Posts Tagged ‘fiction’


The spring in your steps

4 novembre 2010

Sometime, you think you've reached the end. The end of the road, the end of your will. You don't understand how you go on but you do, because there is no other way, because you won't know of different paths than your own. Because the unthinkable does not exist in your world and values, and so there it is, there is no solution but to walk forward in the darkness.

After all, it is your own road on which you walk through life, or rather, you belong to it, you've lost yourself in its hills, somewhere along the way, bend after bend, obstacle after another, you've shed bits of yourself and can't remember being something else than what you are today. There's been happy moments, shiny memories filled with carefree joy and light, and maybe that's where your energy comes from nowadays.

Most days you feel grey and unseen and unimportant. You're the tallest girl I know, and also the thinnest, yet you feel petite and obese. You're trapped in your life, you're trapped in your body, in your unfulfilling job, in the unseen pain of the everyday details and futilities. 

Every detail is so important and failed. 

You feel invisible, like, no one sees you, no one really needs you even though you're indispensable and so demanded upon that you never seem to have time for yourself. You manage a team of eight in a marketing firm and you can't remember having time on your own, just you and the silence and the wind in the leafs. You'd walk down the river and lie on the grass under an old tree, and you'd watch the sky and the sun through the branches, and you'd listen and be heard. 

How horrifying… To be alone with yourself once more and face the truth of what you think you've become. You've put the bar so high for yourself that you're bound to fail.

Sometime though, you forget that you hate your life and yourself and the choices you've made. You had reasons for them, they were probably sound ones but now that you look back everything seems wrong. Yes, somedays you let go of what you think you should be, your soul takes a break and puts its personal cross aside. For a while your body relaxes, your face becomes appeased and the shadow of a smile that I've sadly become used to gives light to a true laugh. You tilt your head gracefully, (unbeknownst to yourself you are a truly graceful and beautiful person…), your eyes look upon the world with happiness for a short while. It is not easy for you, to be happy, to be carefree.

I see you. From afar I close my eyes and I see your chestnut hair, your grey eyes that always reminded me of a painting of the ocean. There are storms and stories behind your eyes, unspoken tales that even I don't know.

You could never be invisible to me, I could never not need you in my life. And I could never ask anything of you other than what you would want to give me. It's like that. We met in the crib, our mothers had the same nanny, we went to the same schools, the same library and bell-ringing club, we fought over opinions and candy and sometimes dated the same boys. We helped each other with acne cream, college choices, husband decisions and anti-wrinkle cream shopping. You're my kin. I saw you grow up and make choices, I gave you my opinion and sometimes we fought and I gave up, but even I can't quite say when the corners of your mouth took a sad turn.

Strangely enough, I've seen a new spring in your step lately. Something that looks a lot like hope and will. The determination to be who you are and nothing else, as if you were in your car and turned left instead of going on the same old boring road. Your path seems rockier and harder, and yet new and exciting and scary and perhaps fulfilling. 

I think it's called being yourself again. 

You could never be careless but you seem carefree, or at least carefully free… I can't put my finger on it, and it doesn't matter. I think I can trust you to make your own path, I'll worry for sure, I'll wake you up in the middle of the night and ask you silly questions, and, well, maybe next Saturday we could go to the pub and get drunk like old times, and you'll tell me the story behind this new smile haunting your lips.



5 octobre 2010



Tu restes devant ta fenêtre, les doigts croisés. Devant toi, la mer s’écrase impitoyable de bleu et de gris, l’écume s’élance contre les rudes rochers que le temps n’aura pas réussi à éroder.


Ta chambre est fonctionnelle. Tu ne demandes pas plus. Contrairement à tant de personnes, la couleur des murs ne t’influence pas et t’importe peu. 


Dehors, il fait froid. Un crachin gris et persistant tombe sur la terre depuis deux jours. Depuis deux jours, tu évites les sorties au maximum et tu restes avec toi-même. La solitude ne te fait par peur. Tu as bien un smartphone qui pourrait te permettre de garder le contact avec le monde extérieur, mais par choix, délibérément, tu le gardes éteint. Tout va bien, vraiment.


