“A cathedral?” Dante stammered, feeling his stomach knot with anxiety.
He felt small beads of sweat prickling his forehead and was instantly transported back in his memory to the day before, just before washing up in the gym's locker room: after finishing his registration for the free trial day at the center, he had headed straight for the showers, and the sideways glances he tried to ignore had triggered the same anguish.
“Yes, well, if that's your thing, you know?” the deputy mayor continued. Then he added, “Of course, this building won't be part of your rounds. I just mentioned it because it's one of the town's prides, worth a visit.”
Dante nodded with a forced smile and looked away, somewhat embarrassed. The deputy mayor was a short man, but full of energy. He sported a small silver goatee, and his salt-and-pepper hair had ceded most of the territory on top of his skull. His office was a small room filled with all kinds of binders and posters. Between the welcoming, hopeful gazes of candidates on election posters and the beaming smiles of families on tourism banners, he felt observed and had only one desire: to sign his contract and get out of here.
The man finally sensed Dante's discomfort, so his face softened, and he handed him a small stack of documents:
“You know, our 'New Momentum' program doesn't allow me to pay you a decent salary, but the town will house you in a small bungalow that will provide all the peace and quiet you need, plus a sea view. You'll see, Saint-Suaire is a very pleasant town, at least before the tourists flood in, and the setting is perfect for soothing the soul.”
He turned his head and frowned as he saw the drizzle caress the window, before adding:
“At least, you'll be able to enjoy it if this rain ever stops...”
Dante didn't respond: the mere idea of having a place to call home made him euphoric, and he was already imagining the hot showers he could take and the clean bed he could sleep in at night.
He took the pen and entered his personal information: his name, date of birth – “Almost twenty already,” he marveled - and a simple cross in the field reserved for address. Then, he skimmed through the document, detailing his job as a night watchman for various infrastructures around the town, as well as the different obligations and conditions he had to respect in return: rehab if necessary, participation in support groups, staying away from bad company, and generally avoiding making any kind of waves. He checked ‘participation in support groups’.
Once finished, he handed the documents to the deputy mayor, who signed them and filed them in one of the countless binders on the shelf behind him, smiling.
“Glad to have you officially with us!” he exclaimed. “You'll see, you're going to love Saint-Suaire, there's nothing better to recharge! And now, if you'd like, I can show you your new accommodation!”
Again, Dante nodded in response. He didn't feel like talking, and he was eager to isolate himself in the bungalow: the deputy mayor was right, this town and this job were exactly what he needed to get back on the right track.
“Perfect,” said the man, rising from his desk, “let me grab my jacket, and we'll go by car.”
Dante imitated him, and his gaze was caught by the grayish landscape through the window: the opening looked out onto the historic part of the town with its old buildings in faded colors and wrought-iron balconies spitting water into the street. A few pedestrians wandered under their umbrellas, but the street was mainly overrun by cars.
“Or maybe I could take you deep into the woods and slit your throat like the curly lamb you are,” the deputy mayor added.
Dante jumped and spun around, mouth agape and heart constricting in his chest.
“Excuse me?” he barely managed to articulate.
The man turned around as well, visibly confused: “I didn't say anything, young man. Are you ready to go?”
Dante remained paralyzed for a moment, his blood still frozen in his veins but his brain working at full speed. He moved his lips slightly, as if reciting something silently, and his fingers discreetly activated, as if counting something. Then, a few seconds later, he relaxed and was able to respond, his voice nevertheless still somewhat shaky:
“Yes, I'm ready. And if possible, I'd like to start work tonight.”
***
They left the town in the city hall's small white car with its worn windshield wipers. The period buildings of the town center quickly gave way to more modern and conventional streets as they moved away from the sea, and the road became more winding with the altitude. At a hairpin turn, Dante could briefly admire most of Saint-Suaire, bordered by the waves of a sea that merged with the sad sky due to the rain: the cathedral, an immense Baroque-style building, was discernible even from so far away with its yellow dome and steeples dominating the rest of the town center. Ahead of them, the reefs transformed into cliffs while the forest gained ground on them. In the distance, he also distinguished the old lighthouse, waiting for nightfall to resume its service.
