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Le Monde de L'Écriture » Encore plus loin dans l'écriture ! » Textes non francophones » [Contenu explicite] Genesis Red

Auteur Sujet: [Contenu explicite] Genesis Red  (Lu 1115 fois)

Hors ligne Genesi

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[Contenu explicite] Genesis Red
« le: 16 mai 2016 à 19:19:23 »
Hello tous les petits trèfles ! Je viens dans ce coin là car j'ai une petite histoire à partager, rien de très extravagant, en anglais. En attendant que Cendres et son chapitre 1 récolte plus de commentaires du coup, me voici ! Vous êtes évidemment les bienvenus pour aller voir mon sujet Cendres dans les textes longs.

En tout cas voici Genesis Red, aucun rapport avec mon pseudo, enfin si, ils viennent du même mot, mais Genesi est un perso de Cendres et non de Genesis Red. J'ai écrit ce texte pour l'anglais spécialisé anglicistes à ma fac, et j'ai fait le pari de donner un texte qui contenait une scène explicite à un prof adorable qui pourrait tricoter des écharpes et offrir des chocolats à tout le monde tellement il est bisounours.

Genesis Red se passe dans un Londres steampunk plus avancé technologiquement que le steampunk de base, qui lui se situe généralement à l'époque Victorienne. Donc téléphones, voitures, zeppelins etc.