Est-ce l’âge, est-ce la thérapie qui fait enfin l’effet attendu? Tu te beignes de silence et d’absence. Ton silence ne sera jamais immaculé, ils sont si peu, ceux qui connaissent la nature des sifflets vrombissants qui vrillent tes tympans depuis tes 25 ans. Ceux pour qui le terme d’acouphène n’est pas une simple notion académique, ceux qui savent à quel point le plus profond de la nuit torture tes oreilles et ton sommeil, ceux qui comprennent ton besoin et ton intolérance au  bruit. A quel point certains bruits couvrent ta torture quotidienne, et quand justement ton supplice est exacerbée par les décibels. C’est un équilibre fragile, c’est un balancement précaire entre soulagement et souffrance.


Ici, tu es bien. 


Ici, on te laisse être. Parfois, tu te dis que cela pourrait être bien, de rencontrer quelqu’un. Quelqu’un qui comblerait ton existence muette, quelqu’un qui accepterait que son bavardage quotidien ne rencontre que des regards amoureux dénudés de mots. Quelqu’un qui n’attende pas de toi un déluge de parole et de sentiments. Une femme qui se contenterait de sa propre compagnie et qui se réjouirait des nuits sans solitude, dans la chaleur de ton corps et de tes mains caressantes. 


Ta femme était un peu comme cela. Elle t’aimait tel que tu étais, dans tes silences et ta différence, dans tes ardeurs masculines qui lui laissaient toutefois la liberté de choisir la couleur du papier peint. Ta femme n’est plus là, tu lui rends souvent visite dans le cimetière nouveau, tu lui apporte des fleurs et tu restes planté devant sa tombe, silencieux. Silencieux alors que ton âme lui envoie des billets enflammés et empreints de regrets. Silencieux parce que le chemin entre tes pensées et les mots que tes lèvres pourraient prononcer est trop difficile et inaccessible. 


Ici la tempête fait rage. Tu la regardes par la fenêtre, en sécurité. Tu entends à peine les hurlements du vents, le vacarme assourdissant de la nature qui rejoint l’orage tourbillonnant sous ton crâne. Le désordre du dehors rejoint tes fracas intérieurs, et finalement, malgré tout, tout est bien. 


Tu survivras.


scrumptious Jack is coming soon

30 septembre 2010

Announcement – Father Jack is currently at the Sherlock Holmes. Due to a chain of soon to be revealed events, he is stuck under a table, his hand not too far from Father John’s face. Kofi, owner of the town’s best curry and Buddist leader is sitting on the floor, his legs crossed and laughing his head off.

Andrew the pub owner is not happy…

The town’s gossip will get back to you as soon as possible on this matter. Thank you for your patience.


Andrew James

12 septembre 2010



Ophelia Bernicle didn’t always have fat fingers. She used to be simply Ophelia Clark, a blithe young thing filled with beauty and nonsense, and Andrew James was deeply in love with her. Their last names had brought them together in their first years of school, fancy that, theirs could have been first names, how silly was that… 

They grew from carefree children to careless teenagers, and then light headed young adults. Life was easy and in front of them, they owned it, they had yet no regrets nor ghosts crossing their paths as they looked back on their short existence.

She already had a heavy hand on peroxide regarding her hair and a taste for flashy jewelry, but she was beautiful and spirited and she could get away with it. Andrew loved everything about her, and that was that.  

He had it all planned out in his head, and one day he even had the courage to talk to her about it. About owning a pub and spending a life together. Ophelia wasn’t against the former, but the pub was a deal-breaker. Come on love, a pub, really? We’d have no life, we’d be tied every lunch and dinner and night. She tried to persuade him otherwise but Andrew had set out this path for himself and he was as pig headed as she was… 

They tried to reach out to one another for several months to no avail, and then Thomas Bernicle intruded in their lives. From the moment he set his eyes on Ophelia Clark, she wasn’t Andrew’s anymore. Thomas was unreliable and exiting and handsome and the last one leaving the pub after the call for the last drink rang. He would never look at anyone exactly in the eyes and Andrew found that unsettling. He knew he was wrong for Ophelia, but after all these days of yelling and pulling weight and being angry with one another, Andrew had given up. He didn’t put up a fight, he let Ophelia go and pretended he didn’t care anymore.

Within days, twenty year old Ophelia was out of Andrew’s life. She was soon married and pregnant with little Tom. It wouldn’t be until Melissa, her second born, and Andrew’s son Matt went to school together that they would see each other again. Life and Thomas Bernicle had taken away her joy and laughter. She had become heavy and sad, with a bitter mouth and suspicious marks on her arms that she tried to conceal with tired lifeless clothes.

