Double Twenty

CHAPTER 3 - Time After Time (Cyndi Lauper)

"Nostalgia is a fundamental emotion, it's as if the past holds the foot of the present." – Milan Kundera

Cestas, 8:20 AM. Caressed by the first breaths of spring warmth, the town slowly awakens to the sound of birds and nature, enveloped in a golden light that gently embraces the 21 degrees of the early morning. "Julien, wake up," his mother's voice, gentle but insistent, pierces the veil of sleep. It must be a dream. He left the family home at twenty-five, owns his apartment in Bordeaux, and lives less than fifteen minutes from Matthieu. There is no valid reason for him to be at his parents' now. Unless he teleported. He turns over, searching for his preferred position. On RTT today, he plans to start with a long lie-in and then? He has an idea. Julien smiles inwardly at the thought. "Oh Juju, are you listening to your mother?" Now it gets much stranger. His father's gruff, masculine voice would never populate his dreams. He sits up, still groggy, and feels that he is naked under the sheets. Rare for him. He tentatively replies, "Yeah, I heard you," just in case. The door closes softly. He sits up, stretches, and freezes. Impossible. This is not his body. At least, not his forty-seven-year-old body. Despite his regular fitness routine and excellent metabolism, he no longer looks like this. Julien closes his eyes, then opens them. The same. Nothing has changed. He gets up, congratulates the quality of his dream, while trying to keep his cool and methodically recall each step of the previous evening. At Matthieu's. As usual, bar talk, veteran memories. Nice. Very bad PSG match. Disappointing. Some wine for him, more for his buddy. Okay. Good Italian food. To be repeated. He felt a bit off when he got home, but nothing serious, and went to bed almost instantly. It does not at all match this awakening in the countryside. His room has not changed, identical to his young age. That too doesn't match. Since leaving the family home in 2002, his mother had converted the room into a laundry room. It had been the subject of a rare heated discussion with his parents. He had wanted to keep it as it was, now. In line with his living memory. Aligned. In its place. Books, sports magazines, Michael Jordan poster on the wall. His clean, tidy student desk. He runs a hand over his face. No beard. He can't imagine his parents shaving him overnight or kidnapping him back to the house in Cestas. Absurd. No, it's necessarily something else. Illogical, irrational, but which becomes, in fact, conceivable for fear of falling into madness. His exacerbated pragmatism inexorably takes over. A very strong character trait in him.

He squints. The sun's rays, daring explorers, find their way through the slightly open shutters, dancing on the walls and ceiling in elegant luminous arabesques accompanied by a soundtrack forever linked to that period of his life. "Hedonism" by Skunk Anansie (I hope you're feeling happy now. I see you feel no pain at all, it seems. I wonder what you're doing now...), which his next-door neighbor, Claire, twenty-four years old, a very cute and sporty Staps student, listens to on repeat every morning from April to June 1997. Julien sits on his bed. The light plays on his face, revealing his rejuvenated features. When his eyes finally meet his reflection in the mirror embedded in the wardrobe door, the newly young man shows no surprise or shock. He had mentally prepared for it. And yet, it is still a time mirror where his image, twenty-seven years younger, stares back at him, replicating each of his gestures with enigmatic precision.

Pressed by his mother's request, which he now takes very seriously, he puts on his "Le Coq Sportif" sweatpants, a basic white t-shirt, rushes through the bathroom, splashes water on his regained face, and heads to the kitchen where the smell of freshly toasted bread mingles with the strong coffee his father always drinks, sitting at the end of the table, while his mother finishes the small dishes. She greets him with her usual, maternal, warm smile, but without wrinkles. It troubles him even more. It's almost easy to accept his own rejuvenation, but that of his loved ones? He even wonders if this is the first time he sees them as they were. For him, they are his parents. A voice. A presence. A relationship of subordination. There's nothing else to interpret or explain.

His father, without lifting his eyes from the table, reads his newspaper, lost in his thoughts. But when Julien pours himself a cup of hot chocolate, making the radio crackle as it broadcasts "Time After Time" by Cyndi Lauper, Alejandro suddenly looks up, a flicker of astonishment passing through his eyes. He mentally notes this detail, a shiver of concern running down his spine, but keeps his observations to himself, preferring not to disturb the morning calm of the family kitchen. Julien is too absorbed in his own situation to notice anything.

How to be familiarly out of sync? Julien cannot explain it, but that is what he feels. On one side, he would have preferred to live this moment through a screen, as a mere spectator, rather than as a full-fledged actor, but each bite of bread and sip of his hot chocolate is a delight. The taste of real, of good, of home. He realizes that for twenty-seven years, he has only been seeking this moment. All his experiences, travels, for a bite of the 97 morning bread. He could die now, his life would have been perfect. "Are you joining Loïc and the others at Stéphane's dad's place, and then what are you going to do?" "Béa, leave him alone, he's grown up now!" Alejandro, the paternal figure inherited from his Spanish ancestors, doesn't like anyone prying into his son's privacy. He trusts him and has had no complaints so far. Good school results, solid and sporty friends, pretty girls at his heels, no discipline problems. What more could he ask for? Not being right about something that has embarrassed him since this morning would be a great comfort. He stands up, kisses his wife on the forehead, gives Julien a friendly pat on the shoulder. The only son of the household anticipates the rest: Alejandro takes the meticulously cleaned Volkswagen Jetta every other Sunday, opens the gate carefully not to scratch the ground, goes to the company headquarters where he works as an administrative executive. As Julien has never felt directly concerned by his professional situation, he has no idea what his precise job is or where it is located. He only knows that Alejandro finishes at 6:00 PM sharp, Monday to Friday, until the weekend. For lunch, he eats a ham sandwich or leftovers from the previous day, and on very rare occasions, a team meal at a restaurant, but without wine or dessert. A fleeting thought crosses Julien's mind: they are almost the same age.