DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

- I’m worried about Aðalbjörg, she said, sitting on the marital bed, her eyes vacant.

They were about to go to bed, and perhaps she wasn’t choosing the right moment, but she had to talk to him about it.

- What’s wrong, my dear ? He asked immediately, also taking a seat on the bed. He was certainly absorbed in his online work, but he knew how to listen to... Delicate situations. In fifteen years of marriage, he had never betrayed her. While the couples around them were falling apart like shoelaces with the changing morals of society.

- Aðalbjörg has imaginary friends.

- There are children who have imaginary friends. More than one might think. I have heard about it ; it has always existed. It sometimes forms part of the psychological development of a child. Like moral support, you see... A sort of listening ear when one feels alone. I'm not fully into theories in favor of pedagogy and progressivism, but it's true that some children need that. 

He sensed from his wife's tone that she needed to have a deep conversation about their little girl... At any rate, that's what several of her teachers had said since she started elementary school. And luckily, she hadn't chosen the least curious man on Earth !

- Yes, I’ve heard about that too… But Aðalbjörg has no friends. Only imaginary friends ! That’s what worries me, Olav.

- You’re exaggerating, she is invited to birthday parties, right ?

- Yes, but it’s more out of politeness that the parents invite her. And you know, there’s something else…

- What is it ? He asked, more to reassure her than out of real curiosity. He had always been a present father for his child and his wife, but he refused to worry as she did, to avoid attracting larger troubles for them. Yes, he might be a bit superstitious.

- Aðalbjörg told me some things that were true…

- What do you mean by that ?

- She told me about a library that burned down a long time ago... She mentioned the word 'Alexandria'. I looked up the name out of curiosity on the Internet, and believe me or not, that city exists ! It’s in Egypt…

- They learn history at school, it seems to me, right ?

- Olav, you don't understand... This is not part of the school curriculum ! It's impossible for her to know that. They learn the history of Iceland at school, not Egypt, come on ! She also talked to me about mummification and pyramids... How can she know all this at 8 years old ?

The father did not react. All of this did seem a bit improbable, but there had to be a logical explanation. He took his wife’s hand without answering. They had enough problems as it was and didn’t want to add even more complexity.

- Well, listen... We'll talk about it tomorrow. I admit that I'm tired. This new job takes a lot of my energy, he lied. 

- I don’t feel like you realize that Aðalbjörg is different. If you think it pleases me to... 

But they were soon interrupted by the child in question who was now standing in the doorway of the parents' bedroom.

- Mom, there is a boy who keeps talking to me when I go to the playroom... He is even crying right now, is that normal ?

- Yes, he's one of your imaginary friends, Aðalbjörg, I know...

- But he's different, mom. He doesn’t follow me when I go into the other rooms in the house ! I asked him to come play in my room but he didn’t want to. He said he wanted to keep building planes out of Legos even though there aren’t any in the playroom ! I don't know why he never wants to come with me... Tonight, he even cried. Can you help me comfort him ?

- Well, he prefers the playroom, I don’t know, I mean ! Well, I’ll walk you back to bed, it’s very late. Tomorrow, you go to school !

- But mom, he told me himself that he was special. He said he was my brother, mom. And that his name was Goðmundur. He is blond with green eyes. He says you abandon him…

Aðalbjörg’s mother and father looked at each other, stunned. Twelve years ago, they had lost a little boy they had named Goðmundur in a car accident where only he had lost his life. He was the only blond in the family and at only 6 years old, he had a great fascination for airplanes. They planned to tell Aðalbjörg later, when she is older.

 DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

 I write this book to not remain in the shadows. I write this book to speak freely about what one feels when, deep in their guts and for as long as they can remember, there is this disconnection with reality that is mine, this disconnection with one's own body. I am a woman who has been stuck in a man's body since birth.

I am that woman who secretly put on makeup, not to please anyone else, but to please herself, as every woman does in the morning, to start the day on the right foot ! Yes, I have always hidden. But if that were all...

