A child, barely five, finishes eating a candy bar. His mother tells him to throw the wrapper away, then resumes talking to another woman, who is with a child around the same age, the three of them staring into the dirty blueness of the penguin habitat. The first child moves toward the trash can, located in a dim corner in the back of the room, that I am now crouching behind. He stands on tiptoes, carefully throwing the wrapper into the trash. I whisper something. The child spots me and just stands there, away from the crowd, slightly scared but also dumbly fascinated. I stare back. "Would you like… a cookie?" I ask, reaching into my pocket. He nods his small head, up, then down, slowly, but before he can answer, my sudden lack of care crests in a massive wave of fury and I pull the knife out of my pocket and I stab him, quickly, in the neck. Bewildered, he backs into the trash can, gurgling like an infant, unable to scream or cry out because of the blood that starts spurting out of the wound in his throat. Though I'd like to watch this child die, I push him down behind the garbage can, then casually mingle in with the rest of the crowd and touch the shoulder of a pretty girl, and smiling I point to a penguin preparing to make a dive. Behind me, if one were to look closely, one could see the child's feet kicking in back of the trash can. I keep an eye on the child's mother, who after a while notices her son's absence and starts scanning the crowd. I touch the girl's shoulder again, and she smiles at me and shrugs apologetically, but I can't figure out why. When the mother finally notices him she doesn't scream because she can see only his feet and assumes that he's playfully hiding from her. At first she seems relieved that she's spotted him and moving toward the trash can she coos, "Are you playing hide-and-seek, honey?" But from where I stand, behind the pretty girl, who I've already found out is foreign, a tourist, I can see the exact moment when the expression on the mother's face changes into fear, and slinging her purse over her shoulder she pulls the trash can away, revealing a face completely covered in red blood and the child's having trouble blinking its eyes because of this, grabbing at his throat, now kicking weakly. The mother makes a sound that I cannot describe – something high-pitched that turns into screaming. After she falls to the floor beside the body, a few people turning around, I find myself shouting out, my voice heavy with emotion, "I'm a doctor, move back, I'm a doctor," and I kneel beside the mother before an interested crowd gathers around us and I pry her arms off the child, who is now on his back struggling vainly for breath, the blood coming evenly but in dying arcs out of his neck and onto his Polo shirt, which is drenched with it. And I have a vague awareness during the minutes I hold the child's head, reverently, careful not to bloody myself, that if someone makes a phone call or if a real doctor is at hand, there's a good chance the child can be saved. But this doesn't happen. Instead I hold it, mindlessly, while the mother – homely, Jewishlooking, overweight, pitifully trying to appear stylish in designer jeans and an unsightly leaf-patterned black wool sweater – shrieks do something, do something, do something, the two of us ignoring the chaos, the people who start screaming around us, concentrating only on the dying child. Though I am satisfied at first by my actions, I'm suddenly jolted with a mournful despair at how useless, how extraordinarily painless, it is to take a child's life. This thing before me, small and twisted and bloody, has no real history, no worthwhile past, nothing is really lost. It's so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has the beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child's would, perhaps ruin many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy. I'm automatically seized with an almost overwhelming desire to knife the boy's mother too, who is in hysterics, but all I can do is slap her face harshly and shout for her to calm down. For this I'm given no disapproving looks. I'm dimly aware of light coming into the room, of a door being opened somewhere, of the presence of zoo officials, a security guard, someone – one of the tourists? – taking flash pictures, the penguins freaking out in the tank behind us, slamming themselves against the glass in a panic. A cop pushes me away, even though I tell him I'm a physician. Someone drags the boy outside, lays him on the ground and removes his shirt. The boy gasps, dies. The mother has to be restrained. I feel empty, hardly here at all, but even the arrival of the police seems an insufficient reason to move and I stand with the crowd outside the penguin habitat, with dozens of others, taking a long time to slowly blend in and then back away, until finally I'm walking down Fifth Avenue, surprised by how little blood has stained my jacket, and I stop in a bookstore and buy a book and then at a Dove Bar stand on the corner of Fiftysixth Street, where I buy a Dove Bar – a coconut one – and I imagine a hole, widening in the sun, and for some reason this breaks the tension I started feeling when I first noticed the snowy owl's eyes and then when it recurred after the boy was dragged out of the penguin habitat and I walked away, my hands soaked with blood, uncaught. Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho, 1991. Qui êtes-vous ?
vendredi 16 juillet 2010
"Would you like... a cookie?"
