𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃, joseph descamps

𝟎𝟎𝟗. rimbaud and resentments

ON AN AUTUMN DAY, the class bathes in a calm atmosphere under the dim neon lights. The teacher, Mr. Marcelin, stands behind his desk, holding a stack of poetry books.

"Good afternoon, everyone," he begins in a calm but firm voice. "Today, we will work on presentations in pairs. Each group will choose a poet and present their work, as well as their impact on French poetry."

Excited and apprehensive murmurs ripple through the classroom. The students look at each other, exchanging nervous smiles or knowing glances.

Mr. Marcelin starts calling out the groups, listing names two by two, until he gets to... Joseph and Aimée. The two young people exchange a look full of disdain and confusion. They haven't spoken since their last confrontation a week ago.

Mr. Marcelin, used to his class's dynamics, shows no particular emotion. "This project is an opportunity to work together constructively," he states in a neutral tone. "You have two weeks to prepare your presentation. I expect you to cooperate and for each of you to contribute."

Without further ado, Mr. Marcelin continues calling out the groups, and one by one, the students gather in pairs, sitting side by side. Joseph takes a seat next to Aimée without a word. She remains silent, staring at the blackboard with feigned concentration.

The air is heavy with contained tension, glances are avoided, and movements are measured. Both of them are aware that this project will force a collaboration they would rather avoid.

After a moment of awkward silence, Joseph decides to break the ice, but in his usual manner... "So, Redhead, ready to work together ?" he asks in a falsely cheerful tone, with a hint of irony.

Aimée keeps her eyes ahead, her neutral expression barely betraying a reaction. She knows he's trying to provoke her, but she won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her unsettled.

"I'm ready to do my work," she finally replies in a calm but firm voice.

Joseph feels his irritation rise a notch. He didn't expect her to respond so impassively. He hates that impassivity that seems to characterize her when she faces his provocations.

"You're always so serious, aren't you ?" he continues, pushing a bit further. "It seems like my words got to you last time."

Aimée stiffens slightly, feeling a hint of anger creeping in despite her efforts to stay stoic. "Your words didn't get to me. They just showed me how... predictable you are."

"Predictable ? Me ?" he retorts, his voice rising slightly. "I'm not the one beating around the bush like you."

"I'm not going to argue with you," she declares, her voice calm but firm. "We have a presentation to prepare, so let's focus on that."

Joseph stares at her for a moment, his dark gaze reflecting a mixture of frustration and admiration for her determination. He knows she's right about one thing : they have to work together, whether he likes it or not.

The rest of the class passes in tense silence. Joseph and Aimée dive into their research on Arthur Rimbaud, each working on their own, carefully avoiding speaking to each other unless absolutely necessary. Their exchanges are brief and professional, every word weighed as if balancing precariously on a tightrope stretched between them.

At times, he can't help but let out an annoyed sigh whenever Aimée questions his interpretations or corrects his notes. Each correction is a silent jab that increases the tension between them.

As they study Rimbaud's various poems, Joseph leans over one titled Au Cabaret Vert. The vivid and sensual description stirs a slight discomfort. Joseph, still looking down at the poetry book, allows a nearly imperceptible smile to play on his lips as he reads the line : When the girl with big nipples, bright eyes... On her side, Aimée averts her gaze, her cheeks tinging slightly.

Noticing the rosy hue on her cheeks, he can't resist teasing her : "Does that make you uncomfortable, redhead ? Looks like it's not your kind of reading." His voice is mocking but tinged with a softness he hadn't anticipated.

"You really think I'm the one who's uncomfortable, Descamps ?" she replies, emphasizing the last words. "It's a poem, not an erotic novel."

She dives back into the text, feigning indifference, but he can sense she's not completely at ease. "It's different from Victor Hugo's neatly arranged love verses," he adds with a grin. "Rimbaud isn't afraid to talk about... certain details." His gaze unintentionally drifts towards Aimée's chest. "Seems like he has a certain taste for descriptions..." He leaves his sentence hanging, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

She lifts her head, meeting his gaze defiantly. "And you seem to have a pronounced taste for unnecessary comments, don't you ?" she retorts, her voice icy but controlled. "If you're so fascinated by such details, maybe you should choose a different subject for your presentation."

"Touché," he admits, shrugging. "But admit it, it makes the poem more... interesting, doesn't it ?"

"Go on, keep looking for provocations. I'll focus on what the poem is actually trying to convey, rather than dwelling on a simple physical description."

"Don't worry, redhead. I know you don't have much in common with the girl in the poem... Rimbaud clearly chose models that were a bit more... well-rounded."

She straightens up, glaring at him. "Funny, Descamps, you talk about poetry, but you act like a teenager lacking maturity," she snaps. "Maybe that's why you always end up saying stupid things to get attention."

His expression hardens, and he stares at her for a moment, caught off guard by the sharpness of her reply. The ironic smile fades from his lips, replaced by a hint of irritation. "Always so serious, redhead," he mutters before looking away and returning to his notes. Aimée resumes her reading, but the atmosphere between them has noticeably darkened, and the tense silence that settles hints that this project will be far from a peaceful collaboration.

She looks him straight in the eyes, a mocking spark in her gaze. "You seem so passionate about Rimbaud and his descriptions... I forgot he was gay. Maybe that explains your obsession," she retorts with a falsely innocent tone.

He freezes for a moment, taken aback by her response. His smile falters slightly. "Really mature comeback," he grumbles, returning to his notes, but she can see that he has lost a bit of his confidence.

After a while, as the class is nearing its end, Aimée's stomach emits a loud growl. She blushes slightly, swallows with embarrassment, but continues reading without interruption.

Joseph raises an eyebrow, surprised by the unexpected noise. "Did you eat today ?"

She keeps her eyes on the text in front of her, but her face betrays a hint of unease. "None of your business," she replies curtly.

He sighs, feeling a wave of frustration rise in him. Her evasive reactions always bother him. "I was just asking. You should eat more in the cafeteria."

She closes her book with a muffled sigh. "I don't want to talk about that," she finally states, her voice carrying a slight tension.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he finally says. Aimée looks up at him, her eyes surprised by his sincerity. She seems about to reply, but the bell cuts her off.

As they prepare to leave, Joseph feels a spontaneous impulse. He pulls an orange out of his pocket. For the second time, he offers the orange to her. He had stolen it for himself from the cafeteria, but no matter. "Here, maybe you could find it useful."

Aimée looks at him, surprised by his gesture. "Still with your oranges ?" she replies, a hint of mockery in her voice. "You must have an orange tree hidden in your pockets."

"I'm just being prepared," he half-jokes. "You never know when an orange might come in handy."

Aimée shakes her head, a more genuine smile appearing on her lips. "Thanks," she murmurs, her eyes expressing a mix of gratitude and amusement.