Double Twenty

CHAPTER 1 - Yesterdays (Guns n' Roses)

"The past is never dead. It's not even past." – William Faulkner

The evening of April 3, 2024, lazily stretches over Bordeaux, enveloping the city in a soft twilight glow. At this time of day, it seems suspended between day and night, promising the freshness of spring and evenings on the terrace. In a small apartment in the historic district, the stone walls evoke a living heritage, imbued with the spirit and rhythm of a city in constant evolution. Matthieu stands alone against the window frame, a glass of chilled rosé in hand. An Alanis Morissette song, "You Learn," plays from his stereo, while the TV silently broadcasts a summary of the week's football matches. Yet the usually soothing rock music struggles to calm his restless thoughts.

Of average height, with slightly graying temples, his eyes occasionally glint with a deceptive brightness, especially when he succumbs to melancholy, as he is now. That night, the throbbing pain in his knee, a constant reminder of a skiing accident, seems to revive the regrets hidden in the corners of his memory.

Matthieu found refuge in Bordeaux, far from the glare and turmoil of the capital, almost twenty years ago. After his third burnout, he started working as a consultant. Never short of advice to give, though less inclined to receive it, could have been his credo. The main advantage of his job is the ability to manage his time as he pleases; the downside, a significant lack of social interactions. Dating apps discourage him, and after a few sometimes chaotic dates, he decided they were definitely not for him. Over the course of his life, Matt has loved a lot, immensely, madly. But that now conjugates in the past tense.

Julien, on the other hand, is a free spirit. One of those rare adults for whom time seems not to leave its marks. A banker by profession, despite the ever-increasing pressure, he overflows with energy and vitality, moving with as much confidence as ease, naturally attracting the attention of women—perhaps a bit less today as he ages. His short-cropped black hair frames a tanned face, a sign of his many outdoor escapades. They met years ago. Colleagues of the same age, forty-seven, who crossed the threshold of friendship. United by a shared passion, nostalgic for a bygone era and the pleasures of life, which are slyly dwindling, sacrificed on the altar of artificial modernity.

Tonight's match between Paris Saint Germain and Stade Rennais is more than just a distraction. For them, it is a reminder of their youth, a blessed time when every match was an event, where victories and defeats were lived with an intensity unique to rarity. When Julien enters, his contagious energy seems to light up the room. At the same moment, Deborah Dyer of Skunk Anansie fervently chants "Just because you feel good" like an incantation, and Matthieu asks Alexa to mute. The Spotify playlist becomes a discreet melody. Dressed in a vintage Nike tracksuit and Jordan 3s, he perfectly evokes the image of a Chicago Bulls fan from the heyday of Michael Jordan. Who remembers George Eddy?

Emboldened by his state of mild drunkenness and driven by a conviction unique to those who believe in magic and that the boundaries between fiction and reality are thinner than believed, he turns to Julien, as if possessed, "Imagine. Imagine if it were possible, to turn back the hands of time. I know, we're not in Back to the Future, but let's say we were twenty again. What year would it be, 1997? But we wouldn't just be young...with our minds today, our knowledge, our experience. We'd have all the choices and opportunities. Not just to make the same mistakes, you see? But...to, I don't know, do better, live more fully." He's no longer addressing Julien. His words are intended for the universe itself, a wish cast into the darkness.

Julien, charmed by the idea, smiles, his mind already wandering towards this possibility, he boasts, citing conquests or failed attempts "Valérie, Jennyfer, Clara," but dwells a bit more on the fourth name "Marie," then regains his bravado, "they wouldn't stand a chance against my charm aged in oak barrels!" And to prove it, he downs his glass in one go. His laughter breaks the moment, full of lightness. "To our 20 years, then! With a bit of wisdom thrown in." They toast, and this simple gesture seals their silent pact.

But beyond the laughter, a deeper desire inhabits them. Matthieu, exhaling his poisoned smoke to the sky, contemplating the twilight setting the sky ablaze, murmurs almost to himself and the invisible stars above his head, his need for a different life, rich in meaning and new adventures, repairing unhealed wounds. They unknowingly hold in their hands their ticket for a very particular lottery, a journey through time.

They finish eating in silence. The football match, though significant, no longer interests them. An excellent Italian meal, composed of antipasti, focaccia, arancini, and a generous amount of Provence rosé has left them in a state of bliss. Each, with their nose glued to their phones, navigates solitarily through apps as superficial as they are necessary. An intergenerational ball and chain. Somewhere between Matthieu's "For You" and "Following," a TikTok promising a spell to grant wishes catches his attention. Initially appalled by the coincidence, "I swear, there are no coincidences, we're being listened to," he is nevertheless intrigued. "What if this time it were true?" he says, a slight mocking smile on his lips. Julien tries to recall movies or series from their youth that dealt with the topic: "The Ring" no, "Wishmaster" I have doubts, "The Craft" "Big," "Back to the Future" "Quantum Leap" "Somewhere in Time," the list is long with sometimes mixed results artistically and script-wise. "No, but sometimes they take us for fools. It's not believable!"

Fueled by wine and driven by a spirit of challenge, Matthieu and Julien decide to attempt the spell. The background image of the post is a set of symbols and colors meant to represent the curve of time. No likes, no comments. At the bottom left, a simple cryptic warning: "Extremely powerful spell. Only for those sure of embarking on the path of time. Frequency based on Quantum Temporal Resonance." ...but of course!

Together, they recite the words. The instruction is precise: repeat three times distinctly out loud: 'ya, ikh viln es ya, ikh viln es ya, ikh viln es.' They activate via Alexa the sound frequency recommended by the mysterious TikTok. They hear a cacophony of frequencies and vibrations that seem to defy reality, creating an almost tangible dissonance in the air around them. As they recite the incantation, the vibrations intensify, transforming the space around them. The sound rumbles, crescendos, filling the room with a palpable, almost visual energy. Pulsing electromagnetic waves swirl around the smartphone, projecting light flashes and spectral reflections dancing on the walls. It's as if the barriers between epochs begin to blur, hinting at a direct link between present and past.

The ensuing silence is profound and total, an almost deafening calm after the storm of sounds and lights. A suspended moment, where everything seems possible, where the boundary between the imaginary and the real becomes blurred. Matthieu and Julien remain frozen, the smartphone between them, vibrating with residual energy. The visual anomalies on the screen intensify, suggesting something extraordinary has occurred.

Yet, despite the strangeness of the event, they shrug it off, attributing it to a technical glitch or a faulty software update.

"Damn technology," says Julien, as Matthieu tries to turn off his phone, hot as a frying pan in full service.

The football match, with a disappointing 1-0 score for Paris, ends in general indifference. "Crap match," they conclude in unison, unaware that history will remember this evening for something entirely different from football.

Julien heads home, his mind submerged in an alcohol-tinged haze, an insidious torpor detaching him from reality. He thinks he sees a DeLorean speeding by. "No way!" Meanwhile, Matthieu, after briefly tidying up the living room, prepares to face the night, his heart heavy at the thought of an unsurprising tomorrow. The Spotify playlist automatically reactivated by Alexa starts playing "Time" by Pink Floyd. "Alexa, stop!" The Amazon assistant obeys without question.

They fall asleep almost simultaneously. Nothing, neither dreams nor nightmares, could have prepared them for what follows. Yet, this seemingly mundane evening marks the end of their lives as they've always known them. The threshold of a radical change they dared to dream of without believing it.