With the first signs of darkness, the pulsating heart of the city welcomed the first drops of hemlock, approaching from the forest with increasing speed.
It always looks this way, as if a forest demon were cackling maliciously, creeping into the hearts of the metropolis' inhabitants, as if the savagery of the tree-dwellers were then penetrating the shoulders of civilization, confusing their minds and bringing to the surface their first instincts.
A group of women wearing glasses and dressed in green tracksuits let out bursts of laughter, punctuated by comments, informing the trees that evening had arrived. They waved shopping bags containing ethanol, proudly adoring the object of their prayers. The heels of their black shoes clatter, the first of them expresses hopes of fun, of wild delight, that will come with the coming of night. They reflexively smooth their hair, a vain feminine gesture that becomes habitual.
Passed by irregularly walking carpenters, they begin an open conversation, ending with them writing down phone numbers on their furry paws. This is normal, after all; the city is gripped by a psychosis, and all the usual routines fly through a cavern of phrases.
The shrieks of the bus stop masters, insulting the night bus driver who, out of fear of flying bottle fragments, failed to stop at the designated spot, dropping passengers off several streets later. Perversely curved vomit, leaping in front of the general's statue, slowly dripping from the wooden bench where a sixteen-year-old dancer lost her virginity today. Gestures of brotherhood between strangers handing out Calvados to post-party freaks, who then call each other assholes. And the grotesque screams of drunken blondes, not hesitant to pour seas of cheap wine into their mouths, yet stubbornly defending themselves from the touch of the staggering singers.
A careful observer might notice an increase in the number of spoken words, accompanying the fiddling of the accordion, lending a semblance of culture to this eternal orgy of the senses. The subject matter most often concerns sexual intercourse, associating all manner of insertions, insertions, licking, fastening, chopping, and slamming with it. The volume of the messages increases, and the emphasis is placed solely on sending information, not receiving it. Other radio waves are omitted.
Although Carpattiche, a short-haired television presenter, is confined to her apartment, her hereditary psyche aligns itself with her compatriots. She pours cognac into two glasses and then carries them unsteadily to the other room, where the anonymous editor she's seducing is watching a game of golf while eating rotten strawberries from Grandma's garden. Moments later, she issues him an ultimatum, forcing him to engage in sexual intercourse, made significantly more difficult by the ethanol flowing through their veins.
Gerre, a bearded scrap collector, lifts a bottle of methylated spirits, trying to coordinate the movements of his shaking hands with the position of his mouth. Yet his daughter, who worked in a laundry, was once so frightened by the shaking hands, so terrified by the post-party paranoia, amidst which flaming circles leaped from the lamp and a grandmother, dead of typhus, sat in a chair.
Dear Mrs. Monisse, clutching an unwavering bottle of spring water, slowly begins serving the first customers in the store, even on Sunday, a lifesaver in this frenzied city. He exchanges situational jokes with the students who were just yesterday demolishing various stops on the night trains. He bursts into laughter at the sight of the battered Carpattiche, always proudly flexing her facial muscles and treating saleswomen as inferiors, and now knocking over cartons of lemon juice with her clumsy steps.
Finally, she can take revenge for the hundreds of cold words, for throwing coins on the counter with contempt, for leaving the store without saying goodbye; finally, she can demonstrate that arrogance is not advisable unless there's a proper warning behind it. Therefore, in a voice stylized with irony, she informs Friday's victim that the juices should be left standing, and any deviations from this rule are to be dealt with as quickly as possible.
Dear Mrs. Monisse even smiles at the bearded Gerre, giving him brief glimmers of light. She turns quickly to her left, pretending not to notice him surreptitiously tucking a yeast roll under his worn-out clothes, and quickly leaves the store, stumbling over the wooden threshold, which has creaked consistently for four years, despite numerous well-paid repairs.
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