Le chateau de vent

---Notice--- Madame Finistere is currently residing on a small island in the Gulf of Tonkin, Indochine. The internet connection here is a string of silk and they are using it for fishing too. The last part of the missing story will be published as soon as possible. It is true, they do eat cat in Vietnam 'Tit miao'.

Virginie brings me an elegant glass of sparkling wine. Champagne? I notice her slender hands with elegant silver rings. No stones. When she leans over to hand me the drink, her cardigan slips from her shoulder and reveals two sharp and dangerous collarbones. They leave me speechless. For a moment I forget to breathe, then force my eyes to sink lower into the safe warmth of her décolleté and further down the black satin dress. She knows I am looking, but she hesitates and for several seconds she remains absolutely still. Then she moves to a seat opposite mine and tries to catch my eyes while bringing a glass to her lips. "Santé". I look away. Strange, I never do that. The feeling of uneasiness returns. What am I doing here? "What do you want from me?" I ask her in a low voice. A sigh emerges from behind the chair. Then the mother continues. "I used to be good at finding solutions for people who wanted to disappear. I went wrong once in a while but I took...

"As a child she could quietly sit and watch out of the widow of a riding train, but when the train would slide into the darkness of a tunnel she would be gone when it came out again at the other side. Turn out the light for a second at a birthday party, just to enter with the cake and let her blow out the candles. Gone. No schooltrips, no walks in the woods or hide and seek." She pauses and then says dreamily. "Our family has always been able to arrange things. We had money and were successful in keeping it. We have also been able to remain beyond suspicion of police and detectives, although more than half of the family members of the last 2 centuries have at a point in their lives suddenly been involved in tragic accidents or simply moved away to desolate regions never to be seen again. It sure needs a clear intellect and lots of creativity to make up a respectful -and possibly happy- destiny for each of them. Luckily there were the wars. It's easy to lose tr...

I watched her struggle with it from a distance. She was chocking, I couldn't help. Paralysed. Arms holding me back, anxious to catch me. And she took it in, gulps of it, big chunks of love. Of live bait. "The inadequacy of not being able to show love immobilizes me" I told her. I carry stones in my chest. How can I run? How can I swim? How can I fly? How can I give you what you want? Break the mirror and walk through

We walk into the lobby, a big room bathing in red velvet, mirrors curly gold frames and lots of glittering crystal. Thick carpets cover the parquetted floors, the astracan wool moving under my footsteps as if it is alive and ready to engulf the whole room. Three strategically positioned chandeliers illuminate the bloodcoloured half moon shapes of antique seats. The walls are covered with paintings darkenend by smoke and dust. "Sit down, please" says the voice from the darkest end of the room. "I'm sure you would like to know why you are here." I can see smoke curling up form behind a velvet chair,its back turned towards me. Virginie moves to what seems to be bar. An exquisite art nouveau counter ornamented with big lillies finely shaped in wood and colored glass. Behind it rows of strangely shaped bottles and decanters. "What was all the hocus pocus up there in the hallway?" I ask, a little bit vexed. "And you seem to know all about me? Well ...

I glance to my right and distinguish a faint light, about 10 steps from where I'm standing. "Go on," my guide urges me. Two very strange-looking ligthbulbs throw long shadows and bizarre shapes onto the walls and corner. I can see a shadow emerging from the dark corner: an ancient wooden cabinet decorated with more encarvings. My feet are heavy, tired, hesitating. Instinctively my hand touches the heavy cold watch in my left pocket. Smooth silver, oval shaped and fitting precisely into my palm. As I run my fingertips slowly over the engraved initials on the back, suddenly the cabinet comes into focus. In a spilt second I can see every detail: the structure of the wood, the leathery, parchment walls behind it covered with drawings of human shapes, the wood carvings consisting entirely of human an animal bodies, turning, whriting, torsing, entagled. I can see thousands of different creatures. It' s horrifying, I have to avert my eyes. Quickly I open a drawer of the ca...

Her mother? I am baffled. I think I can barely distinguish a slender shape moving towards me. Or maybe it is what is left of my failing intuition that leads me to believe she is a tall and elegant woman. "Enchantée" she says. It feels as if a cloud passes through the hallway. Obscuring every shade, movement or colour. Her voice is breathy, soft but supple, like a singer’s. Instinctively I put out my hand and feel a soft palm and slender fingers pressing mine. She is wearing silk gloves. "I’m sorry," she continues, "but I have a problem with light." She has a peculiar Parisian accent not resembling any I know and speaks slowly, stressing every syllable. "Let us move forward into the lobby." she pauses, breathes, but then decisively continues."But first I must ask you to leave your watch at the hallstand at your right." I am seized by a feeling of general uneasiness. My watch is not a common article of use you find in the shops. I...

