L'Abattement des Poétes Muet
First Edition -
Déjuner du Matin: The Pain of Mr. Lupin
Please take the time to refer to the short exposition detailing the influence of Jacques Prévert before you read this. Well... I suppose that it's not entirely necessary, but I strongly suggest it before you start to wonder why the "deranged" author has injected her story with French poetry.
The hurried, chaotic paths of the uncountable raindrops that slithered down the rippled, aged window of the London café mesmerized a young Remus Lupin. They left slightly less sullied trails behind them on the grimy glass. If rain was meant to be a cleansing process, Remus felt no baptismal sentiments. If anything, his life had recently turned from any class of Transcendental philosophy and spiralled somewhere out of his realm of control. He would not feel the comforting presence of control for a long while.
A tall man, blessed and cursed with blonde hair, fair complexion and a love of the outdoors (a golden portrait in youth, sun and wind worn in elder adulthood), with exposed face and hands of angular build and a profound aura of aloofness, sat opposite Remus at the small, somehow brittle, wrought iron table. His father. Although, of late, there had been precious little moments of characteristic, proud paternity.
A waitress, prim and somewhat chary, brought a tray of scones, coffee, milk, sugar, and honeyed biscuits. Remus regretted her quick retreat from the table, for he felt, even though there was the glaring fact of numerous others in the café, that he had been left entirely alone in the world with this silent man whom he didn't presume to even know anymore. It was cold, and the presence of any other life was warmth.
Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petit cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bus le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
(He put the coffee
In the cup
He poured the milk
In the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
In the coffee with cream
With the little spoon
He stirred
He drank the coffee with cream
And he set down the cup)
Was an unavoidable lycanthrope a reasonable justification for neglect? Of course it was, the pessimist in Remus nearly voiced aloud. Even towards one's firstborn and only son? If he deserves it. Did he deserve it? When certain words are leaked and a situation that was previously a personal problem becomes a public shame... resulting in dismissal from jobs, exclusion from societies, and general fear towards anyone associated with a dangerous Untouchable... maybe he does. Remus knew that his friends and even his Headmaster would assure him differently, that it was the shortcomings of the culture, not the individual, that caused such prejudices, but their words were of little defence against the excruciating silence of a parent.
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
(Without speaking to me
He lit
A cigarette
He blew rings
With the smoke
He tapped the ashes
In the ashtray)
Remus observed the smoke rings float leisurely upward and past him, dissolving into intricate spider webs of pale haze. He looked as piercingly as he dared toward his father, attempting to discern whether the action was a nervous diversion or a habit of relaxation. His features were cryptic... detached. Remus could detect neither a twinge of regret nor detest, and perhaps it was for his better well-being that he never did know. It was a frozen moment in time, a yin and yang of counterpart possibilities.
If truth had ever been told, this father figure, in all actuality, bore no hatred toward his son... but he had come to a decision, and he was bound and determined to resist any temptation toward compassion. At this moment, he remembered a quote of misremembered origin... "If you can be cruel to those you love, then you will never be weakened by empathy for your enemies".
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sur la pluie
(Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He rose
He put
His hat on his head
He put on
His raincoat
Because it is raining
And he leaves
In the rain)
Yin and yang departed. There was no black and white to the world. Like the narrow, flooded streets beyond the protection of the window, the world's prospects consisted of nothing but an uncertain grey. Remus was numb to emotion and he could not bring himself to study the hunched, diminishing figure, whipped by the weather, although the area of his consciousness that was still coherent told him that it would most likely be his last view.
It was a sudden wave. The facade of collected apathy crumbled within him. Remus Lupin was a werewolf and would remain so. There was no hope of redemption while the fact was sustained.
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi, j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma mains
Et j'ai pleure.
(Without a word
Without looking at me
And me, I placed
My head in my hands
And I wept.)
Surreal and unimaginable pain was upon Remus Lupin like a pack of merciless wolves.
Well, I am fast working on the next edition, and it should be posted fairly soon, but you're just left with this for the moment. Hope you found it worthwhile (if a bit eccentric). Only encouragement will incite me to continue this because this is not, by any means, the easiest kind of writing. Look for "Cruciatus Prolonged"!