Yesterday evening Célia Houdart was invited to our bookshop : she spoke in particular about the E-1027 mansion where Eileen Gray has lived : one of her novels, "Tout un monde lointain", takes place there.
This early morning the radio woke me up. We usually had our wake-up station left to France Culture, a good program which talk between 6 and 6.25 about books, movies, arts or music. And the first words I heard were from Célia Houdart about E-1027 (1). And so I had the brief feeling I was still dreaming and about the previous evening.
It was beautiful and strange, these few seconds of double time asleep and awake. Some quantum instant.
I've been dining with some friends after a reading around one of my dearest friends work. At some point she told us about a lady, where she has one of her job, which one day pull herself naked right in front of my astonished friend. She said the lady was behaving as if walking naked in front of anybody was the most current thing in our lives.
On my way back I open the book I've been reading, which is the one of Célia Houdart "Tout un monde lointain" and discover that on the morning the last sentence I read was just before these two :
Tessa se déshabilla complètement.
Là, Gréco, d'un air à la fois souverain et légèrement étonné, demanda :
- Vous n'êtes pas naturiste, quand même ? (2)
It was precisely the attitude my friend could adopt when the unashamed lady do it again.
Going to this literary event, the one before the dinner, I met by chance one of my closest friends' daughter. She was going in a café to meet some friends of her. I'm quite used to meet people by chance in Paris which is not such the huge big town we can suppose it is. But it was nice anyway.
Where it became something of a wonder has been when on the mechanical scales to go to the metro, late at night we met again, both going back home at the same exact moment.
We had a good laugh.
(and as good french people spoke about what we've just been eating in our different restaurants)
Last : when back home I took the old paper mail in our mail box. There was a book someone sent me and a letter for my daughter sent by her previous boss (for some official end-of-job papers I presume). One came from Nancy the other from Paris, different people. But their handwriting on the envelops was quite the same and not so common.
This friday wasn't black at all but more some thing of a "Journée mondiale de la coïncidence".
As I'm writing about it I still feel quite astonished.
(1) Here à 16'
(2) p 131 édition P.O.L.