Dante emerged from his contemplation when the car began to slow down to stop in a recess at the side of the road. On their left, they still overlooked the sea and Saint-Suaire, while in front of them, civilization had abandoned the battle against nature, first lush then steep until it fell sheer into the sea. To their right, a path crossed a meadow to reach a wooden bungalow. The small dwelling was far less gloomy than Dante had expected, with its terracotta roof, blue-painted shutters, and small vegetable garden. A little further away, a shed probably served for tool storage.
The two men got out of the car. Dante retrieved his large backpack from the trunk and approached the mailbox planted at the edge of the path, amazed: was he really going to receive mail, like adults?
“So,” exclaimed the deputy mayor, “what do you think?”
Dante's gaze climbed the path lined with wildflowers, bushes, and tall grasses, then he turned around to admire once more the panorama before him, which he would find every morning upon opening his shutters:
“It's a real piece of paradise,” he replied.
The man burst out laughing while stroking his goatee and invited him to join him under his umbrella. They followed the small dirt path until they reached the door of the dwelling, and the deputy handed Dante a set of keys:
“The honor is yours, it's your home now.”
Dante accepted the offering, weighing the keys in his hand with a solemn air: this was it, it was really happening. A new start, a new life.
He unlocked the door and entered first, sheltering from the fine rain. The main room served as a small living room with a fabric sofa, a coffee table made from a wooden pallet with a glass top. On the other side of the coffee table, two small wooden stools were placed in front of a simple shelf filled with knick-knacks and used books. On the left, the open kitchen was illuminated by the window above the sink. Next to it, two gas burners, and underneath, a mini-fridge and an old washing machine. The natural light, walls, and wooden furniture made the bungalow warm and welcoming. On his right were two closed doors: the deputy entered in turn and completed the tour by opening the first door that led to the bathroom. A toilet, a shower cubicle, and a sink. The second door concealed the bedroom, a room with blue-gray carpet, a double bed that barely left room to walk around, and a final door that enclosed a small pantry for storing clothes. Dante's gaze remained hypnotized by the fluffy comforter with colorful patterns and the two pillows: he hadn't seen such a beautiful bed since he ran away.
“And that completes the tour of the dwelling,” announced the man.
He gave Dante the final instructions, shuffling through the pile of papers and brochures placed on top of the shelf: to reach town, he could take the nearest bus stop, a five-minute walk away, with a bus every hour. There, he could go shopping, explore the area, reach the beach, and enjoy his free time. He had noted down the emergency numbers, town services, and everything that might be useful – Dante's gaze fell on the telephone, which he hadn't noticed until now, and his face tensed slightly. A binder contained several useful addresses, and Dante nodded as he saw those of the pharmacy and the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting place, two destinations he had planned to frequent once settled.
The deputy then pulled out a map and spread it on the coffee table, but Dante was already starting to feel agitated: he had spotted the mirror placed next to the entrance door, and he had to move to turn his back on it, but the sensation of knowing it was behind him was unpleasant, as if he felt observed. He tried nonetheless to listen to the instructions: his first evening of work was going to start in a few hours, and he didn't want it to be a fiasco.
“This mission consists of touring strategic buildings to prepare for the tourist season: avoiding squatters, identifying dangerous situations, monitoring the state of infrastructures, and reporting any degradation. Rest assured, the area is absolutely safe, but we found it was a good opportunity to participate in the ‘New Momentum’ program while truly contributing to the community.”
