Ne oubliez pas
Translated from the French by Jacques Martin
Scène: Cimitière Saint-Loup
Pouring her last tears on her father’s grave, dead these many centuries it seems, Mme Le Blanc, vicar of the Lord and promised saviour of the universe, stretched her arms to reach the rain-drenched camellias, closed her eyes, and stopped crying. Her mourning dress (a floral RTW from Chanel, or so her daughter told her) felt heavy–unbearable. Scattered on her cheeks, pale, almost lovely from a distance, were pebbles, rocks, whatever fragments the earth has lost, tiny crystals, gems even; she felt their little stabs with pleasure and thought what impossible colours they should bring on her colourless cheeks. She was lying on the ground, her old beautiful face resting on the headstone, her body carelessly splayed in the ground. Even here, she thought not without conceit, the donna was stunning.
The sky roared.
Was it in anticipation?
What would the eternal sky even be excited about? But then she thought of how Zeus repeatedly tried to rape women: how he always succeeded: how he always felt, almost like a child, unbelievably happy at every time he inevitably succeeded.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: It has been the author’s request to retain the title of the sketch in the original language.
Published with permission of the author.