About three days in La Rochelle (2)

La Rochelle, december 1985


Oooh Our Love is like the floweeers …

That’s what Virgile stubbornly sings in a falsetto voice in front of the bathroom’s door. Colin and Alb are not coming out , giggling in the bathroom, for an endless seance of “self-approval” ( that’s how we call it) .
Valentine ends up taking him by the elbow and dragging him to the living room.
“ Old chap, you’re really in an unbearable mood. Leave them alone!
– Colin is supposed to have a boyfriend. But it will end up like last time.
– I told you, Virgo, not in front of his sister…”

Apparently, Virgile didn’t notice that I was here, or he told it on purpose. But it doesn’t bother me, I gave up understanding about elder’s complicated feelings.

“ You could have made an effort for your outfit tonight.
– I’m perfectly in tone. Black is the color of my true love’s hair…”
Argument disappear in a kiss; Virgile did indirectly compliment Valentine’s Siouxsie-like hairstyle , and obviously it’s enough for her. But it’s true that Virgile did the strict minimum : black jeans, black turtleneck, black perfecto. And you know what? It suits him wonderfully and he doesn’t need more.
Virgil’s style is to piss everyone off, and he would disappoint if he applied more. Of course Diane and I try to steal a glimpse of him; this guy’s charm is truly addicting and unfair at the same time, especially when Valentine made up his eyes. A thin black line just below, and they take on a sparkling depth, swept away by his stiff and soft locks.

Oooh Our Love is like the floweeers …

“ You wanna play this, asshole ? says Alb, his face a little crumpled going out of the bathroom. You haven’t finished hearing it, this fucking song !
– Hop, hop, hop; you so vulgar, and in young girls’ presence?
-This is the first time I see you caring to be so decent. This evening will be historic on your way to civilization…
– Don’t forget I am named after the cantor of the biggest antique civilization…”

The bickering between Virgil and Alb are a real lifestyle, not only are they the sign of a very old friendship; but it’s also their way of stimulating themselves before mixing together.

And the night will be great indeed. Even longer than those we have lived until now.
We enter the nightclub through a small discreet door with a mesh skylight. Spaces are separated by high aquariums; and silence sequences of old scary films are projected on the walls.

Alb and Virgo are not the ones to start, it’s the official DJ on board. He doesn’t look like he’s that pleased. Young boys are voluntary and could constitute unfair competition. But they have attracted a clientele that seems to know them well and of which Diane and I eagerly note all the finesse of style.

We are immediately offered a drink, at a table crossed by the trunk of a potted banana tree. For a long time, I will love these fuzzy and smoky atmospheres; which give to laughing groups and to supple and dancing bodies an air of sulfurous elegance that most often smacks of deception. But music, in this overheated and spicy fog, loads with all the soul of our friends who play it; and of the artist who created it and who we love.

Tonight we’ll leave the tired leaves of the poor banana tree, to go crawling on the croaking samples of The Perfect Kiss .

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