Happiness doesn’t always find you, you have to make your own happiness. Andrew  firmly believed that. So Ophelia was gone. So he was left on the curb. It didn’t mean he didn’t have the right to go on and build a different kind of life for himself. And Rose and himself were very happy. She worked as an accountant in a small firm downtown, and took care of Andrew’s paperwork after he was granted both his business and his liquor license. 

He opened his own pub, like he’d set out to do. They called it the Sherlock Holmes in homage to Rose’s passion with the stories. She was good with the customers and the staff, and once nature granted them their wish, she was a very loving mother to their two children, Matt and Violet. 

Rose was a petite yet strong woman, with a very white creamy skin, dark hair and navy blue eyes. How quickly pneumonia had snatched her seven years ago and left Andrew a widower took everyone by surprise. Matt was twenty-three and Violet twenty. Both helped their father with the aftermath with sadness yet efficiency. Rose had taught them well. Yes, it was sad, but life would go on and time would soothe their pain.

It was ironic how both Andrew and Ophelia had became widowers. Though Thomas Bernicle’s death had happened much earlier in their lives and had left Andrew with a sour guilty taste in his mouth… If he hadn’t been so strict on his car key policy towards drinkers, Thomas wouldn’t have walked home… And yet, who knows, had he taken the wheel, someone else might have ended up dead in the gutter like he did. Thomas Bernicle seldom came into Andrew’s pub, probably because of Andrew’s stern management of drunks and fools. Andrew suspected he’d been thrown out of a couple pubs before trying his luck at the Sherlock Holmes. He had let him in that night, had taken his car keys in exchange for a pint, and then had sent him away for his last walk home before a car hit him and left him for dead, his head and feet in the gutter.

Little Tom Bernicle was an agitated thirteen year old when the tragedy occurred, and Melissa was but eight… She was a quiet reserved girl that one… Not anything like her parents, whereas Tom seemed set on following his father’s foot paths. 

When Melissa was eighteen, she applied for a job as a waitress at the Sherlock Holmes with a timid yet determined voice. She was capable and discreet and Andrew was soon glad he’d hired her. He never told her the confrontation he’d had with her brother Tom, though he suspected she knew. The useless Tom Bernicle had dared walk into his pub one morning and ask for half of Melissa’s wages. « It’s for our mother, Ophelia, I think you know her… Mel’s to give her half her earnings to keep us going, it’s only fair that she pays her share now that she’ old enough to work, right mate…« . 

Andrew had replied very coldly that he would come for tea at Ophelia’s and discuss the matter with her. Tom wasn’t all too happy about it. He’d raised his voice and tried to throw a punch. He was obviously inebriated early in the day, and it didn’t take much to throw him out. 

Later on that very day, Andrew knocked on Ophelia’s door. She was surprised to see him, she said, but why don’t he come in. They drank tea and he didn’t stay long as Rose wouldn’t appreciate the gossip that would inevitably occur. He didn’t need to stay long anyhow to reach an understanding. « It would be nice to see more of you at the Sherlock Holmes, » he said, « you could perhaps come in every Thursday and have a glass of sherry, and if by any chance Melissa has decided to contribute to the expenses in your household, I could give you what’s to be yours then. It would be handled discreetly between friends, would it not? »

And thus Ophelia came into the habit of coming on Thursday nights for a while. The pub was lively though not too crowded and she would often meet old friends and chat with them. The sad lines under her eyes became somewhat lighter weeks after weeks, and she continued to come in after Rose’s death, and after Melissa was long gone to London. 

Andrew was glad. Sometimes, though not all that often, Ophelia would laugh or tilt her head in a way that reminded Andrew that they’d been young fools once. But it was such a long time away… Too long away…


Mrs Bernicle

10 août 2010



Mrs Benicle sat on her stool moodily  while staring at her glass of sherry. Andrew, the pub owner had been quite charming when serving her, yet she always felt uncomfortable under his frank, direct, piercing eyes. As if he could see things in her, the very things she so meticulously hid that even she had forgotten all about them. 

