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2012 03 Secret gardenBy Marc RuganiSecret garden - Saturday March 30th
No school this morning.
I'm not the only one who's pleased! But why is my teacher skipping her lessons? Answers float into my head – one, then another, then a third – without settling, and fly away like a bird blown by the wind: my brain cells don't want to know, "move along please, nothing of interest here!" because what matters to them is this lovely morning of leisure awaiting them with nothing to do!
I stayed in bed like Mum and Dad, but Pierre – my older brother – didn't have my luck: his teachers are all there: no flu, no depression, no made-up excuses, ready to spread the good word among their pupils!
He's in Year 10 and I'm in Year 7 at the same school.
I can update my diary in peace without being afraid that someone will discover me.
The thing is, my brother spies on me and watches me: he's guessed that I'm doing something I'm keeping hidden from him, something I want to keep for myself without sharing, and this mystery irritates him.
Like a mosquito bite, my secret is irritating him, making him scratch and itch, and he wants to know; so he watches me, to the point where he looks through my belongings – craftily, skilfully, so he won't be found out – but I am too familiar with my room and the way my cupboards are laid out not to notice.
So my luck's in this morning: I can write at my leisure.
Dad and Mum may know my secret, but they're not trying to learn any more: they're happy that their son is scribbling, and they respect his mysteries; and anyway, isn't that how Balzac started out??
Perhaps our youngest is a budding Hugo, a young Zola inscribing his first few pages? Parents are like that: happy that their fledglings are trying their wings!
My brother's fond of me, but I'm younger than he is; there's probably a touch of jealousy mixed with his affection, as the youngest always seems to be the pet of the family.
And worst of all, he's at what they call the "thankless" age, the "stupid" age; everything's falling apart in Year 10: girls, hair growing, acne, adolescent crises, you name it!
And I'm one of his targets, like his teachers and our parents! So he's after me! And he really is after me!
And doesn't he show it! I can see it in his mocking smile and his sardonic look, which are a way of saying: "I know you're hiding something" and "I'll find it in the end".
Oh, he doesn't say anything, but his attitude speaks volumes.
When he looks at me like that, I feel uneasy; I retreat to my corner and become absorbed in my reading or my work, I become silent and small and try to be invisible; I don't want to give any indication that he's right or show him the panic I feel inside.
Because I don't want him to find my diary and read it.
Not that it contains anything to be ashamed of, or anything which should be hidden or kept quiet, but what's written in there is no-one's business but mine. The little things that happen to me every day, my events, my thoughts, my feelings, my everyday existence.
I'm in Year 8, and there's a girl in my class – Isabelle – that I really like. Maybe I'm a little bit in love with her? She knows nothing about it, but perhaps she has a suspicion, because I often find myself looking at her, especially when she's unaware of me; I only say hello or goodbye to her, and the usual school small talk; in the classroom, or the school playground, my friends are more important than girls, and I have not dared to get any closer to her. But she hasn't sought me out, either!
But if my brother discovers my diary, I know him, he'll make short work of revealing its contents, making use of it with Mum and Dad, constantly talking about it at lunch-time, dinner-time, morning, noon and night, laughing, making fun of it, darting a thousand arrows in my direction, and with his friends as well, both girls and boys; he might even spill the beans to Isabelle: "You know my brother Philippe, in your class, well he's in love with you".
And to make his point, he is sure to add: "And badly".
Oh, the shame of it! No, I daren't imagine such a thing!
Not that my brother Pierre is nasty and wants to do me any harm, no, he loves me – and besides, we get on well – but he would do it out of stupidity, because kids of his age behave that way.
I don't see myself as a saint, but the things he gets up to – and I know he's had girlfriends – are of no interest to me, and I'm not going to tell tales about him.
This afternoon I'm going to football, to play an under-15s match, a difficult meet against the best team in the pool.
But before I leave the house I must definitely change my diary's hiding-place, because I am sure that Pierre will take advantage of my absence to stick his nose all around my bedroom, and get out his Sherlock Holmes-style magnifying glass to seize the evidence of his brother's crime!
Not so easy to find a safe place, my room's small and I don't live in a mysterious old manor house full of secret corners like hollow walls, hidden cavities, a false ceiling or loose wooden floorboards where I could slide my work - they don't exist here. And Pierre wasn't born yesterday, he can find an exercise book under a pile of shirts or jumpers!
Eureka! I've got it! Under the washbasin, against the U-bend! What a great hiding-place!
Pierre probably won't think of looking there, and if by sheer bad luck he does, I hope he will be reluctant to check: he's well aware that if Mum and Dad find him there he can't reply (as he has on several occasions) that he wants to borrow one of my pencils or a rubber: there are no rubbers or pencils under the washbasin!