I lived 40 years in the shadows. A chaotic teenagehood, always trying to speak, to express to my parents, half-heartedly, a malaise whose nature I didn't really know... They didn't perceive it. In fact, they wouldn't have been able to imagine it for a single second. Who can blame them ? Then I had a decisive encounter, that of Mélanie, around which this entire book is centered. Not just a romantic encounter, but a meeting that brought me face to face with this reality : Yes, I am transgender, if only to one day become transsexual.

Life then separated us and I resigned myself ; I also condemned myself to a family life that I cherished, I cannot deny it, but which was not mine. Worse, I knew I was condemned by my own wife and her religious confession. It was impossible to explain my situation to her. Victim of an assault on January 26, 1984, on Rue du Taur in Toulouse, then rehoused in a work apartment 40 years to the day at Rue du Taur in Revel, this sign of life or fate made me realize that enough was enough ; that this daily lie, a poison that was killing me slowly, seeping into my whole body day after day was no longer sustainable. Neither for me, nor for society as a whole, which had always imposed guilt on me without even being aware of it. But who can believe that a woman loves women ? And yet, that is who I am ! And even today, it earns me the wrath of the town hall that I served for 35 years. A whole life of chaos to try to keep this shameful secret intact, which even now in 2025 is not good to disclose : I am a woman.

So to those who will say that I was free not to choose this path, I would respond that I did not choose. To be honest, I didn’t even choose anything, not even my family life. A life of lies, against my will. I also want, and perhaps even more importantly, to address the teenagers who are in the same situation as I was. To tell them that they are not alone, of course, but especially to tell them to have the courage not to just look at their life, but to live it, whatever the cost can be. I hope that my testimony will plant at least one seed in their fearful minds. And maybe, who knows, in this society that still has so much to learn about the diversity of the beings that make it up...

Candice conduisait fébrilement. Elle conduisait depuis tôt le matin mais n'osait pas s'arrêter. Elle était épuisée et à bout de nerfs, mais il fallait continuer. Non, il ne fallait pas s'arrêter. Elle n'en n'avait pas le droit. Pour elle et surtout pour son enfant. Pour lui offrir un avenir. Parfois, elle jetait des regards furtifs dans le rétroviseur. Par réflexe de sécurité bien sûr, mais aussi inconsciemment pour s'assurer que la police française n'était pas à ses trousses. Cela faisait quelques heures qu'elle avait passé la frontière française, qui par chance, n'avait pas été bloquée malgré l'état d'urgence militaire. Mais tout de même, rien n'était moins sûr ! Ou plutôt, rien n'était plus sûr en Europe, à l'heure d'aujourd'hui. 

La voiture était pleine à craquer. Elle y avait mis tout ce qu'elle avait pu, à la hâte. La plupart des affaires présentes étant pour son enfant. Pour qu'elle ne manque de rien. Elle s'était contentée la concernant de quelques vêtements et affaires de toilette. Tant pis pour ses sculptures, ses tableaux et ses bijoux, aussi... Elle était devenue une fugitive et cela passait désormais avant le fait d'être une artiste. 

Il faisait très chaud et la voiture n'était pas climatisée. Le soleil commençait à se coucher et la lumière baissait. De la sueur perlait sur son front. Elle se sentait poisseuse mais s'interdisait de s'arrêter pour faire une pause. Depuis ce matin, la seule pause qu'elle avait faite était pour aller faire un rapide pipi dans la nature. Bien sûr qu'elle n'avait pas pris l'autoroute. Les caméras étaient omniprésentes. Trop risqué de s'arrêter sur le bord de la route pour le faire ou même acheter quelque chose à manger. Les restaurants et autres aires de repos ne bordaient pas la route, mais tant pis, il fallait avancer le plus loin possible, coûte que coûte. Chaque kilomètre parcouru étant une assurance de plus qu'elle s'en tireraient. 

- Maman, c'est quand qu'on s'arrête ? La voix de Louison l'interrompit dans ses pensées. "J'ai envie de faire pipi et j'ai faim."

- Bientôt, ma chérie. Le soleil va bientôt se coucher ! 

- Mais je vais faire pipi dans ma culotte, ça fait au moins une heure que j'attends... Et en plus j'ai mal au ventre, j'ai envie de vomir... 