Melissa was late again. Five minutes, but still. Her daughter was so unreliable, so carefree and happy. It wasn’t normal. She was probably going to burst in, all charming and lively, smelling like fresh Ivy and with a funny anecdote to share. It was so annoying, the way she always became the centre of attention…

Mrs Bernicle checked her sad blond hair with her fat little fingers, putting everything properly back in place in her bun with small pins. Each finger on her hand adorned a ring with big semi-precious stones. They were heavy flashy rings, and she liked the statement she made while waving her hand.

– And what statement would that me Mum, had laughed Melissa one day.

Yes, her daughter was so different from her, and from her precious son. Tom. Tom was only two years older than Melissa, but he was definitely made from another kind of wood, or timber, whatever the expression was. Tom was so talented, yet he had been as unlucky in love as he’s been with his jobs. Girlfriends would never stay  long and employers just didn’t understand how Tom was different from others. More sensitive, with an artistic soul… The first few weeks always went well. Tom would come home enthusiastic.

– Mum, it’s the best job ever, he would say.

Mrs Bernicle’s heart would swell in pride. 

– Maybe he can move out then, she would think, somewhat hopeful. 

Even in his own flat, Tom would always need her. There would be the everyday details to oversee. Maybe he would settle down, have a proper girlfriend. They would sit for tea on Sunday afternoons, everything would be so lovely… But after these first few weeks, Tom would come home looking sombre and preoccupied. Problems would differ from one job to the other. Once it had been a jealous co-worker, then a new unforgiving boss, or Tom had had the flue, there would always be something… Until the one evening when she would sit in her kitchen, waiting for her son to come home drunk and angry.

– I’ve been given the sack again Mum!

Mrs Bernicle would be brave and loving then. She would pat Tom’s arm, assuring him that he was her wonderful boy, that things would work out. Next time… She would brush aside the bitter sadness in her fat little heart, her son should come first, and he needed her.

That’s what was wrong with Melissa : Mrs Bernicle’s daughter didn’t need her. Early on in school, she was one of the brightest student, always top of her class, and with ambitions. She did her homework eagerly and sat for hours in front of the kitchen table, learning her tables and lessons. She did so well with her A-Levels, the church’s educational fund committee had been impressed and had granted her a scholarship so that she could go on to Uni. And she had, the ungrateful thing! She’s left her mother and brother, she’d gone to the other side of the country to pursue her studies. Mrs Bernicle never bothered to ask her what it was that she was learning. Today, Melissa worked for a big American firm in London, probably doing important things and earning loads. She came back now and then, but never stayed home. 

– I don’t want to be a burden Mum, and besides, staying in a B&B is so much fun.

Fun. Melissa had fun. She was independent and pretty and successful, and she had fun. She didn’t have a drunk for a husband, who would eventually die in a gutter, thrown by a car in the dead of the night. She didn’t have to worry about her jobless son who moped home all day and asked for pub money in the evening. Melissa had it easy, didn’t she. 

Where was she, anyway? She was ten minutes late now. She was probably busy taking her time parking her car, or having a lively chat with some blokes. 

Mrs Bernicle took a sip of sherry. Better drink it now, Melissa was sure bound to laugh when she arrived :

– You always drink pink Mum, c’mon, let’s have a proper pint, and why sit at the bar? There’s a nice corner over there, we can sit on the couch and chat. We have so much catching up to do. 

What’s a mother to do? Mrs Bernicle will probably begrudgingly oblige and have a Hoegaarden. After all, what’s the point in fighting, better be polite. Besides, Melissa always buys the drinks… After a pint of two, she will probably laugh at Melissa’s jokes and even be chatty with Andrew the pub owner. Yes, maybe it will be fun after all, to have a carefree evening with her daughter. To forget her worries and her burdens, just for one night…

Fifteen minutes now… And there she is, all dressed up for her mother. Ah, my daughter, she is a pretty thing, isn’t she?



17 juillet 2010

Vous avez les pieds campés dans l’eau, les mains tendues à plat sur le sable mouillé. Vos yeux gris vigilants scrutent les rochers et les lignes parallèles de coquillages ramenés par la marée.

