PLUME D'ANGE (C. Nougaro)
Angel's Feather
by Claude Nougaro
You see this pen? Well, it's a feather ... Angel
But do not worry, I do not ask you to believe me, I ask you more.
But listen again, one last time, my story.
One night I was doing a hilarious dream when I was awakened by a chill in the air.
I open my eyes, what do I see?
In the darkness of the room, myriads of sparks ... They were going to join, by swirling magnetic
a point in front of my bed.
Quickly, the accumulation of magnetic flakes, phosphorescent a body is constituted.
When the last flake had finished their race, an angel stood before me, an angel with big wings regulatory milk.
Like an arrow from a quiver from his shoulder he pulls a pen he handed it to me and he said:
"It's a feather angel. I give it to you. Watch it around you.
one human and you believe this unfortunate world open to the world of joy.
That only human to believe you with your pen of an angel.
Goodbye and remember, faith is more beautiful than God. "And the angel
disappeared leaving the pen between my fingers.
In the dark, I stayed long, illuminated, shivering with ecstasy, smoothing pen, breathable.
In that time, I lived for a sumptuous breasts passion harmful.
I turn, I wake up:
"My love, my love, look at that bird ... It's a feather angel Yes, an angel was there ... He just give it to me .. .
Oh my darling, you know I am incapable of lying, scandalous joke ... My love, my love, you must believe me, and you'll see ... the world! "
The beautiful, her face obscured hair, spiders sleep, replied:
"Leave me peace ... I want to sleep ... And stop your damn smoke Nepal!"
She turns away and shit !
In the morning, among the negroes of the first pigeons and garbage, I promptly left with my friend the safest.
I showed my pen to Africa, garbage cans, and of course the pigeons which made me wheels, coos admiringly of consideration.
I ring.
is my friend Andrew.
Calmly, with precision, I emptied my bag Bible, my pillow heavenly
"You get on well, Andrew, that I take seriously and all humanity pulls its orbit warlike and deadly curse . A clear! No more suffering, stupidity. The joy, the light coming! "
Andre thoughtfully massaged his temple, he gave me a smile moved, dragged me into the kitchen over coffee, as I explained, sensitive, myself, inclined to mysticism wild, I had to reconsider this apparition.
Rest ... The air campaign ... Precisely with the birds, true!
I find myself in the roaring street, gnawing the pen in my pocket.
What to say? What to do?
"Officer, look, it's a feather angel."
I think! Immediately the
thundering herds of cars already fractious flatten. Men leaving bright, haloed and kiss their flying sobbing.
Seriously!
I walked, I walked, devouring their faces. It? The little lady?
And suddenly the idea came over me, obvious, brilliant ... Abandon the men!
Let us turn to the kids! Only they know that faith is more beautiful than God.
Children ... Yes, but which one?
I was still walking, I walked again. I did not look over the mouths of passers-by staring, but in me, garlands of children's faces, my dear, my Fairy, my gullible me smile.
I walked, I was flying ... The wind not flipping my Paris ... Pages of stone, asphalt, pavement now. Those
the St. Vincent Street ... Stairs of Montmartre. I ride, I go down and I freeze in front of a school, rue du Mont-Cenis.
Some women waited out kids. Falsely
father, waiting, too.
Here they are.
They result from kindergarten through fresh puffs, by bubbling colorful. My eyes flit of emoticons in pretty faces, seeking a revelation.
On the threshold of the school, a little girl stopped. In the bright light of April, she blinks her small eyes of jet, slightly slanted, a little Chinese and rubbed vigorously.
Then she takes her school bag orange, just bounced Mathematics modern.
So I followed the ball brown and curly, climbing the stairs behind the Butte.
A few hundred yards she went into a building.
long time I just stood there, stroking my teeth with the tip of my pen.
The next day I came out of school and the next day and the days that followed. Her name was Fanny
. But I decided not to address it. And if I frightened with my mouth dry, my sweat sacred
my deathly pallor, vital?
So what do I do? I kill myself? I swallowed my pen? I plant in my ass sumptuous passion harmful ?
Then one Thursday, I told myself I tell him. The lungs
spring exhaled breath of their first plague paradise. I rushed my steps, I stretched my hand towards the curly head ... Just as I reach over my shoulder a heavy hand hit.
I turned, there were two, they stank the bar: "Follow us."
the police station.
You know the police?
The cops who hit the board in the Gallic Sandwich ...
A layer of tobacco, a layer of beating.
The commissioner was a good boy, he was not rolling the mechanical he rolled his r: "Sit down. It seems already to have seen you somewhere you. So like that, we follow the girls?
- Exits to pass for a madman, I'll tell you, sir, the real reason why I approach this child.
I get out my pen and I'm doing my verse and miraculous night. - Fanny, I am sure, would have believed me.'s killers, fonts, our secular Tennis blows, all that was finished, gone!
- Let the object, "said the Commissioner.
From between my trembling fingers he took the pen and holy is technically an eyebrow before rolling man .
- It the goose that ..., "he said, I know myself, I am of the Perigord.
- Sir, this is not the goose is an angel, I tell you!
- Calm down! Calm down! But you still admit that such a statement requires to be supported by a minimum of investigation, the absence of evidence.
You'll wait a moment. We'll look after you. Nicely eh? nicely. "We
looked after me, kindly.
Between ECT, I stroll in the park of the psychiatric clinic where they put me up for a month.
Among the various siphoned frolicking or s 'cut down on the kind turf, he is a being who fascinates me. It's an old man, very handsome, he always stands motionless in an alley of the park in front of a cedar of Lebanon. Sometimes he stretches his arms and slowly chanting a text seems to secret sacred.
I finally approached him, by speaking to him.
Today we are friends. It is a type surprising, a scholar, a poet.
You say he knows everything, learned everything, smelled, seen, penetrated, is an understatement. From his massive beard
, a little green, hair thick and twisted the word out, calm and fruity, watering a story where all the mystical, the metaphysical philosophies unite, come together to resemble the well-starred his memory. In this well
rejuvenating intellectual fool, I come down, bucket full of water fresh and clear intelligence allied to love, I go back.
Sometimes I gaze with a smile. The folds of her frock, they sort of nuts, big nuts that breeze suddenly in his palm, crack! for me the offer.
One day he tells me about birdwatching compared between Olivier Messiaen and Charlie Parker, I no longer listening.
A great silence in me.
But the man whom the angel spoke to you, this man found who can believe in your pen, Well, yes, it's him, he is there before you!
Without hesitation, I pull out the pen. Eyes bronzed
throw a spark.
It examines the pen with a sharpness that makes me shiver from head to toe.
"What a magnificent specimen of the pen of an angel, you, my friend.
- So you believe me? You know!
- Of course I believe you. Hose slightly fluted, the nacrure beards, no may be mistaken.
I can even add that this is a penne Angelus Maliciosus.
- But then, it is said that a man believing me, the world is saved ...
- I arrest you, friend. I am not a man.
- You're not a man?
- Not at all, I am a walnut.
- You're drowning?
- No. I am a walnut. The tree. I am a tree. "
There was a chill in the air.
Standing out from the tops of tall cedar, a bird came to rest on the shoulder of the old man and I thought I recognized, miniaturized, the mischievous angel who had visited.
All three of the bird, the old man and me, we laughed, we laughed a long, long time ... The
giggles, what!
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