I  AM  DEMANDED  TO  GIVE  MY  LIFE.

I am demanded to give my life. I was told that my life was given to me.

I must write; for the school. My ideas on... it does not matter; it is a trap. It is a way of finding out what I am, in order to make use of me. To what extent? It was understood I was to be taught truthfulness; I am learning to say untruths.

"Do you work... or do you dream?"

Father has just passed - did he stop? - in front of my open bedroom door. Having justified the role of father - "I watch over the studies of my son" - he settled down (I hear various noises in the house as cats do) to watch the game.

I dream.

No, I am not allowed to dream, I must draw strength from others, from important authors that I am told to read; like a plant in a pot having to grow only what one wants to put in its soil. But without light, that no one can transform, it dies.

I dream. Where is dream and where is the work? My class mate is a girl with baked apple colour hair. I must speak of my last holidays spent with the family as the subject of home work. If the hair is that of my Mother's niece, it is work thinking of them, in order to describe them to the master, which is no business of his. What should I have answered to father who has already forgotten his question?

Words are what is expected of me in this home work. Man has invented words; it is most practical to kill from afar. How is it to find a link between a word and life? I write : "I can see her hair". The throat does not close in front of a word. I write my name, my class, the date : what can the spirit add?

Must I do this work to become an author or to learn how to complete a questionnaire? "Do you accept to become a slave?" Who will answer "Yes" to this question? But who will be surprised to be turned out of school for having disobeyed?

Where is the magic mirror who says the princess is the most beautiful? "Mirror, tell me who I am!" The mirror shows me what is behind me. Some men, those who reply : "We tell you who you are", but who are they themselves?

One day, I asked my class mate : "Is your hair your mask?" She laughed, I saw her teeth. Those men, in the mirror, I know them, they are there, in the class room, they speak to me, they say... I must listen to them, but I only hear their masks.

They should not have spoken to me of Greek tragedies; then ask me to be good.

In the class room, so as not to speak, my class mate writes me what she thinks. I heard them whispering : "They have secrets!" Would that mean she is only writing to me? Of course, it is for me. If another person read this little note, they would only read words.

But one day, someone found one of those little notes. He showed it to his pals; a group formed in the yard. I could hear them laughing, uttering some sounds, talking maybe. "It is very beautiful" said the little note; it referred to a tune. Their commentary was passionate. Words, though meaningless, can therefore speak. What my class mate had written did not exist; all that existed was the work of the group. Was it a glimmer of interest or simply a desire to make fun of me that urged one of the boys to ask me a bit later :"You, what do you find beautiful?" I answered : "Find someone who can read what is written". I started thinking what group would decide my life on reading my home work.

Am I the only one to dream? But I am not dreaming. I consider what is next to me, nothing moving in my head; it is only glances. In a dream images appear, they are disfigured, they change, something flies away, time perhaps.

If I do not my home work, brain will not cease. My master will notice that my home work is missing; his life will be changed for he will no longer let himself be involved in protective order. He will have to speak of his own. School staff, the parents, will see the professor's remarks like a death shudder in a calm river that dulleth mind. They will stop a while, life will take a little advance. In a dream one is carried in spite of oneself without being able to resist - never stop. It is a real bright dream. If I do not my home work, will I waken them?

Telephone. My class mate.

"I did not go on holiday to my family, says she."

"Never?"

"Never!"

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes; he replied : You can just imagine."

"If you were a fruit..."

"If I were..."

"If you were a sweet, you would be a caramel."

"What are you talking about?"

I am not afraid of silences on the telephone, nor does she; my mother talks quickly to give her time to think what to say.

I finish by answering :

"I imagine what does not exist."

"A caramel exists."

"You also."

Another silence. I continue :

"If you imagine, as he tells you to do, he will say it is not the subject."

"It was him that asked me."

"No; what he wants is you to say you have really been to your parents."

"Even if it is a fib? Right, I will say untruths, but how to fib when one knows nothing?"

"If one imagine things false and if they become real!"

"Like in a tale?"

"No. With an untruth, one can change a life."

I hear her laughing; a quick laugh. It stops one thinking. I do not understand the start of her answer :

"...a good mark!"

"If you... Yes, yes..."

"It is what matters, is it not so?"

"Yes. Yes, if you are not afraid of life that does not exist."

She does not answer. When it is complicated, she does not answer. She waits. I continue :

"I was not speaking of home work, Caramel. Imagine you are salted..."

"It is you who call me Caramel; if I am salted, you cannot reproach me."

