Dante woke up around three in the afternoon, his stomach beginning to cry out with hunger. He got up and opened the shutters, full of hope, but was quickly disappointed when the rain launched an offensive to enter through the window of his bungalow.
The mayor's assistant had asked him to call to give news, but it was simply impossible for him to keep such a device in his home: if he wanted to succeed in getting back on his feet and hope to lead a stable life, he had to get rid of all potential ‘triggers’.
Among the list of objects that could be ‘triggers’, the telephone was a major candidate. An object with electronics, that could make noise, and above all, an object used for communication: it was the ideal combination for a good psychosis.
In the best-case scenario, he would hallucinate and hear phones ringing. Sure, he only had to get up, pick up, and listen to the static noise to realize that no one was calling him; but when that damn phone decided to ring day and night, even unplugged, it was enough to drive one crazy. More worrying, and more terrifying than the hallucinations, was the paranoia. Ideas that could enter his head and whisper lies to him, giving him the conviction that the handset was riddled with microphones. That the government was spying on him. That he had to tear out all the network cable, from the walls of the house to the top of the electric pole, if he didn't want to be wiretapped.
Another ‘trigger’ could be a clock radio: it had already happened to him to hear it whispering all night. To hear someone talking to him. Even radio hosts could directly address him, comment on everything he did in his room, as if they were there. He would then start to think that everything came from the airwaves, and that he had to protect himself from them at all costs.
Besides the voices and paranoia, the illness used apparitions to terrorize him: for example, mirrors were forbidden in his bungalow, too many bad experiences. He still remembered how scared he was to enter the bathroom at his parents' house, when his reflection would start to change, or when he would see a cadaverous hand slowly emerging from behind his shoulder.
No, he would rather take the bus to go to town, go to the town hall himself to make his report. He would also have time to fulfill some of his obligations, including, of course, going grocery shopping to be able to put something in his stomach.
He got ready, put on his jacket again to brave the bad weather once more, and went to the nearest bus stop, taking the opposite direction of the road he had taken last night. He found the stop in barely a few minutes' walk, and he didn't have to wait long for someone to pick him up. He paid for his ticket with a crumpled bill, and was given back barely enough to fill his mini-fridge at the supermarket.
The journey lasted about twenty minutes, during which Dante had taken care to remain silent looking at his feet, after finding a well-isolated seat. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't paranoid, that no one in this bus was giving him sideways glances, and that he had as much right to be in this town as anyone else. Now that he was working, and living alone, he was no longer a burden on society, or on anyone.
He got off when he began to recognize the buildings around him, mumbling a “goodbye, thank you” that no one heard, not even him. He walked to the town hall, passing rare pedestrians hidden under their umbrellas. He managed to find the office with the sign ‘DEPUTY MAYOR’, and he had to admit that his face lit up a shade when he found a familiar face.
“Ah! Dante!” exclaimed the man, emerging from a pile of documents.
“Hello, sir,” he replied timidly.
“Come now, call me Nestor, my boy. What a happy surprise that you've dropped by! How did this first evening go?”
“Very well, si... Nestor. I made the rounds in almost eight hours. Nothing to report, I didn't come across any smugglers.”
Nestor laughed heartily, which made Dante a little more at ease. He slipped behind the mountain of open files to rummage in a drawer under his desk, and pulled out an envelope which he handed to Dante:
“By the way, I was planning to bring it up to you, but since you're here, here's your advance on salary. Given the circumstances, you're paid at the beginning of the month, not at the end of the month.”
“Thank you,” he managed to articulate, almost not daring to take the envelope in his hands.
“The money is in cash, given... you know, the situation of the beneficiaries of this kind of program, generally.”
Dante nodded in response. He had in mind the salary indicated on the contract he had signed the day before, but the idea of having such a sum in his hands, though modest for the average person, almost frightened him. He even hesitated for a moment to give the envelope back to him.
“Is everything going well? Does the bungalow suit you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need anything that you're missing?”
“No.”
“For the support sessions, do you need help?"
