#5 - 29 Langthorne Street
Sitting at the airport, I decided that there would be no more Evas. All versions of me that had ever existed had been stolen, broken or corrupted. So I was looking for a new identity. I had time on my hands and, since I no longer existed, it seemed like the perfect moment (…)
“I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terror’s continual cry
(…)
I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.”
If it's true that the eyes are the windows to the soul, then I know why I've always been afraid to look people in the eye. The idea that someone might discover what my inner self is made of terrifies me. There is still so much darkness in me.
Sitting at the airport, I decided that there would be no more Evas. All versions of me that had ever existed had been stolen, broken or corrupted. So I was looking for a new identity. I had time on my hands and, since I no longer existed, it seemed like the perfect moment to do it.
I wanted a man's name, that would give me a style. I would have to find a story to go with it, but that was kind of my thing. So it would be Dylan. Why not? It sounded just fine for a phoenix. But Dylan... what? I tried British names. Dylan Thornton? Dylan Smith?
Dylan... Thomas? Cool. Yes, it sounded classy, I liked it. I imagined the cover of a book with dog-eared pages with my name on it, and only I would know: Dylan Thomas, that was me. I took my phone. We were about to board, but I wanted to check quickly: were there already lots of “Dylan Thomases” out there? I looked on Google. Suddenly, I turned pale.
Not only was the name “Dylan Thomas” already taken, but he was also a writer. A Welsh poet. And not just any poet… Famous! How could I NOT know that? I was disappointed.
Later, in London, when I had managed to make a friend to whom I could confess my real name, she said to me: "You know, it doesn’t sound so crazy. There are tribes who invite their teenagers, during rites of passage into adulthood, to choose a new name, to mark a new stage in their lives. Nuns do it; artists do it too. Why not you?"
She was right. I'd keep the name, then, even if it was accidentally copied, because I felt connected to it anyway, to the "son of the wave" who spent his evenings in the pub reading and scribbling verses without thinking too much about it.
The next three years were formative years. I had lost all roots, I was a feather floating in a war-torn sky, but I learned to put one foot in front of the other, to survive, and that built my character.
Dylan, few people know she existed. And just once, I wanted us to talk about it. About the right to reinvent oneself. Leaving doesn't solve anything, they say... You take your problems with you in your suitcase. Yet, without that, things would never have changed. The courage it takes to run away is too often underestimated. For three years, I was able to live, to grow, to assert myself. Then, when the time comes, yes... You have to come back. And face it.
Dark is a way, he said. Light is a place.
(…)
But dark is a long way.
Because the danger, when you flee, is falling asleep. —
¹ : I have longed to move away, Dylan Thomas (the real one).
² : Poem on His Birthday, Dylan Thomas.
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#4 - The next day
The horror of it all was that I had prepared everything in advance. Backpack, passport, essentials. A few days later, they’d be waiting for me at the airport. At that moment, I’d imagined only two possible endings to that story: escape, or death and I had chosen both. I was leaving killing her, the Eva everybody (…)
“1) THE NECESSARY SEPARATION:
The desire to disappear or to see the other disappear is the ultimate signal of a cry for help that is vital to hear. Behind this desire (for ‘it to stop’) is the call of life.’” ¹
The call of life. — Genesis 19:17
I thought I saw a flash of lightning. It was 6:18 am, or something like that. It was 6:14, actually, last time I looked, but I guess it takes a good four minutes to put your shoes on, unlock the door and get the hell out.
The horror of it all was that I had prepared everything in advance. Backpack, passport, essentials. A few days later, they’d be waiting for me at the airport. At that moment, I’d imagined only two possible endings to that story: escape, or death and I had chosen both. I was leaving killing her, the Eva everybody remembered. And I was born, me, nameless still, with nowhere to go. Same little ghost who was trying to convince the public that yes, it was there.
In the street, everything was dark, still. I was thinking about Lot. I got startled by noises, but it was just the baker getting ready to open. I went on a bit faster. They’re still sleeping, you think? But who are you talking to? I thought. Just for a moment, the sky intensified — an ultramarine blue. So I knew it wouldn't be long before dawn.
I chose a bench in the middle of the esplanade, facing the mountains, to look at the sky. There were still a few stars. It seemed like an interesting place to start living. A homeless man — I saw him coming from a distance — was approaching, staggering, and I was afraid he would come and talk to me. He came closer, and closer, spoke, but to himself, and continued on his way. I sighed. So I came back to my dawn and to this other sentence from Genesis:
‘The sun had risen upon the earth when Lot entered Zoar.’ ²
I could have NOT disappointed them. True. Not broken their hearts, leaving home like that. But I could have breathed my last too, and about that, they'll never know. For them, I'll just be the missing child from now on. If I had chosen death, they would have mourned me. But as I chose life, they'll have plenty of time to hate me… It’s okay. You have to take the time to do these things. It's important.
But then you’ll have to rebuild yourselves… Personally, I planned to watch the sun rise. That was one reason to live. Until I asked myself the question again. The blue was changing for a beautiful cerulean, now turning gold. I was waiting my turn.
In the distance, a woman was walking quickly. I could see her silhouette pacing up and down the avenue. She disappeared from my field of vision and reappeared a moment later, right in front of me, agitated. She started talking and talking ; I stared at her, dazed, as if she were speaking a foreign language. She explained that she was looking for her son. That she had woken up around 5am that morning and didn’t find him there. ‘15 years old. Brown hair, white T-shirt, about this size... I won’t punish him, you know. I just want to find him.’ She looked pitiful, I wanted to help her.
The problem with this woman — and she had no idea, of course — was that she was showing me how mothers feel when they can't find their offspring in their bed, where they belong. And it was really not the right time. I nodded and muttered ‘Sorry’.
It was a strange scene, because there wasn’t this atmosphere of absolute solitude that usually goes with all the great moments of a character facing his destiny. I had taken the leap. Left everything behind. Family, work, comfort, home… I had nowhere to go, and I was going there with a pair of old jeans and a soon-expired passport. For me, it was the adventure of a lifetime. For the baker, the mother, the homeless man, it was a morning like any other. There was only one person in the world who could understand the exceptional nature of this day. And the last thing I'd done with her was pick up broken glass. This idea has obsessed me since. —
¹ : C. Eliacheff, N. Heinich, Mère-fille: une relation à trois, (2010), Ed. Albin Michel.
² : Genesis, 19:23
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