“Of course, you have total freedom to manage your rounds, but it forms a kind of loop: the closest point from here is the old oil storage terminal, lost in the woods. It has been abandoned for years, but the tanks are still there and the adjacent maintenance workshop is supposed to be sealed off. Then, as you get closer to the coast, you'll find an old psychiatric hospital: even if it's in poor condition, it's a historic building and we're working on fundraising to restore it. We've already had vandalism problems in the past, and would just like to keep thrill-seeking youngsters at a distance.”
“Once you reach the coast, you'll find the old lighthouse, a historic and iconic building. It would essentially be about checking its proper functioning. You can walk along the steep rocks, the view is magnificent and the walk is peaceful, and you'll arrive at the park of the ‘Luminous Lagoon’ thermal station. None of us can afford to spend our Saturday there, but we must take care of it for the tourist season, if you follow me!”
“In short, to finish, you can skirt the town, climb back up the coast – it works the cardio! – and end with the water tower above the town. Again, it has already served as a meeting place for young lovers, with the superb view of all of Saint-Shroud, and we'd simply like to avoid accidents. If I've calculated correctly, that gives us a total of eight kilometers, enough to find and maintain fitness! Well, it's always more pleasant to walk in the dry, but we're at the mercy of the weather, let's hope it improves...”
He brought his hand to his face and began to stroke his goatee pensively. Then, he turned to Dante, looking surprised:
“Well, I think that's everything! Any questions?”
Dante shook his head: he was becoming increasingly nervous, now that he had mentally revisited the bungalow and was sure he had seen a clock radio placed on the bedside table, and he was fighting against a visceral desire to throw himself at it and hurl it far into the forest.
“Get a grip,” he thought, “you'll be able to settle in soon...”
The deputy mayor nodded with an accomplished air, welcomed the newcomer once again, and decided it was time to give him space for the rest of the evening.
“In any case,” he concluded, “you're one of us now! Call me tomorrow morning to tell me how your first round went, and to ask me any questions you have. My number is on the list! Well, I'll leave you to it, happy settling in!”
Dante walked him to the door, said goodbye, then went back in and stood in front of the kitchen window to watch him descend the path under his umbrella; he bit his tongue to be patient, trying to contain his thoughts and not let them overwhelm him. In a few moments, everything would be better.
He waited for the car to start and disappear from his field of vision, then returned to the living room – it only took two steps to go from the kitchen to the other room, the fake wood flooring creaked under his weight, but it was an unhoped-for improvement in his living conditions. He headed towards the front door and reluctantly laid eyes on the small mirror: he saw only his own reflection, that of a frail-faced teenager with haunted eyes. He had tanned skin, fine features but dark circles that betrayed his fatigue. His curly hair was wet from the rain – that's what the deputy had told him earlier, that he was a curly lamb, but it wasn't him who had spoken, he knew it.
He looked away, terrified of seeing something else, or someone else. He unhooked the mirror from the wall – it was simply hanging on a nail – and placed it in front of the door. He crossed the room, unplugged the telephone as if he were defusing a bomb and put it on the floor as well. He then entered the bedroom and grimaced when he saw the clock radio: the object underwent the same treatment and ended up on the doorstep.
He toured the bungalow, carefully analyzing every square inch. He ended up taking all the magazines off the shelf: he put back those that dealt with nature, or even cars; he placed on the pile those that talked about fashion, health, or anything that had a face on the cover.
Once satisfied, he put on his jacket, took all the objects in his arms and went out to reach the shed. He went around the vegetable garden, thinking it might be interesting to learn how to garden, and managed to unlock the shelter despite his full hands: he found all kinds of equipment and some cobwebs. He put his loot on the ground, hesitated, then covered it with a tarp lying around for good measure. Once finished, he closed the door with a double lock and returned to the bungalow.
He headed towards his backpack and took out his belongings: he put away his clothes in the bedroom, placed his toothbrush in a glass on the bathroom sink and placed a transparent plastic box with a blue bottom in the cupboard above his head. Back in the living room, he added a book or two to the shelf. Then, he returned to his bag and knelt down: at the bottom, carefully wrapped in protective fabric, was a rectangular box of worn leather, its corners slightly scuffed by the years.