Silence. "Mother is calling me", says she to me, and she hangs up.

I must call her back. It is going to help me to do my home work myself. She was expecting help of me.

She was expecting help of me. I was the person to help her. I was this help. What about me?

Staring, I felt I was disappearing. I must do, I must say; having done, having said, I disappeared. At the next request, I must resuscitate.

I must call her back.

I hear mother and father living in silence. Ask them assistance myself also? They would do my home work as people who know, not as someone who is learning. Who learns, or repeats?

"Caramel, they were not there when you arrived for your holiday; you went to stay with your girlfriend not far away."

"And when they returned?"

"Very pleased not to be burdened by you. You stay with your friend. You can always... speak of them."

She says with irony :

"The bird appears to be dead when a cat catches it."

"Is the bird yourself?"

"It is you; that is the cat, your reality."

"The cat will be there to morrow, when I will return my home work to him."

She did not answer. A few moments later, I heard the voice far away of her mother : "If you do not talk, it is not worth using the telephone!"

"Holiday with the family", she murmurs; then with a gaily voice : "I am returning from holiday to morrow, we will meet in the class room!" and she hung up.

The cat was there; he was looking with flat resignation at the home work piling up on his desk. Now and then his eye would wander on one sheet. What bird was he seeing? Why was he so hungry, while I was waiting for him to give me food?

Caramel has already forgotten her home work. Her mind was again even like water where someone has drowned. Such a tiny part of me was dead in this home work. Tiny and unknown; I hardly knew it. I must not think of it. Death was so far.

"Moral values"

A little note : "Come to see me, the last hour has been cancelled". I make a nod with my head to say yes. What values? I hope the cat will not ask me questions; I have not listened. How much, morality?

The class room seems big to me. The other side of the window, in the street, men are walking; they are inspecting me. They built this school; there are thousands of class rooms, there are high walls, there are all kinds of things I do not see in this school, and how many others outside, behind other high walls, that I do not see either; and behind windows, school Directors, whom the men in the street also inspect.

It is heavy upon me.

Caramel was replying the cat's questions; always holidays, but those of a Great author. The cat was keeping his head back; Caramel was a far too bigger ball of feathers to swallow. She was saying : the author showed, made one feel, understand... It was perhaps quite real, but it was not worth for her. She wanted to loose her skin so as not to be recognised; she was the pupil who repeated the prayer - word after word - Without fail. The more she disappeared, the more the pupil exalted and the more the cat appeared to be satisfied, but the less it seemed to me to be pleased.

A little dust of rain was falling from the sky. Caramel had left her raincoat float round her; we had not far to walk from school to her house. Her face was being covered with dew.

"Why did you not reply to him? says she without looking at me; you do not like the text."

"You do not like it either."

"To me, it does not matter. But you, you have ideas, have you not?

"The cat has his!"

"The cat?"

"The Professor. He makes me think of a cat."

She stopped and looked down; then she said slowly :

"You did not want to contradict me?"

"If you go to a funeral and speak to your friend who is burying her father, do you tell her dress is pretty?"

She glanced at me, hardly raising her head :

"Why, if it is not a funeral, do you talk to girls about their dresses?"

I grumbled :

"I am speaking of..."

"The cat!"

She started over again, swiftly.

There is nothing like a good tea to forget deep thoughts. Caramel made me listen to music she has just bought.

"Easier to listen than to make it" said I.

"It is like food, easier to eat."

We started to laugh; she added :

"And we are not supposed to learn how to eat."

On television a life was displayed; there were two of them looking at each other and talking.

"Do you think he will tell her?" whispered Caramel sitting like me on the carpet.

"If he says it, she goes."

"It is catastrophic!"

Caramel is quite right; it is grave a life broken - a life that does not exist.

As regards our own two lives, they were not in the television; they were on the carpet, waiting for what the images were conceiling.

"One does not think to oneself, while watching."

Caramel turns to me, surprised :

"Why do you say such things?"

I do not know what to answer; she adds :

"When one does home work, one thinks of oneself?"

Caramel never thought of herself. Caramel always thought of herself. She thought of what made her smile with pleasure, never on what she was, nor why she smiled. I knew why she wanted to see me, I did not know why I was there. When she asked me to come, another person than me replied yes, and that other person was myself.

Most amusing! it is like home work.

"You see, she has not left!"

You must react quickly; I reply :

"Indeed! he has not said anything!"

She has a good laugh :

"You have not listened as usual!"

