Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: Tezcatlipoca reviews Histoire de Melody Nelson by Serge Gainsbourg (Sep 11, 2006)

Smoke Rings and Lipstick Traces

A friend once told me that for some sociology paper she had to team up with this bearded greaseball. Apparently the guy was (in)famous for engaging in heated debates with every teacher in every class, quoting the Greek classics at the drop of a hat too if they could further his shards of knowledge. He was much older than almost everyone on campus, he liked it there so didn't bother graduating. Why look for a job when he could dwell in the cafeteria and strike a stylish pose all day long. Hair was kept unkempt, Henry Miller book on the table, smoke rings were blown.

So for the paper she had to pop by his flat to drop some books. Knocked on the door, from the other side he said "Come on in, make yourself comfortable, I'll be out of the shower in a couple of minutes". Uneasily she entered and started inspecting the dingy apartment, recalling the stories she'd heard about the guy she thought it would be wise not to lean against most things around. The sofa was right out, that would surely be the number one hotspot. He exited the bathroom wearing only shorts, uttered a giant laugh upon seeing the discomfort on her face and got closer so as to greet her with a couple of kisses. She reluctantly obliged. 

To a mention of the work they had to do together he replied with a non sequitur and begun an entrancing exposition on how much he liked the way the Mephistophellian archetype was reworked in The Devil's Advocate. Al Pacino could summon demons both literal and figurative like no one else. She noticed that beneath his lips was a small scar, like a wolf had bitten him right in the mouth, or maybe an angry lover. No matter how early in the day it was, the air was filled with the unmistakable odour of alcohol. He leaned closer, asked her to sit in the sofa. Which she did, sidestepping the million minuscule droplets of glass from a broken lamp that stood between her and the sofa.

He sat on the edge of it, let his hand subtly land on her shoulder and inquired on which were her views regarding Flaubert's depiction of women and sexuality, from the famous Bovary to that older femme in L'Éducation Sentimentale. She spoke, he stroked his beard. The telephone rings, after a couple of seconds his piercing eyes move from hers onto Bell's invention in the kitchenette. He takes the call and after about a minute into the conversation tempers fire up, excited words are exchanged, in various languages, a few insults in the mix. He hangs up violently, spitefully. Looks at her and says "I'll be with you in a minute" before going into the room adjacent.

She gets up from the sofa, feeling on edge and twitchy. Why it's anybody's guess. Where the hell did he go? And why didn't he realize that the way he looked at her made her distraught and nervous? Or did he but continued regardless? She started browsing the records on the shelf, first was Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret, then Histoire de Melody Nelson. That was enough for her, she grabbed her coat and darted out of the apartment without looking back. Didn't speak with him again, sent him her part of the paper and he pieced it together brilliantly. Last she heard there were rumours he had been charged with aggravated indecent exposure and fled to France rather than serve a couple months in jail. Truth? Who knows.

I always did think something more happened that day in the apartment but everytime I graze the subject she stares oddly into the ceiling and mysteriously says "Let's let bygones stay bygones, shall we?"