Les cannibales n'ont pas de cimetières by Gérard Guégan
By Gérard Guégan
Nous suivons ici les déambulations d'Outremer - bientôt 70 ans, écrivain, membre de l'appareil clandestin de l. a. Troisième Internationale, volontaire en Espagne, torturé en 1937 par l. a. police stalinienne à Barcelone, ancien de los angeles deuxième DB de Leclerc, pédéraste dandy, immoraliste distingué, morphinomane, fumeur, buveur, viveur - du matin du 10 mai 1968 (où il apprend los angeles nature de sa poor maladie) à l'aube suivante où, au sortir des barricades et des combats de rue, dans les vapeurs de los angeles mescaline et des gaz lacrymogènes, il parvient à confesser ses crimes à Véronica, jeune femme énigmatique poursuivie toute los angeles nuit telle une chimère... Vingt-quatre heures dans los angeles vie d'un homme comme l'époque moderne n'en produit plus : une direction contre los angeles montre entre l. a. mort et l'aveu, rythmée par de courts chapitres qui sont autant de stations sur le chemin de croix de los angeles mémoire.
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Extra info for Les cannibales n'ont pas de cimetières
You filthy beggar, get out of here, don't touch me, if you lay a finger on me I'll cane you to death . . and he'd go back to the window with the broken panes, stark . naked. The old women and the nuns didn't dare cross the court with the orange trees anymore. We decided that the best thing was to board up the shutters of his cell. But he always managed to break them down. Until one night, as Don Clemente slept, I walled up his window with bricks and cement, the first window I walled up in the Casa.
It was witch craft, black magic, and that's why the peasants were being crushed under the weight of endless misfortunes. Over the bone dry plains, where the animals swollen with thirst were dying off, the head of the landowner's daughter, flapping huge sinewy ears that were like bat wings, would fly after the yellow bitch dog it was warty and scrawny like the girl's nursemaid-that guided the chonch6n to a place indicated by the rays of their accom plice, the moon, on the other side of the hills.
I'm the seventh old woman. I'll take it upon myself to watch over the Azcoitia about to be born. Iris's - 50 vomit, which I washed from the kitchen tiles, anointed me. I keep it wrapped in a floor rag, with my books and my manu scripts, under the bed, where all old women keep their things. THE FIRST TffiNG I had to do was win them over. If I didn't find a way to dazzle them, I'd be accepted by them in name only, even though I'd groveled for them. I let a few days go by while I laid my plans, letting them go on barely talking to me and watching me on the sly.