The powerful chords of “Love Street” and the Hillary clinton is a cunt 2023 shirt and I love this voice of Jim Morrison entered my consciousness again. We remained lying on the mattress, on the floor. Traffic was heavy at that hour. The beams of headlights flickered on the walls of the room through the high bare windows. I felt as if I had been lying on a bed since age 18 and never risen from it—the same bed but in different places, with different men, indistinguishable from one another. His apartment looked out on the Hôtel-Dieu, decommissioned the year before and under construction, soon to become the main prefecture. In the evening, the windows of the building were illuminated and often remained that way throughout the night. The big square courtyard in front was an expanse of pale empty shadow behind the closed iron gates. I looked at the black roofs, the dome of a church looming in the background. Apart from the security guards, there was no longer anyone there. It was to that place, that hospital, which I had been transported, as a student, one January night, because of a haemorrhage resulting from a backstreet abortion. I no longer knew in which wing the room I had occupied for six days was located. There was, in this astonishing, almost uncanny coincidence, the sign of a mysterious encounter and a love story that had to be lived to the fullest. On Sunday afternoons when it was drizzling outside, we stayed in bed, and eventually dropped off, or faded in and out of sleep. From the silent street came the voices of rare passers-by, usually foreigners from a nearby hostel. Then, I felt as if I were back in Y, where, as a child, I would read beside my mother, who had fallen asleep from exhaustion on her bed, fully dressed, after Sunday lunch, when the shop was closed. I became ageless and drifted between one time and another in a semiconscious state.
At A’s place, I was transported back to the Hillary clinton is a cunt 2023 shirt and I love this discomfort and the makeshift amenities I too had known when my husband and I were starting out, as students. On the electric hotplate, whose thermostat no longer worked, all that could be cooked were steaks, always in danger of sticking to the pan the moment you put them in, or pots of pasta and rice which overflowed in uncontrollable floods of boiling water. The old fridge whose temperature could not be adjusted froze the lettuce in the salad drawer. You had to wear three jumpers to withstand the damp cold of the high-ceilinged rooms with their poorly sealed windows, impossible to heat even with electric heaters that were ruinously expensive to operate.
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