La Boutique Obscure: 124 Dreams

No. 73: May 1971

P. sings

P. is singing.

She’s singing remarkably well. The song is in a realist style, but very moving.

We walk together down rue des Boulangers. She’s going to work and I want to go see my aunt on rue de l’Assomption. I suggest that we walk some of the way (it’s nice out).

I ask how she managed to get a chorus to accompany her at the end of the song. She tells me it was done with a recording and tells me the name of the system — something like “video-tape”—she used.

She was singing on the street, and people were even turning around to listen to her, but she was still accompanied, as though on a record.

I’m pleased for her that she is singing. We plan her repertoire and her career. She will begin at Galerie 55, then at l’Écluse, etc. I’m certain I can help her, that her talent will win many people over. I dream that she’s already a star.

We are slightly lost in a remote neighborhood.

We’re walking down a staircase; I notice she’s not wearing anything under her white cloth jacket and that she has a lovely chest.

The staircase is carved out of wood, very rococo. I descend it by sliding down the banister, thinking “in petto” that it must be childish to do such things at my age, but I’m also very happy to be doing it.

I arrive at the bottom; while trying to get off the banister, I notice that my head is stuck between the banister bars and, across from me, through the unpolished window of the lodge, I see the shadow of the security guard getting up.

I manage to free myself in time. I leave, but I feel the presence of the guard behind me, following me out of the building.

I turn left. I see P. in the distance. There are two signs in the street; on one, closer and toward the left, is written “Ollé” (or “Olla”); on the other, a bit farther off and to the right, is written “OPERA.” We go that way. P. is waiting for me not far from a little girl sitting on a garden chair with a schoolbag in her hand. I head toward P., first walking, then running faster and faster, remarking to myself, “I’m definitely giving the impression of a uniformly accelerating speed”; still, I feel spikes in my acceleration. When I arrive, I pretend to grab a comic book that P. is holding under her arm. She tells me that people do that often but I have to arrive slower, and suggests that I start again. I walk back to do so and notice then that the little girl sitting beside P. has blood (or strawberry jam) all over her mouth. I approach P. running slowly, but the book I take, which was a hardcover illustrated book (like Asterix or Lucky Luke) has become just a newspaper …

(interrupted by “FIP 514, it’s 10:30!”)