they liked or about their new hairdresser. Small talks. On a wheel chair, a young man in pajamas with a dull skin. Ding, thirty one floor. You know that the nurses and doctor know better than you what' s going on in your child's body, if the sickness is loosing ground today or not.
You feel as being on a stage but you don't know the next part, and nobody gave you your text. You're here, and you've lost your identity, you're just someone waiting for something, you don't remember what. Indeed, yes, you want your life as it was before the call. You want a day, and another day, even boring, looking as the others, but not the heavy block on your heart that from time to time makes if impossible to breath.
Now when I wake up, I always look at the sky. I want to move somewhere else, as in Paris the sky is grey and low. I would like to live in a windy city, close to the sea, where you have fresh air and the sky is blue, even when in the winter, sometimes freezing, but always high. Barcelone. I've just seen the Passenger with Jack Nicholson and Maria Schneider. I like the idea of being in a city with a port. To be free, to look at the sea and think I could go somewhere else.
My son did a nervous break down when his sister recovered. Doctors say that he felt he wouldn't have been enough strong for recovering if he would have undergone the same thing. So, he was depressed, as thinking he would have died. He has now an appointment per week with a specialist to feel better.
The other day I found the Burberry trench in the big bag. I didn't touch it, it was still in the paper bag with the logo of the brand. Clarisse has been cured now. It was three years ago. So, I decided I could wear it. It was also a Saturday morning when I put it on me for ridding my bicycle.
It was a sunny morning, I decided to take some bread at the bakery, and orange's to make a fresh juice. When I came back and turned right after the Boulevard Berthier to take our little street, a car didn't see me and I had suddenly to stop. The chain came out of its frame. I looked at it, and as nobody was around to help, I tried to repair my bike by myself. I shouldn't have. Not only I didn't succeed, but my beige trench was covered of dark and greasy stains.
I felt as a little girl having done something wrong. The street was still empty. When I took the stairs I didn't meet anyone, and the flat was still quite with my family sleeping.
I did put the trench in a bag for the pressing. The week after, I gave it with other clothes to a charity.
It was a sign, I shouldn't wear it.
The other day in Minneapolis, I was in a Burberry store, and I gave my credit card to a work friend, as her card didn't work. I was in the sofa waiting for her. The advisor looked at me with a nice smile, and gave me back my card. I was surrounded by luxury clothes and mirrors, in a very cold city where I never came before and where I would never come again.
I felt again that strange feeling to be on earth and not to catch exactly why, and not understanding either why memories are so strong, as you had to live one day of your life for ever. Even a sad day, rainy and grey.
From time to time, I dream. The same nightmare each time, I wake up thinking she' s sick again. Then she's not, but she's far. I have strange calls with her, and we only talk about the weather or practical things. Somehow, I lost her, I don't know when. I wake up thinking, it's not true and then I'm concerned, as the medical check up is in one week, and as usual, I will loose my voice and I will have a flue. Doctors say it's my body saying to me the stress is not ok and struggles against it. I'd like to know things for sure, but I know it's impossible, and I feel eternally unbalanced. I never talk about that to my husband.
Paris 7 Février 2015
Mister Martin is dead
This story is for me, it's my day.
- "I can't believe it !
- Yes, my source of information is a good one. I know it from his village."
The woman on the phone is at the office, she's about to be thirty, and she's the one to receive all news for her reknowned company.
The guy on the phone calls from the mentioned village in the South of France. He's reliable and has lived in all continents, living many wars, and now quite close of the latest Président de la République in France. One could say he's somewhat a reference.
With a warm voice, he says to her. " On that matter, you shoud trust me. Just check with anyone here, firemen or police. But make it fast, as the scoop belongs to the one being the first to release information. On pèse !" (which litteraly means in english "we have weight", like the balance shows it).
Saying goodbye to the senior journalist that now goes to play tennis with someone famous, , she's already obsessed by checking the information, she's had already begun the search on her computer while finishing the call.