He gently took it out of the bag, taking care not to damage it. With almost ceremonious gestures, he headed towards the shelf and carefully placed the box on it, replacing the telephone that was there.
The box, though worn, retained a particular sheen under the soft light of the fading day. Its brass fittings glimmered slightly, testifying to a past where it had been so often and regularly handled. Dante looked at it for a moment, lost in thought. Once again, his fingers danced almost imperceptibly against his thigh.
He let out a sad sigh and stood up to observe his surroundings: all sensation of unease had disappeared, he had truly found his home.
***
Night had just fallen on Saint-Suaire. Dante had watched the faint glow of the sun, hidden behind a layer of heavy clouds, slowly die behind the horizon: this scene must be breathtaking in clear weather. He looked at his watch: seven o'clock. He headed to the bathroom, opened the wall cabinet and took out the plastic box. The inside was hollowed out in rows containing pills of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
He swallowed a first green, elongated pill: Risperdal. Before discovering this medication, he had started with Abilify, but he quickly realized that it prevented him from sleeping. His doctor had it replaced with Seroquel, but the effect was the opposite: he had difficulty keeping his eyes open during the day and was starting to seriously gain weight. At the hospital, it had been the same circus: they had made him take Geodon; impossible to close an eye. Zyprexa? His metabolism went crazy. On another occasion, he had been forced to take Haldol, and it had been torture. Worse than when he was in withdrawal.
Once his antipsychotic was swallowed, he moved on to the next row, containing a bunch of white pills: Zoloft, an antidepressant. Better than Prozac and Cymbalta which hadn't worked, or even Effexor which he had endured for six months and which gave him vertigo.
He continued the ritual by taking a large round pill from the next row this time. He swallowed the Ativan with a grimace, but it was still better than Xanax for obvious reasons, or Klonopin which turned his memory into Swiss cheese. He had lost three months of his life because of this declination of anxiolytics.
He finally finished by swallowing a Benadryl from the last column of his medicine box, whose sole purpose was to counteract the side effects of the antipsychotics; but again, he wasn't complaining. It was better than Artane or Akineton which tended to turn him into a zombie.
After putting away his box, he returned to the living room where he found the equipment the town had left him: a large neon yellow rain poncho carefully folded, a flashlight, a laminated map with his proposed route drawn in red pen, and a small whistle to wear around his neck. He put on all the necessities, and once ready, he opened the door to start his first evening of work.
***
Saint-Suaire at night was a breathtaking spectacle: the sea was nothing more than a huge black hole trying to swallow the coast. The city lights shone with a thousand fires before dying at the hills. On the other side, the fluffy silhouette of the forest gave the impression of flying over a lake of clouds, transforming into intimidating and sharp shadows because of the reefs. A little further, he could see the pier and the yellow light that turned on itself like a siren: the lighthouse.
He stood for a few seconds contemplating this masterpiece while the drizzle refreshed his face. He was on the road, deserted, and he could see it snake down to the city following the trail of streetlights, like a scar on the hills. He enjoyed the silence, which he had learned to appreciate as a treasure since his illness had declared itself three years earlier.
He fought against the urge to spend the whole night daydreaming and pulled out of his jacket the map he had been left: he had about two kilometers to walk going into the forest, and he would come across the oil storage terminal. He didn't even have to follow the road, he could cut through the bends by taking a hiking trail and thus avoiding cars, although given the lack of luminous movement on the coast, except in the town center, he didn't think he risked encountering one.
He set off then, leaving the paved path, trading the dull light of the streetlamps for the harsh and aggressive one of his flashlight. The trail wasn't too muddy, but he thanked the deputy mayor for providing him with something to light his way among the stone steps and root obstacles. He continued through the thickets until he passed under the first trees, and the small regular droplets then transformed into chaotic jets, the leaves releasing torrents of water as they gave way under their weight.