Here I am in a dark house I never imagined to exist. I have to admit I miscalculated. This lady wasn't talking about an ordinary disappearing act. She isn't interested in a tarot reading or a symbolic tale to help her believe in the significance of her life, after life or love relationship. I look at her and feel a slight tension building up. What if she's really older than me. But masked and mastering secrets of life I haven't found out about yet. I see her face in profile. She's very beautiful, ancient. Her ears are covered with silver earrings and milk white moonstones. Her pitch-black hair is held together by a very old ebony comb decorated with strange undistinguishable signs. Maybe I have been still for too long, not to have seen this coming. A sound is approaching. Rhythmic. A hollow thump followed by sharp clicks. It must be the gatekeeper. No one on earth would keep a door like this unguarded. "C'est toi, Virginie?" a sharp, breathy vo...

She takes me through an endless maze of little streets. We pass art deco signs of trades and crafts long extinct: silversmiths, a doll maker, manufacturers of enammel chamber pots, a freak show, a hat maker, rosary manufacturers, a bailiff's office consisting entirely of mirrors. And suddenly the sweet scent of tobacco in my nostrills when we pass a wholesale cigar seller. I'm never really lost in the city. My orientation is usually very precise. I rely on my instincts. But this time, all I feel is her hand pressing into my arm, pulling me ahead, further and further away from anything recognizable. Merde. There's no one on the street here. Not one car. In the distance I seem to hear the faint sound of horse hooves on cobble stones. It will probably be the absynth pulling a joke on my imagination. She walks fast, way too fast for a lady with varicose veins and a heart that's reluctantly pulsing an exaggerated amount of blood around. "Nearly there" she says...

Maybe she's been reading too much Paul Auster lately, I wonder. "Listen," I say looking at her firmly "people go missing because they're dead, murdered or in an accident or they fall off a cliff. Just be realistic. It's a question of coincidence. You disappear because you've misspelled a streetname and get lost and run into the wrong person, or trip over a treebranch near a dangerous river." Silence. Then she moves, getting up from her chair. "Rubbish" she says, she spits it at me like a cat with a bad temper. "I thought you would be able to think beyond the daily pattern. I hoped you would use your imagination to teach me something. But ... you're just like the rest of them." She's up and going, grabbing her coat, ready to turn her back at me. "Wait,"I say, "Excuse me. I'm not what you think. I don't have the key to the next dimension. I'm bad with places and humans. Smells and sounds is...

Les artichaux were delicious, by the way. And so was she. "It has something to do with not feeling whole sometimes." she tells me, while we drink absinth from little crystal glasses. "In the heavy fog in winter, when watching vapour curl out of the dark oily canal against a cold grey sky, I want to break every surface, dig into the frozen earth, tear up the street to discover what's underneath. I want more." "But are you not happy?" "I can't answer that." she says decisively. "I feel like I am living at the wrong speed, at the wrong moment, on a wrong level even. My feelings do not belong to me. How can I say I am happy: I only feel happy when I catch a glimpse of a possibility. To depart. To disappear." "Are You seeing a shrink?" I ask, getting a bit worried. She stares at the hairy inside of her artichoque. "Of course not."

I went Lighthousekeeping yesterday evening. It was good. Confusing, personal, confrontational and most of all recognizable. Everybody needs a lighthouse. A light to set the water on fire. I revisited my lighthouse a month ago. Since I was young I have been circling around it, approaching, forgetting, calculating if I would make it there swimming. Las Formigues

"Can you help me?" a young woman of around 30 looks at me as if I am her only hope. "I'm only a fortune teller," I answer, "but please do tell me your fears." "Do you know the stories about these people who all of a sudden disappear and never ever show up again? Normal people with jobs and families and kids and hobbies, who walk around the block one day to let out the dog or get some cigarettes or walk outside late, under the stars to put out the bin and... that's it. Gone?" "Yes, I've heared stories like that," I answer not sure what she means. "I think I'm one of them." she says, almost horrified at herself, her voice faltering. I look at her questioningly. "I have this urge, you see. I want to disappear. I've had it since I was young. But the feeling grows stronger. These last months it's been very difficult to resist." "But where will you go?" I ask. "I thought I co...

We are in your hotel room, getting bored. I don't know what to do with my arms and legs. Sit or stand. Where? It's been a while since I've last seen you and you look fresh, cool and alert. Younger. I wish there was a swimming pool in the room. Anything to get rid of this sweaty, hot feeling. You seem as restless as I am, looking at me with dark shiny eyes, trying to get inside me. I think about past decisions taken and start to feel worse and worse, unsure, arms still moving around without purpose one hand fidgetting with the other. I blink and suddenly there's a swimming pool in the room. It looks old. We are in an extremely big old hotel in Romania. You have just taken a dive. I watch your body in the black swimsuit and it looks so good. I never expected you to have such a muscular, firm body with a nice even tan. I want to touch you but you back away. Hurt, because I have rejected you before. I try to kiss you and eventually you give in, hesitating but excited...