“No,” he replied, “an AA meeting starts in half an hour in town, I'm going to sign up.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Nestor, “what a joy to have a new fellow from Saint-Suaire who knows how to integrate so well! But say, don't let me make you late especially! I chat, I chat, you know...”
Dante thanked him and slipped away: he had a stop to make first on the way to the AA meeting place.
***
He walked for about fifteen minutes until he found the pharmacy he had spotted: the establishment was on the edge of the old town, in a large red brick building. Just above the main entrance, a circular bas-relief from the period, in white marble and adorned with a distinctive motif, had been preserved: the logo depicted a scale, a symbol of justice and balance, firmly anchored in the center of the circle. On the left pan rested a small laboratory vial that tipped the balance, while on the right, perched high, was a seal, giving an impression of imbalance. Below the scale, precisely engraved, was an inscription, ‘1848’, probably indicating the year of foundation or a significant event.
Dante entered through the sliding glass door, and he was immediately transported to another world when the delicate fragrance from the care and wellness products, such as moisturizing lotions, scented creams with chamomile, lavender, or aloe vera, wafted towards him.
The shop was almost empty, with only one counter occupied. Dante took out an old folded paper from his pocket and approached an elderly pharmacist with round glasses. As he got closer, he now detected slight menthol scents emanating from the shelves of cold and muscle pain medications. Once he arrived, fruity notes had joined the spectacle, coming from a shelf of children's products.
“Good morning, how may I help you?” asked the man in the white coat.
Dante slid the paper across the counter, avoiding eye contact. The man unfolded the sheet worn by time and weather, and Dante caught him from the corner of his eye trying to conceal his surprise, perhaps seeing the size of his prescription, or perhaps understanding the illness associated with this type of treatment.
“How long before he blabs it to the whole town, you poor sap?” said a customer behind him.
Dante turned around, eyes wide, but he was the only one in this queue. His mouth went dry, and he involuntarily looked up at the security camera above the counter, beginning to feel uneasy.
“Just a moment, please,” said the man, regaining his smile – “Was it a forced smile?” Dante wondered - before slipping into the back room.
“Jump over the counter and grab me some opioids, fuck!” growled the imaginary voice.
Dante waited in silence, counting the seconds before the pharmacist reappeared. He became increasingly aware of the customers around him, the security cameras, and the computers spewing data in all directions. The pleasant and sweet smells had disappeared, and a caustic and oppressive air caught in his throat. He repeated to himself that refilling his medication was crucial to stay functional, and that once this step was completed, he would be at peace for several months. He jumped at the electronic chime when a new customer entered, and he was all too relieved when the pharmacist reappeared with his order in hand.
He hurriedly left the store and willingly let the fine rain cover him with a layer of purifying water. He took the time to appreciate the smell of wet concrete and headed towards his last place of penance for the day.
He moved away from the city center to venture into wider streets, now surrounded by gray buildings, avoiding cars half-parked on the sidewalk. From where he was, the sea was hidden by urban obstacles, and it was impossible to guess that one could be in a seaside town, let alone that luxury complexes like the Luminous Lagoon were just a handful of minutes away by car.
He finally found what he had come to look for: a sad edifice hidden in the shadow of two aging buildings with decrepit facades. It might have been a former auto garage repurposed, with its two large entrances sealed by roller shutters covered in graffiti, and its brick facade worn by pollution.
The sign, a simple metal plate fixed near the entrance, discreetly indicated ‘Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting Center’. The letters were slightly faded, as if they were as ashamed as those they saw passing by. The entrance door, made of metal, showed obvious signs of age, with peeling paint and stiff hinges.
Even in front of the building, the sidewalk had cracked and weeds were growing through the concrete fissures.
Pushing open the warped door, Dante first entered a small empty vestibule containing nothing more than a small white chipped desk revealing the plywood underneath, as well as an aluminum curtain cabinet. The cramped room was dimly lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were still covered with old paint yellowed by time and marked by traces of grease and oil, vestiges of the place's former activity.