A few minutes later, he left the vegetation to find the road again, and his gaze was drawn to his right, downhill: a little further, a streetlight illuminated a woman standing motionless, protected under a transparent plastic umbrella. Behind her was a bus stop, a simple sign planted in the roadway. He wondered what she could be doing so far from everything at such an hour, but he noticed, although he was too far to decipher any inscription, that the bus stop sported two signs of different colors. The road behind split in two, one part continuing to descend towards the coast, and the other climbing up to plunge into the forest and, it seemed, continue on the other side of the hills: Dante assumed that the woman in the long dress was changing lines at this spot, and perhaps she was leaving Saint-Suaire to go to the other side of the relief area.
He remained frozen for a few more moments observing the drops passing in front of the halo of the streetlight which gave the impression of a new painting offering itself to him like a hidden treasure forgotten in time; fearing nonetheless that she might notice him, he crossed the road to resume the path, sweeping the ground with his lamp.
The second kilometer had no surprises in store for him, at least until he reached his first destination, the famous storage terminal. He was first impressed by the size of the complex: the forest had evaporated over several hectares, devoured by an endless expanse of tarmac. Rows of gargantuan tanks spread out endlessly, disappearing into the night and fog. On the other side, the large dilapidated hangar must have been the former maintenance workshop for oil equipment.
Dante headed towards the entrance, featuring a guard post with broken windows and a set of barriers lying on the ground. Between the heavy silence, the starless night, and the darkness left by the powerless lighting system, the area reminded him of some zombie movies he had seen in his youth, and he wondered if he had made the right choice in accepting this position.
He hesitantly illuminated the abandoned booth, as if he was going to unveil a corpse or a werewolf, then tried in vain to illuminate the parking lot in front of him, the beam of the lamp dying in the darkness well before revealing its depths: he would have to explore the place almost blindly, at least until he became familiar with the surroundings.
He stepped over the red and white striped barriers and entered the empty parking lot. His hair was dripping with rainwater, but even as he passed his hand over his face, he only got wetter. He continued walking, and decided to start along a row of tanks to cover most of the storage space.
The crossing seemed to last an eternity, on edge at every rustle of trees, every shadow that threw itself in front of him when he swept his flashlight, until he finally arrived at the fence that marked the end of the zone. Nature was reclaiming its rights just behind, and Dante thought that only a madman would dare to point his light among the singularly shaped trunks. He turned and followed the fence keeping a good safe distance to avoid being caught by a possessed branch, until he arrived in front of the maintenance building.
The hangar, imposing in its height, had huge sliding doors closed with heavy chains: they were wide enough to let a small plane pass, and when he noticed the sets of rails that ran around the workshop and plunged under each door, a shiver of anxiety ran through him: what could be the size of the formidable machines hiding behind this sheet metal?
He decided to go around the workshop following the railway: he inspected each padlock by pointing his lamp at it, and when he came across access doors for employees, he turned the handle to check that they remained locked. The rest of the inspection went smoothly, and he was starting to feel a bit more confident. If he managed to get used to walking alone at night, this daily walk would be perfect for him.
Once his round was finished, he went up the other row of tanks until he returned to his starting point. He crossed the guard post again and took the road to get closer to the coast.
***
The specter of the old psychiatric asylum loomed over the sea, perched on a flat stretch of land above the reefs. Resembling the skeleton of an ancient castle, the building still stood despite its stone walls badly eroded by the salty air and its heavy, rotting wooden beams exposed like a rib cage through the half-collapsed roof. Slender towers rose at regular intervals like sharpened halberds, and nature had reclaimed its rights in the vast garden of brambles, weeds, and shrubs with gnarled branches.
