DWith zero suspicion, he opens the fifth door of the behemoth closet in their mother’s bedroom. The cow. It surprises him average, but nothing has moved. All of her father’s old clothes are there, glued tight, “ fabulous ” from close. He sees scrolling, eight images per second, the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s too, a little, necessarily. His eye quickly catches a striped, orange and blue shirt. The smell of always, cold tobacco and cheap vetiver combo. The Parma fabric with its psyche motifs in relief still lines the walls of the closet, with increasing difficulty. Same atmosphere as before the big works and the rest. We almost hear the voices of the life before. It’s too much, he closes the door.
It’s the first time their mother has given them the right not to dress alike – but I mean, perfectly alike, down to the socks and underpants. The very first time since they were born, almost thirteen years ago. Tomorrow is their birthday. This morning, she told them casually, emptying the machine, without taking the measure of the seriousness of the announcement: “Little guys, for Saturday, you both dress as you want. » Shocked by this ” one and the other “ unprecedented, they looked at each other as they do, without really needing to do so, via this invisible channel just for them.
The Father’s Mausoleum
By dint of undergoing the twin fad of their mother who systematically makes her buy their clothes twice (pajamas, sweaters, T-shirts, coats, hats, same model, same color), they had ended up believing that they would die dressed the same. His brother doesn’t care, sold out as he is in the maternal chapel. But he is just waiting for that, for it to stop. And this, since the summer of their 5 years and these holidays in Cadaqués, to be carried around in the alleys of the village, both in white and navy sailor jacket, Pento in the hair, parted on the side, to pamper feet because of Dali’s hyper-tight laced espadrilles, the feeling of being a fashion accessory in front of each passer-by who goes into raptures.
Her brother took from their father’s mausoleum dressing room what she suggested, before leaving to read in the living room, this ass-licker. His turn, now. He reopens the cupboard. The fabrics, cotton, silk, wool, flannel, linen, the different textures, torn under his fingers. He knows. It will be the light orange and blue striped shirt, short sleeves. She reminds him of the hero with a wick and pimples from a film he really liked, where the guy, despite his acne, still manages to fuck a thirty-year-old. And then, it’s the one in the photo he likes, where his father has hair, a smile and a big mustache.
He tries it on with dress pants, too long, but maybe his mother knows how to hem them. The fabric refined by time, almost paper, is fresh. His mother enters. And shut up, for once. She stands in front of him. She seems very small. She replaces the collar of the shirt that didn’t really need it. On his left hand, his wedding ring shines more than usual, with a hazy light that says too much. He looks into her eyes, he sees himself there better than in the mirror on the closet door, praying that tomorrow’s scratches will make us forget the pimples ravaging his forehead.