Put yourself on your seat, look up, bother This icy sheet that wrinkles on your angel's forehead, Open your hands, and take this book: it's yours wrote Baudelaire in the first lines of To the one who stayed (#chezsoi) in France. Well, yes, put yourself on your seat and take this book, it's L'Ancre Noire by Tina Bartoli and in partnership with Rocambole, the app to read differently, we offer you every day at 5 p.m. discover an episode.
Summary of the previous episode: Still between two planes, Clémence is a highly requested and exhausted consultant, who only her faithful assistant Josette can resist. But the young woman has a dream: to become a writer. One day the publishing house L'Ancre Noire is launching a literary contest whose winner would win three weeks of coaching by the great author Jean De Saint Geores, in total immersion in his private house located somewhere in the Vosges, with a view to the edition of a first novel. Clemence candidate. Shortly after, L'Ancre noire called him.
EPISODE 2 - The breath in the phone
Stunned, I fled and locked myself in my office, leaving Josette speechless and vaguely worried. I needed to be alone to welcome this unlikely, incredible news. Could it be that my text written in the feverish urgency of a sleepless night was noticed by one of the greatest authors of his generation? With my throat tight, I let tears run down my cheeks. Were they weeping for joy or frustration at having lost so much time for not believing in me? But I quickly recovered: after all, I didn't even know what Jean De Saint Geores had to say to me. I had to find out, and I started feverishly searching the internet for the phone number of the publishing house.
Waiting music greeted me; I recognized Sibelius' sad waltz. My professional instinct flickered: a serious mistake in receiving a public on a tearful note as beautiful as it is.
I was interrupted in my analysis by the soft and measured voice of the operator. "One moment please" she declared to me in a neutral tone when I introduced myself. With a beating heart, my wait resumed on the dramatico-romantic air of Sibelius.
Then the melody fell silent. " Hello? Hello ? I said reflexively. Finally, a voice, or rather a breath, came to me. His tone was so deep that it seemed to emerge from the abyssal depths. It was Monsieur De Saint Geores who announced me in a monotone tone and tired that my text was chosen by L'Ancre Noire. No spirit, no joy pierced in his intonations, enough to give goosebumps. I had imagined this moment so many times, since that cold dawn to which I had sent, filled with doubt, my creation. And this morning of victory looked more like the announcement of a funeral. What frustration!
Without being moved by my stunned silence, the disembodied voice continued, slow, sinuous. This is how I learned that my coaching would start the following week in a property nestled in the heart of the Vosges. When finally, finding the use of speech, I dared to protest that my agenda would not allow me to free myself so quickly, I heard myself answer in the same melancholy tone:
- Do you know Madam, that the winner of this competition ensures the chance of being published? I don't think I've ever heard of you in the literary world. Do you think you can afford to be choosy? Your talent has certainly been noticed through the text that you have taken the trouble to send us, but know that dozens of other candidates, just as interesting as your few words, will be delighted to take your place. You are not in a position to negotiate. Also, take it or leave it. What do you choose?
Dumbfounded, I was speechless. I hovered between the annoyance of being so roughly treated, the desire to send a stroll around this little boy so imbued with his little power and the feeling that at last my destiny was on the move, that giving it up would plunge me into eternal regret.
- I wait, impatient the dreary stamp.
Then, in a puff of revengeful pride, I replied with balance:
- I take.
- Very well, resumed the voice without emotion, you will receive in 48 hours a message containing the logistic modalities.
And the communication was cut off.
I remained for a moment without reaction, the telephone handset still in my ear, the throbbing “beep…. beep…. beep…. Echoing in my head like so many slaps. I was upset like a little girl who has just been greedy in front of everyone. For a moment, the urge to call back to announce my resignation with a roar crossed my mind.
But finally I got up like an automaton, opened the door of my office mechanically and, in a tone as monotonous as the voice that had just announced my victory, I asked Josette to cancel all my services over the three weeks to come up.
Grabbing my coat, I vaguely heard her indignant cries of protest. I slammed the door.
The man hadn't lied. 48 hours precise after our telephone conversation, I received a train ticket with a few laconic words:
“Otaville station, 8:18 am Monday March 8. Octave will be waiting for you. JDSG ".