In front of the path half-erased by vegetation that once led to the large wooden doors guarding the hospital's entrance stood a sign far more recent than this sinister entity:
‘SECOND BREATH’ PROJECT
IN AN EFFORT TO PRESERVE ITS HERITAGE AND SHOWCASE ITS HISTORIC BUILDINGS, SAINT-SUAIRE IS ORGANIZING A FUNDRAISER TO RESTORE THE VIEUPIC HOSPITAL AND GIVE IT NEW LIFE AS A LOCAL HISTORY MUSEUM AND CULTURAL CENTER
FOR MORE INFORMATION, CONTACT THE TOWN HALL
Dante could hear the waves crashing against the steep rocks, a few dozen meters below him, and this melody that might have once soothed patients made him uneasy: they sounded too much like slow heartbeats coming from the depths of the ruin, like an evil aura pulsing from the zombie building.
“I'm never going in there,” he shuddered.
Gathering all his courage, he timidly swept the facade with his flashlight: the heavy doors were closed, and even though most of the windows were broken, they were all barred, preventing curious onlookers from entering.
“Or anyone from getting out...” he grimaced.
He turned around, facing the shore: the rain fell in an almost invisible net before him, while the sea and the cloudy sky merged their black veil as if the artist had forgotten to paint this part of his fresco.
“Painting paint on a painting paints a funny picture?” a jovial voice chimed in behind him.
Dante turned around with a gasp of fear, nearly choking. His flashlight zigzagged through the chaotic vegetation, casting trembling shadows like ghostly apparitions.
“Stop doing that, you look like an idiot...” the voice continued, still behind his back.
He froze, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, fighting against panic; instead, he closed his eyes, trying to focus. Thoughts swirled in his head, his heart pounding in his chest, but he tried to push all these elements to the background and return to tangible sensations: after a few seconds of struggle, the exercise he had learned a few years ago began to bear fruit. He felt the cool little drops falling on his nose, became aware of the rough rubber of the flashlight that fit the shape of his hand, even appreciating his toes still dry in his waterproof shoes. He now visualized himself in his bungalow: he was in the living room, in front of the bookshelf. The soft light from the lamp illuminated the room with a warm glow, reflecting off the brass fittings of the worn leather box. He felt safe, at home, in an environment he could control. He imagined placing his fingers on the cold but reassuring metal, protecting his treasure.
“He's trying to calm down, but it won't work,” recited a monotonous voice, like a narrator, but Dante paid no attention to it.
With almost ceremonial delicacy, he saw himself opening the box, revealing the golden gleam of his trumpet. The instrument, though marked by time, sparkled under the light, each curve and valve casting a complex reflection that he knew by heart. He continued to concentrate, imagining himself gently taking it out of its case, feeling the familiar weight in his hand. Already, his heart was beating slower.
In a memory from long ago, he brought the mouthpiece to his lips, and the imaginary sensation of cold metal against his skin brought immediate comfort. He took a deep breath, remembering childhood lessons, hours of practice, and moments of pure musical escape. Outside, in the night of Saint-Suaire, the fingers of Dante's free hand moved with precision and fluidity. The A minor scale, so basic and yet so soothing, resonated in his mind. He visualized his fingers resting on the valves, each press producing a clear and pure note, while his moistened lips moved silently.
“And that's when he jumped off the cliff, meeting his death,” another voice chimed in, to no avail.
He continued, moving from the scale to a chord progression. The sounds echoed in his mind, creating a soft and melancholic melody. As he imagined the notes rising and filling the space, he felt a wave of calm wash over him.
“Is that a flat there or not?” he thought.
The doubt made him lose his train of thought, he hesitated for the next part, made a mistake, and his structure collapsed like a house of cards, the melody getting lost in the echo of the night.
“Just a few years ago, I knew all this like the back of my hand, without even having to think about it, it's really getting worse and worse,” he lamented.
But now, he felt serene. Back in the present, grounded. And he knew he didn't need to turn around, that the voice wasn't real.
“You're no fun, poop face...” the voice pouted.