- " Hello, AJF agency, we've heard about Mister Martin B being dead, could you confirm the news ?"
The man answering seems to be in the middle of a discussion with other men, we can hear laughs and strong voices.
He says in a cautious way : "How can I be sure you are working for AJF ? I can't confirm anything like that on the phone."
She says the name of the mayor of the village, and he answers quickly : "Indeed, a Mister Martin is dead this morning, I can't say more, and the name you give to me doesn't ring a bell. I have to go now, Mam."
She would like to know the reason of the death of this healthy sixty years old CEO, but the man refuses to give it. She would have loved to be at the office when the CEO of Total was hit in his jet by a truck at Moscow's airport, unfortunately she was in vacation.
This story is for me. It's my day.
She jumps out of her feet. Being alone in the new office, smelling the fresh white painting, and looking at the dark blue roof tops seems odd to her. Why today ? Nobody is here. She's alone, all the big bosses our enjoying the snow and skiing in this last week of February.
She looks at the view, she breathes deeply and slowly as her yoga teacher taught her. She closes her eyes, and decides she's the one. The first journalist in France to know before anyone else except his close family.
It's my day.
She writes the depeche. A few sentences to give the only information she has. Mister Martin B is dead.
Nobody to rewrite or correct it.
She has the finger on the entree key, and she sends the message. All journalists in France and international will have it in a few seconds.
Done. Well done.
Then the phone rings, she doesn't answer. She calls her boss to make him aware that their agency was at the top being the first to be in the know. She leaves a message. He must be out doing anything but working as days are long when you are journalist.
She turns on the TV. There's already a man interviewing people on the phone about the life of Martin B.
" This man was a giant, the race of CEO that builds empire, from media to TV, from telcos to communications and internet business. He was also a respected man, very involved in his village where he spent a lot of week ends within to travels to explore new opportunities."
Then a female journalist, with a sad face to show her compassion with the family reminds all viewers that Martin B was also a father of three. Three beautiful daughters with weedings having chic pictures in any magazines.
He was a man of traditions and had a lot of week ends in family, wether in Paris or again in his village, the source of inspiration for a visionary leader.
Suddenly, she receives on her computer a depeche saying that Martin B is alive, and that information given is irrelevant.
At the same time, the moderator on the TV interrups his guest on the phone. Information seems wrong.
Her heart is going fast, she feels bad and looks for the bottle of water she had this morning. "What ? What should I do ? Double check. They must be wrong. Marcus gave me the information. I'm sure the guy said the same…"
She tries to call her boss again but noboby is picking.
What are they supposed to do when the main competitor is saying the contrary of her prestigious agency ?
Marcus is not answering his phone, s
he leaves a message, a panicked one. "Don't know what to do, call me, other journalists say we're wrong, what should we do."
She opens the window. It's a grey and rainy day. She breathes deeply again.
Suddenly her phone rings, plus an SMS, tons of sms, and mails at the same time. Journalists and friends. She thinks she's about to be crasy if nobody talks to her for real.
It's a mess.
Finally, the big boss calls. The voice says in a very cold way : "You're not fired. But you will resign and we'll find you another place. What you have done has hurt our image for a long time. You're young, I hope you can have a life after that. But we will never forget. You had my number, I don't understand why you didn't call me. It's a disaster. I'm so upset…So, you send the message with our apologies to the family and to all, I'm coming back from my vacation, you'll hear from me tomorrow in my office at 7.30. Be on time."
She's suddenly so tired. She lays on the floor, the windows is still opened and moves with the wind. She hears a police car at the corner. She hears a bird singing. The carpet on the floor is cleaned and smells the shampoo but scratches her skins when she moves.
She's exhausted. She sleeps a few minutes. In her dream, her young and sportiv boss says she's autonomous. She's responsible of what happens, not him. He will stay in the team. And make her