I prepared my few things as we pack for the prison. At every moment my inner voice enjoined me to give up, but his cries of alarm were telescoped with the images of my shows in front of my audience electrified by the warlike speech that had made my reputation. I was aware of having arrived at a crossroads, that one day, already so close, it would be too late to try to realize my dream, to rewrite my destiny. Life is just a ride.
To keep me busy during the 2.5 hour journey, I had taken the last work of Jean De Saint Geores. After his very first opus, the one that made him known by becoming an international bestseller, it was from my point of view his best book. He had succeeded in the feat of making the rehearsal of an endlessly repeated day fascinating. A sort of breathless and relentless loop that forced his characters with a tormented psychology to relentlessly reinvent himself. The message delivered in the form of a repeated sentence was clear: the life of Man is only an eternal beginning. Yet the finale was masterful and left the reader speechless.
Plunged into the reiteration of this day, out of the imagination of this mysterious man with whom I had an appointment, it was hardly if I heard the disembodied voice of the SNCF announcing the arrival at Otaville station . Glancing out the window I saw that the sky was daubed with dark and sad clouds. The rain was not far away. A few minutes later, I found myself alone on the platform of a country station in the middle of the forest. I watched the train set off again for a moment in a concert of junk squeaks.
Then there was silence. An icy breeze came to play with my hair and suddenly I perceived the whisper of the wind in the needles of the big dark spruces, austere overseers of the little station which seemed abandoned. Far from being frightened by this dismal atmosphere, I surprised myself to be happy. I drank this calm at the top of my lungs. I had the impression of being reborn, finally far from the urban bustle and its fake concerns. And, although the prospects of my presence here were not the most joyful, for the first time since the call from Mr. De Saint Geores, I was convinced that I had made the right choice.
A footstep came out of my thoughts. I then distinguished a tall man, dressed in a dark suit, approaching slowly. He was holding in his hand a small sign with my name written on it, like the taxi drivers waiting for their client in the midst of the restless crowd of airports. This slightly ridiculous detail, since there were only two of us on this quay in the middle of nowhere, amused me.
When finally I could meet his gaze, I realized that it was empty. Her mouth made a strange turn on her chin, as if she was pulled down by invisible elastic bands. When he finally opened it, there came out a kind of growl in which I seemed to distinguish three syllables: "Oc-ta-ve".
A little less valiant, I followed him anyway until the vehicle waiting for us at the exit of the small building. It was a big black sedan with tinted windows. I found it difficult to collect my ideas as the situation seemed strange to me. But what to do ? Flee all alone in the middle of the dark forest? Thank Octave and catch the hypothetical train passing by? As I hesitated, in the grip of growing concern, I felt that my hand was released from the handle of my suitcase. I pulled back. Octave's improbable mouth twisted into a grin that must have been a smile and he managed to articulate a “Please, madam”, pushing me gently in the back seat of the car. The door closed on me and, before I reacted, he was sitting behind the wheel. He screwed a ridiculous driver's cap on his scalp, looked at himself in the rearview mirror for a moment as if to judge the effect, then pointing his hollow gaze in my direction, he stammered:
- Don't worry Madam, I'm a very good driver.
Taken aback, I nodded mechanically; this man made my back cold. He started.
Indeed, Octave drove carefully: the speedometer did not exceed 30 km / h. That said, the winding road we took was devoid of any obstacle: not once did we meet a car. My driver was very focused, with both hands firmly secured at the wheel in the driving school position: 9:15 am I no longer heard a sound coming from his capricious mouth.
We finally walked along a high stone wall surmounted by strange wrought iron arabesques. The vehicle stopped in front of an immense portal taking up the curious scrolls which decorated the enclosure. Octave laboriously left the cabin and I saw him enter a complicated code on a keyboard embedded in the wall. The doors of the gate opened with a plaintive creak. We entered the property and my heart sank when, turning my head, I saw the steel jaws slowly closing behind us. We took a gravel path running in the middle of a very green lawn, perfectly maintained. In the distance I first saw a stretch of emerald water: it was a lake. Then I discovered a pretty little mansion in gray stones, with a tarabiscotée roof. The building had in its center a horseshoe staircase which opened onto a terrace overlooking the lake. On the porch, the master of the house was waiting for me.
(…)
Check out the next episode right here on March 26 at 5 p.m. or on the Rocambole app for iOS or Android.
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