Concerto of prisoners

Curtain fall

She seemed so sure of herself, and yet he still seems to hear her heartbreaking cries of a while ago, like a cry for help, echo resounding on the walls of the room like now the walls of  an underground cave.  By ricocheting, the awful sound shifts.  It changes so much that Volange no longer roars now: she sings.  On a tragic melody, with a crescendo animated rhythm, she lets her voice go.  We must forget Volange.  Music, an increasingly violent auditory hallucination, is urgently needed: it wants to be interpreted.  There is indeed a synthesizer here, brought on the idea of ​​the department head, but Tanguy had not paid more attention to it.  The piano now appears to the boy as his exit rope.

The hours stretch, lengthen like hot caramel.  The young boy, taken with an imperious inspiration, is now sitting at his desk and feverishly scratching the notes of his musical brilliance.  Feverish rays of day pass through the blocked window.  Tanguy grabs his headphones, takes the improvised score, and goes to the Bleuets' living room.

He approaches the electronic piano and plugs the long white cable into it.  After a deep breath, he brushes the keys.  Forget Volange.  The common room becomes blurred and gradually diffuses an increasingly luminous aura.  He keeps on.  It's impossible.  The old sofas and the art therapy table disappear.  As he hits the saving keys faster and faster, there is nothing left of the room except him and the synthesizer.  If only they had met in other circumstances ... The dismal stay of the psychiatric institute has completely disappeared, giving way to an opera scene.  In a magnificent red dress, Volange stars.  Tanguy exults.  God she’s beautiful.  She sings with open throat, she plays, she cries, she laughs;  and each time she turns around, she’s followed by a children's choir.  Now the boy no longer even follows the scribbled score, his eyes are closed.  He doesn't just want Volange: he loves him.  From his wounded love was born a violent creative fury.

Too violent, maybe.  Volange's ribs seem to move under his skeletal back, at first without him noticing.  Horrified, he sees the bones of his muse pierce her, grow through her purplish skin.  White feathers like those of a swan are born, stretch and grow there, seeming to find a fertile silt there.  Now she flies away, under the bewildered exclamations of the crowd.  Tanguy can't take it anymore, he would die to see her go.  Don't go away, Volange!  But his arms remain riveted like vulgar puppets on the instrument, and he remains glued to his seat, unable to reach the angel drawn to the heavens.

A cadaverous hand comes to rest on his right shoulder, breaking his trance.  Caught in a chill, he suddenly withdraws from the keys.  He turns his head: Volange smiles at him.  She seems to have almost forgotten her words from the day before.

"- Tell the artist, are you giving it to me?"  "

How he would like Volange to listen.  Let her understand that she has transcended him.  But the thought of this night catches up with him.  He must no longer speak to him.  It will be better for her, and for both of them.  Above all, she is the one he must protect from now on.  She must focus on healing above all.  Break its attraction for the sky.  Find your own way in ordinary people.  He knows he no longer has a place in the sad bubble.  She seems to have already understood it, and breathes, muffled:

"- You can at least tell me what it is ..."

Only one sound echoes in Tanguy’s mind now: it’s the mechanical ticking of the clock, an impassive reminder.  He turns his head towards her, and addresses her with a confident smile these few words, like a goodbye:

"- This is the symphony of recluses.  That's all.  "

The tragic opera ends.  The red curtain falls on the Blueberries.