Grace
Copyright 2002, All rights reserved
And so today, February 22, 1944, in the darkness of winter and war, Marie-Jannick, who will soon turn twenty-five, still saunters along the Boulevard de Clichy. At night, at blackout time, between Place Pigalle and Rue des Martyres, the passerby are moved to see a disk of light floating and bobbing in the night, looking a bit like the rings of Saturn. It is Duperrier, his forehead encircled by the glorious halo which he no longer bothers to hide from curious strangers. Duperrier, who is carrying the weight of the seven deadly sins, and who is dead to shame, oversees Marie-Jannick's work, reviving her flagging ardor with a kick in the ass, or waiting for her at a hotel entrance to count up the price of an embrace by the light of the halo. But from the depths of his decline and abjection, across the darkness of his conscience, sometimes a murmur rises to his lips to thank God for the absolute gratuitousness of his gifts.
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