La signature du silure
Mao a quinze ans. Cela fait un an qu’il écrit à Floriane. Chaque jour. Aujourd’hui, il va la revoir. Il marche depuis la gare. Personne ne l’attend. Quatre kilomètres. Plein soleil. Il transpire, mais n’y pense pas. L’excitation est intacte, un peu trop forte. Il craint qu’elle explose.
Chaque jour à la pension, il a redouté que rien n’arrive. Puis le recteur entrait. Une enveloppe. Tout s’arrêtait. Il la rangeait dans sa poche. Ne pas lire devant les autres. Trop intime. Il attendait d’être seul, au bord de la rivière.
Il ne sait pas ce que c’est, l’amour. Trop de versions contradictoires. Il ne veut pas y penser. Ce qu’il ressent, c’est l’attente. L’impatience.
Il retourne au hameau. Même routine. Même décor. Floriane fait un stage. Ils ne se verront pas tous les jours. Elle lui a écrit. Il n’a pas répondu. Il s’en veut, un peu.
Il pense à son vieux Solex. Aux virées pour pêcher. Aux gardons de l’Aumance. Il se distrait. Le soleil tape.
Il approche de la ferme du vieux con. C’est son grand-père qui l’appelle ainsi. D’habitude, il ne dit jamais de mal des gens.
Plus loin, le hameau. Les toits. La cour. Il la voit. Elle. Une moto. Un homme. Ils s’embrassent.
Il comprend. Pas d’un coup. Lentement. Comme un voile qu’on soulève. Elle se tourne. Dit quelque chose. Le type aussi.
Il s’approche. Fait semblant. Sourit. Parle. Ment. Floriane le regarde. Triste. Souriante. Il part.
Il pêche seul. Il tend la ligne. L’esprit ailleurs. Il ne veut rien attraper. Il veut juste qu’on le laisse tranquille. La paix. La berge. Le bruit de l’eau.
Et puis le scion plie. Un à-coup. La canne vrille. Il lâche. Elle file, tirée vers le lit de la rivière. Disparaît.
Un silure, sans doute. Enorme. Incontrôlable.
Il regarde l’eau. Longtemps. Comme si quelque chose s’était arraché. Pas seulement la canne. Quelque chose d’enfoui.
Il se dit que c’est fini. Que c’est très bien comme ça.
Dans le train, il pense à elle. Aux lettres. Elle lui a rendu les siennes, liées par un ruban bleu. Elle a dit : « Dommage que tu n’aies pas répondu. » Il y pense encore. Il pense au silure. À la canne arrachée. À ce qu’il a perdu.
Il pense à son grand-père. À son silence. Ce silence qu’il commence à comprendre. Le train entre en gare. Il se lève. Il se dit qu’il parlera moins. Ou autrement. Peut-être qu’il écrira.
The Catfish’s Signature
Mao is fifteen. He’s been writing to Floriane for a year now. Every single day. Today, finally, he’s going to see her again. He’s walking from the train station, alone. No one came to meet him. Four kilometers under the sun, and he’s still not tired. He’s sweating, but barely notices. The excitement is still there, intact, maybe too strong. He’s a bit afraid it might explode.
At school, each day, he feared getting nothing. Then the rector would appear with an envelope. Everything stopped for a second. Mao would slide it into his pocket. Never read it in front of the others. Too intimate. He preferred to wait, go sit by the river, and read it alone.
He doesn’t know if this is love. He’s heard so many contradictory things about what love is, he’s given up trying to define it. What he feels is clear enough : a tension, an urgency, a kind of longing that fills his body and his head.
He’s going back to the village now. Same place, same people. Floriane wrote that she has a hospital internship and won’t be available every day. He understood, but he didn’t answer her last letter. They were supposed to meet soon, so he thought it didn’t matter. Now, he regrets that silence.
He wonders if the old Solex his grandfather gave him still works. He used it to ride out and fish. He thinks about catching roach in the Aumance. It’s a good distraction. The sun is beating down.
He passes the farm his grandfather calls “the old bastard’s place.” It must be serious, Mao thinks — his grandfather rarely says bad things about people.
Then he reaches the village. He sees the roofs, the farmyard. And then he sees her. Floriane. With a guy on a motorbike. They’re kissing.
It doesn’t hit him all at once. It comes slowly, like a curtain being drawn back. She turns to the guy, whispers something. He turns too.
Mao walks up. Smiles. Pretends. Says something casual. Lies. Floriane looks at him, sad and smiling at the same time. He leaves.
He goes fishing, alone. Casts his line, halfheartedly. He doesn’t want to catch anything. He just wants peace. The sound of water. The quiet.
Then the rod bends. A violent pull. The line stretches, the rod jerks out of his hands and disappears into the river. Probably a catfish. A huge one.
He stares at the surface. Something just got torn away. Not just the rod. Something deeper. Something buried.
He tells himself it’s over. And maybe that’s fine.
On the train back to the city, he thinks about Floriane. About the letters. She gave them back, tied with a blue ribbon. She said, “It’s a shame you didn’t write back. I thought you’d stopped caring.”
He keeps thinking about that. About the catfish. About what was taken. About what he let go.
He thinks about his grandfather too. About his silence. A silence that used to feel like a wall, and now feels more like a way to endure things that leave you without words.
The train pulls into the station. Mao grabs his bag. He tells himself he’ll speak less from now on. Or differently. Maybe he’ll write.