Dante remained at the doorstep for a few moments until he realized he could hear faint murmurs coming from another room. He then timidly crossed the vestibule and gently opened a second door that led to a much larger space: the repurposed former garage.
Inside, the atmosphere changed completely: the large room was carefully arranged, offering a sense of warmth and security. The walls, probably once bare and cold, had been repainted in a soothing beige that absorbed the light from the neon tubes suspended from the ceiling. The latter now projected a soft and diffuse glow, creating a more welcoming atmosphere. Awareness posters and inspiring quotes adorned the walls, some of which Dante already knew. The floor he walked on had been covered with old linoleum with worn patterns.
The muttering Dante had heard became clearer, and he could now hear a woman speaking: the meeting had just begun.
He turned towards the center of the room and saw that rows of plastic chairs were arranged in a circle, inviting exchange and discussion. Dante counted eight people, and the woman who had the floor had stepped forward to enter the circle.
He discreetly approached and took a seat on a chair a bit apart from the rest of the group, trying not to draw attention: he was immediately noticed by a man who stood out from the rest of the group due to his somewhat calmer and more assured presence. He slightly inclined his head towards Dante, making the frame of his glasses shine, his intense gaze signifying that he was welcome, then he plunged back into listening to the speaker.
“... Thanks to that, I quickly managed to recover the biggest cases of the firm. Legal advice, contract management, litigation, even mergers or acquisitions: I had my hands on the biggest companies in the region. I saw unimaginable sums of money pass by: at first, I had to double-check to make sure I hadn't accidentally added three or four zeros. But the zeros also added up in my bank account, and I guess I quickly got used to it. The hitch was that without realizing it, it wasn't just money that was accumulating: it was the number of hours I was putting in at the office, and my gray hair.”
She let out a nervous laugh, and the woman resumed, this time lowering her head and staring at her shoes:
“Anyway, I'd say it all started three years ago. Very quickly, the cases piled up, the stakes were getting higher and higher. In addition to millions and billions, it was also the fate of thousands of employees that depended on my work. Sometimes, in cases of pharmaceutical or industrial company litigation, we had to settle out of court or bury cases of poisoning, and there, it was potentially human lives that I was crossing out along with my signature. I started having dreams. I was at the office, working, and I realized my feet were soaked. Looking under the desk, I saw the floor flooded. Water was seeping in through the doorway, even the windows were dripping. Every time, I panicked and tried to get out, but all the exits were blocked, and the water level rose rapidly until I drowned in my office.”
She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. Around her, people nodded gravely, encouraging her to continue her story in this circle of empathy:
“I had my first binge alone at home, on a Friday night. I was all alone, because this job virtually represented my entire life: I simply didn't have time to do anything else. I opened a bottle of bourbon that a big client had given me: thirty years old, the kind of bottle you don't even see in stores anymore, that you have to find by chance during an auction, or have contacts in the industry. Well, you know the type, a bottle that must have been worth the price of a car.”
“I drank about half of it, just trying to stop thinking, to stop seeing numbers and signatures every time I closed my eyes: it was disgusting.”
Laughter was heard from the audience, which seemed to make her a bit more confident:
“I threw it all up in the toilet, and I even emptied the rest of the bottle before flushing. The experience was horrible, but it had worked: I had managed to deactivate my brain. Very quickly, it became my only way to cut off from work during the few minutes I had to myself, before falling asleep. The workload only increased, with increasingly complicated cases, ever more insane sums of money, I was losing my sense of reality. Every night, I would drink a bottle of vintage wine, or even half a bottle of bourbon with a half-erased label - I had learned to like it. Very soon, I also had to drink in the morning to avoid hangovers. I think everyone could smell my breath at the office, despite the perfume I wore and the mint tablets I popped, but nobody cared: I was bringing in so much money to the firm.”