- Je sais, tu m'a dit la même chose il y a 10 minutes. Bon, on va rechanter la chanson des tortues, ça passera plus vite ! 

- Mais ça fait trois fois qu'on la chante, j'en ai marre... Et puis en plus tu veux pas que je me perce les oreilles ! 

- Je t'ai déjà dit que tu étais trop jeune ! On attend tes dix ans, chaque chose en son temps. 

- C'est pas juste, toutes mes copines ont des boucles d'oreille sauf moi... Gémit-elle en se pendant sur le siège avant. 

- On va pas revenir dessus 50 fois, Louison, en plus je suis fatiguée de la route... Eloigne-toi de la banquette avant, tu me déconcentres... 

Elle avait décidé de quitter la France le jour où elle avait reçu ce fameux courrier 15 minutes après l'attentat qui avait eu lieu, place de la Concorde à Paris. Un attentat qui aurait soit-disant été commis par la Russie. Elle n'avait pas cherché à comprendre et avait tout laissé en l'état chez elle. Enfin plutôt dans son ancien appartement... Mais elle avait pris soin de retirer de son compte en banque le plus d'argent qu'elle le pouvait. Avec le passage en cours à l'euro numérique, cela restait pour le moins limité. Tant pis. Sa liberté valait plus que les 10 000 euros encore présents sur son compte et qui seraient bientôt ponctionnés par l'Etat au nom de l'effort de guerre. 

Son seul but était de rejoindre Gibraltar en voiture pour aller au Maroc. La trajectoire d'un clandestin africain mais en sens inverse, comme c'était ironique ! Là-bas, ce serait peut-être moins confortable et il y aurait bien sûr un décalage culturel, mais elle ne serait pas obligée de faire la guerre et avec un peu de chance, elle verrait Louison grandir. 

Tous les avions avaient été bloqué au sol en France et dans d'autres pays d'Europe, dont l'Espagne. Comme pour retenir les gens en captivité, prisonniers de cette destinée funeste décidée par une poignée d'oligarques. Cela fait déjà un moment qu'elle sentait le vent tourner. Qu'elle se sentait en danger, elle, chômeuse de longue durait qui vivait librement de son art, mais aussi qu'elle voyait le ton devenir  de plus en plus culpabilisateur envers les citoyens, ou plutôt le peuple, et elle savait que cela n'était qu'une question de temps avant qu'elle réagisse. Il lui avaot fallu un catalyseur, une ultime preuve pour se ranger à son intuition première, qu'elle reniait depuis des années et qui lui avait toujours fait peur : oui la France devenait une dictature. Bien qu'à y réfléchir, elle n'avait jamais été une démocratie... Jamais un seul référendum, pas même sur cette guerre, et la redistribution des richesses dont ils ne se cachaient plus de la mépriser. Tous les signaux étaient au rouge depuis bien longtemps, mais il y avait encore pire : la reconduction d'un troisième mandat d'Emmanuel Macron qui avait été faite sans vote aucun, qui lui avait enlevé tout espoir de renouveau. Ça n'était plus seulement l'injustice qui les attendait, mais l'enfer. 

Il valait mieux partir avant que la police politique ne vienne la chercher. Rien ne l'empêchait plus de quitter ce logement qui pouvait être désormais réquisitionné d'une minute à l'autre. 

Une voiture de Police espagnole la dépassa soudain et lui fit des appels de phare pour lui indiquer de s'arrêter sur le bas-côté. Sa respiration s'interrompit soudain, une barre fendant son estomac en l'espace d'une fraction de seconde. Elle s'arrêta donc soudainement, manquant de peu de tomber dans le ravin. Par chance elle parlait espagnol et avait un bon accent. Il ne fallait pas perdre son sang-froid. Elle essaierait de se faire passer pour une espagnole et avec un peu de chance, il ne s'agissait que d'un contrôle aléatoire et on ne lui demanderait pas ses papiers d'identité. Si le contrôle s'avérait plus conséquent, elle s'attirerait néanmoins de gros soucis dans le mesure où sa plaque d'immatriculation était fausse. La biométrie avait en effet été instaurée partout en Europe pour tracer les gens. Encore un autre signe qu'il fallait partir ! 