A child, barely five, finishes eating a candy bar. His mother tells him to throw the wrapper away, then resumes talking to another woman, who is with a child around the same age, the three of them staring into the dirty blueness of the penguin habitat. The first child moves toward the trash can, located in a dim corner in the back of the room, that I am now crouching behind. He stands on tiptoes, carefully throwing the wrapper into the trash. I whisper something. The child spots me and just stands there, away from the crowd, slightly scared but also dumbly fascinated. I stare back. "Would you like… a cookie?" I ask, reaching into my pocket. He nods his small head, up, then down, slowly, but before he can answer, my sudden lack of care crests in a massive wave of fury and I pull the knife out of my pocket and I stab him, quickly, in the neck. Bewildered, he backs into the trash can, gurgling like an infant, unable to scream or cry out because of the blood that starts spurting out of the wound in his throat. Though I'd like to watch this child die, I push him down behind the garbage can, then casually mingle in with the rest of the crowd and touch the shoulder of a pretty girl, and smiling I point to a penguin preparing to make a dive. Behind me, if one were to look closely, one could see the child's feet kicking in back of the trash can. I keep an eye on the child's mother, who after a while notices her son's absence and starts scanning the crowd. I touch the girl's shoulder again, and she smiles at me and shrugs apologetically, but I can't figure out why. When the mother finally notices him she doesn't scream because she can see only his feet and assumes that he's playfully hiding from her. At first she seems relieved that she's spotted him and moving toward the trash can she coos, "Are you playing hide-and-seek, honey?" But from where I stand, behind the pretty girl, who I've already found out is foreign, a tourist, I can see the exact moment when the expression on the mother's face changes into fear, and slinging her purse over her shoulder she pulls the trash can away, revealing a face completely covered in red blood and the child's having trouble blinking its eyes because of this, grabbing at his throat, now kicking weakly. The mother makes a sound that I cannot describe – something high-pitched that turns into screaming. After she falls to the floor beside the body, a few people turning around, I find myself shouting out, my voice heavy with emotion, "I'm a doctor, move back, I'm a doctor," and I kneel beside the mother before an interested crowd gathers around us and I pry her arms off the child, who is now on his back struggling vainly for breath, the blood coming evenly but in dying arcs out of his neck and onto his Polo shirt, which is drenched with it. And I have a vague awareness during the minutes I hold the child's head, reverently, careful not to bloody myself, that if someone makes a phone call or if a real doctor is at hand, there's a good chance the child can be saved. But this doesn't happen. Instead I hold it, mindlessly, while the mother – homely, Jewishlooking, overweight, pitifully trying to appear stylish in designer jeans and an unsightly leaf-patterned black wool sweater – shrieks do something, do something, do something, the two of us ignoring the chaos, the people who start screaming around us, concentrating only on the dying child. Though I am satisfied at first by my actions, I'm suddenly jolted with a mournful despair at how useless, how extraordinarily painless, it is to take a child's life. This thing before me, small and twisted and bloody, has no real history, no worthwhile past, nothing is really lost. It's so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has the beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child's would, perhaps ruin many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy. I'm automatically seized with an almost overwhelming desire to knife the boy's mother too, who is in hysterics, but all I can do is slap her face harshly and shout for her to calm down. For this I'm given no disapproving looks. I'm dimly aware of light coming into the room, of a door being opened somewhere, of the presence of zoo officials, a security guard, someone – one of the tourists? – taking flash pictures, the penguins freaking out in the tank behind us, slamming themselves against the glass in a panic. A cop pushes me away, even though I tell him I'm a physician. Someone drags the boy outside, lays him on the ground and removes his shirt. The boy gasps, dies. The mother has to be restrained. I feel empty, hardly here at all, but even the arrival of the police seems an insufficient reason to move and I stand with the crowd outside the penguin habitat, with dozens of others, taking a long time to slowly blend in and then back away, until finally I'm walking down Fifth Avenue, surprised by how little blood has stained my jacket, and I stop in a bookstore and buy a book and then at a Dove Bar stand on the corner of Fiftysixth Street, where I buy a Dove Bar – a coconut one – and I imagine a hole, widening in the sun, and for some reason this breaks the tension I started feeling when I first noticed the snowy owl's eyes and then when it recurred after the boy was dragged out of the penguin habitat and I walked away, my hands soaked with blood, uncaught. Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho, 1991. 