Dante let out a long sigh: the night was far from over, and from where he stood, he could see the lighthouse's light dancing below.
Without bothering to cast a last glance at the ruined building, he turned back and pulled out his rain-soaked plastic map: he realized he could take the main road that wound down to the beach. He would come across a parking area for camper vans – empty at this time of year – and could follow a tourist path that ran along the coast to the lighthouse.
He then followed the tarmac path, water streaming in the gutter like a river. And apart from the soothing sound of water, the night was silent. He began to pass some isolated houses, some seeming almost abandoned with their yards filled to the brim with old cars, balconies overflowing with planters, or gardens full of rain-soaked farm equipment.
But Dante was lost in thought: he let his legs guide him as he reminisced about his few stays in the psychiatric hospital. For some, he had kept good memories: a soothing environment, understanding medical staff, maybe even a few friends briefly met and so quickly forgotten. For others, the experience had been more unpleasant: some doctors who swore only by Haldol, regardless of the side effects. Others who didn't take his symptoms seriously, going so far as to accuse him of play-acting. And then there were the stays he had no memory of, lost between psychosis, sedation, and bouts of paranoia.
The period when schizophrenia had gotten the better of him was behind him, largely since he had started taking his medication regularly, and he hoped that by finding a stable living environment, by getting his bearings and habits, he could finally put this awful nightmare behind him.
“What Dante didn't know was that he was sorely mistaken,” the narrator resumed somewhere above his shoulder, but he ignored it.
As he descended, nature gave way to a residential area with houses with closed gates and shutters, a campsite, and finally the seafront: he was now level with the waves that pounded against the stone jetty. The streetlights lined up to the distant town center emitted a light striated by the rain, illuminating the path wedged between the water and the cliffs. Halfway, perched on a mass of rock jutting out into a tumult of black waves like a small island, stood the Saint-Suaire lighthouse.
Imposingly tall, it was visible in the night even far from the streetlights thanks to its white paint, though peeling in several places. Its base was covered with graffiti, some more elaborate than others. Then, a rusty metal spiral staircase climbed to the top of the structure, reaching the dazzling light that spun at full speed, seeming to illuminate the entire bay.
Dante approached, observing with wonder the light beam periodically revealing the area of sharp reefs jutting out of the water offshore: without the light, the deadly trap was completely invisible. Once at the foot of the monument, he could decipher the writings of delinquents, several inviting tourists to go home, or even to go to hell, to put it politely.
Dante stood for a moment watching the light beam rotate and burn his retinas with each pass over his head. A metal guardrail was solidly anchored on the rocky path to reach the lighthouse, and it wasn't superfluous: from where he stood, behind the barriers and the locked gate of the jetty, he could see the waves crashing onto the makeshift passage to access the rocky islet.
“I hope I won't have to climb up there,” he thought.
Even though the lighthouse was intimidating and the waves seemed violent, Dante found this place reassuring, and he was surprised to find himself already looking forward to returning the next evening.
He nevertheless illuminated his watch with his flashlight: eleven o'clock. He had only two more points to visit, but he had to climb back up all he had descended so far, and it wasn't going to be a walk in the park.
He set off again, leaving his little halo of light and comfort, but he was soon rewarded by the end of the reef area and the beginning of the beaches: civilization and the city lights were drawing closer, and he began to imagine what this little paradise might become in summer. He crossed the harbor, populated exclusively by fishing boats, then began to see the first beachfront bars appear. On the other side of the town, he could now see the hills emerging from the curtain of rain. They had gentler slopes than those on the reef side, and the forest had been replaced by fields and meadows.
Using his map, he managed to find the ‘Luminous Lagoon’. Well hidden behind hedges, he could at least guess the size of the complex by seeing the extent of the parking lot, although empty. He approached a small gate and grabbed his key ring: the deputy mayor had given him the key to the park entrance so he could do his rounds. He found the one that had been engraved ‘LLB’, and inserted it to open the brand new gate that barely creaked.