- Bonsoir Madame, dit froidement le policier en espagnol après qu'elle ait eu baissé la vitre.

- Bonsoir ! Y a-t-il un problème ? Demanda-t-elle de la façon la plus innocente et naturelle qui soit, tout en prenant soin d'imiter l'accent espagnol de sa défunte mère. 

- Votre pneu est dégonflé. Il doit être crevé. Il faudrait le changer... 

Face au visage de Candice qui avait soudainement changé d'expression, il reprit : 

- Mais je peux vous aider, si vous voulez, vous avez un pneu de rechange dans votre coffre ? La loi stipule que vous devez en avoir un, mais nous pouvons fermer les yeux là-dessus, poursuivit-il. 

Une heure plus tard, Candice reprenait le volant. Un garagiste du coin était venu lui porter un pneu, moyennant 100 euros supplémentaires. Ce serait leur première nuit à la belle étoile... 

 DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

- Are you okay ? Wasn't it not too hard to come ? She asked him as he got off the bus.

She had come to welcome him at the bus stop. He had deliberately chosen an apartment in the center so he could come home at any hour of the day or night when he got drunk. She knew he had made an effort to travel those kilometers to her place... She stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. A friendly kiss, of course. He was very tall, probably two heads taller than her. They both felt a little awkward, not quite knowing what they were doing here, on a Sunday afternoon in this ghost town.

- No, it was easy. He replied quite mechanically, without really looking at her. He was already walking towards her residence at a rather brisk pace. 

In fact, yes, he knew very well what he was doing there ; it was simply that usually, he didn’t walk miles to do it. The city center was his favorite hunting ground. The bars, in particular. Because in clubs, you had to dance. And that was not his strongest asset for charming girls and getting them into his bed.

- So, what are we eating ? He asked in turn. 

Although the main dish was her. Yes, he had come to sleep with her and barely hid it. 

- Italian food ! Since I can’t travel to Italy, I’ll seek the sun like this... It's a pretty cloudy weather, today...

- Ah, okay. He replied, not more curious than that. And how is your ankle ? He asked, more to keep the conversation going than out of curiosity. 

- It’s getting better… 

They were now walking side by side like two strangers. At a certain distance and without looking at each other. When they reached her apartment, he sat down on the sofa. Two Pastis were placed on the coffee table for the aperitif. They had tried to eat on the terrace, under the fresh breeze of the linden trees and their summer manes, but Pamit had complained about the mosquitoes. He had also complained about the food, which did not suit his taste buds. Kebabs and other pizzas appealed more to him. Not to mention the Indian curry chicken. In short, he preferred the things he was used to, a bit like children who only like fries. So they had retreated to the living room. No need to drag this story out any longer anyway. He didn't plan to linger here. He would chat a bit, drink, take some ketamine to make it better, he would fuck, and leave as he came. Now that's a recipe that works ! He was still curious to 'taste' her. There was something special about this Frenchwoman, after all. A quirk that didn’t leave him indifferent. In short, she wasn't stupid at all. Well, he would soon be leaving anyway. After doing what he had to do…

- So, Sweden was good ?

- Yeah, not bad, I hooked up with a Swedish girl… 

The conversation immediately shifted to this more or less cultural aspect of Sweden.

- Oh really, that’s how you are ?

- Well yeah, what do I have to lose ? 

- I don’t know, I think it doesn’t make much sense, you’ll never see her again…

- So what ? It was nice, we had a good time ! The rest, we don't care about.

- I find you quite cynical. It's like you don't care about anyone.

- Yeah, I don't. You can block me tomorrow, I don't give a shit about it ! He laughed theatrically to emphasize his superiority and indifference.

- And with the Korean girl, did you keep in touch ? You experienced so many things together ! She continued, after pausing for a moment, to kinda put a bit of softness in the conversation.

- No, it's over, she went back home. I don't believe in long-distance relationships.