"Yes, yes; but..."

"But you have not understood. You never understand; it is always too easy for you!"

"If it is easy..."

"I know, you will be right; pass me the jam."

She had the pot in her hand.

A creaking of the key in the lock; Caramel's mother had just entered. We had to change our thoughts, reality was appearing, there was no more 'maybe' anywhere. At each question, there was but one answer, the one that was convenient - or acknowledged. "Have you done your home work?" "I have none for to morrow."

Caramel could have answered : "I am not hungry", if her mother had asked : "Have you had tea?"

There stopped the dialogue; neither Caramel nor her mother had to take decisions. No one had given them orders, none of them had to obey.

Home work. Duty for school. Duty. I owe those who have given me; no doubt. But who has given me Thought - and whom must I give it back to? And it is not intangible beings who are asking me for it.

"You should do something, instead of playing all the time!"

"Yes mother, but we are not playing, we are watching..."

Mother has already left, Caramel did not hear her own words.

"We must learn history lesson," said she in closing the television.

Half an hour of dates and battles. Her father enters :

"You are working? Ah, history! It is important to know the past. How many admirable men! Nothing like the present scoundrels who fight in the street."

We are again alone.

"Scoundrels do not make enough damage to have glory," says I in half tone.

We stay silent.

"We must learn our history lesson", says she again.

It is getting late; the lesson is learned. The other side of the window it is dark; we are protected by the light. Caramel comes near me :

"When you go to war, I stay in the cave."

I look on her wild hair. She continues :

"If an enemy warrior invades the cave, what do you want me to do?"

"Enemy warriors are too frightened of me to come near!"

I feel as if I was reciting a scene. A cave in a forest appears, I hear the fire cracking; through the window I see cars. One must still breathe to remain alive. I hear Caramel in the cave in the middle of the street :

"Then, I look after the fire that I did not light. I prepare the food which I did not fetch. What do you want me to answer the cat?"

Outside it is dark; I do not even see the light of men. I must go...

Am I alone between her house and mine? At my parents. At home, at my parents - is it the same?

If I walked alone, I could go anywhere. I go... If it is at home, I shall be all alone, because it is at home.

If I do not want to be alone, I shall never have a home.

When I go to Caramel's...

And she?

This morning, it is a music lesson at school; is music also to be learned? A woman full of prose tells us how to use music. As always I am chattering.

"Of course you have to comment instead of working!"

"I had asked him..."

I kicked Caramel to stop her.

"I did not know that music was work."

My remark screwed up the lips of the employee. Can we sing with screwed up lips? However, we can punish; I had better stop talking.

We have to prepare a concert; we make a choral; the reputation of the class, of the school... My soul would be taken if I put it therein. At home I ask my guitar to stay with me when I dream.

Caramel is never punished : she has a good voice; the employee got hold of it and will exchange it for compliments. "What a beautiful solo voice she has!" "Yes, it is I who make her work." She will not even remember whom has such a beautiful voice; however it has become her own voice - Caramel would rather bother.

I am hungry; it is near lunchtime. The crockery makes bell sounds in the kitchen. Mother is working - I am sure it will be delicious. Father constructs his personal ideas in reading the newspaper; let's hope the news be good.

"You do not go to school this afternoon..." says my father who watches over my studies.

I interrupt him for I am afraid on what will follow :

"I must play tennis..."

Volley, return : he interrupts as quickly :

"You only think of play."

The blow is very near winning; what defence shall I get against a father who talks like a newspaper? I stay at the net :

"If I won money in playing, you would not say that!"

The blow is feeble; his ball passes over my head :

"Yes, you see, there also you should work hard."

I lost the point. I had not understood that games, like music, are works.

My father concludes :

"You must beat your adversaries to be the first."

Killing would be better, no doubt. Have I adversaries in music?

I have never been so bad as today. Not only against my father but also on the court. My adversary is delighted; he is the first - primus inter nullos, but this does not matter for him; a little later, I will be receiving demonstrations of friendship, furthermore that his victory will have been bigger.

After the game, I linger with him and his sister who has come to see the end of the battle. She is a year or two elder than he is; she looks at me as if I came out of a chrysalis.

"What are you so thoughtful about? You seem to be looking for another planet!" says she in her singing voice.

"I murdered him..." sneers the young brother.

"He does not appear so perturbed" she answered him in maggiore.

I cast my eyes down; she looks at me, I am sure. I do not move. I hear her voice, dolce :

"Who has questioned you?"

(Not  achieved)