The day after...

Francois was born Catholic from head to toe, with a tailor-made suit on his shoulders, he turned 18 months old and got a deep, dull and monotonous voice. In the playground, he always seemed older than his classmates and their childlike voice. His frail looks put him directly in the category of kids that we choose by default during sports. With the girls, he did it backwards. He is one of those timid admirers, unable to get out the slightest syllable without blushing embarrassingly. His well-framed daily routine, between school, catechism and bilboquet games, would depress a pensioner. Time has passed, things haven't changed. From kindergarten to Science Po, he's one of those who doesn't count. This shitty life, he wants to disturb her.

Sunday, December 14,1980. I remember exactly that date. I wasn't born, they told me. From the top of his 25th birthday tonight, he's getting ready. First the bow tie, then the red socks. The movements are precise, the event is important. In the dressing room, it's time for checks. Nothing should exceed.

Am I well prepared mother?
More than ever, darling.
With a tender gesture, she passes her hand through her hair to replace her strand, revealing a marked line. Under the apparent calm, behind a apathetic facade, Francois is nervous.
I'll make it, have no doubt.
No, of course not, I have faith in you. So is your father. Here, tighten your rosary and let's recite the Our Father.
They're singing prayer. The voices are tuned until they intertwine. The moment is solemn.
All right, go ahead, Francois, show them.
He doesn't say a word, turns around, looks straight ahead and advances. At the end of the corridor, the light.
After having been blackboule, repeatedly, selections of the small singers at the cross of wood, iron cross, if I go to hell, there is only one divine intervention left for him to succeed in the school of the Fans of Jacques Martin.
The star host invites him to get off his bench and sit on the stage. It's 8:00 p. m., and for the first time, the spotlights are on him.
What's your name?
Francois.
And how old are you?
25 years.
Aren't you a little tall to be here?
No. - No.
Tell me, where are mom and dad?
There.
Oh, I see them, they're cute. And what are you gonna sing to us tonight?
If I were President of Gerard Lenorman.
The children are great. Come on, let's give him a big hand and cheer him on.
Under the cheers of an enthusiastic audience, Francois sets off. At the end of his moccasins, he gives the tempo. The determined gaze, even inanimate, the clenched fist, he puts his voice. The rhythmic is lively, the mayonnaise takes. The first verses are a success, the fist in the air it seems to externalize an emotion. Finally.

If I were President of the Republic,
Never again would a child have a sad thought,
I would name Mickey Prime Minister of course,
My government, if I were president,
Simplet a la culture seems obvious to me
Tintin to the police and Picsou to finance,
Zorro to justice and Minnie to dance...

A wind of patriotism blows over the audience. Hand on heart, the audience is won over. The emotion is strong. Too strong. Francois lets himself be carried and gets carried away. Off the coast. In the middle of a refrain a little too ambienced, his voice is jammed. The screams of joy fade. The hearing ends in awkward silence. Francis is silent. He failed.
Jacques Martin sweeps it with a look that means "Game over". It doesn't take more than that for him to understand. This way, exit.
He shaves the walls down to the dressing room. With his throat knotted in front of his parents, he breaks the silence.

I did everything right but I couldn't, it was too much for me. I take full responsibility for this failure and draw conclusions from it by withdrawing from the music world at the end of this program.
At the right time.

One day, they will end up listening to me, seeing me, and all of them will fear me.
But why do you want them to fear you, my darling?
To be respected. Do you understand? I want to be respected.

Same morning again, alone, in the bathroom. In front of the mirror, he thinks about it. Over his shoulder, the memory is fleeting. Like a dust of yesteryear, he grabs it with his stunted hands. "I got you, naughty! ». The clamour of the supporters, the triumph of the Primary, the conquest of power, it was played out little by little. Time is the memory of a thick fog. Point out the bitter hints, the ones that give you the knife punches in your face. He loosens his hand of this image to hurt and lets the embers burn. It blows, the ashes scatter, the past too.