Je vous souhaite une agréable lecture  ^^

Genesis Red
   I am as cold as winter. Maybe my father knew, when he named me, that I would be the crispy snow, the toundra. Or maybe it was because my mother was already cold on the table. I don't know. I don't care. Sometimes, I believe my name was just the universe way to tell me my life was going to be a joke.
   As soon as my back was able to support my weight on a chair, my father put me in front of a piano and said: This is going to be your life. You will play and there will be nothing else. I believed him. There was nothing else in my world, except the mechanicals clicks of the piano, the songs repeating again and again in my mind, but not in my heart, and my fingers hopping from key to key.
I was good at imitating. I used to watch for endless hours concertos to repeat the elegant gesture of the pianist. Father would bring me to the opera and make me watch diligently. I was very good, yes. I was happy, maybe.
   My father loved me in his own strange way. Then I had a baby, and he no longer loved me. I was twelve. I was not scared. The sheets, they were red with something I had seen plenty of times but not truly. Scarlet draped the world and I knew.
   The piano, like me, was colourless.
   The colours bloomed in front of my eyes. The blues, the pinks, the yellows. In my sea of solitude, I knew what to look for. The piano became dusty and my father's cheeks red with anger. Red like autumn. He disapproved strongly of me and it would have pained me, once upon a time. There was no such thing as once upon a time now. My mind had no place for such a petty concept. I pitied myself for having believed that we were a family.
   That was the end. Just like that. Colours kill.
   I began to paint. On every little thing I could find. Intoxicated by the smell of paint, of tubes and of brushes, I would spend hours trying to get the right shade for this peculiar leaf or this peculiar moss on the grave of my mother. The flowers my father put there every Sunday were orange, an August sunset orange.
   I always put gentian flowers on my father's grave. We shared a bed once and this exact shade of blue. He fell in the stairs. Slipped on one of my brushes. I remember clearly the green of the line at the hospital, trembling, jumping, then drawing a neat line. Just like that, he was gone. All the colours were drained of his face, remained only the ashen tint of death, of immobility. Without the blush of life, it appeared to me that humans were no longer interesting. They lacked of substance, of virtuosity.
   ''Yvère.'' I looked up from the amber of my tea and frowned at the girl in front of me. ''What?'' ''Your tea is going to be cold.'' ''It's just tea, I don't really care.'' ''I do. Drink. It's good for your cold.''
   I lifted my cup to my lips and drank. The lukewarm liquid curled in my throat and flowed down by waves. From behind the imaculate porcelain, I watched Ainsley and the colours that made her Ainsley. She was a mixture of soft brown and dusk, an automnal beauty. I had painted her numerous times. She was interesting.
   ''Can we go to the paint store after you get your dresses? For my new painting.'' ''Are you going to paint that gentleman? Lord Toussaint is it not?'' ''No, I don't think so. He is too... green.'' ''Forest?'' ''Emerald.''
   At that, Ainsley laughed.
   ''You are going to paint him my dear. He is such a charming boy.''
   I brought my napkin to my mouth and patted elegantly my lips, to hide the stains of the Earl Grey and of the smile I wore. Lord Toussaint was indeed a gentleman. He had such beautiful eyes, gray as the winter seas, a shivering veil laced with froth and mermaids' songs. I wanted to paint him. But shyness had come over me when I last saw him and I quivered like a bird under his mercury stare. What was I to do when the mere existence of him made me like that? What was I to paint and could I even paint him?
   We left the club at four, before anyone could ask us something. The ladies in the front wore vivid dresses and faned themselves with luxurious feathers. They laughed and smiled and cried but they were so faded. I disliked them and I knew Ainsley did too, for other reasons however. Maybe it was the shoes. Ainsley vas very judgemental regarding shoes.
   The shop was white. I blinked owlishly in front of the dresses, unable to comprehend their colours in the imaculate decor they were set in. They all reminded me of lilies you put on the graves come All Saints' Day. Hollow lilies that were beautiful only for those who were not here. Maybe fashion was like that.
   Ainsley made me watch her trying the dresses she had picked. Behind the curtain of blood, she spent ages and aeons putting on the corsets and adjusting and cursing. In the bright light of the lilies, I brought my handkerchief to my mouth and coughed for a few minutes. There was no sound in the room, except the soft hustling of dresses and the drums of my breathing. A few women looked at me while I coughed but didn't acknowledge me any further. On my sofa, in the middle of the lounge, I looked like one of those lost people depicted in novels. Surrounded by the ocean, only the sand and the grass for company.
   I took my sketchbook from my bag and opened it. Ainsley was still in the fitting room, apparently struggling with the corset. My eyes and my mind wandered, along the pages and the threads of colours I had carefully spinned. With my fingertips, I traced again the mouth of Lord Toussaint and frowned. He seemed so sad on the paper and the green I had used was not quite the correct hue.
   Vexed by my own inability to catch the essence of someone on the paper, I turned again my attention to the fitting room. I imagined the honey-eyed Ainsley, her long, london smoke hair flowing behind her while she put on a corset. She was a beautiful woman and I didn't know how she could bear to be in the presence of someone like me. Someone pale and white. Imaculate like the lilies of the room. Dead, it would seem, was it not for my gentian eyes. Even when I had met her she had been the autumnal sun, the smell of the damp earth after dew, the crisping of the leaves. She had stood out in the middle of the people painted in charcoal at my father's funeral. I had wanted to paint her and she had wanted to talk to me. And like all friendship, I didn't know how it had happened.
   I folded my handkerchief and absent-mindedly observed the flowers painted with crimson shards. The sun was setting outside and the cloudy day transformed into a rainy dusk. Ainsley got out from the fitting room three times, with different dresses, and I expressed my utter disgust at the nymph pink dress that was so unbecoming for a girl like her. She bought the merle and the monticello green one and my chest was puffed with pride as we walked out. She was a beauty and she was my friend. I could paint her all day long.
