In partnership with Rocambole, the app for reading differently, we are offering a new episode of Tina Bartoli's literary soap L'Ancre Noire every day at 5 p.m.
Summary of previous episodes: Clémence, consultant overwhelmed by her success, dreams of becoming a writer. She won a three-week coaching session with Jean De Saint Geores, an author whom she admires. He welcomed him to his property in the Vosges, the former home of the ruined colonial merchant of the 18th century. The atmosphere is heavy in the house, the coach imposing on the young woman a frantic pace.
Venturing into an unexplored wing of the boat, Clémence came across four 18th century anchors, one of which particularly disturbed her, that of L'Espérance. The young woman indeed knows very well the history of this boat, since her former companion Abel, professor of history had reconstituted this frigate with a group of pupils. Together they planned to recreate the route of this ship converted at the end of the 18th century in the slave trade, and disappeared during a storm in the Caribbean, swallowing up a treasure that Abel had the ambition to find. But the professor had never returned and Clémence had since had “L'Espérance” tattooed on his shoulder blade. Discovering her secret, De Saint Geores sequesters her in a cellar and the sum of finishing the book she writes, otherwise she will disappear without a trace… Clémence obtains permission to take a walk in the park, but Octave, the son from his executioner, takes out a leash ...
EPISODE 9 - The reeds of the lake
Tears came to me:
- But Octave, you can't walk someone on a leash, I'm not a dog!
- I know, but dad said it…
I cut him in a cry:
- But don't you see that your father is crazy? Go outside ! Get out of here !
And I pushed him bluntly toward the door, slamming it behind him. I rushed into the bathroom to retrieve the nail clipper and began to start my escape work. I was interrupted by repeated heavy knocks on the door. Then a deafening noise was heard; sharp and sizzling, I recognized the spitting flow of a megaphone:
- You don't sleep until you have written the next chapter. I repeat: you do not sleep until you have written the next chapter. In a deluge of decibels, I recognized the cruel laughter of De Saint Geores.
- I'll be there in five hours, picking up the first draft. I repeat: I will pass in five hours to recover the first jet!…. is that understood?… ..Completed.
One last knock on the door, then silence.
When De saint Geores passed a few hours later, as he had promised, he found me asleep, collapsed on the computer keyboard. I only produced a few paragraphs. My jailer then entered a black and devastating anger, which I looked at with the indifference of the condemned. He could yell, storm, tear the curtains, I was in such a state of fatigue that this outburst of energy left me frozen. However, when he knocked over the desk, sending his computer waltzing, the screen crashed, I couldn't help but chuckle:
- It's stupid, I can't work anymore!
He rushed towards me and the last thing I remembered was a shower of blows.
I was awakened by caresses. Big clumsy caresses on my forehead. Opening my eyes, I discovered Octave's ravaged face. Her mouth seemed dead, she hung to the side, leaving a gaping hole in the pink flesh, moistened with the saliva of her hanging lip. I jumped up. As if to justify himself, he says:
- I came to take the computer, we're going to fix it, don't worry. I'll get the other one and come back, okay?
And he left. He had placed on the ground, near the overturned desk, a small tray with tea, cookies and a few field flowers. I dragged myself around and greedily nibbled on a few crumbs. Sitting on the floor, as I contemplated the extent of the damage, my attention was drawn to a smashed drawer that I had never noticed before. Approaching, I found there a few sheets of yellowed paper. The text had been typed. While leafing through the few pages, I came across annotations in the margin; I recognized the writing of De Saint Geores. The last page contained a small handwritten text from his hand:
"It is my love, continue. And don't forget to put in chapter eight the episode with the grandmother who hides the letter, otherwise you will have problems afterwards. I eagerly await follow-up "
At this moment Octave entered. Quickly, I hid the paper behind my back and he didn't notice anything. He was loaded with a typewriter, which he placed on the floor before straightening the desk. He ceremoniously placed the ancient object and turned to me:
- It's mom's.
- Was your mom a writer?
- I dunno.
- What was she hitting on this machine?
- Same as you.
- She also worked with your dad?
- Yes, just like you.
- And what did your mom die from?
- I don't like your questions, mom.
- Okay, I'll stop, but just one last, okay?
- Okay.
- Who is Pondichery 1769?
At this mention, Octave changed his face. His tortured face tightened as long as it eventually became a heap of annoyed wrinkles. As I had already seen him do in a difficult situation, he began to swing from one foot to the other, wringing his hands. His head began to tremble nervously and, in an unbroken mechanical flow, his eyes rolled back, he began to repeat in a loop:
- Mum. Pondichery. Virgin of Grace. Alcyon. Eternal.
Then he added, screaming:
- Hope!
Before resuming:
- Mum. Pondichery. Virgin of Grace. Alcyon. Eternal. Hope!….
Worried, as much by Octave's condition as by the possibility that his cries would alert De Saint Geores, I rushed towards him. I took his hand, caressed his face, whispered comforting words in a soft voice to calm him down. Little by little, his speech rate slowed down, the volume of his voice dropped until it stopped. He collapsed in my arms, shook big sobs like a child, and stammered a new loop:
- I don't want you to become a lake reed mom, I don't want you to become a lake reed mom, I don't want, I don't want the reeds in the lake, the reeds in the lake….
I resumed my reassuring speech, cradling him gently. Then, when he was calmer, I whispered:
- Ok Octave, I'm not going to become a reed by the lake, but for that you have to help me get out of here.
He shook his head in assent,
- You too, you should leave this place, your dad is not a good dad for you Octave.
At these words, he fled, awkwardly wiping his eyes with a lot of sniffles.
Night was falling. I heard the wind blow, the branches of the spruce caress the roof, like a call to escape. Exhausted, I had great difficulty in taking stock of the situation but I felt the danger lurking. He was crouched there in the fog, silent, patient, ready to pounce to skin me. A whiff of anxiety gripped my chest. I needed a shower, quickly, to heal my wounds, regain my senses and find a solution. Do the troubles slip on the skin and disappear in the hot water vapors?
While I was undressing in the bathroom, I heard a hiss, like a flutter of wings. Attentive, I listened, but the silence filled the whole room. I risked a glance in the room; apart from the roaring wind outside, everything seemed calm. But as I was about to step over the tub, the whispering resumed. Turning my head, I saw two black squares on the floor near the sink. I rushed but when I grabbed the first one, my blood froze: it was a polaroid. The image was not of very good quality, but there was clearly a young woman, the swollen face, the terrorized look. She posed next to a black anchor on which I read: "Virgin of Grace 1772". The second polaroid was of the same ilk, but it was a very young man, his face covered with blood, his anchor indicated "Alcyon 1774". Something brushed my ear; it was a new photo. You could clearly make out a mature woman screaming in terror while clinging to the reeds on the shores of the lake. His foot was caught in a chain that ran to anchor: "La Sempiternelle 1782". Finally the fourth and last image fell.
It was "Pondichery 1769".
(…)
Check out the next episode right here on April 2 at 5 p.m. or on the Rocambole app for iOS or Android.
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