Winter of 1973

I was close to him. I always was. It was like that, without explanation.
I was seven years old and I would watch him shave. To do it, I had leaned against the wall, newt to the washbasin and I was facing him.
The mirror he was getting closer to in order to lead his movement would reflect the light of a small lamp next to it. Alternately, in a soft and steady movement, he would move forward, bowing. Then, he would straighten up, in order to check, thanks to the necessary distance, the right rinse of the razor. His face, far away from the only light in the small space of the bathroom, would then get darker, meeting the black and blue shades of the end of the day.
I would look at my father intensely. I hoped that I would not miss a thing so that I could remember everything from him. I would kindly look at the satin of his shirt, under which I could imagine his strong muscles.
That very morning, just like every Sunday, I had joined him in his bed, lying against his back, trying, as much as possible, to hold in my arms his powerful torso. To me, he was like a huge rock. I would press my nose against his skin and I would deeply breathe. Today, I still remember his sweet and yet slightly bitter smell, the one which, in the morning, after a good night’s sleep, reveals the real identity of the body.
The water kept on trickling out. To watch its silver twists, to see the moving bloom of very few rays would prevent me from thinking. However, very quickly, the razor’s agitation or a few splashes would stop my daydreaming and would take me back to my father. His thumb would press on his skin, would tighten it up and would make it easier for the razor blade.
Sometimes, he would neglect his image to address me for a short time an amused smile.
Why did he look so happy to leave?
The preparation was over. The perfume, the slightly notched haircut, the tie knot, the cufflinks, everything had required the highest care and seemed to suit.
I ran to my mother.
She was standing in front of the living room’s window, she was turning her back on me.
Was it because of the back light, a movement of the curtain? Her thin and dark figure looked nearly transparent. I quietly got closer to her and I softly took her hand.
My mother remained still and silent, she was staring at the tissue and the day drawing to a close.
It was now time for him to leave. How long would he be absent?
In the narrow corridor that led to the front door of the home, my father had put on his elegant blazer. He had laid a suitcase next to him and he was looking at us from a distance. His attitude betrayed his embarrassment, his movements were awkward, maybe he was waiting for me to run to him and kiss him. Then, very quickly, the door closed behind him, leaving us on our own and in a daze.
“We’ll be fine”, my mother told me. “If you want to, you may go and see your friend Pierre, but make sure you’re covered up and be on time for the dinner.”
Outside, it was snowing heavily and the sun had disappeared for good. Run, run away from the night. I rushed in the biting cold. It was snowing more and more. Suddenly, I stopped and looked up towards the sky. The wind, in infinite darkness, was stirring the white powder.

Alain Levillain