- That's more of a good excuse to move on to the next girl…

He didn't reply. Probably out of modesty. His Sikh culture sometimes took a little precedence over him. But deep down, he still wanted to live a western life, with cultural or religious traditions that weren't too burdensome, mainly based on food, because curry chicken tastes good. She noticed that he hadn't taken off his sunglasses.

- Why are you wearing sunglasses when we're inside my place ?

He immediately took them off, with a defiant look.

- You have something there... She said, pointing at his right eye. 

- Yes, I know. His tone had become aggressive. 

- How come ? She insisted, unable to suppress a mocking smile. His right eye was squinting, with an empty gaze. That's true. She quite liked the idea that this Don Juan was in a position of weakness for once.

- I had myopia surgery when I was younger... in Canada. The operation went badly. 

- Yet, I thought the technology was more advanced than that over there...

- Canada is not the United States. And back then, it was different, the machines weren't that refined... He retorted, a jaded look on his face. 

He must have been asked that question often and was probably tired of answering it. 

- How long ago did it happen ? 

-10 years. But with the contact lenses, it’s going very well. His tone was no longer as aggressive but still firm enough to make his interlocutor understand that the discussion was now closed.

He had a strong character. Even too strong. A character that camouflaged a deep lack of self-confidence, like a kind of ransom, compensation. She had put herself at a good distance from him on this couch to let him know that they actually weren't obliged to fuck right away, that they could also talk beforehand, to get to know each other at least a little.

She felt that she had opened a breach, managed to penetrate a fragment of him, of who he really was, by shedding light on one of his weaknesses as she had done. This could not be denied and it was quite destabilizing.

He lowered his dark eyes and drank the Pastis cul-sec. Then, he resumed the thread of the conversation as if nothing had happened. It was him, this time, who would choose what they would talk about. He would regain control of the situation, down to the smallest detail, as usual. It would be of course a superficial topic, and above all, that would not involve talking about him.

 DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

I found myself there again, in the middle of the street, waiting for Mehdi to be done. Passersby slowed their pace, glancing at us out of the corner of their eyes with modesty, sometimes with a kind of palpable shame. Rare were those who mocked us. Of course, they tried to understand what we were doing there, in the middle of the sidewalk, Mehdi sitting, staring blankly, rocking his body back and forth frantically, and me, sitting next to him. I could do nothing but… be with him.

Even during our nighttime walks near the lake, when there weren't many people around, he often found himself seized by panic attacks. The setting sun illuminated our two heads. The sun shone for all of us, and for Mehdi, wrapping him too in its summer rays. Because the sun couldn't care less whether Mehdi was autistic or not. When it was exposed, it was for everyone to enjoy. And the yellow and burnt grasses of La Ramée perhaps made the situation even more surreal for the people passing by. As if we were filmed in some sort of movie scene.

Mehdi was a young adult now, and I continued to accompany him almost every summer evening to the lake. Even when he didn’t ask me to. It wasn’t just about walking and taking him out, like you would take a dog out. This evening stroll had become, over the years, our moment together. A special moment where I no longer had to wash him, dress him, feed him, or explain anything to him. A moment where he and I walked side by side without sometimes exchanging a single word. A moment to enjoy the view, the air, our presence.

No, it wasn’t a movie scene and my life was far from resembling a film since Mehdi was born. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one raising him. I had asked my wife to take care of the child, fully knowing what kind of life awaited me. What kind of life awaited US. Allah had decided it that way. So be it.

- Let’s go Mehdi, we still have 1 km to go before we reach the lake ; if we hurry enough, we will arrive for the sunset ! 

Mehdi had started to smile, and it was often at this sign that I knew he had regained his senses. His smile always had that absent, uninhabited quality about it. Some would even say it was a madman's smile. I knew that smile by heart and was sure that this smile, as mad as it was, knew me too.

PARTIE 5

Mais pour tout dire, j'avais soif. Oui, soif. Car même si mon hôte pensait (de temps à autre) à me donner quelques miettes de gâteau, mon bec restait impitoyablement sec. Oh, j'avais bien tenté la gamelle du chien. Mon aile guérissant, j'arrivais de mieux en mieux à me traîner jusqu'à la vieille paillasse faisant office de cuisine. A vol d'oiseau, elle n'était guère pas plus qu'à 4 mètres de là... Enfin, je sentais bien que ça tirait quand même pas mal, c'est pourquoi je m'y prenais toujours à plusieurs fois pour faire l'aller-retour et achever mon voyage... 

