Mao a quinze ans. Cela fait un an qu\u2019il \u00e9crit \u00e0 Floriane. Chaque jour. Aujourd\u2019hui, il va la revoir. Il marche depuis la gare. Personne ne l\u2019attend. Quatre kilom\u00e8tres. Plein soleil. Il transpire, mais n\u2019y pense pas. L\u2019excitation est intacte, un peu trop forte. Il craint qu\u2019elle explose.<\/p>\n
Chaque jour \u00e0 la pension, il a redout\u00e9 que rien n\u2019arrive. Puis le recteur entrait. Une enveloppe. Tout s\u2019arr\u00eatait. Il la rangeait dans sa poche. Ne pas lire devant les autres. Trop intime. Il attendait d\u2019\u00eatre seul, au bord de la rivi\u00e8re.<\/p>\n
Il ne sait pas ce que c\u2019est, l\u2019amour. Trop de versions contradictoires. Il ne veut pas y penser. Ce qu\u2019il ressent, c\u2019est l\u2019attente. L\u2019impatience.<\/p>\n
Il retourne au hameau. M\u00eame routine. M\u00eame d\u00e9cor. Floriane fait un stage. Ils ne se verront pas tous les jours. Elle lui a \u00e9crit. Il n\u2019a pas r\u00e9pondu. Il s\u2019en veut, un peu.<\/p>\n
Il pense \u00e0 son vieux Solex. Aux vir\u00e9es pour p\u00eacher. Aux gardons de l\u2019Aumance. Il se distrait. Le soleil tape.<\/p>\n
Il approche de la ferme du vieux con. C\u2019est son grand-p\u00e8re qui l\u2019appelle ainsi. D\u2019habitude, il ne dit jamais de mal des gens.<\/p>\n
Plus loin, le hameau. Les toits. La cour. Il la voit. Elle. Une moto. Un homme. Ils s\u2019embrassent.<\/p>\n
Il comprend. Pas d\u2019un coup. Lentement. Comme un voile qu\u2019on soul\u00e8ve. Elle se tourne. Dit quelque chose. Le type aussi.<\/p>\n
Il s\u2019approche. Fait semblant. Sourit. Parle. Ment. Floriane le regarde. Triste. Souriante. Il part.<\/p>\n
Il p\u00eache seul. Il tend la ligne. L\u2019esprit ailleurs. Il ne veut rien attraper. Il veut juste qu\u2019on le laisse tranquille. La paix. La berge. Le bruit de l\u2019eau.<\/p>\n
Et puis le scion plie. Un \u00e0-coup. La canne vrille. Il l\u00e2che. Elle file, tir\u00e9e vers le lit de la rivi\u00e8re. Dispara\u00eet.<\/p>\n
Un silure, sans doute. Enorme. Incontr\u00f4lable.<\/p>\n
Il regarde l\u2019eau. Longtemps. Comme si quelque chose s\u2019\u00e9tait arrach\u00e9. Pas seulement la canne. Quelque chose d\u2019enfoui.<\/p>\n
Il se dit que c\u2019est fini. Que c\u2019est tr\u00e8s bien comme \u00e7a.<\/p>\n
Dans le train, il pense \u00e0 elle. Aux lettres. Elle lui a rendu les siennes, li\u00e9es par un ruban bleu. Elle a dit : « Dommage que tu n\u2019aies pas r\u00e9pondu. » Il y pense encore. Il pense au silure. \u00c0 la canne arrach\u00e9e. \u00c0 ce qu\u2019il a perdu.<\/p>\n
Il pense \u00e0 son grand-p\u00e8re. \u00c0 son silence. Ce silence qu\u2019il commence \u00e0 comprendre. Le train entre en gare. Il se l\u00e8ve. Il se dit qu\u2019il parlera moins. Ou autrement. Peut-\u00eatre qu\u2019il \u00e9crira.<\/p>\n
Mao is fifteen. He\u2019s been writing to Floriane for a year now. Every single day. Today, finally, he\u2019s going to see her again. He\u2019s walking from the train station, alone. No one came to meet him. Four kilometers under the sun, and he\u2019s still not tired. He\u2019s sweating, but barely notices. The excitement is still there, intact, maybe too strong. He\u2019s a bit afraid it might explode.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t know if this is love. He\u2019s heard so many contradictory things about what love is, he\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s going back to the village now. Same place, same people. Floriane wrote that she has a hospital internship and won\u2019t be available every day. He understood, but he didn\u2019t answer her last letter. They were supposed to meet soon, so he thought it didn\u2019t matter. Now, he regrets that silence.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
He passes the farm his grandfather calls “the old bastard\u2019s place.” It must be serious, Mao thinks — his grandfather rarely says bad things about people.<\/p>\n
Then he reaches the village. He sees the roofs, the farmyard. And then he sees her. Floriane. With a guy on a motorbike. They\u2019re kissing.<\/p>\n
It doesn\u2019t hit him all at once. It comes slowly, like a curtain being drawn back. She turns to the guy, whispers something. He turns too.<\/p>\n
Mao walks up. Smiles. Pretends. Says something casual. Lies. Floriane looks at him, sad and smiling at the same time. He leaves.<\/p>\n
He goes fishing, alone. Casts his line, halfheartedly. He doesn\u2019t want to catch anything. He just wants peace. The sound of water. The quiet.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
He stares at the surface. Something just got torn away. Not just the rod. Something deeper. Something buried.<\/p>\n
He tells himself it\u2019s over. And maybe that\u2019s fine.<\/p>\n