Nous nous croisons parfois dans une amicale compétition. Au fil des ans, nos mains ont cherchés les mêmes grains de café sur la plage. Cernées par les bigorneaux, couteaux, ongles ou encore coques et moules, nous recherchons l’invisible, un coquillage si petit et discret que nous revenons souvent bredouille. Consciente de leur rareté, nous ne prenons que les coquilles vides. En général, les promeneurs sélectionnent des espèces plus classiques et plus voyantes. Notre plage est connue pour la blancheur de certains spécimen qui font si jolis dans une assiette décorative, lors des pots de retours de vacances…

Nous sommes peu à rechercher ce coquillage, ou encore à savoir que, sur des kilomètres et des kilomètres de côte, il n’y a qu’ici qu’il se trouve. De ce fait, nous nous reconnaissons à notre posture particulière, solitaire et observatrice. Nous nous croisons, nous discutons quelques instants, puis nous repartons ausculter notre parcelle de sable, les pieds dans l’eau, le dos à la mer, aveugles et sourdes à l’agitation estivale qui nous entoure… Nous n’avons rien contre le beau temps, mais lorsqu’il fait gris, c’est mieux. C’est plus calme et le sable brûle moins les yeux. 


Je vous vois de loin. Vous êtes toujours habillée de noir, vos cheveux mi-long blonds platine s’échappant d’un bandeau et oscillant au grès du vent ramenant les vagues sur la plage. Votre fils a l’âge du mien, ils jouent dans les rochers tandis que nous nous courbons vers le sol. Au fil des rencontres, j’ai appris de vous ce que vous avez bien voulu me livrer. Vous me parlez de votre travail près de Rungis. Vous passez votre journée à planifier d’autres journées, celles de « vos hommes » sur la route. Ils sont une trentaine à dépendre de vous pour leurs itinéraires, leurs chargement aller et retour, leurs jours de repos. Lors des vacances, ils viennent vous voir penauds lorsque leurs datent ne correspondent pas à celles de leurs épouses. Vous écoutez, vous notez, vous trouvez une solution, en décalant « ci » et en s’arrangeant avec « là »… Vous êtes douce et menue, mais les nouveaux ne s’y trompent que peu de temps. En vous réside une force tranquille aussi rassurante qu’attirante, mais attention, pas question de vous manquer de respect… les rares qui s’y sont frottés ont été reçus, par vous puis par « vos hommes » ensuite. 

– Et quand ça ne suffit pas, le patron s’en mêle, et dehors!

Vous trouvez vos corps chauds ailleurs. Vos routiers, ce sont vos gosses, vos frères, pas de ça au boulot… Et il y en a eu, des corps chauds, au fils des ans où dormir seule vous était insupportable. Ensuite… la vie, le père de votre fils. Un corps stable jusqu’à ce qu’il ne le soit plus. 

– Il s’est tiré au moment où je voulais le mettre dehors, ça tombait plutôt bien. Il me prend mon loupiot un week-end sur deux et une partie des vacances.

Depuis, vous avez vidé votre lit. Hormis quelques visiteurs lorsque le petit n’est pas là, vous dormez seule, enroulée dans vos draps, et collée à un oreiller, parce qu’au fil du temps, vous avez oublié ce que c’était que de réchauffer votre lit toute seule. Mais finalement, cette solitude est plutôt bienvenue, vous vous concentrez sur votre petit homme. Vous venez fidèlement au camping à côté à Pâques et en juillet. C’est pratique pour venir sur cette plage. Vous avez peu de besoin… le petit y passe la journée à combattre les vagues et explorer les rochers, et vous, vous alternez entre votre quête de l’invisible coquillage et votre contemplation de l’eau mouvante et bruyante que vous aimez tant. Assise en haut d’un bloc de granit usé par les tempêtes, vous gardez un oeil sur votre enfant et un autre sur l’étendue bleue et immense, et tout est bien. 


Flore – Coquine Canicule 4

2 juillet 2010

Flore laisse la musique dévaler les escaliers. Elle est étendue sur le carrelage, bras et jambes écartés et à la recherche de la moindre parcelle de fraîcheur. Le son du piano éclate à travers la maison, d'abords grave et timide puis augmentant en présence et en gammes d'octaves au fils des minutes. Les notes cavalent, se heurtent à en devenir discordante, se cherchent puis s'apaisent. Elles sortent de l'ordinateur et se cognent au mur, longent le couloir blanc en glissant contre le parquet, sautillent autour d'elle, creusent son oreille puis s'envolent au plafond.

