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Authors: Antoine Laurain
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his way to the cupboard. The candles were stored in a cardboard box along with a Bic lighter in case of a power cut.
There, thatâs much better, he thought, lighting the first candle which he put on the side of the basin. He lit another, then a third. He opened a drawer, took out a small pair of golden scissors, leant towards the mirror and took hold of his cheek between thumb and forefinger. Grey and black hairs fell in a fine rain into the basin.
A good twenty minutes later, he had no more than five daysâ worth of beard. He ran the tap and bathed his face in hot water. He wetted his shaving brush under the scalding stream of water and began to rub the shaving soap in little circular movements. The white foam thickened into a cream which he spread in wide bands across his cheeks, chin, mouth and neck, before freeing his lips with a wipe of his thumb.
He put the razor just under his ear, held his breath and drew the blade down to the bottom of his neck. His skin was revealed, soft and smooth. The foam, dotted with black and grey, whirled down the plughole. Pierre wiped the steamed-up mirror, attacked his left cheek, his right cheek, his neck, moustache and chin, puffing out his lower lip for the finishing touches. All that was left now on his face was a few traces of white soap.
He grabbed a towel, put it under the hot tap, and buried his face in its softness. He stayed like that for a good minute with his eyes closed, then slowly lowered the towel to look in the mirror. It was like bumping into an old friend he hadnât seen for a long time. The mirror reflected back a well-known face, a man who looked like Pierre Aslan.
Â
The sun was shining into the consulting room, making the sheen on the old masks glow against the white wall.
âI shaved my beard off,â said Pierre. âI shaved my beard off and I have a hat,â he added.
As usual his declaration was met with silence.
âIf I hadnât put in a drop of sweet myrrh, Solstice wouldhave been different. If I hadnât found the hat, I wouldnât have shaved,â he said more loudly.
He found his reasoning very compelling. It was as simple and brilliant as a mathematical proof which could explain an entire aspect of the universe in a few phrases. At the sight of his clean-shaven face, Esther had nodded then smiled, and tears had come into her eyes.
âWhy are you crying?â Pierre had asked, taking her into his arms.
âIâm not,â sheâd sniffed. âIâm happy ⦠Iâm getting you back.â
Â
A few days later she had left to play a series of concerts in New York, and then his son had also departed for Les Arcs to go skiing with his friends. Pierre found himself alone for the days leading up to New Year. His wife had left him instructions as if he were a child. âMake sure you get up in the morning.â Until relatively recently he had been known to sleep until one oâclock and drink his coffee in his dressing gown in front of Yves Mourousi and Marie-Laure Augryâs lunchtime news programme.
âDonât be shy about asking Maria to make one of your favourite dishes, a
pot-au-feu
for example â that would be seasonal.â And she had especially reminded him not to forget his Friday session with Dr Fremenberg.
The large apartment on Avenue de Villiers was shrouded in silence, as always happened when Esther left on tour, but this time Ãric wasnât there either. Not that they ever interacted much; a man of fifty-two doesnât often have a great deal to say to a fifteen -year-old boy and vice versa.In a few years they would talk and exchange views on a variety of subjects, but, for the moment, Ãric reserved for his parents that taciturn air of teenagers the world over that hinted at jollity and laughter with unknown friends.
Â
âOur housekeeper told me that I look ten years younger,â Aslan went on in the silence. âWhich means I look
There, thatâs much better, he thought, lighting the first candle which he put on the side of the basin. He lit another, then a third. He opened a drawer, took out a small pair of golden scissors, leant towards the mirror and took hold of his cheek between thumb and forefinger. Grey and black hairs fell in a fine rain into the basin.
A good twenty minutes later, he had no more than five daysâ worth of beard. He ran the tap and bathed his face in hot water. He wetted his shaving brush under the scalding stream of water and began to rub the shaving soap in little circular movements. The white foam thickened into a cream which he spread in wide bands across his cheeks, chin, mouth and neck, before freeing his lips with a wipe of his thumb.
He put the razor just under his ear, held his breath and drew the blade down to the bottom of his neck. His skin was revealed, soft and smooth. The foam, dotted with black and grey, whirled down the plughole. Pierre wiped the steamed-up mirror, attacked his left cheek, his right cheek, his neck, moustache and chin, puffing out his lower lip for the finishing touches. All that was left now on his face was a few traces of white soap.
He grabbed a towel, put it under the hot tap, and buried his face in its softness. He stayed like that for a good minute with his eyes closed, then slowly lowered the towel to look in the mirror. It was like bumping into an old friend he hadnât seen for a long time. The mirror reflected back a well-known face, a man who looked like Pierre Aslan.
Â
The sun was shining into the consulting room, making the sheen on the old masks glow against the white wall.
âI shaved my beard off,â said Pierre. âI shaved my beard off and I have a hat,â he added.
As usual his declaration was met with silence.
âIf I hadnât put in a drop of sweet myrrh, Solstice wouldhave been different. If I hadnât found the hat, I wouldnât have shaved,â he said more loudly.
He found his reasoning very compelling. It was as simple and brilliant as a mathematical proof which could explain an entire aspect of the universe in a few phrases. At the sight of his clean-shaven face, Esther had nodded then smiled, and tears had come into her eyes.
âWhy are you crying?â Pierre had asked, taking her into his arms.
âIâm not,â sheâd sniffed. âIâm happy ⦠Iâm getting you back.â
Â
A few days later she had left to play a series of concerts in New York, and then his son had also departed for Les Arcs to go skiing with his friends. Pierre found himself alone for the days leading up to New Year. His wife had left him instructions as if he were a child. âMake sure you get up in the morning.â Until relatively recently he had been known to sleep until one oâclock and drink his coffee in his dressing gown in front of Yves Mourousi and Marie-Laure Augryâs lunchtime news programme.
âDonât be shy about asking Maria to make one of your favourite dishes, a
pot-au-feu
for example â that would be seasonal.â And she had especially reminded him not to forget his Friday session with Dr Fremenberg.
The large apartment on Avenue de Villiers was shrouded in silence, as always happened when Esther left on tour, but this time Ãric wasnât there either. Not that they ever interacted much; a man of fifty-two doesnât often have a great deal to say to a fifteen -year-old boy and vice versa.In a few years they would talk and exchange views on a variety of subjects, but, for the moment, Ãric reserved for his parents that taciturn air of teenagers the world over that hinted at jollity and laughter with unknown friends.
Â
âOur housekeeper told me that I look ten years younger,â Aslan went on in the silence. âWhich means I look
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