A PURE HEART
Intrigued, Philippe watches Vincent cut minuscule slices of hash with a razor blade. Then he mixes them with some tobacco and rolls it all into a cigarette. Lights it, slowly inhales.
“It’s wonderful.”
“You can feel it already?”
“Your turn now, try it.”
Philippe chokes on the first drag.
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. Try.”
He makes a second attempt, chokes more violently. His eyes fill with tears.
“Can’t do it.”
“Let me have it. We’ll do a shotgun.”
“A what?”
“A shotgun.”
Vincent turns the joint around and places the lit end in his mouth. Then he puts his lips on his friend’s. Never has anyone approached Philippe so intimately. If he’s stoned he doesn’t know if it’s because of the hash or this new proximity between them.
“What’s that called in French?”
“What?”
“Shotgun.”
“I don’t think it exists in other languages.”
“Where does it come from?”
“The war in Vietnam. Apparently American soldiers invented the shotgun to increase the effect of cannabis. Or to save on dope. One puff for two people. Why’re you smiling?”
“Imagining the soldiers. It balances things.”
“What?”
“War, peace. Because it’s like a kiss.”
“Yeah, a kiss with fire in the middle. Actually, Philippe, what do you do about sex?”
“Nothing. Why, should I do something?”
“So no …”
“No, I don’t satisfy myself with my own hand.”
“What about your erections? Because when you wake up they’re already standing there in front of you.”
“I don’t do anything. They come, they go.”
“Liar, you’re a dirty little hypocrite.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Vincent.”
“If I understand right, I’ve just introduced a saint to the world of drugs.”
“I’m not a saint, I’m just me. I don’t need to behave like everybody else just to exist. Most young people would rather follow fashions than act according to their own convictions.”
“You only spout banalities.”
“And you think you’re original with your hashish and your long hair. Basically, you follow the foreseeable course of any young man who’s rebelling against his parents’ ideas. Later on you’ll settle down and rejoin society.”
“While you, you aren’t going to change?”
“I’ll stay faithful to my convictions.”
“You know, Philippe, you’re incredibly pretentious.”
“I’m pulling your leg.”
“No, no, you’ve just revealed who you really are. Another toke?”
“Once is once too many.”
Vincent gives him a look, a mocking smile, then rolls another joint. The atmosphere in the room is getting heavier as he inhales, deeply and noisily. Philippe would like to know what’s hiding behind the little look of complacency that has just appeared on the face of his friend.
“I love someone.”
“You love Christ, Philippe, not very original.”
“Yes, I love Christ. But I also love Laure.”
“Laure?”
“My cousin.”
“You’re very family-minded. That’s dangerous.”
“She’s not my real cousin. Laure was adopted by my mother’s sister.”
“When?”
“Very young. Laure and I have loved each other since we first met.”
“What kind of love? You’ve sworn a pact of eternal virginity, is that it? You look one another square in the eye and that’s enough?”
“Not really, because we don’t see each other. She was living in Chicoutimi and me in Québec City. We started corresponding two years ago.”
“But now you live in the same city.”
“That’s true, since September. I could see her every day.”
“And so?”
“That changes nothing. We still write to each other.”
“Do you talk on the phone with her?”
“Not even. We prefer letters.”
“You and your fake cousin tell each other stories. Now think, what use is a love that goes nowhere, that only exists in your head?”
“It seems to me that we don’t share the same notion of love.”
“You live on illusions. Watch out, the awakening will be brutal.”
“Have you ever loved someone? I mean, not just made love to. I mean loved someone with all your heart.”
“Not with all your body?”
“Love purely.”
“Purely? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about purity of the heart. A force that can’t be explained, that exists in each of us but that very few of us call on. A love detached from any desire: that, for me, is purity of the heart.”
“You’re naive. Love like that doesn’t exist.”
Philippe opens a drawer and takes out a small metal box.
“Here, proof that it does so exist.”
“What’s in it?”
“Laure’s letters.”
“And?”
“If you read one of these letters you’d change your opinion.”
“About what?”
“The purity of the heart.”
“Those words are hollow, empty. What century are you living in?”
“Same one as you.”
“If you want to know love, you first have to make it.”
“That’s a very simplistic vision, Vincent. It’s surprising, coming from you.”
“It’s a practical approach, I’d say. You’re the one full of illusions.”
Silence settles between the two young men. The furniture, the walls also seem to fall silent, losing all at once the surplus of existence that is the effect of the hash.
“So you’re giving them to me?”
“What?”
“The letters.”
“Never.”
“You see?”
“What?”
“You’re scared.”
Looking up from his paper, Antoine spots Claire Langlois, wearing dark glasses. She crosses avenue Bernard with a determined step. Her bearing expresses a stylish mix of efficiency and joie de vivre. He stands up and waves to her, but she ignores him and disappears. He thinks briefly that he’ll run into her along the way. He saw her yesterday, he sees her again today, what will happen tomorrow? Maybe there are bridges between the world of underground desires and that of sunbathed apparitions, he hopes. He doesn’t pursue his thought any further, sips some coffee, and dives back into his reading.
He reads several articles on the tragedy of John F. Kennedy Junior. The respectful or formal tone of the first days is wearing off. John-John’s aura is losing its brilliance. Now they write about his failures, his sometimes-difficult relationship with his mother. He had wanted to work in theatre. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was opposed, forcing him to study law. He took the bar exams three times before he passed them. People magazine voted him “the sexiest man alive.” He was rumoured to have had affairs with Madonna, Brooke Shields, and numerous other celebrities. There was speculation about his sexual orientation. A shadow was also cast on his marriage to Carolyn Bessette, who had died at his side in the accident. They were about to divorce. She did drugs. An American journalist launched