She shook her head, letting a tear roll down to her chin. She paused for a moment, as if lost in thought, and the man who had spotted Dante earlier changed position in his chair: he leaned forward and spread his legs, adopting a posture indicating he was listening, inviting speech. This technique seemed to work, as the woman continued:
“Alcohol eventually became my only way to function. After a while, I couldn't even think without it. If I tried to stop, even if just for a weekend, I was seized with anxiety, stomach cramps, and even fever. And the dreams would start again. This time, I found myself in my car driving home, and suddenly, the accelerator would get stuck. The car kept accelerating more and more, and the brake pedal did nothing. I would end up falling into the sea, and the car would slowly fill with ice-cold water. The seatbelt remained buckled, and I drowned...”
Her voice broke and she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. Some in the audience looked away. The man with glasses who seemed to be leading the circle stood up and placed a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder:
“Come now, Sarah, let your emotions speak. Don't hold back the tears, let your soul express itself.”
She seemed to nod, and she started crying even more. The scene lasted for a few moments, during which the man let his hand act as an age-old remedy, or an ancient ritual. Then, Sarah finally raised her head, and Dante jumped as he saw her face that seemed to have transformed, as if she had aged ten years and lost weight. Her cheekbones seemed even more hollowed, and her wrinkles more pronounced. Her blue eyes were empty, giving her the appearance of a corpse. Her silver hair was disheveled, a strand having stuck to her cheek across the track of a tear. She sniffled loudly, and tried to find her voice again. The man sat back down, ready to listen to the rest:
“It happened two months ago. I was in a meeting with a particularly difficult client. Something like a trial for negligence, which needed to be hushed up. There wasn't much I could do, the evidence against the accused was damning. But the client was rich and important, and my boss had come to the meeting in person. The client was getting on my nerves, imagining he was untouchable, and that I wasn't competent enough. But his case was hopeless, he was completely delusional. He started making a comment about my breath, I don't even remember exactly what he said. But what I do remember, still etched in my memory, was what my boss said when he intervened: ‘maybe you should take a few days off, I'll personally take care of this case, it'll do you good, you'll see.’”
She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose loudly, before continuing:
“He said that, in front of our biggest client! Me, who had sold my soul for this job...”
She burst out laughing, a hysterical laugh, then her face suddenly darkened, and Dante now faced a revenant from the beyond, barely more visible than a ghost:
“I felt humiliated. I went back to my office, took out a bottle that had been lying in the back of a drawer for ages, and I drank it. I drank until I couldn't feel anything anymore. And I drove home.”
Dante felt a tension slowly building in the room, and the audience began to tense up. Perhaps they were anticipating something they had feared themselves; the man who had placed his hand on Sarah's shoulder remained impassive, still fully listening, and Dante assumed he already knew the rest of the story:
“I had forgotten it was going to rain. I had planned to come home late at night, as usual, but I hadn't realized that by taking the wheel in late morning, I would probably be driving through a thunderstorm.”
She froze in a grimace of horror, as if reliving the scene, before continuing in a blank voice:
“The rain fell like an iron curtain. It crashed down on my car like hail. In an instant, the road became flooded, and I was going way too fast. I was furious, and I was well above the speed limit. I think... I think I lost control at a turn. I tried to turn, but my car kept going straight. I saw it in slow motion. My car sliding, crossing the white line, getting closer and closer to the guardrail. The landscape was spinning around me, because of the alcohol, but I saw the car coming from the opposite direction as if I was at the movies, high definition. I pressed the brake pedal, but it didn't change anything. I hit the car head-on. I felt the impact as if a meteorite had crashed right in front of me. I was thrown forward, and I think I lost consciousness, because everything went black.”
She began to sigh, and Dante saw that she was shaking. She shook her head before starting to cry again.
“It's okay Sarah,” the man intervened. “You can stop whenever you want.”