"Philippe, lunch!" I can hear Mum calling me; so I'll stop writing and continue later on.
- Sunday April 1st
It's a good hiding-place.
As I expected, while I was at the stadium yesterday, Pierre came into my room; my shirts and socks have moved and my books and exercise books are not in the same place.
In the evening, at dinner, I sensed that he was annoyed and grumpy.
He fell out with Dad, and Mum; he sneered at me about my match: "How many goals today then, Zidane?"
Pierre plays basketball; so my passion for football is an obvious target for his bad temper.
Today is Sunday, so the family's having lunch together.
Then we're off on a family outing to Paris.
For once, Pierre's happy, no grumbling and griping, just my nice big brother; we enjoy our afternoon together.
- Wednesday April 4th
It's my birthday next Sunday. Only four more days, it seems an age! Because my present is something I want more than anything: a computer!
There's already one in the house, which is for everyone – except Pierre, who's got his own – which I use when I want to surf the Net or do research for school
But I don't use it for writing my diary.
With my new computer, that's what I'm going to do; it's my top priority! Everything I've written and everything I'm going to write, all on my hard disk! With a super-complicated access code and a filing system which will make it impossible for Pierre to find it if he ever dares to try my keyboard!
Oh, hurry up, Sunday! Hurry up!
- Friday April 7th
Isabelle gave me a strange look this afternoon and smiled at me; I was shocked; I smiled back; it was in maths, in the last lesson.
Will she smile at me again tomorrow?
Pierre's been searching through my room again.
I'm really worried. Roll on Sunday!
- Saturday April 8th
It's the day before my birthday.
I'll have my lovely computer tomorrow!
It's Saturday, so I'm going to football; but my enthusiasm is tempered by an unpleasant feeling of foreboding; I'm dragging my feet getting my bag ready.
- Sunday April 9th, Monday April 10th, Tuesday April 11th: blank pages
- Wednesday April 12th
I've managed to start writing again.
For three days I couldn't write.
What's more, I couldn't go to school on Monday and Tuesday either: I had a complete mental block, I was so knotted up inside that I could barely express myself, still less write.
I feel better today.
It's all because of what happened on Saturday.
When I came home after the match, I saw Pierre standing by the door, leaning on the wall with his hands behind his back.
Was he waiting for me? Probably, because as soon as he saw me his whole face changed: he beamed at me, he couldn't contain his joy! What a welcome! Was it really just for me? I wasn't used to this kind of celebration!
Why did Pierre seem so pleased to see me? He was so satisfied that I knew straightaway that something unpleasant was happening or was about to happen, but what was it? I was seized with a vague feeling of dread.
In my anxiety, sensing danger, I slowed down.
But Pierre didn't turn a hair and remained motionless against the wall as I approached.
Like a cat who can see the mouse coming.
And then, when I was very close to him, quick as a conjuror he brought his hand out from behind his back: "And what do we have here! Ladies and gentleman, please take a look!" Then, beside himself with laughter, he flaunted my diary, brandishing and shaking it like a flag, waving it under my nose while trumpeting joyously: "I found it! I found it!"
And he did it again and again!
Oh, it was so painful!
Somewhere inside me – my soul? my mind? my heart? – all of them, probably, were brutally torn to shreds with incredible intensity.
My pain was immense, I had never felt such intense pain: I screamed!
My scream burst from my miserable being with such violence and strength that Pierre was stupefied, and instantly stopped waving his hand about.
And I threw myself on my brother like a Fury! Screaming, shouting, groaning, crying! I used the whole of my body, every muscle, and all my tensed-up energy, and threw myself at him!
And I scratched him! As much as I could! With both hands taut and hooked like claws!
And I bit him till the blood ran! Sinking my teeth into him, canines and incisors like knives! Groaning from the very depths of my being!
My eyes were full of tears and I couldn't see anything except my brother, through a mist of water; I was like a madman, and as we rolled on the ground, grappling with each other, I continued scratching and biting him with all my strength, my wounded soul screaming all the while!
Mum and Dad, concerned at my screams, came out to the front of the house.
Pierre got a big slap accompanied by a virulent "Idiot!"; the mark stayed on his cheek for several days, as did the many scratch-marks.
And I cried for a long, long time, I was inconsolable.
Since then, Pierre has stopped annoying me; he hasn't told anyone about my diary, even his friends, and specially not Isabelle; it wasn't because of Dad's slap; Pierre loves me, and he's really cross with himself for hurting me. He regretted it, and came to see me yesterday: "I'm sorry, little brother, I was an idiot!"
In spite of Pierre saying he's sorry, in spite of Mum and Dad comforting me and the three days which have passed, I am still in pain. My wound was very deep.
Because my stories are my own business, they're my stories, they belong to me, my secrets are my secrets, they're mine and mine alone. |