vendredi 2 juillet 2010
Ah, papito, tu me rends zinzin !
Quelques soirs plus tard, il y a eu une petite fête pour les participants au colloque. À part moi, ils étaient tous profs d'université et ils ne dansaient pas. Des gens sérieux, quoi. Ils ne faisaient que parler et parler. J'avais remarqué l'Africaine au téléphone avec son mari, auparavant. Un cadre militaire important dans leur pays, visiblement. Elle répétait tout le temps : « Oh, honey, I love you. » Par la suite, elle m'a montré une photo de ses trois enfants et de son mec en uniforme de parade, et elle très jolie en habit traditionnel... Toujours est-il qu'elle a abusé du vin, ce soir-là. On a bu quelques verres ensemble. À un moment, elle est venue à moi avec le plus doux sourire qui soit et elle m'a entraîné sur la piste de danse. Je n'avais pas envie de ça, moi. Elle me serrait contre elle, me caressait le dos, me disait dans l'oreille : « Ooh, very nice, very nice. Ooh, really very nice. » J'ai le dos très sensible, moi. J'ai plaqué mes mains sur cet énorme, splendide cul africain, et cinq minutes plus tard on était dans ma chambre, à l'étage au-dessus. Ça a été grandiose. Ses cheveux sentaient le sale. Elle avait de petites tresses qui n'avaient pas été défaites depuis Dieu sait quand, très mignonnes avec leurs boules de couleur mais vraiment puantes, alors je me suis concentré sur d'autres régions de son anatomie. Dehors il faisait à peine plus que zéro mais on suait et on suait, nous deux. Elle était fantastique, incroyablement souple, et elle levait les jambes à l'azimut. J'avais la tête fourrée là-dedans quand elle a lâché deux pets bien sonores. Je la besognais avec la langue et j'ai senti les deux jets d'air sous pression m'atteindre au front. J'ai risqué un coup d'oeil. Pas de merde. Okay. En avant. Elle était très agitée, elle. Elle me prenait la bite dans les mains. Elle la voulait. Moi, j'avais le préservatif déjà prêt. Je me suis couvert et j'ai plongé dans la jungle noire. Inoubliable. Très folklorique, tout ça. Il était quatre heures du matin ou presque lorsqu'elle est retournée prudemment à sa chambre. Moi, je suis descendu boire un peu de thé et me fumer un bon cigare. Il y avait encore quelqu'un par là. Un Vietnamien homo allongé sur un canapé, en train de regarder la chaîne Playboy à la télé. Une couverture tirée sur lui. Par en dessous, sa main s'activait dur. Branlette vietcong dans l'aube scandinave. On fait ce qu'on peut.Le lendemain, j'ai essayé de remettre le couvert mais l'Africaine gardait les yeux au sol. Sans oser me regarder, elle a murmuré : « Sorry. Too much wine yesterday night. Sorry. »
J'ai voulu jouer le latin lover. Je lui ai dit que ça avait été super, qu'elle n'avait pas à regretter, que rien n'était plus naturel entre un homme et une femme qui se plaisent. Des idioties de ce genre. Mais elle ne s'est pas laissé convaincre. Les jours suivants, elle m'a évité. Alors j'ai demandé au Vietnamien gay à quelle heure passaient les meilleurs films, sur la chaîne de Playboy.
Pedro Juan Guttiérez, Animal tropical, 2000.
Inscription à :
Articles (Atom)