The Nocturnal Vol 1 : The Awakening

Chapter 2 part 1

- Remi -

Like most medium-sized cities, the one where I lived was composed of an old town centre and a more modern periphery that served as a dwelling. I walked, accompanied by the good smell of lavender that came out of the soap factory and permeated the city. Beautiful volutes of white smoke escaped from the red brick chimney that protruded from the roofs of the houses. I walked by the " mossy fountain ", so called because it was entirely covered with moss, and found it looking like a large mushroom with a green hat. But it was mostly in winter that I preferred to see it, when it was completely frosted and dressed in large yellow garlands.

I walked along the ramparts of the old city, then ventured into the small cobbled streets of the historic centre. The commercial alleys were located at the foot of the Château de l'Empéri. All the shops had beautiful, warm and richly decorated windows. Only the old stationery shop stood out in the middle of these flashy shops. Nevertheless, the reputation of this address went beyond the borders of the department. Until now, I had never dared to set foot in it, hampered by the building's advanced state of disrepair and perhaps also and above all because of the owner's biting reputation. My impatience overcame my little fears that I qualified as "infantile", and I entered.

The glass door slammed behind me, ringing a small bronze bell. The external light was attenuated by the thick layer of dirt that the backlight revealed. I immediately discovered on my left a beautiful solid wood counter on which was installed an old copper-coloured cash register with its original dust. The floor was covered with a parquet floor in cross-pieces without splintering. The crackling of the slats reminded me strangely of the sound of the parquet floor at my uncle Augustin's house.

Why do I think about that?

A pleasant smell of pine and old paper gently caressed my nostrils, inviting me to follow it through the maze of rays. The latter seemed disproportionately large and worrying. Yet, intoxicated by this fragrance, I moved on. A whole myriad of objects was available to me. This stationery looked like Ali Baba's cave. Each aisle was teeming with accessories of all kinds that could certainly not be found anywhere else. Every step was a source of wonder. Lost in the admiration that embraced me, I suddenly heard a growl that startled me.

Turning around, I discovered an ageless man of small stature, with a marked face and more wrinkles than a shar-pei. Straight as a picket and with his arms crossed, his white hair hirsute in all directions. His style of clothing, which I would call non-conformist, added to my surprise. Standing in his used brown slippers, dressed in crumpled Scottish trousers and a mitted green wool sweater, Mr. Timothée Dale Duralsanot, the owner, was staring at me.

- 'What do you want?' He growled meanly.

Tim the Terror, as it was customary to hear, was not lacking in his reputation.

- 'Hello, sir, I stuttered with surprise. I'm looking for a notebook to write... umm.... my math lessons,' I stammered as I searched for my words.

- 'We don't sell this here!' he barked dryly.

- 'Don't you have notebooks?' I asked stunned.

- 'No, we don't have a common notebook in which to write things as ordinary as your math lessons,' he spat with disdain, motionless. 'Mine are works of art,' he explained to me his voice trembling. 'Magnificent blank canvases waiting for the next Michelangelo of writing, the next Leonardo da Vinci of calligraphy.'

He stopped for a moment, looking at me from all sides.

- 'Your notebook, all you have to do is buy it in one of these soulless hypermarkets with all their low-cost junk!' he ended by spitting at me.