THE TRUE STORY OF THE ALEXIA
( And why you'll cry your eyes out after reading it )
When I was little, I wasn't tall. I showed my heart to everyone who passed by. That's how I realized I was a bit emotional. When I was young, I'd go on an emotional rampage. I'd mew at the drop of a hat. But back then, it would send me into a trance of inexorable sadness. So I was this little being made of tears and hope.
It was in the midst of this maelstrom of emotions that I arrived at the Étienne Dolet elementary school, propelled there by parents eager to leave me in the suburbs, with a nanny, while they stayed in Paris to continue their frolics and go out quietly to their bars to party, play table soccer and Space Invaders, while drinking 33 Export.
My nanny was nice, but her husband often played tic-tac-toe on my little body with his soldering iron, when he wasn't combing my hair with his gardener's rake. I wasn't well-regarded, but maybe it was better than being left to my own devices. Even so, I'd rather be the whipping boy of a surrogate family than go to school. That school was a giant open-air ring where the law of the strongest reigned. Back then, I didn't believe in violence. So I was quickly overwhelmed by the leaders, the tough guys who settled everything with muffs, sweepings and other physical humiliations.
It's 1983, and already two years of right-wing politics disguised as mountain pasture socialism. That year, I swore by one thing: the music of Michel Legrand, and more specifically that of Peau d'Âne, which intoxicates me and helps me face a reality that's very hard to swallow. I dream of romance and a great love story. But everyone in the courtyard is out to hurt or kill me. I spend my time dodging stones, small cars, spitting or responding to insults worthy of Afghan training camps. I do what I can to slip through the cracks and build myself a carapace lined with a cloak of invisibility.
It was in the middle of this battlefield that I saw her arrive during the year. She certainly wasn't like the others. She was sweet, and above all, had a beautiful face and skin like a PlayStation controller. Her first name: Alexia. Her greatest asset: her Carpathian seagull grace. Her origins: Armenia, the land of Aznavour, but also, and above all, of Cher, my bestie, my role model.
This Alexia was, like me, an anomaly among all these animals, these monsters. I didn't know it yet, but Alexia was to be my first gay love. My first love at all. The purest, most insane, craziest and most worthy of my entire existence. We managed to create a protective dome inside which we kissed greedily and without restraint. We left each other, separated by our change of establishments. She knows where I am, that I've become the queen of grolles. I have no way of contacting her, so if you know this extraordinary person, I'm leaving my husband and dog.
Mon cœur était gros, mais je respectai son vœu, me tenant éloignée du 14e. Depuis, je n'eus plus jamais de nouvelles d'Anatol, malgré nos amis communs. Certains disaient qu'il avait fui, d'autres qu'il s'était suicidé, voire pire : que sa mère était impliquée dans sa disparition.Vous comprendrez aisément pourquoi je dédie cette magnifique botte à la mémoire de cette merveilleuse personne, protectrice des femmes et de leur intégrité.