   The streets were crowded and under our umbrella, we chatted the paved roads away. She talked about that Lord she had met but couldn't bring herself to like because of his moustache, about the Siamese cat she was going to buy for her own birthday. All around, the genoa blue, the french scarlet, florida gold lights of the shops were splattered in the air and on the ground, in fuzzy impressions of oil paintings. It was strange how the coldness of my heart was set aflame with passion when colours came to life. I felt less lonely with them. Another person.
   The small furniture shop smelled like paint and clay. Ainsley watched with interest the different papers and the quills in the front, while I maneuvered towards the back, where the shelves were loaded with paint tubes. I let my fingers and my eyes wander along the wooden lines, brushing past the tags. Alabaster, pompeii, honey bird, prunella, seville. All these beauties. There was a certain magic in all these names, an exotic language, a sort of spell. The kind that had made Dorian Gray sin and the lady in the Oval Portrait give her last breath.
   The assistant picked all the eighty eight tubes I had chosen, a bit taken aback by my whiteness. Underneath my imaculate eyebrows and lashes, my gentian eyes watched him coldly, used to the stares and shyness. But he said nothing else, did not ask how I was going to pay for that much paint. He simply made me pay and said goodbye to us. Ainsley had bought that Venetian quill for her mother, that shone gold and granat. I prided myself in the fact that my fried had good taste.
   ''So, when are you going to see Lord Toussaint?'' she asked while walking on the steamy promenade on the riverbank.
   ''Some day...''
   I was not yet sure I wanted to see him. He was one of these men we long to see when they are away but are inconceivably too close when present. Or maybe it was the kind of woman I was, not sure of what I wanted.
   ''I am quite certain he is going to phone you in the next few days. And you can ask if he can pose for you. He will be... transported by the idea, it is to be sure.'' ''Do you think so?'' ''Of course. Who wouldn't be. Once you get your paintings in a gallery, everybody will crawl at your feet to ask you to paint them. You have such a turn for colours. And I think you are beautiful enough to become famous.'' ''As a freak certainly.'' ''As a pearl of art and colours.''
   I frowned, my eyes wandering on the waves of the hortensia Thames. The steam of the engines trailed behind the cars on the road and some boats sailed, drawing lines in the fluid material that was water. Above us, the zeppelins were departing towards Europe, Africa and America, floating in the asphalt skies of dusk and rain. Big Ben rang six and the heavy clouds reverberated and sang with sounds of war.
   We bid our farewell at the feet of Ainsley's house. Her mother was watching behind the lace curtains, with her eyes squinted and her mouth a thin white line. I watched autumnal Ainsley disappear in the hall, with the plastic bags wet with raindrops and waited for a few minutes, stone-like in the middle of the harmonics of an organ. The umbrella was heavy with the tears of another world, and I finally left the street and walked along the seams of the city, into the maze of souls and dark bricks. The sky now was that of the universe, pitch black and infinite.
   A white Swiss shepherd dog was waiting for me under the porch. I scratched his chin. ''Hello Fenrir. I bought some paint today. Are you hungry?'' I unlocked the door and watched the dog speed happily towards the kitchens. I stepped in the great cold house and slid my gloves from my fingers. The stairs were before me, and I could picture the lying body of my father, decayed and columbia grey, with genesis red pooling the back of his head.
   Humming, I stepped into the kitchens and put a kettle on the stove. Fenrir was waiting at my feet, eyes shining with hope, tongue stuck out. I opened for him a new box of kibbles and patted his head.
   In the great living room, the table and the chairs had been set against a wall. I entered the circle and finally felt home. My piano was huddled before the windows, between a painting of the Uyuni salt flats and the portrait of a woman I had seen a few days ago. My fingers shivered on the piano keys and I smiled. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled.
   With my cup of tea, I settled on the seat and put my fingers on the keys. I let a breath out, and began to play Monti's Csárdás. I remembered with vividness my father and me, at the opera, watching that new star playing that very piece, and we were full of joy that night. My father loved me that night, or loved the image of my mother he kept buried in his heart. It didn't matter. The notes and the ruffle of the sheets were still in my mind, as I played like that pianist did, and I couldn't remember how he or she looked like, only my father's eyes and his smile.
   Fenrir barked suddenly and I started from the seat. The phone was ringing in the hallway. I picked up my cup of tea and sailed towards it, navigating in my sea of paintings and colours.
''Yvère Serington.'' ''Yvère. It's Idriss.'' ''Oh. Hello.'' I answered awkwardly and grabbed the phone wire. We stayed silent a few seconds before Idriss laughed. ''I hope I am not disturbing you. I have been intending to call you for a few days but always postponed to tomorrow. So, here I am. How was your day?'' ''It was great. We went to the club with Ainsley and she bought a few dresses afterwards. And a few paint tubes for my project.'' ''Will you make me the honour to disclose your project's details to me? I would love to know what you are up to. I haven't seen you in weeks perhaps.'' Shyly, I looked over the other end of the small table where the phone was put. There was a sketchbook there and Idriss' face was smiling at me. ''Of course. Would you like to come for tea some day?'' ''Will I be the model?'' My cheeks burned with fires of embarrassment and shyness. Was he aware how happy he made me by asking? ''If it doesn't bore you, of course. I would be glad to paint someone different.'' ''I would never be bored with you.'' ''Are you free on Friday?'' I asked, ignoring his blatant compliment. Sometimes, men were not as swift as they imagined to be. ''I am. We will see each other on Friday then. I shall bring some of the biscuits my mother baked. The poor woman doesn't know how to make reasonable servings.''
   We talked of things, or maybe he talked and I answered, I don't know. When I finally hanged up, it was past dinner time and my Earl Grey was cold.


