by Tony Duvert
It was, though, the right road for Jonathan’s. Serge was cold right through. Too great a cold, too great art emptiness.
The cars going by were now less numerous, and they were travelling fast. In the night and the rain, they seemed enormous.
No. Not yet. Serge threw his bag onto the floor and sat himself down on it. In the dark, his face was at the same level as some of the weeds: they had yellow flowers like dandelions, but a bit different. These weeds and the child were occasionally caught in the light of passing cars.
His peaceful situation brought him a sudden and unexpected happiness. Things returned to normal. Everything would work out. There would have to be a car, obviously. Obviously. Down there, in two or three hours, after you came off the main road, there was another big road to follow; he knew it well. If a car had picked Serge up, he would have done this last part on foot, and perhaps at eleven o’clock, or at midnight, he would have pushed at Jonathan’s garden gate. It was never shut. Jonathan would be asleep, Serge would go in through the kitchen, he’d put the light on, perhaps he’d see the mice running away behind the stove, he would quietly go up to the bedroom, gently wake Jonathan up, or if it was cold, he’d get into bed next to him first, or perhaps he’d eat something first if he was hungry, Jonathan wouldn’t be surprised, they’d hug each other lots and lots, and Serge would tell him about his journey, this courageous journey, and they’d go to sleep together in the big bed, this same night, tonight, and then forever.
Serge got up suddenly, gave the bag a kick, and it rolled into the ditch. The opener tinkled against the Coke bottle. The boy stood at the edge of the road. The rain fell, cold. Now, watch the cars, until there was one going very fast and all by itself. And watch the headlights and throw himself against them, very fast too, there where the light shone brightest. Rigid and motionless, his sight a little blurred, Serge allowed several cars go by, before he saw the one he was waiting for.
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Like so many novels, this book is the story of a love affair. What is less usual is that Jonathan, an artist, is almost thirty when the story starts, while Serge is a boy of eight. Jonathan had got to know Serge and his mother Barbara in Paris the previous year . Tired of the city and confused by the stress of this relationship, Jonathan shut himself away in a remote village. But his retreat is disturbed when Barbara needs someone to look after Serge for the summer while she travels abroad. Like all lovers, Jonathan and Serge create their own microcosm of domestic and erotic ritual, buttheirs is a world that shatters on contact with the surrounding society.
Published by Editions de Minuit, a leading literary press, Tony Duvert is respected in France for both fiction and essays, but the uncompromising motif that pervades his work has up till now barred him from reaching English readers. GM P are especially pleased to welcome Duvert to our translation series; his cool and matter-of-fact portrayal of a sensitive theme is a welcome alternative to the hysteria surrounding the age taboo in the English-speaking countries.
“One of the most intelligent, bold and subversive books of the year” — Le Monde
UK £7.95
US $12.95
AUS $22.95
DM 29.80
ISBN 0-85449-154-6
9 780854 491544
Cover art by Chris Brown