Mais à en juger par le goût âpre de cette eau, l'homme ne devait pas la changer beaucoup. N'ayant que ça à me mettre sous le bec, je faisais avec. 

Au bout de quelques semaines, mon aile avait totalement guéri, et ça, ça n'était pas grâce à l'homme, qui s'était totalement désintéressé de moi ! Il me fallait donc me rendre à l'évidence : Il me fallait partir. Oui, mais pour aller où ? Encore que ça, j'en aurai une idée claire une fois délivré, grâce à mon magnétique sens de l'orientation ! Quoique, retrouver mes congénères ne s'avèrerait pas être une mince affaire... Non, la question qui me brûlait n'était pour l'instant pas celle-ci, mais plutôt : Comment partir ? 

L'homme n'ouvrait jamais aucune fenêtre pour aérer et c'est sans doute aussi la raison pour laquelle ça sentait le moisi. Mais j'avais remarqué que l'homme parfois lorsqu'il rentrait, marquait un large temps d'arrêt parce qu'il était ivre, s'arrêtant sur le seuil de la porte pour regagner un peu ses esprits, avant de la claquer violemment et d'enlever ses savates pour aller se coucher. Je le voyais, en ombre chinoise, de l'autre côté du couloir... Et j'avais calculé qu'il mettait 4 à 5 secondes avant de claquer cette porte, hébété qu'il était... Ce qui me laissait, à vue de bec, le temps nécessaire pour voleter vers ma nouvelle destinée.

Et c'est ce que je fis, un soir, alors que l'homme stagnait sur le pas de la porte, le regard ahuri, perdu dans le vide. Me voyant m'enfuir à grandes ailes, il tenta de me saisir par les plumes, mais ne pu rien en faire. Il brassait l'air avec ses poings, qu'il ouvrait et fermait frénétiquement, mais j'avais déjà échappé à son emprise. Certes mon aile me faisait toujours mal, mais je pouvais recommencer à voler, et surtout voler librement ! 

DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

The atmosphere was really nice. The sky was clear and it smelled good like the sun. It seemed like even the strawberries that mom had put on the birthday cake smelled like the sun, even though everyone knew they came from the supermarket. It's such a lucky thing to have your birthday in the summer, because even if some friends have gone on vacation, we can still celebrate it outside and invite people ! This year, we decided to celebrate my birthday a little later in the evening and share the meal at the lake so not to bother the neighbours.

We were seated at a wooden table facing the lake. At these wooden picnic tables. We were at the moment of the meal after the birthday party. Everyone was at the table: my parents, my little sister, my uncle, his wife, and their children... Except for me. I was on a special chair, far from the table. I couldn't even reach my own birthday cake because it was too far away from me... To be honest, even if I had been close to the cake, I wouldn't have been able to touch it. Because a deformation of my hands and arms prevents me from grasping anything. I have no hold on anything.

Yet, it was indeed my cake on the table, a magnificent strawberry cake with heart decorations on the side. But it was mom who was feeding me so that I too could enjoy my own cake. Sometimes, the slices weren't big enough, and I would grumble a bit, and everyone would tease me: “C'mon, Louis, you aren't gonna get upset over such a little thing… You’re gonna have plenty of cake, don't worry !” they all said, smiles on their faces. I am sure it was benevolent. But they didn’t understand that it was more than just a story about cake and whipped cream, more than just a story about slices, but about the inequity of life: Why the hell had God given me a body that I could not use ?

They always say that life has a meaning, but it depends on who you’re talking about. This cake seemed to taunt me from the table, just like my friends who were playing ball and running at full speed a little earlier during my birthday party, while I couldn't take a single step, a stupid hat on my head with stars as a consolation prize. My body was a broken machine that nothing, not even the most beautiful of parties, could repair.

DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

Serge had lost his job due to an economic layoff. No need to code algorithms anymore, artificial intelligence was now doing it very well ! He was therefore in professional retraining, searching for something he could do to earn a living, and also, it must be said, to give purpose to his life. Him, who had only ever lived through screens, felt like he was deprived of existence without them. Without a computer, it was like he lacked a role in this society. It was these machines that somehow conferred his legitimacy. Without them, he could no longer express his potential or his creativity. Because the latter only manifested through the software he improved, always taking great care to keep his emotions to himself... He only allowed himself to have emotions about things that never put him in danger, virtual or non-committal things, or only things related to pseudo-secure family matters.

He was thus now spending his time in a certain boredom, having lost faith in his own usefulness in the world. What could he possibly do to help others ? Him, who was now sinking like a stone, unable to help himself !

One evening, as he walked alone through the streets, he came across a huge illuminated display window. People were performing in front of it with slow movements, like a kind of Thai-chi, but embellished with dance, as it all seemed improvised. They were not facing the display window but rather the spectators who could also be seen. However, it was as if they did not care about that either, intertwining together in a sensual ensemble, adjusting their movements to one another in improbable tribal symmetries. One foot over the other, a leg gracefully withdrawing from that of its ephemeral partner. And always with an inspired and transported facial expression…

Sometimes, they would quicken the pace, jumping in this pure white room from top to bottom. It was neither a bar nor a library. Serge moved closer to the entrance door. Not to go in, no, he didn’t want to be a killjoy. Just to understand what this place was that hosted these strange people… A man, very tall and slender with long black hair, was playing the flute. He looked like a magician. He already had many wrinkles on his face, but for some unknown reason, it was clear that his wrinkles were much more laughter lines than frown lines. Tibetan bowls surrounded him.

"CULTURAL ASSOCIATION" was written on the glass entrance door.

“Were there still people who believed enough in the human being to give their time like that, for free ?” He thought associations were nothing more than a thing for elderly people…

"Do you want to come in ?" He was asked.

He turned around. A young brunette woman was standing in the doorway and smiling at him. Yes, she was indeed talking to him. For once, he was the privileged interlocutor. Him, who had spent the last few years locked behind a desk in front of a computer executing tasks in the shadows.

- Uh yes, why not... He ventured, a little intimidated by the young woman's wide angelic smile. Did he really deserve so much attention? 

She opened the door a little more and he stepped inside for the first time. From the inside, of course, it was quite different. To be honest, it was even much better. The golden and soft light made everything even more beautiful, the sensuality of the dancers' movements, the depth of their gazes, everything. 

The music had actually no melody and was curious, but soon, as he sat among the few spectators, he felt drawn to it. Or rather, he wanted to mingle with this group of strangers. He didn't know them but wanted to get to know them, to taste them through their gestures filled with tenderness and beauty. He wanted to join this circle of madness too…

And it was as if the young woman had read his thoughts:

- You can join them if you want. The second part of the outing is for improvisation.

- Oh really ? He asked, a bit dazed.

- Well yes, totally ! But I advise you to take off your shoes, you'll be more comfortable… If you want, I can come with you.

- I don't know, I've never done this in my life… I'm not a very good dancer and even less of a choreographer.

- Neither are some of us, I assure you ! She replied, laughing. 

- She held out his hand, and he didn't hesitate any longer. She was wearing strange clothes, but she was so pretty, at least to him… Serge was about to inhabit his body for the first time. And also his heart. He didn't know if he would find a job again, nor how much time he had left to live, but for now, and perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt like he was truly living.

DISABILITIES CHRONICLES

My gaze wandered through the bus window. Not really contemplating the view, because apart from the pavement and the worn-out buildings, there wasn't much to see. No, I was looking into the distance, a nice tune in my mind and to be honest, I was daydreaming.

I was dreaming, lost in a world that I created from almost nothing. In short, I could afford the luxury of getting lost in my thoughts, right there, in the middle of an almost empty bus on a Saturday night. A quiet Saturday night, where I had nothing else to think about but myself. No constraints, no obligations, no urgency.

I was daydreaming when suddenly I heard a small voice rising from the front of the bus. A small voice, but marked by a certain authority. The voice of a little girl, but a little girl who had incredible confidence for her age.

