SUMMER WITH GÉRARD

I DEDICATED THIS TEXT TO MY DEAR FRIEND GÉRARD

SUMMER WITH GÉRARD

In the summer, Gérard grew. There’s no morning he would ever forget. Summer came slowly with him, like a forest spreading around the town, like his silver beard. And in that beard, lights and people, people of peace and unrest... people of paper and glass... people, people... inside his beard. What is it... everything is tangled again around us, who catch our heads and turn them left and right... What is it... some man or a spider on the glass of a narrow window, typical for a small French sleepy town, in Gérard’s memory. A siren sounds for a moment, then Satie breaks a new wall inside us. What tree grows... beneath Gérard’s building? What... what... tree... is it a real tree? Children run... run... where are they going... noise again... someone barks... those are only dogs... or is it the riddle of this summer or winter... we look at the map... Gérard takes sandals and travels through Algeria... towards Libya... then climbs to Turkey... and flies over the Black Sea towards Ukraine... returns the sandals... opens the window... he asks me, in French: “Ferme la fenêtre.” “Oui, bien sûr!” “Donne-moi une tasse.” “Voilà.” But his hand still wanders... 

He remembers Louis de Funès. 

He remembers Marko Ferreri... and laughs... because that’s the kind of person Gérard is. I look at the window glass and wonder... is it a bug or something else... “No, that’s a tourist,” says Gérard. “Tourists come in spring... like flowers around city parks... tourists are like flowers... maybe... I’m not sure.” A woman with long brown hair passes by the street and looks into the windows or at the sun, or maybe she’s looking for someone... but who? Maybe Gérard... maybe. But Gérard is already old now, and the girl is just his distant dream, which he once dreamed when he was still a boy. But Gérard still laughs like a child, teaches me French, patiently and slowly... word by word... letter by letter...

Angoulême, 2025.