She shook her head again, this time resolute, and she resumed her story, interspersed with hiccups and sniffles:
“What woke me up was the smell. A smell that shook me like an electric shock. When I opened my eyes, I first saw my airbag hanging from the steering wheel, all deflated. It was full of blood. Then, I realized I was soaked: looking around, I saw that the driver's side window was broken, and the rain was pouring into the car as if it wanted to drown me. As if it wanted to kill me after seeing what I had done. And I thought back to the dreams I used to have. Except that, the smell was still there, invading my nose, and throat. I immediately thought of a barbecue. I slowly got out of the car, I think I was still in shock and I wasn't feeling the pain yet. But I saw. I saw that I was still in the middle of the road, but that the car I had hit was on the roadside, overturned. A thick white smoke was escaping from the smashed wreckage. I approached, and it was when the heat enveloped me in its suffocating embrace that I understood: it was burning, and the rain falling on the fire, far from extinguishing it, was turning into steam. It looked as if the car was slowly evaporating. I was five, six meters from the disaster, but it was impossible for me to get any closer: even at that distance it was a real furnace. And that's when I saw her. The driver. For a few seconds, which I relive in nightmares every night, the smoke made a lurch, like a curtain rising, and I caught a glimpse of her. And I understood why I was smelling that barbecue odor. She was halfway out of the wreckage, but her seatbelt must have been trapping her. She...”
She sighed and closed her eyes, perhaps to find the strength to continue. There wasn't a single sound in the room, and the once warm atmosphere had transformed into an icy wave that bit all their spines. After a while, she resumed, keeping her eyes closed, perhaps to visualize the scene:
“...It didn't even look human anymore. Her whole body was like covered in ashes. Her skin was cracked everywhere, gray and black in color. She had her mouth open, from which smoke was escaping, and she had no eyes left, just two black holes. She looked like some kind of clay golem, the kind of thing made by a five-year-old child.”
She stifled a silent laugh, then bit her lips while shaking her head, tears starting to stream down her face without a sound. When she could resume, her voice was barely intelligible:
“And she was begging. Even though she had nothing but empty sockets, it seemed like she was looking at me, and she was stretching her arms towards me as if for me to pull her out of there, moving them slowly, much too slowly for someone being burned alive. Even if I had wanted to intervene, it was much too hot to take even one step closer. But anyway, I was terrified. Terrified by this half-human form, this smell of grilled pork... Because yes, that's what it reminded me of: a pig that had fallen into the ashes of the barbecue, and was slowly consuming to end up as charcoal...”
Some had looked away, someone had even stood up to leave the room. But the man with the crew cut and gold-rimmed glasses still hadn't moved, maintaining his grave expression. Dante waited for Sarah to manage to control her sobs and her body that was shaking like a leaf. After what seemed like an interminable moment, she was finally able to conclude:
“I think I passed out after that. I woke up in the emergency room, and I thought I had another horrible nightmare, at least until I tried to raise my hand and heard the click of a handcuff. After that, they took me into custody. They kept me in jail for a few days awaiting my trial. I had to overcome alcohol withdrawal all alone, locked in a cage. I imagine many of you have already experienced that.”
“And one day, what I thought was a miracle happened: a lawyer I didn't know came to tell me they were letting me out. The idiot that I am thought it was the end of the nightmare, that I would be able to put all this behind me, and I was already swearing to myself never to touch a drop of alcohol again; but the lawyer quickly brought me back down to earth. It was my boss who had me released on bail, so that I could transfer all the files to my future replacement, some little shit in a suit fresh out of a top school. I immediately became disillusioned, yes. And then suddenly, I burst out laughing. I finally realized that I had wasted two lives, including an innocent one, for a terrible job and a boss who absolutely didn't care.”
“Today, I still have nightmares. I'm in my car, windows open, but the rain is coming. I try to roll them up, but they stay stuck. The water rises in the car, and I can't get out anymore. When I look to my right, I see that woman. The one I killed. She's made of ash, and the rising water slowly disintegrates her like a sandcastle. She ends up completely dissolving when the water reaches the car's ceiling, and I drown in her ashes. And during the day, everything makes me relive that accident. The rain, the smell of burning... In a few weeks, my trial will take place, and I'll stay in prison for a very long time, alone to think about this. This experience has been a life lesson, but unfortunately, a lesson that is only learned too late.”
