The Suicide Shop / Магазинчик Самоубийств

31

Later, when the shop has emptied of customers and the silence of night has descended once more, Madame Tuvache is in Alan's room. Seated on a chair, she watches him sleep. With hands joined and flat on the top of her head, elbows triangling above her shoulders, the arrangement of Lucrèce's arms traces in the air the outline of a great eye on top of a body. The pupil - Madame Tuvache's head, leaning over to one shoulder - seems to be turned and lowered towards Alan's face, which is as delicate as if it were entirely surrounded by gauze and whose every feature speaks of the joy of living.
One day will he have to be put in irons and thrown into the sea, this inventor of brave new worlds? His little snub nose in the air, he dreams of shining paradises. He is an oasis in a desert of boredom. His neck in the hollow of a synthetic pillow, he moves his lips a little, caught in one of the stories of his dreams. His eyelids, as soft as the moon, are closed, rimmed with long lashes, and everything about him engenders a kind of hope that is so anachronistic in this era.
The boy who by day makes human minds dream, asleep looks as innocent as a babbling brook, spilling its happy insouciance over everything. He resembles those beautiful horizons that lead you to unknown places. And his feet under the covers seem ready to run an adventurous race. The smell of his room ... Few perfumes are as fresh as the scent of childhood. He is dreaming up his singular miraculous schemes. Oh, the mind of a child, where fairy tales are constructed!
Tonight, the moon is dreaming more lazily. Madame Tuvache stands up, and caresses Alan's blond curls. He opens his eyes and smiles at her. Then he turns over and goes back to sleep. Life, at his side, seems to be played on a violin.