A novelist from French Guiana

The days of Otard Dupuy passed by like clouds, greenish clouds over Cayenne: his days... just were a compendium of pages and pages where the fiction gave birth to his own life as a novelist... A fictitious life as a novelist his life lived through fictitious lives was his life as a novelist fictitious.

Cayenne.

Say goodbye.

Say hello.


His books were published and sold by a minimal store Livres Brésil, located in rue P****: novels, sick novels, irrational novels... novels, novels.


Believe me, the days of Otard Dupuy went by among yellow tropical papers in his green flat located in the centre of the town: the overwhelming heat and the poverty seen on the streets oppressed him, tortured him day by day since his childhood... his parents, did he know them? 

They were like the vampires of Paramaribo guiding their flight in the dark by means of high frequency screeching yells.

And his sleep acquired the pastel as its predominant tincture... as the sleep crosses through the electricity of a brain, its images its wheres and its whos, but never its whens.


Amen.

Goodnight.

Your novelist wrote twisted novels, green novels in his green flat in Cayenne, whose... third floor was illuminated with a green light, proper of the torrid countries.
Every day Otard Dupuy passed by that corridor of his floor, green corridor of his third floor that smelled like Nescafé Dolca. 

Who lived behind the other doors of the floor? The other three, green doors of that floor.

Who? Who, who! 

WHO.


In 199... he flew to Paris, anguished, a direct flight Cayenne-Paris, papers in his suitcase
yellow papers green lights in the corridor of the trans-oceanic plane.
A plane to Paris, to Europe; like a direct tube to another reality, anguished.


On the other side of the continental mirror everything was summer solstice on the streets
an European heat, a different kind of canicule, normalized.

But, in spite of this, the color of the life was the same steely-invisible that we see everyday, and the weight of the wind was the same weight of Cayenne, or Guanabara.

And the dogs searched for the evaporated water of May.

Why Otard Dupuy journeyed, he never knew. Was he afraid?

He rented a small room at the end of Rue de Madrid for some few Francs... from the greasy window pane, Otard Dupuy could observe the pedestrian transit on Rue de Londres toward the Place de l'Europe.

The undistinguished and quotidian pace of the crowd going nowhere fast - not fast enough



they're not going fast enough

was he afraid?

Let's take a walk through the unexpected world-weariness, that wide horizon of the pristine and sad unused things.


After certain confusing occurrence -which took place on the Boulevard des Italiens at 2.55 PM- Dupuy started redacting an outlandish novella, whose storyline flowed unstoppably in his brain hour after hour; the preface said:

"Maybe, the structures that they created for us are dead legends that pretend righteousness as they block destinies
-hiding their deformity from our eyes, stupid
maybe everything will be known in the end. Perhaps.

Burns, your justice burns, bur(de)n your dreams burn
burns the time... burns
-hiding this deformity from our eyes. 

Stupid."

Because hour by hour Otard Dupuy wrote under the smooth bronze ceiling of his room
and each word delineated on the yellow paper by the green ink had a precise and specific meaning.

And fat drops of sweat fell from his shining forehead on the hand that wrote as his eyelids blinked with the nervousness of the hermit in hypnotic stupor.

And on the sidewalks the undistinguished and quotidian pace of the crowd went nowhere fast - not fast enough.

The register says that the novelist embarked his fate on a return flight one day
because so it was memorialized on the files, a return; a night flight toward a Creole world. 

And the machine of Air France departed... farther, farther, farther as every segment of the sun was hiding its circumference behind the planetary flatness:

was it all a dream?

A dream of fragile ashes, like the Christ dancing among venomous vipers on the hill.

The days of Otard Dupuy passed by like clouds, greenish clouds over Cayenne: his days... just a compendium of pages and pages in where the fictions gave birth to his own life: a novelist.

And his sleep acquired the pastel as its predominant tincture... as the sleep crosses through the electricity of a brain: its images its wheres and its whos, but never its whens.



But... who lived behind the other doors of the floor? 

The other three green doors of this floor.