I woke up this morning to a serenade of angry muttering sounds produced by my bedpartner. Complaints because the birds are singing too loud. Especially at 5 a.m. Impossible to sleep with that noise.

Sometimes I completely forget the reason why I'm not calling you when I feel like it, or sending you a birthday present, or writing you a pretentious e-mail trying to display my so-called literary capacities and trying to make you laugh. I forget why I'm neither responding to nor deleting your cellphone messages. The reason is love. I try to tell myself that as long as I do not forget this, you will be ok.

A client asks me how long he and his wife will stay together. I start to itch. An itching I always feel when a certain kind of questions are asked. I take out my crystal ball - it always impresses- and frown. The crystal ball is a very useful attribute for a clairvoyant. You know why? I helps channeling negative energy into strong and friendly vibes. The client feels good around it. It makes my itching stop. I used to think my paranormal capacities were a veneral disease. "It isn't going very well between the two of you, isn't it?" I remark, pretending to gaze into the inifinite wisdom of the crystal. "Eh, no (*sigh*) ...", he looks at me then the crystal ball, "We're having a difficult time. I'm barely home, always working." "2 kids?" I ask. He nods. What am I supposed to do?He is looking for advice from a third party to decide whether or not to flush his marriage down the drain. "She's having an affair", ...

Spring is here. Blossoms are falling already. Leaves are open and amazingly green. The sewers of Paris are restless and infested with flies and other insects. I'm coming up crawling out into the light. My varicose veins bursting with energy, sending a chill through my skin with every heartbeat. Bois the boulogne is preparing for the high season. The lonely men at dusk, the lonely women with tiny babies during the day. There's always someone to rob, to seduce or to lie to. My pink poodles, jean-pierre et jean-claude are losing their hair. All of it. They are a highly aristoratic breed and have ancestors with incestuously blue blood. The hair loss is only a small disadvantage I have to reckon with. I'm making a nice wigg out of it anyway and I've put both of them in one of my old corsets . It's orderly, it's fine. I'm going for a stroll. A la mode: baby birds

I'm walking along the coastline. Fine stones rustling under my feet. Seagulls cry like babies in the distance on the rocks, but I look down at the line of seaweed, wood and stones. 'What are you doing?' a voice asks. 'I work here', I reply. 'So, what are you looking for then?' 'I'm collecting pieces of polished glass' I answer. 'I'll help you.' she says, looking at me, eyes lines squinting at the sun. She's smiling, surprised. There's nobody but us, the seagulls quarreling, sea anemones about to bloom and nosey shrimps in rockpools. So transparent they almost don't exists at all. She hands me a small piece of green glass. 'Do you have to collect them all?' she asks. 'Yes, all.' We've fallen in love.

Magnolia and nests nestsnestsnestsnestsnestsnestsnestsnestsnestsnests. I see them everywhere in the naked trees. Some are only a start, a few twigs skillfully balanced in the crook of a tree branch. Empty nests make me sad. They are so desolate. I decided to collect them, but empty old nests fall apart when i try to lift them. Do I need to wake up and make a nest?

I live in a cardboard box in the sewers of the Gare St.-Lazare . It's no big deal. I'm used to it and once in a while, when the nights are cold, you can find a pretty warm place in the secret tunnels under the metro lines. It can be pretty cozy, with people lighting candles, playing 78 tours records on old wind up grammophones. A week ago I found an amazing, extra large empty box on the street. The real thing: airy, heavy, robust cardboard with a soft upper layer. It read "Office supplies" in red capitals. I've been sleeping well lately, but I can't help focussing on the big office buildings with their frustrating mirrors sending you flickering beams of sunlight saying "you can't get in". Who works there? What are they doing? And why?

bamboo shoots

Gray rainy days are excellent moments to observe the human species. Everybody seems to walk slower when it drizzles. The traffic lights are always red and sounds are muffled by the clouds. Rainy days make desperate people even more desperate, make them crawl out of their hole in search of a newspaper, chocolate, the presence of other wet coats in the bakery, the post office or the grocery shop. Today I had the privilige to spot a genuine specimen of the "dux disoccupato" or unemployed manager. I saw him in the street when I was going through the humiliating phase of descending a huge traffic bump with my car, trying to forget the ungracefull appearance I was making. He looked at me with desperation in his eyes. Hurt beyond feeling. Darkness and anger. What a specimen. Just my luck! I could immediately picture him in the board room. The way he had looked without the greying, untrimmed beard, his cheeks cleanly shaven, Smiling confidently. Now he was cursing the rain, t...

My daily life. desert on the first floor. Scorching heat of the central heating. Emergency barracks with dusty carpets. I feel myself streaming away. But instead of a deep storage reservoir, all that remains is a small muddy pond in someone's neatly arranged backyard. with a plaster green frog in it. no it's not kermit no...

à la mode: cocquilles St.-Jacques