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\u2019s a shame you didn\u2019t write back. I thought you\u2019d stopped caring.”<\/p>\n
He keeps thinking about that. About the catfish. About what was taken. About what he let go.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
The train pulls into the station. Mao grabs his bag. He tells himself he\u2019ll speak less from now on. Or differently. Maybe he\u2019ll write.<\/p>", "content_text": " ## La signature du silure Mao a quinze ans. Cela fait un an qu\u2019il \u00e9crit \u00e0 Floriane. Chaque jour. Aujourd\u2019hui, il va la revoir. Il marche depuis la gare. Personne ne l\u2019attend. Quatre kilom\u00e8tres. Plein soleil. Il transpire, mais n\u2019y pense pas. L\u2019excitation est intacte, un peu trop forte. Il craint qu\u2019elle explose. Chaque jour \u00e0 la pension, il a redout\u00e9 que rien n\u2019arrive. Puis le recteur entrait. Une enveloppe. Tout s\u2019arr\u00eatait. Il la rangeait dans sa poche. Ne pas lire devant les autres. Trop intime. Il attendait d\u2019\u00eatre seul, au bord de la rivi\u00e8re. Il ne sait pas ce que c\u2019est, l\u2019amour. Trop de versions contradictoires. Il ne veut pas y penser. Ce qu\u2019il ressent, c\u2019est l\u2019attente. L\u2019impatience. Il retourne au hameau. M\u00eame routine. M\u00eame d\u00e9cor. Floriane fait un stage. Ils ne se verront pas tous les jours. Elle lui a \u00e9crit. Il n\u2019a pas r\u00e9pondu. Il s\u2019en veut, un peu. Il pense \u00e0 son vieux Solex. Aux vir\u00e9es pour p\u00eacher. Aux gardons de l\u2019Aumance. Il se distrait. Le soleil tape. Il approche de la ferme du vieux con. C\u2019est son grand-p\u00e8re qui l\u2019appelle ainsi. D\u2019habitude, 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\u2019embrassent. Il comprend. Pas d\u2019un coup. Lentement. Comme un voile qu\u2019on soul\u00e8ve. Elle se tourne. Dit quelque chose. Le type aussi. Il s\u2019approche. Fait semblant. Sourit. Parle. Ment. Floriane le regarde. Triste. Souriante. Il part. Il p\u00eache seul. Il tend la ligne. L\u2019esprit ailleurs. Il ne veut rien attraper. Il veut juste qu\u2019on le laisse tranquille. La paix. La berge. Le bruit de l\u2019eau. Et puis le scion plie. Un \u00e0-coup. La canne vrille. Il l\u00e2che. Elle file, tir\u00e9e vers le lit de la rivi\u00e8re. Dispara\u00eet. Un silure, sans doute. Enorme. Incontr\u00f4lable. Il regarde l\u2019eau. Longtemps. Comme si quelque chose s\u2019\u00e9tait arrach\u00e9. Pas seulement la canne. Quelque chose d\u2019enfoui. Il se dit que c\u2019est fini. Que c\u2019est tr\u00e8s bien comme \u00e7a. Dans le train, il pense \u00e0 elle. Aux lettres. Elle lui a rendu les siennes, li\u00e9es par un ruban bleu. Elle a dit : \u00ab Dommage que tu n\u2019aies pas r\u00e9pondu. \u00bb Il y pense encore. Il pense au silure. \u00c0 la canne arrach\u00e9e. \u00c0 ce qu\u2019il a perdu. Il pense \u00e0 son grand-p\u00e8re. \u00c0 son silence. Ce silence qu\u2019il commence \u00e0 comprendre. Le train entre en gare. Il se l\u00e8ve. Il se dit qu\u2019il parlera moins. Ou autrement. Peut-\u00eatre qu\u2019il \u00e9crira. ## The Catfish\u2019s Signature Mao is fifteen. He\u2019s been writing to Floriane for a year now. Every single day. Today, finally, he\u2019s going to see her again. He\u2019s walking from the train station, alone. No one came to meet him. Four kilometers under the sun, and he\u2019s still not tired. He\u2019s sweating, but barely notices. The excitement is still there, intact, maybe too strong. He\u2019s 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\u2019t know if this is love. He\u2019s heard so many contradictory things about what love is, he\u2019s 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\u2019s going back to the village now. Same place, same people. Floriane wrote that she has a hospital internship and won\u2019t be available every day. He understood, but he didn\u2019t answer her last letter. They were supposed to meet soon, so he thought it didn\u2019t 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 \u201cthe old bastard\u2019s place.\u201d It must be serious, Mao thinks \u2014 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\u2019re kissing. It doesn\u2019t 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\u2019t 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\u2019s over. And maybe that\u2019s 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, \u201cIt\u2019s a shame you didn\u2019t write back. I thought you\u2019d stopped caring.\u201d 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\u2019ll speak less from now on. Or differently. Maybe he\u2019ll write. ", "image": "", "tags": [] } ] }