bad. They put away the glossy catalogue. Jean-Paul would like to empty his mind once and for all. We’ll see tomorrow.
‘Have you got coffee?’
‘That’s not something I’m asked very often. I’ll make you one. Do you want sugar?’
‘Yes.’
She brings a cup, a sugar lump, coffee.
‘Thank you. You know, coffee’s my life.’
‘I have a coffee in the morning.’
‘I work in a café. It’s hard work. You’re on your feet all day. It must be the same for you …’
I don’t know why I’m thinking of this. When I was a kid, at my grandparents’, we always ate the bread from the day before. We had to finish it up, even though there was fresh bread. We never got to eat that.
I don’t feel too bad this evening. I’ve seen worse, believe me. No, this evening, things are OK. I did the same things, said the same words as usual. I’m an old hand, like a factory worker on a production line. The same action, relentlessly, for years. No hope. A little factory worker of the flesh. My factory is the city, my production line, cocks.
Time passes. One more and then I’m going home. Before I go to bed, I’ll have something to eat. Something sweet.
Then, like every evening, I’ll go and fill up my plastic bottle on the landing. I’ll have a lick and a promise at the sink. Have to wait till tomorrow for a shower.
I’ll be tired, but I won’t sleep. I’ll have to numb my mind with television. Something really smutty that makes me feel alive again.
Robert
1
Robert is a sponge. He soaks up events and people, retaining everything in his thick yellow foam. But at some point, if someone grabs him, if he’s crushed in the métro or in a cinema queue, he spews out everything in a stream of insults and platitudes, an uncontrolled performance that splatters the toes of your shoes. But he’s discreet, people don’t notice him. Only don’t wring him like a dirty sock, don’t squeeze him too hard.
He scrubs away the days and the years, and at the same time he mops up sorrows and regrets. He quite enjoys his condition, it’s just that he doesn’t like being left in the sink. He deserves better, he has a teaching qualification. Robert’s thing had been philosophy. And then he stopped, he can’t remember why. Robert’s a bit floppy, he has difficulty moving. Sometimes he wants to. He sits down and thinks about it, and finally he stays put. He used to have a lovely armchair in cracked leather. He realized there was a danger that he’d never get up again. He threw it out and has sat ona wooden chair ever since. It’s not as comfortable but even so he can sit in it for hours. People have to understand that he’s not playing games, that if he does nothing it is principally an ambition, like his own personal regurgitated philosophy, a version of Lettrism. Robert doesn’t work. He’ll never work. The only problem is that he doesn’t create anything either. He’s never been any good with his hands or his mind. Robert is a sponge, he absorbs everything that flows around him. And that’s all.
Being a sponge rather suits him. Or rather, it appears to suit him because he never questions whether it does or not. Sometimes he loses his temper, on one occasion he threw out his aunt’s ancient Chesterfield. In short, his life is running smoothly. He feels that nothing should be changed.
Robert fancies himself as a leading Surrealist figure or something similar. He could happily have been a burglar too, or a pirate. That’s classy, not like all those office jobs, four-colour ballpoints and double-sided adhesive tape.
Robert likes Bryan Ferry and nettle soup. He likes nibbling the bits of cuticle that grow on his nails, falling asleep listening to the radio and flicking through mail order catalogues. Robert likes all that, he’s almost a complete wimp. There’s something singular about him, something touching. He has dark circles under his eyes, as if his tears had gradually encrusted themselves around his
‘Have you got coffee?’
‘That’s not something I’m asked very often. I’ll make you one. Do you want sugar?’
‘Yes.’
She brings a cup, a sugar lump, coffee.
‘Thank you. You know, coffee’s my life.’
‘I have a coffee in the morning.’
‘I work in a café. It’s hard work. You’re on your feet all day. It must be the same for you …’
I don’t know why I’m thinking of this. When I was a kid, at my grandparents’, we always ate the bread from the day before. We had to finish it up, even though there was fresh bread. We never got to eat that.
I don’t feel too bad this evening. I’ve seen worse, believe me. No, this evening, things are OK. I did the same things, said the same words as usual. I’m an old hand, like a factory worker on a production line. The same action, relentlessly, for years. No hope. A little factory worker of the flesh. My factory is the city, my production line, cocks.
Time passes. One more and then I’m going home. Before I go to bed, I’ll have something to eat. Something sweet.
Then, like every evening, I’ll go and fill up my plastic bottle on the landing. I’ll have a lick and a promise at the sink. Have to wait till tomorrow for a shower.
I’ll be tired, but I won’t sleep. I’ll have to numb my mind with television. Something really smutty that makes me feel alive again.
Robert
1
Robert is a sponge. He soaks up events and people, retaining everything in his thick yellow foam. But at some point, if someone grabs him, if he’s crushed in the métro or in a cinema queue, he spews out everything in a stream of insults and platitudes, an uncontrolled performance that splatters the toes of your shoes. But he’s discreet, people don’t notice him. Only don’t wring him like a dirty sock, don’t squeeze him too hard.
He scrubs away the days and the years, and at the same time he mops up sorrows and regrets. He quite enjoys his condition, it’s just that he doesn’t like being left in the sink. He deserves better, he has a teaching qualification. Robert’s thing had been philosophy. And then he stopped, he can’t remember why. Robert’s a bit floppy, he has difficulty moving. Sometimes he wants to. He sits down and thinks about it, and finally he stays put. He used to have a lovely armchair in cracked leather. He realized there was a danger that he’d never get up again. He threw it out and has sat ona wooden chair ever since. It’s not as comfortable but even so he can sit in it for hours. People have to understand that he’s not playing games, that if he does nothing it is principally an ambition, like his own personal regurgitated philosophy, a version of Lettrism. Robert doesn’t work. He’ll never work. The only problem is that he doesn’t create anything either. He’s never been any good with his hands or his mind. Robert is a sponge, he absorbs everything that flows around him. And that’s all.
Being a sponge rather suits him. Or rather, it appears to suit him because he never questions whether it does or not. Sometimes he loses his temper, on one occasion he threw out his aunt’s ancient Chesterfield. In short, his life is running smoothly. He feels that nothing should be changed.
Robert fancies himself as a leading Surrealist figure or something similar. He could happily have been a burglar too, or a pirate. That’s classy, not like all those office jobs, four-colour ballpoints and double-sided adhesive tape.
Robert likes Bryan Ferry and nettle soup. He likes nibbling the bits of cuticle that grow on his nails, falling asleep listening to the radio and flicking through mail order catalogues. Robert likes all that, he’s almost a complete wimp. There’s something singular about him, something touching. He has dark circles under his eyes, as if his tears had gradually encrusted themselves around his
Similar Books
