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Authors: Oscar Coop-Phane
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eye sockets. Yes, that’s it, the tears furrowed his flesh and turned it purple as they dried. A trace of dried sadness around his eyes. Something that won’t pass, always ready to spurt out for some unknown reason. That’s Robert’s little mystery. He has a secret, a scar he can’t show, even though it’s raw and always will be. That gaping wound will remain inside him as long as he lives. ‘Don’t shake me, I’m full of tears’, he might have said had he been a genius and a famous writer called Henri Calet.
What am I without other people? asks Robert. I mean, if there weren’t any other people, would I wash my hands after going to the toilet? No, definitely not, he wouldn’t wash his hands, he wouldn’t change his socks. He’d crawl on the ground like a little rat full of slime. As Sartre said, the other isthe indispensable mediator between myself and me. But Robert is no Calet, and he’s no Sartre either. No, I definitely wouldn’t wash my hands, I’d eat my bogies and fart in the street.
That’s pretty much how Robert suddenly came to realize that he needed others, all those other people around him. He decided to face the world, meet people, sign up for yoga classes. Suddenly, he aspired to a social life, to negotiations, to the hustle and bustle of the crowd. He pounded the pavement, he carried heavy banners with enthusiasm , he went shopping on Saturday afternoons on Boulevard Haussmann. He tried to chat up girls and find friends to play darts with. He bought a TV and burned his books. He became a blinkered activist and chased girls. He found a job and joined a trade union. He wore his jeans like everyone else, he played online poker.
Then he realized that he wasn’t made for that life, that he wasn’t made for them. He went back to his chair and his solitude. He had never felt so free as at that moment.
He has ten or so bonsais. He calls them dwarf trees. The sales assistant always corrects him, butit’s useless, for Robert they’ll always be dwarf trees. He’s not exactly wrong, it’s a good image.
He loves his dwarf trees. He’s put some in the bathroom, in his bedroom, and in the living room. He tends them, pruning the branches and watering them every day with a mineral-water spray. He bought them Japanese-style ceramic pots. The dwarf trees deserve them, they’re well behaved, they have leaves, they don’t grow. He’s given them names, but nobody knows that. Dwarfbus, L’il Dwarf, Branched Dwarf, Titch, Lilliput, Mimimati … they seem to like it.
In winter, he turns on the central heating to protect them. He plays them music. When the weather’s nice, in summer, he puts them out in the sun on his little balcony, but not for too long, it’s bad for the bark. He talks to them sometimes but he’s a bit embarrassed about it. So he goes out and tries to forget his dwarf trees, he mills around in the crowd for an afternoon.
When he goes home, he’s happy to see them. They’re so small! Their leaves so tiny!
At night, when he sleeps, he can hear them breathe. Surrounded by his miniature trees, he feels reassured. You could call it his little secret garden but that would be too corny. It’s his little secret garden and he’s proud of it. Ridiculous but sincere.
So he loves his little secret garden. He devotes his mornings to tending the tiny leaves and the tiny roots, naked under his dressing gown, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
At one point, Robert had wanted to start a novel. Set in the nineteenth century would be nice. Something along the lines of
Lady Chatterley
, a love story against a backdrop of social issues. In the mornings, he sat at the little kitchen table and thought about it. It kept him busy for hours. He had found his calling. He would be a writer. Cursed, of course, it wasn’t worth it otherwise. He’d drink black coffee and smoke his lungs away. Yes, that would be good, he’d have tousled hair and sport a cravat and cufflinks. He’d speak with a
What am I without other people? asks Robert. I mean, if there weren’t any other people, would I wash my hands after going to the toilet? No, definitely not, he wouldn’t wash his hands, he wouldn’t change his socks. He’d crawl on the ground like a little rat full of slime. As Sartre said, the other isthe indispensable mediator between myself and me. But Robert is no Calet, and he’s no Sartre either. No, I definitely wouldn’t wash my hands, I’d eat my bogies and fart in the street.
That’s pretty much how Robert suddenly came to realize that he needed others, all those other people around him. He decided to face the world, meet people, sign up for yoga classes. Suddenly, he aspired to a social life, to negotiations, to the hustle and bustle of the crowd. He pounded the pavement, he carried heavy banners with enthusiasm , he went shopping on Saturday afternoons on Boulevard Haussmann. He tried to chat up girls and find friends to play darts with. He bought a TV and burned his books. He became a blinkered activist and chased girls. He found a job and joined a trade union. He wore his jeans like everyone else, he played online poker.
Then he realized that he wasn’t made for that life, that he wasn’t made for them. He went back to his chair and his solitude. He had never felt so free as at that moment.
He has ten or so bonsais. He calls them dwarf trees. The sales assistant always corrects him, butit’s useless, for Robert they’ll always be dwarf trees. He’s not exactly wrong, it’s a good image.
He loves his dwarf trees. He’s put some in the bathroom, in his bedroom, and in the living room. He tends them, pruning the branches and watering them every day with a mineral-water spray. He bought them Japanese-style ceramic pots. The dwarf trees deserve them, they’re well behaved, they have leaves, they don’t grow. He’s given them names, but nobody knows that. Dwarfbus, L’il Dwarf, Branched Dwarf, Titch, Lilliput, Mimimati … they seem to like it.
In winter, he turns on the central heating to protect them. He plays them music. When the weather’s nice, in summer, he puts them out in the sun on his little balcony, but not for too long, it’s bad for the bark. He talks to them sometimes but he’s a bit embarrassed about it. So he goes out and tries to forget his dwarf trees, he mills around in the crowd for an afternoon.
When he goes home, he’s happy to see them. They’re so small! Their leaves so tiny!
At night, when he sleeps, he can hear them breathe. Surrounded by his miniature trees, he feels reassured. You could call it his little secret garden but that would be too corny. It’s his little secret garden and he’s proud of it. Ridiculous but sincere.
So he loves his little secret garden. He devotes his mornings to tending the tiny leaves and the tiny roots, naked under his dressing gown, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
At one point, Robert had wanted to start a novel. Set in the nineteenth century would be nice. Something along the lines of
Lady Chatterley
, a love story against a backdrop of social issues. In the mornings, he sat at the little kitchen table and thought about it. It kept him busy for hours. He had found his calling. He would be a writer. Cursed, of course, it wasn’t worth it otherwise. He’d drink black coffee and smoke his lungs away. Yes, that would be good, he’d have tousled hair and sport a cravat and cufflinks. He’d speak with a
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