IHe gets off his bike to tie it up in this street in Boulogne and the shot of juice sent by his cruralgia almost makes him fall, his 190 centimeters shriveled to the ground. Three weeks of this hell of pain sawing his left leg into thin slices. He is only sitting at the piano, the only place in the world where he has been at home since a friend of his mother, a piano salesman, gave him an unsold keyboard with defects for his 9th birthday.
Through the gate, freshly repainted mouse gray, he glimpses an old white house with high shutters and walls covered with star jasmine. He’s already thinking about what he’s going to play. He wants Donna Summer. He thinks in piano, all the time, he can’t help himself.
-It is a very agitated woman of around fifty years old, with a towel on her head poorly hiding cellophane paper, who opens the door for her. She laughs in a high-pitched, falsely laughing voice, with that cold-sounding way of speaking that seems to scald the tongue on a hot potato, not far from the English accent that some Parisian upper-class people still have: “Please excuse me, I’m not very presentable, I got overwhelmed…” Then, she piles up sentences, where there is talk of a closed garage, of a sick hairdresser, of the neighbor’s cat, of people who have to come to lunch, of this chicken which does not cook, of her son who does not has nothing to give and, finally, the piano. He no longer listens, he already transposes On the Radio.
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