"The door, please." She asked in a strong and calm voice. She wasn't shouting, in fact, and her voice was simply raised enough to be heard over that of the driver. A polite yet firm voice.

Surprised, I turned my head. Indeed, there stood a little girl in the bus aisle, she couldn't be more than eleven years old. She was not alone, but accompanied by a lady in a wheelchair. The door opened and a sort of ramp came out to connect the sidewalk to the bus.

The lady was able to get off the bus without any trouble, closely followed by the little girl, who was keeping an eye on things. I followed them with my gaze through the window. Upon reaching the sidewalk, the little girl sat on the lady's lap. The lady activated the electric lift of the chair, and they both went up the very steep street together, nestled against each other.

PARTIE 4

J'eus le temps, pendant ma convalescence forcée, d’observer un peu les lieux. C’était une chance que nous soyons au printemps car cette vieille bicoque ne devait pas être équipée d’un chauffage ! La tapisserie du salon, dans le dans lequel je me trouvais, était ornée de fleurs roses sur fond de marron mordoré… Elle était déchirée par endroits, grignotée par des insectes à d’autres. 

En parlant d’insectes, j’avais bien faim, car l’homme qui m’avait recueilli s’absentait souvent, et lorsqu’il revenait, il ne pensait pas toujours à me ramener un morceau de pain. Parfois, j’avais droit à un morceau de gâteau rassis, mais c’était bien rare ! L’homme, la plupart du temps, rentrait ivre, et se rivait sur le canapé pour s’y étendre de tout son long, non sans avoir balancé sa paire de gaudasses à travers la pièce. S’ensuivait alors pour toute la nuit des ronflements pour le moins sonores. C’est comme si toutes ses entrailles s’étaient donné le mot en même temps pour vibrer à l’unisson dans un seul et même son rauque et entêtant. 

Un soutien-gorge l’attendait toujours sur ce canapé défoncé gris. Toujours le même, un soutien-gorge bleu d’une taille généreuse, avec de la dentelle. L’homme ne le lâchait pas de la nuit, il le serrait même étroitement contre lui comme un doudou. Comme si en fait, ce soutien-gorge faisait office de femme ; une femme qui l’attendrait là, toute la nuit, fidèle au poste, le temps que Monsieur daigne revenir après toute une nuit de périgrinations. Le rêve de tout homme, en somme, non ? Mais nous autres, nous ne sommes pas sans fantasmes non plus, c’est pourquoi nous chantons. Nous chantons pour les libérer dans l’air, nous ne les gardons pas enfouis comme vous dans les limbes de notre fierté et de notre peur du jugement. 

Assez tard dans la matinée, j’attendais que l’homme ouvre l'œil et se réveille complètement pour lui glisser quelques piaillements dans les oreilles, histoire qu’il comprenne que son invité avait faim. Je ne voulais pas le brusquer non plus, car je savais qu’il pouvait se montrer un peu nerveux et n’avait pas envie d’avoir le bec ficelé jusqu’au lendemain matin (au mieux) ! Il me donnait donc un petit quelque chose, puis s’en allait et on ne le revoyait plus avant la fin de l’après-midi, pour “l’apéro” comme il disait, qu’il prenait avec un autre homme vraisemblablement du même âge. Alors ils trinquaient, trinquaient, trinquaient jusqu’au bout de la nuit et là, je pouvais être sûr que j’aurais droit à deux concerts nocturnes pour le prix d’un. 

Quant à mon aile, elle se rétablissait doucement. Comme par miracle, la plaie rétrécissait à vue d'œil et me faisait beaucoup moins mal. L’homme ne semblait pas y prêter plus d’attention que ça et cela m’arrangeait bien, car lorsqu’il s’ennuyait et qu’il me touchait pour regarder son état, c’était toujours d’une façon pas vraiment délicate. Il lui arrivait aussi de me parler pour me raconter des choses qui parfois n’avaient aucun sens, et dans ces moments-là, je me voyais aussi gratifié de postillons. J’attendais le jour J que mon aile soit complètement rétablie. J’avais un plan !