Flore imagine quatre mains sur deux claviers. Elle sait lire la musique sans pouvoir la jouer, ses mains ont poussé trop vite, à dix ans elle est toute en longueur sans savoir exactement ou commence et ou termine son corps. Cela change tous les jours… Elle se penchera sur la question lorsqu'elle aura fini de grandir. 

Enfant précoce, enfant différente, Flore a appris à lire toutes les clés possibles sur une partition "juste pour savoir". La musique est un langage qui la fascine, un univers à part reflétant ses humeurs, ses envies et angoisses. Flore a deux grands yeux noirs profonds et interrogateurs, une peau trop blanche décorée de quelques grains de beauté et une masse de cheveux sombres et brillants, lourds et souvent emmêlé.

Ses cheveux sont un désagrément qu'elle aimerait couper. Ses cheveux font la fierté de sa mère. 

Le carrelage est constitué de grands carreaux gris foncés. Quoique son corps y repose, l'esprit de Flore vagabonde ailleurs, dehors. Il ouvre la porte et s'aventure dans le jardin desséché, remarque les parterres jaunis et en voie de désertification.  Flore rêve les yeux ouverts que son esprit s'élève au-dessus des maisons et se promène dans la résidence. Elle voyage souvent ainsi, le corps immobile, voguant au gré de la musique et de ce qu'elle imagine, de ce qu'elle a observé autour d'elle que les autres ne voient pas. Elle sait que depuis une semaine, le fils Doumont et la fille Arriège se voient tous les jours. Il frappe discrètement, elle lui ouvre rapidement et ils disparaissent pendant des heures. Elle imagine Adèle Vaugnard allant de maison en maison avec son arrosoir dans une course illogique contre la chaleur accablante asséchant l'air et transformant les pelouses en terre poussiéreuse. Flore sait aussi que le périple quotidien d'Adèle Vaugnard se termine chez Paul Vignaud, que la mercière au fond de la rue va ramasser en cachette les prunes "précoces" de son voisin, et que les trois adolescents du bout de la rue se cachent dans le garage pour boire du coca en fumant du tabac roulé acheté au buraliste du centre, un homme aussi jovial que corpulent et complaisant.

Flore regarde le plafond blanc que ses parents ont repeint il y a déjà cinq ans. Ils ont fait du feu chaque hiver depuis et les coins des murs commencent à noircir. Elle est là et ailleurs, tout en gardant un secret tout au fond d'elle. Ce n'est pas un secret très grave, ce n'est pas un secret qui lui appartient. Ce matin, Paul Vignaud a timidement frappé à sa porte. Elle aime bien son voisin d'en face qui joue volontiers aux échec avec elle, "mais dans le jardin, de façon à être vus des autres voisins, d'ici à ce qu'ils se fassent des idées…". Paul Vignaud ne se positionne pas en adulte quand il lui parle, il réponds toujours à ses mille et une question étranges  qui lui viennent d'on ne sait où… Flore trouve tellement de choses scientifiques fonctionnelles et logiques, et tellement d'humains incompréhensibles et illogiques, forcément elle a des questions, et les réponses qu'on daigne lui donner en font naître d'autres encore. Paul Vignaud lui répond toujours avec patience et ne s'énerve jamais. Parfois, simplement, à la fin de leur troisième partie d'échec, il agite doucement la main en lui disant que son cerveau est fatigué, maintenant, et qu'il ferait bien une sieste. "Mais tu peux revenir demain, pour la revanche".

Sauf qu'en ce moment, il est impossible de tenir une minute dans le jardin, aussi leurs parties d'échecs ont-elles cessées. 

Paul Vignaud a frappé, donc, et lui a tendu une petite valise en cuir kaki, un carré usé et léger. Un peu ému, il lui a demandé de la garder un temps pour lui. "Je te confie un bout de ma femme, ce sont des petits riens, des morceaux de papiers, tu veux bien les garder pour moi? Je reviendrai les voir de temps en temps… mais là en ce moment, je préfère qu'ils ne restent pas chez moi."

Flore a hoché gravement de la tête, a saisi la valise et l'a glissée sous son lit. C'est elle qui passe l'aspirateur dans sa chambre, il y a peu de risque que sa mère se casse le dos à y jeter un oeil.

Elle écoute les notes qui ont changé d'humeur et soupire. Il fera peut-être plus frais ce soir… ce serait bien.