He walked along the brick facade until he reached the park: composed of impeccably trimmed trees and shrubs, perfectly placed flower beds, it offered a breathtaking view of the sandy beach and the sea, far from second-rate tourists, thanks to its opening and slightly sloping terrain. On the other side, this part of the spa was completely glazed, and Dante could glimpse, thanks to a flashlight beam, baths, jacuzzis, and all sorts of equipment. Lounge chairs were lined up against a bar, and he averted his eyes when he saw the shelf filled with brand-name alcohol bottles.
He lost himself for a moment in the large garden, wondering if one day he would have the means to frequent such a distinguished establishment: he told himself that there was no chance of that ever happening, but that he could always enjoy this setting at night, with no one to disturb him, no less.
Once satisfied with his round, he consulted his map to move on to the next point. Now only the water tower remained, high above the town, but he estimated that it was almost an hour's walk to reach his objective.
He set off, skirting the town following the slope of the hills. He hadn't needed his flashlight during this little hour of walking, the area being gridded by streetlights. He passed a few cars driving quietly, but Saint-Suaire was generally asleep.
As he advanced, he realized that the salty air caressing his nostrils was gradually changing into the harsher, more polluted air of the city. But once at the top, he turned around to admire the view: Saint-Suaire's luminous grid contrasted with the darkness of the sea. He could see the historic buildings of the town center, illuminated by spotlights at their feet. Turning around, he saw the shadow of the water tower, a bit higher in the hills: he set off again, beginning to sweat and pant.
“Come on, chop chop! Left, right, left, right, left, right...” a voice sang in his ear.
“In a month, this will be nothing more than a healthy walk,” he thought.
He finished his ascent to the rhythm of his hallucination's encouragements, and sat on a wall of old stones, out of breath.
The immense cylindrical structure made of concrete must have been at least as tall as the lighthouse. It had been painted with a fresco representing the main icons of the town, such as the beach, the cliffs, the lighthouse, or even the great cathedral. A metal ladder fixed to the wall allowed access to the top of the large dome-shaped reservoir, protected from falls by a protective cage. The base of the tower, made of solid concrete, was covered with inscriptions, more words of love than the insults painted on the lighthouse. A slight smell of wet concrete and rust could be detected, and, if he wasn't crazy, a hint of chlorine. He heard small shrill noises among the foliage around him, and looking up he could see the shadow of a bat briefly crossing the cloudy sky.
The view he thought he would discover by climbing up here was blocked by the trees: this area was isolated and hidden in the scrubland and nascent forest. So, he approached the staircase cage and was not surprised to find that the lock on the wire mesh door had been broken. He entered and began to climb the steps made slippery by the rain, probably imitating many of the town's teenagers before him.
Once at the top, lungs burning, his gaze was first drawn to the lightning rod that soared into the night, surpassing the treetops. Beer carcasses lay against the iron pole, and he wondered if he might slip on a condom and fall to his death.
“Next time, I need to bring a garbage bag,” he noted.
Then, he turned around and discovered why lovers took the trouble to climb up here: it was by far the most spectacular panorama he had ever seen, with a plunging view of the town center and its historic buildings tearing through the night with their colored lights, then the sandy beach, and finally the expanse of salt water that went on forever, until it merged with the black sky.
“I'm willing to bet that the sun sets right in this axis,” he thought with regret.
He spent a few minutes contemplating the landscape, in heaven. And when he noticed that his watch indicated two o'clock in the morning, he decided to conclude his first night of work and head back.
***
Dante was not unhappy to return to the dry and be able to get rid of his soaked clothes. He undressed and stepped into the shower: having his own bathroom, with hot water and soap, seemed like a completely delirious idea to him, and he let out a little chuckle of excitement, all alone in his bungalow.
Once cleaned, he lay down in his bed. No time to enjoy it or rejoice: he fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow.
***