***
Dante got off the bus around six-thirty, a few minutes' walk from his bungalow. After Sarah had finished her story, he didn't wait for the chairs to finish scraping the floor before slipping away: he had participated in the meeting, even if he had only listened, and he didn't feel like talking today. Instead, he had taken advantage of being in town to spend his first paycheck and go grocery shopping. He had bought enough to fill his small fridge - nothing too fancy, some basic vegetables, a bit of meat, and especially lots of pasta - until he stumbled upon something that immediately caught his eye: a Polaroid camera. The object almost looked like a toy with its big apple-green shell, and it was probably usually bought for children, or on a whim out of simple nostalgia; however, Dante didn't hesitate to put it in his basket.
He went home and stayed dry just long enough to eat - the meal was simple, but seemed so delicious to him... - and repeat his little ritual with his medications. Then, he left again to start his second round; this time, he slung the Polaroid camera across his body, well protected under his rain gear.
The night was a bit warmer than the day before, and the rain was so fine that it almost resembled a damp fog. Dante plunged into the wooded path, beginning to register the location of roots that could make him stumble and head-height branches that could shower him with water.
Once he found the road again, he glanced down the slope, and he once again saw the young woman from the night before. The halo of light illuminating that small bus stop sign, the woman's distant gaze, lost somewhere in the darkness of the forest, her umbrella dripping with water: this spectacle seemed almost mystical to him. He lifted his poncho, brought the Polaroid to eye level, and photographed the scene. A small card came out of the device: he took it and slipped it into his pocket, trying not to get it wet. Then, he set off again for the oil storage terminal.
***
Dante stared perplexed at the small window, opaque from rain on one side and a layer of grime on the other. He had circled the tanks, begun to skirt the maintenance building, and that's when a faint glow caught his eye. The light, almost invisible in the darkness and dust on the glass, flickered like a ghostly apparition.
He shone his flashlight through the window, but its beam was reflected back into his face by the dirt, blinding him more than anything. He tried leaning in, looking from different angles, but the small bluish flame, like a distant candle in the bowels of the hangar, was undeniably there.
Almost mechanically, he opened his poncho and once again pulled out his camera to photograph the scene. A new black-bordered white card emerged, and he shook it absently to reveal its contents. While waiting for the image to develop, he took out the photograph he had taken earlier from his pocket: it mostly showed the road and surrounding forest, but one could make out, though very small, the woman with the umbrella waiting for her bus.
“See,” he reassured himself, “you didn't imagine her...”
He put it away again and held the new one up to his eyes: the image was blurry, gray, like when you take a photo forgetting to remove the lens cap, but there was definitely something in the center. The blue glow, very, very faint, almost invisible, was nonetheless there.
“Looks like your brain isn't playing tricks on you...” he thought. “But what could it be? Is someone inside, or did a circuit turn on?”
He looked around: he had checked most of the doors, and they hadn't moved since yesterday, still padlocked. Had a door been opened on another side of the building?
He was about to set off when his flashlight illuminated an old rusted dumpster placed against the hangar wall. He froze, a strange premonition gradually overtaking him: this dumpster had something special about it.
He approached it cautiously: the sheet metal lid was half-twisted, revealing a chaotic heap of metal pipes filling the dumpster.
“It's not in its place. I need to take a picture...” he thought.
“No, that's not it,” he corrected himself. “There's something special about this dumpster, I can feel it, but it's not a hallucination.”
He swept the surrounding scene with his beam, letting his intuition slowly take over his reason:
“It was placed here,” he concluded aloud, alone in the night.
He illuminated the dumpster's feet: the four iron wheels had left furrows in the mud and pushed aside debris of plaster, metal shavings, and other shards of glass and concrete. A waterlogged cable reel had been placed right next to it, serving as a perfectly-sized step to climb onto the dumpster. As for the lid, it had been flattened on one side as someone climbed on it. Raising his lamp, he saw that just above the dumpster, a grimy window was in just the right place to brace against its ledge and climb up to the building's roof.
