By Christian Garcin
Il a suffi de quatre Japonais dans un bar enfumé de Guangzhou pour activer chez le détective privé Zhu Wenguang – dit « Zuo Luo », ou encore « Zorro » – los angeles lointaine mécanique des souvenirs.De l. a. belle Yatsunari Sesuko, qui a fini sa vie cloîtrée dans un temple bouddhiste, à l. a. timide Zheng Leyun dont l. a. famille fut massacrée pendant los angeles Révolution culturelle, en passant par l. a. délicieuse Yang Cuicui jadis maltraitée par son yakusa de mari, les destinées tragiques des trois femmes de sa vie se répondent, et le convoquent soudain.Ce sera d’abord dans le Chinatown new-yorkais, puis dans l’extrême nord du Japon, aidé par une medium, un chien errant et une enfant perdue, qu’il devra tenter de démêler l’écheveau des souvenirs, au rythme lancinant d’un highway motion picture existentiel bercé de contes traditionnels et de musiques chinoises.
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I want to see and hear their first conversation, in this kit chen visited and touched, for the first time, by eyes other than those of his fellow postal workers, those old nostalgic radicals from the Commune who came there to reminisce, to blaspheme; or even the eyes of Mother Roulin’s neighbors, cheerful kids or old women with whom she’d go to market; but the young man wasn’t looking at their kitchen because the Roulins were well liked, because they were despised, en vied, or even because he wanted to chat with them and enjoy their company; his stare was the old, absent, clouded look of the prodigal son returned after ten years, after they had moved, and so he figures that, before, the buffet must have been there, and the chromo too, although he can’t remember it, because now it’s yellowed and dog-eared, but not this brand-new birdcage; and, no, not this bird; and Roulin un derstands this, barely; but that his kitchen was being scruti T he Life o f Joseph Roulin nized as something enormous and ancient, seen from its base, Egypt’s pyramids— this Roulin doesn’t understand.
Fie imagined the young man’s passage through Arles, Arles where Roulin hadn’t set foot since they had moved; maybe Ginoux had also recognized something in the young man, proudly guiding him through the groups of dormeurspetits to D U R IN G T H E DAYS T H A T F O L L O W E D , The Life o f Joseph Roulin a table near the hearth, smiling and obliging beneath the in fernal gas lamps; and Marie, who could no longer be consid ered young, had she undulated as she served him a beer? Because he was attractive, and because we know these people who have to do with painting.
It no longer produced this desirous, violent body that the mad excesses of youth incite, this pure glory made flesh; Augustine is as old as the hills, and even the oyster girls— their sidelong glances, their white arms— if by chance or blindness they mistake you for a sultan, you would lay your hands on them in vain: nevertheless, you look at them with the same eyes you had in Lambesc, and their bodies are the same, heavy, prodigious. It seems that all the friends you drink with have changed, they’ve become inattentive, tact less; they no longer deign to see that beneath the postal cap something of a prince is singing and making intelligent remarks; moreover, maybe the prince speaks less willingly; there are too many things in the world that the postman hasn’t understood, that he knows he’ll never understand, which, therefore, the prince will no longer discuss.