   Ainsley was ecstatic of course, about me having Idriss Toussaint for tea on Friday. Words went that he had cancelled an afternoon and a dinner with Lady Albertha for no reason for that very day, and a strange feeling of pride blossomed in my chest. After the pride had faded away though, restlessness came. I could not finish my paintings, and every song I played on the piano frustrated me. Books and words were tasteless. I tried to bake some cakes, but only managed to burn my hand on a pan and melt a baking tin. I felt ridiculous and all the more frustrated.
   Friday came with the sun and at five, the rain that fell looked like it was on fire. The days of spring were coming, maybe. It was hard to tell in the city. It always smelled like stone and ashes, be it winter or summer, and flowers couldn't change anything on that matter. Watching the street from my piano, I felt like one of those old ladies that have nothing to do other than spying on their neighbours. For the umpteenth time, I wondered if it was the correct day and if it was for dinner and not for tea I had invited Idriss Toussaint. The small china set was already on the tea table and was waiting for us to come and drink. I rearranged it, once again, and sat back down at the piano.
   When finally someone knocked at the door, I wondered who it could be. Idriss' smile greeted me and a flush of pleasure coloured my cheeks. He had one of those mischievious smiles one couldn't resist, tinted with charm and a dangerous feeling. And it was that very same feeling I had so much capturing on paper and canvas.
   I let him in and he looked around pleasantly, assessing the decoration. I had put nothing on the walls. The old paintings my father adored were down in the basement, dusted over, their very existence nearly forgotten like Mayan ruins. For my room, I had bought a few tapestries on which I had found obscure inspiration for a few of my works, but nothing else. The living room was filled with enough unfinished paintings and portraits as it was. There was no need to add visual pollution.
   ''So, what is this big project you are working on?'' Idriss asked, sitting at the tea table inside a circle of blank canvas. ''I hope it's a secret and I will be the only one to know.'' ''Things that are a secret tend to be more largely known than what is public. And not much people are interested in knowing what kind of things I'm painting.'' ''I'm almost disappointed.'' smiled Idriss. ''What is it then? I want to know for what kind of thing I am going to be a model.'' ''You will not need to be here. I just want to watch you.'' ''Doing what?'' ''Playing the piano.''
   He raised a curious eyebrow and turned towards the redwood piano that sat before the luminous fire of the windows. ''Do you play?'' I asked, fully knowing the answer. The virtue of our time was to know how to play a few pieces on an instrument. The purpose was to animate dinners. The real idea behind was to make people talk about your talent, of course. Society was not fair and good-natured. ''Badly yes, but I do play sometimes. It's part of my everyday ritual, trying new music sheets and pulling my hair at my lack of talent.'' Idriss answered with a laugh tinting his voice. I served him some oolong tea and put the biscuits he had brought with him on the plate. His mother had turned towards baking when arthritis had prevented her from writing, playing or painting. In her circle, the idea had had the effect of a suicide letter. Everybody thought Lady Toussaint would go insane and really commit suicide, but here she was, baking burnt biscuits.
   ''Do you play?'' asked Idriss. ''My father thought it important I learned. I began at two.'' ''Tall enough to reach the keys'' he smiled knowingly. ''Exactly.'' ''Would you play something for me?'' ''What would you like?'' ''Holst's Venus.'' ''I thought you not a man for such calm music.'' I smiled politely. ''I live to surprise.'' I moved towards the piano and reached for the small chiffonnier I had placed there to hold my music sheets. I shuffled through the papers, humming in search of Holst's piece, idly thinking that maybe, some day, I should put some order into these. Behind me, Idriss was wandering in the labyrinth of colours I had created, caressing a hand here and there, feeling the leaves of a tree. When I turned, I felt like he belonged there, a most stunning piece of art among dull others. A cough shook my lungs and I wiped the saliva and the blood that formed beads on my lips. ''Yvère, are you alright?'' asked Idriss' voice, laced with worry. ''A common cold never hurt anyone.''
   The music sheet smelled like coffee. I put my fingers on the keys and let out a breath. Under my fingertips, the coloured papers I had taped to the eighty-eight keys caught in the grooves of my prints. And I began to play, once again recalling how they do at the opera when they want to please an audience, when they try to be the song they sing with their fingers. I felt more than I played. The stars were about me, lights of a thousand ages burning my skin and engraving obscure names in my eyes. I dreamed of darkest skies and sullen songs in the atmosphere of faraway planets. The celestial bodies thrummed like hearts under the sun.
   Idriss touched the nape of my neck and I shivered. His fingers were cold, like the eternal infinity of space, a coldness that devoured stars. Silently, he traced the line of my jaw with the back of his hand. Solemnly, Venus continued to unravel her secrets through the notes that rang through the air.
   A song that ends can no longer quench the thirst of the listener. Idriss never left me the time to finish what I had begun. The keys rang chaotically under my weight and I laughed. The blue of my dress flowed like a sea on the piano and around me. The tides withdrew and Idriss sighed. I felt him, molten lava, curling and twisting inside the earth, humming with pleasure. I too sang for him. The piano was trembling beneath us, scratching the floor, hitting the wall behind with each movement of the tides.
   His hands were still cold and I still shivered. Beads of sweat rolled on my shores and his. When our bodies met and our lips collided, it felt like the end of the world, in the fiery rain of dusk. We were the world, and the sun and the stars. He was the song and I was Venus. In the darkness, he devoured all and left only me to shine.
   We met again at the end of the universe and we smiled against each other lips. The piano ceased to tremble but our bodies still echoed with the shock of the tectonic plates. Exhausted and full of light, we whispered words of beauty to each other.
   I knew, at that moment, how to paint him.