Dante took a few steps back and gained enough distance to see what was up there: at this spot, the roof was a bit lower, surrounded by a safety barrier with yellow, peeling paint, and it was possible to walk on it and enter a second floor of the building through a door located there.
“How much do you want to bet it's not locked?” he thought.
He stepped forward and stood on the cable reel: it was a bit wobbly, but he only had to lift his leg to climb onto the dumpster. He did so, but the hood let out a sinister screech that made him wince.
Afraid of alerting the potential intruder, he placed a foot on the edge of the slippery window and managed to hoist himself up to the roof. From where he stood, he could see a large part of the storage area with its rows of tanks, the guard post, but the other half of the complex was hidden by the wall of the second floor. He walked across the concrete section and reached the wall where the door was located. Around him, he saw only the expanse of forest stretching to the hills, which even hid the sea on the opposite side. He placed his hand on the door handle. It was cold and harsh to the touch. With a flick of his wrist, he activated it. The door opened with a creak, and he entered.
He was first taken aback by the din of water echoing in the maintenance workshop. Even though the rain was very fine, it must have been accumulating and falling into conduits in whole jets, for he felt surrounded by distant waterfalls. He found himself in an iron staircase, descending into the large room: he shone his light below and discovered a maze of several-meter-high shelves filled with cardboard boxes, spare parts, and all sorts of massive industrial pieces. In the center, the hook of a hoist hung from its heavy chain and was still attached to what looked like a large motor. Dante continued his visual inspection until he came across the reflection of the light source, indirectly diffused on a metal plate.
He descended silently, even though the sound of water muffled his steps. His heartbeat increased with each step, and he couldn't prevent his imagination from taking over: what would he encounter? Thieves, armed to the teeth? A serial killer, cutting up his victim by candlelight? Or perhaps a hideous monster, living in one of the oil tanks?
“Or,” he shuddered, “something's burning, and it's about to blow...”
He finally set foot on the reinforced concrete floor and advanced cautiously, skirting a shelf. He turned off his lamp when he reached the metal plate stored against a wall, at a right turn. He now saw the light very clearly, blue and yellow, pulsing regularly: its source painted the concrete floor up to the plate, and it must have been on the other side of the wall, not far away. He could still hear water trickling all around him. He positioned himself as close as possible to the corner of the wall, ready to take action. He heard a faint buzzing sound. Or rather, like a gurgle.
“Come on,” he thought, “it's your mission to secure the premises...”
He took a step forward, squinting in anticipation of the horror he was about to face; but what he saw was far from monstrous. Instead, there was a small gas stove projecting a yellow-blue flame onto a small pot full of water. Behind it was a pine-green sleeping bag worn to shreds, as well as a large hiking backpack that seemed packed to bursting. And finally, next to it, a man was crouching, his back turned. The man jumped at the noise, and when he turned to discover Dante and his terrified look, his startled gasp made him fall backwards.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! THIS IS MY PLACE!” he shouted, trying to appear threatening, reacting with his survival instinct.
He managed to get up with difficulty, and Dante faced a man shorter than him, but three times wider. His face was red from a mixture of health problems, fear, and anger. His eyes were bloodshot, and foam was coming out of his half-open mouth as he bared his rotten and damaged teeth. Dante couldn't react immediately, but his eyes managed to break away from the man's rabid grimace: he wore several layers of mismatched clothes, all in poor condition. He had long gray hair, though it was almost gone on top of his head, but it mingled with his large disheveled beard, like weeds growing out of control. An odor began to reach his nose, a rancid air of mold and disease.
Dante managed to take a step back, but the man approached like a wild animal on alert. He now heard very clearly the sound of water boiling over the fire. He began to raise his hands – perhaps to appear harmless, he didn't know himself – and at that moment, the aggressive mask on the stranger's face fell away to transform into surprise, then confusion:
“Wait,” he growled, “it's not you! Who are you?”
Dante's heart was still pounding clearly in his temples, but he managed to regain his composure, and he finally began to understand the situation:
“My name is Dante,” he replied. “I saw light in the building and wanted to make sure everything was alright.”
