, protruded a familiar object—the spout of a watering can.
No sooner had I recognized it than a jet of water struck me full in the chest. My body stiffened, arms locked, too late. The icy water seized me, soaked me, pinned me. I felt the fine fabric of my dress turn into a drenched shroud, clinging to my thighs, outlining every fold of my body. My shawl, a light cotton draped on my shoulders, slipped away, useless, like a torn wing. My face tensed, my teeth clenched, my fists instinctively crushing the soaked fabric.
I raised my head, breathless, furious, hoping to unmask the culprit.
Then, between the bluish foliage of the flowers, I caught sight of a tuft of hair—blond curls, tight, glistening with droplets. The small head, fragile, leaned slightly forward.
I had no time to open my mouth before a second cascade poured onto me. Water seeped into my neck, my throat, cutting my breath. My dress tugged at my shoulders, its weight seeming to nail me to the ground. My fingers clutched at the fabric, trying to salvage a shred of modesty, a semblance of form.
I raised my eyes again and finally saw the curls shake. The eyes of the water-thrower met mine, bright, mocking. He laughed—yes, laughed—with a clear, carefree laugh.
I stood there, upright, rigid, chin lifted, legs anchored on the now-treacherous cobblestones. My foot tapped softly against the ground, paced by a dull tension.
But then, bursting from the shadows, a large hand appeared behind the curls, seizing them sharply. Nails, painted a bright red, gleamed for an instant. A voice, sharp and cutting, rang out: confused, rapid scolding. The curls vanished.
Then, from the abandoned balcony, a female voice, weary, almost annoyed, tossed out apologies—hurried, flung like a wet rag, with no face showing.
The man in the drenched jacket picked up his hat, shook it gently, then gripped it in his hands. Slowly, he set it back on his head, tilted, as if to erase himself. I turned away, crossing my arms over my chest, the fabric still cold, my lips pressed tight, while only the drops, still, beaded from the hanging flowers.
The sidewalk seemed to widen, passersby averted their eyes, feigning indifference, yet slowing all the same, caught by this silent unease. A man in a suit discreetly nodded, as if apologizing on behalf of the unseen culprit. Further on, a woman withdrew her hand from her companion’s arm, whispering something I did not catch, though I thought I heard the echo of a “poor fellow.”
Silence fell again, but it was not a peaceful silence. It was a dense silence, suspended, like a storm blanket after the wind.
The man, standing a few meters away, took two steps, slow, deliberate. His trousers, with each movement, clung tighter to his skin, producing that wet sound, that complaint of fabric refusing further service. He lifted his hand as if to adjust his hat, but hesitated, let it fall. His gaze met mine, briefly, and I thought I read in it a mute question: Why me?
I wanted to smile, to lighten the moment, but my lips stayed sealed, tightened by the cold and the water still running down.
Water in my hair traced icy lines along my neck, seeping into my back. My dress, heavy, restrained my every move, reminding me of my sudden vulnerability. With a sharp, almost brisk motion, I tugged the fabric downward, adjusted my belt. The leather, soaked, slipped under my fingers.
I took a step toward the wall, leaned back against it, upright, chin raised, trying to recover a composure I knew was lost.
The man, meanwhile, bent down, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He unfolded it slowly, as though raising a white flag. But the fabric, too thin, absorbed only a little before sticking uselessly to his hand.
— This is a scandal… murmured a voice behind me.
I did not know if it was meant for him, for me, or for no one.
A creak made heads turn: the building door had opened. A boy emerged, holding a scooter by the handlebars. He stopped short, surveying the scene, his eyes darting from the drenched hat to my clinging dress. Quickly, he turned his head, pulled up his hood, and vanished into the side street.
I straightened, leaving the wall. My feet went “squelch” at every step, the sullied leather of my sandals whining against the stones. He, too, walked away, saying nothing, his back slightly bent, as though under an undeserved burden.
The flowers above had not moved. They still shone, proud, resplendent. Only the drops fell, one by one, slow, obstinate.
And I remained there a moment longer, staring at that balcony as one stares at an invisible wound, until the absurd urge struck me to go and ring.
We lingered there, a few moments, in that street washed by water that was not rain. The sound of our drenched steps had faded, replaced by the soft rustle of wind in the leaves, and, further off, the irregular clatter of a scooter on the cobblestones.
I turned my head. At the end of the street, the child pushed his scooter, intent, focused, wet curls stuck to his nape. He traced invisible circles, feet light, carefree, as if he had forgotten the entire world.
The man beside me bent slightly, looked at his shoes, lifted them a moment to assess the damage. He straightened, smoothed by habit the folds of his jacket, which stubbornly refused to regain shape. His gaze rested on me, then slid back to the balcony. No one. Only the flowers, calm, indifferent.
A warm draft brushed the street, gently lifting a dead leaf, making it dance around our feet. The sidewalk was empty, except for us.
The man shrugged faintly, as though freeing himself of a weight, then pulled his watch from his pocket. It no longer worked. He stared at it for a moment, hesitated, then slipped it back.
— There are people… he said softly, without finishing.
His voice was neither angry nor sad. Just weary.
I nodded, barely perceptibly. A wet strand of hair fell onto my forehead. I brushed it back with the back of my hand, then smoothed my dress, uselessly.
We took a few steps, side by side, without a word. Our heavy, wet steps beat out the silence. Behind us, the building’s door stayed closed.
— She didn’t even look, he muttered.
I did not answer, but my fixed gaze spoke for me.
In the distance, the child laughed, hurling his scooter against a low wall, then immediately retrieving it. He skipped, trousers stained, t-shirt askew, happy.
The man stopped, set his hat straight on his head, took a slow breath.
— Good day, madam.
He inclined his head slightly, with that restrained politeness reserved for fellow witnesses of the same absurdity.
— And to you, sir.
He walked away, slowly, and I watched him disappear around the corner, his jacket lightly flapping against his legs at each step.
I remained alone for a while, then, with firm steps, resumed my way. I passed the child, who did not even lift his eyes. His wheels screeched, bouncing on the stones.
I did not look back.
And behind me, above, the balcony still shone, radiant, vibrant, as if nothing had ever happened.
Ajouter un commentaire
Commentaires