   As spring bloomed, my interest for social life melted like snow under the sun, if it ever existed. I lived between Ainsley, Idriss and my paintings. The notes of Holst's Venus had chosen for me the colours of the portrait. Art had spoken for art, and there was nothing more suiting than that.
   Autumn came rapidly, with warning, or maybe there was, but I was too engrossed to see it. Ainsley departed for Switzerland in the course of October, to see her aunt.
   And came a time when I no longer wanted to see anyone. The phone was unplugged and nothing could be better than deep silence. Idriss tried to come, but was only greeted by the grey walls of my house. I walked barefeet in the long living room, slept on the floor on a heap of covers when I fell from exhaustion. My nightgown was splattered with paint and I, myself, felt like a work of art. Time passed, but my cold didn't. It was ever present now, looming over me like a comforting presence. And maybe it was someone I knew. How should I know?
   Idriss' portrait was almost finished. I had rendered him in the most vivid way, and he felt alive under my fingertips, like that time when he made love to me on the piano. I shivered under his arctic sea gaze. He was splendid, of course, but it was not my art that had made him like that. He was perfection, the work of God.
   As I put my last touches, I felt powerful, like an ancient beast capable of creating and destroying worlds. As I was dying, I was not afraid. I knew that, when the world ended, I would be the last light to shine in the neverending darkness.

Kiss kiss burrito !
"And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."  Nietzsche


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