“What's it to you?” the other replied suspiciously. “This is my spot here, I'm not bothering anyone. Are you a cop?”
“Not at all,” he hastened to reply, “I'm just making rounds in the area to ensure everyone is safe. And by the way, if everything's fine with you, I'll leave you alone and continue my patrol.”
The man frowned and studied Dante: clearly, he wasn't sure yet if he could trust him. So Dante took a quick glance at the makeshift camp and spoke again, lowering his hands and trying to appear more natural:
“It's pretty handy to have a stove to boil your water, it's easier and quicker to make it drinkable.”
“Well, yeah,” the man startled, “I bought it, I didn't steal it, you know!”
“I don't doubt it,” he nodded. “Quite a rain out there, isn't it hard to stay warm with all this humidity?”
“It's alright.”
Dante saw that the stranger's shoulders were beginning to slump slightly. The features of his dirty face appeared a bit softer. He then lowered his arms and adopted a more natural posture, somewhat reassured.
“These sleeping bags aren't the worst,” he continued, pointing to the homeless man's precarious bedding, “I like how compact and light they are when folded. And yet, they keep you pretty warm since they're well... mollonated.”
“What?” the other wondered.
Dante furrowed his brow, concentrating harder.
“Uh, moltonique? No, wait... molloted? That doesn't sound quite right...”
He grimaced, searching for the correct word, then tried again.
“Moltured? No, that's not it... monlonned?”
Seeing that the other still wasn't following, he made one last attempt, gesticulating slightly to try and grasp the term that eluded him.
“Ah, molletoned! That's it. Well molletoned, you know.”
The man cracked an amused smile, seeming a bit more relaxed.
“Yeah, it's alright, and winter is getting further and further behind me.”
Dante nodded. His interlocutor turned his back for a few moments to remove his water from the fire, and he took this gesture as a sign of trust.
“You're quite young to have already been on the streets,” the man remarked as he turned off his stove.
Dante shrugged.
“You're a guard, aren't you?” he continued. “Are you going to report me?”
“No,” he assured. “I'm supposed to deal with delinquents, that sort of thing.”
The man poured the contents of his small pot into a canteen with peeling paint. He coughed loudly, producing a cavernous and wet sound, before spitting out a viscous, orange phlegm.
“Like that other kid?” he grumbled. “I thought it was him who had come here, that's why I freaked out.”
“What other kid?”
“I don't know, I saw him hanging around the guard post once or twice. I watched him from afar, and something wasn't right about him. I've learned to sense these things in people, you know? My instinct told me not to get close to him. I'd do the same if I were you.”
“Alright, friend,” he replied, knowing all too well what he meant. “If you don't need anything, I'll get back to my business.”
“No, I can manage.”
Dante nodded gravely, and the man added:
“By the way, my name's Hampus.”
He slipped with difficulty into his sleeping bag and simply stared at Dante with his yellowed eyes, as if signaling that it was indeed time for him to leave.
“Nice to meet you, Hampus. Have a peaceful night,” Dante said before departing.
***
He left the complex after sweeping his flashlight inside the guard post, finding nothing special other than waterlogged monitors and electronic devices. Even though the window was broken, the door was locked, and he had no desire to play acrobat and risk cutting himself on sharp glass just to get his hands on a presumed teenager who wasn't there.
No, he had done his inspection quickly, but above all, with his mind completely elsewhere: this surprise encounter had brought back memories. They weren't that old, maybe six months or so, but they seemed to come from a former life. At least, he hoped so.
He was leisurely walking along the road that would take him to the coast and the continuation of his rounds, thinking back to the makeshift shelters he himself had had to frequent to survive.
And more particularly, Sacred Heart Hospital. It was last winter, snow had just started to fall. Although this place was miles away from Saint-Suaire, he suddenly felt the icy fangs of winter biting him like a wild beast, a bite that pierced his bones and forcibly plunged him back into these memories.
It was last winter, far from here:
***
