Sebastien, Elodie and Magdalena

By Lorenzo di Gaio

Magdalena looks a bit like Little Red Capon, is Sébastien the wolf? Elodie, then would be a shepherdess. It could have been a story. I didn't write the one about a new Little Red Riding Hood. This is another story which I submit to you for your reading.

Every year, a family gathers in the family castle; the grandfather lives there. It's a line of lawyers, a profession like any other, they could have been highwaymen. Such was not the case.

Sébastien, a young member of this lineage who everyone would see studied law well, has an allergy to the law, he almost gets pimples if a law or regulation is mentioned. The law seems as intelligible to him as a mathematical treatise written in Mandarin.

In the family, there is also his cousin Elodie, it's not really a cordial understanding. We also meet other young people more or less in love with laws and regulations.

The memories of the grandmother, who took to their heels, at least 10 years ago, she disappeared permeate the family less. A branch of the family returned when this one evaporated.

A conflict is renewed with each succession, one of the children has the castle, the others money. In each generation, the discontented wear it in the best of cases.

The first night, he surprises Elodie in undress invoking unknown gods, he wonders if she hasn't taken a civil code on her head, or even the whole Dalloz collection. Learning the law sometimes provokes fits of dementia. Sébastien has the example.

In the meadows of the property, he meets a red riding hood who did not bring a cake to his grandmother, she is interested in ghosts and supernatural beings. She reveals to him that in the castle, we hear the cry of the tortured within the dungeons. Other noises are heard, he wonders if it's an hallucination, a joke or ghosts.

He invites the young lady to check for herself that no one is moaning in the basement of the castle. A story unfolds. On vacation, everything goes quickly, we have little time.

Elodie's case worries him, he communicates it to Magdalena, the red riding hood, a few days later, he learns that Elodie has suffered an emotional shock, she seeks help from her grandmother, she accuses her grand -father, president of a Court of Appeal of having killed him.

Magdalena devotes herself to comforting Elodie, she needs help, human nature can be resplendent. Sébastien is wary, because he suspects her of being interested in his girlfriend's buttocks, his looks like a holy nitouche in a suit cut for the faculties of law does not deceive him. It may also be that his fantasies dominate him, depriving him of his free will.

The young people participate in the beautification of the property in the vineyards and orchards, they start looking for the grandmother.

Elodie and Magdalena become inseparable. A game is created between them, he is not aware of it, the gain is to know the nature of this emotional shock.

The wolf is in the fold. We don't know who the wolf is, it may be a wolf, the sheepfold is probably not only populated by frightened sheep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorenzo di Gaio
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223287759

Book preview

Chapter 1

My name is Sébastien. This morning, I stretch gently, fatigue grips me and hugs me, what could be more normal, last night, I should have gone to bed instead of partying. My eye looks at my alarm clock, seven hours and forty-five minutes.

It’s February 18. Pulling the blind that plays the role of a shutter, I see the sun having fun hide and seek, outside, the road seems damp, even slippery, people pass with their overcoats and coats. Winter is still here, he does not want to leave, he could have taken the escape powder.

Standing in the bathroom, my hands from a dome, the fresh, almost icy water gushes inside like a torrent rushing down a mountain. I splash my face, shake my head.

My seventeen years has just been celebrated during an evening where no one was reasonable. Can we be serious at this age? Arthur Rimbaud answered this question with negation, I will not contradict him.

I am far from being an Apollo in stadiums, but I am not an ugliness; at least I hope so. Of a medium height, my dark blonde hair matches my brown eyes.

In the kitchen with such a modern character that I think I am in a clinic. However the smell of ether and alcohol is absent, I will not complain. What is missing above all is a naked nurse under her gown, can we imagine such a person with underwear? I squeeze an orange juice, the knife that cut this fruit almost broke my fingertip, I shouted, ‘Sacred Name of God!’ My father, Aubin, looks at me. I am sure he will be unpleasant.

The latter, a tall, dry man in his forties, works as a deputy public prosecutor in Nantes. Just by specifying this, you understood that he is not a comic, sometimes, he has fun being a pince-sans-laughter. He happily practises irony, black humour and yellow laughter.

‘Do you remember going to class at eight o’clock this morning?’ he tells me.

I nod. My hand grabs a bowl, oatmeal pours inside, then milk, almost magically. I sit down. My spoon dips into it, and goes back to my mouth. My mother, Isabelle, a tall brown woman, in her forties, who would like to be only thirty, arrives. She makes herself a jasmine tea. My father must probably believe that he is in a Chinese den, because he goes to the living room with his coffee, and the daily ‘Le Figaro’. 

‘Shouldn’t you cross the threshold of your high school at eight o’clock, it’s eight o’clock and two minutes?’ my mother asks.

‘The history teacher is absent this morning,’ I admit.

—She must not like to provide the first hours of classes of the day. After they march in the middle of the street, and traffic jams prevent us from entering, the officials only serve to disrupt the lives of honest citizens! she is annoyed.

I am not answering. Leaving my bowl, I run to the bathroom. Naked in the shower, I sing a chorus that trots in my head, ridiculous, but I cannot chase it. Admiring myself in front of the mirror, I consider myself beautiful like a Greek ephebe, nature has been generous, especially with regard to what hangs between my legs. I hurry.

The family lives on Boulevard Guist’haut in Nantes. Located in the city centre, old stone buildings that border it have preserved in them the history of the city, their bourgeois appearance reassures the inhabitants, they belong to the class of the wealthy. Our apartment has a liveable area of two hundred square metres.

My parents sent me to Guist’haut High School, a hundred metres from my home. My mother, Isabelle, hopes that I incorporate hypocagne after the baccalaureate. She fantasises that I join ‘cagne’, and that then, I continue my studies in an ‘ENS’. The moment I hear the name of this prep of letters, a headache breaks my ability to think, so, the practice of dodging allows me not to dwell on it.

Aubin would like me to join a faculty of legal sciences. For several generations, the men of the de Brisenac family have worn out their trousers on the benches of their amphitheatres and then earned their living inside this universe. His father presides over the Court of Appeal of Agen, his uncle practices the profession of a lawyer, his brother preferred that of a notary. One of his cousins found his joie de vivre by defending the widow and the orphan in front of all the courtrooms, another enjoys his job as a judicial administrator.

My father loves to throw beautiful memorised phrases about laws and regulations. Me, I prefer to declare my love to anything that wears a petticoat.

Ultimately, I am able to embark on literary studies, because I equate the right with mental illness. The life of these professionals is punctuated by the precepts of the Civil Code, as rigorous as those of a monastic order.

Thinking about family gatherings within the ancestral property near Agen, I become sullen. The whole line assembles at the grandfather’s home. Lawyers, often men, gather inside the Red Room. It was so named because of the velvet of this shade that lines the walls, sitting on armchairs and sofas, they comment on legal news. Many times, they remain amazed when thinking of a judgment of the Court of Cassation, the grandfather stands up and pronounces it like an actor who would proclaim verses of a poet, we listen to him. The waiters throw them into a pool of amazement, they get bogged down like quicksand. They suffocate word for word of these sentences without tail or head. Often this text of about thirty lines contains only one sentence, the reader must not lose the train of thought; otherwise he plunges into the universe of the most esoteric abstraction. Here they are glossing about him for hours, I do not understand this attitude.

Every year, in July, we go down to the Southwest, the holidays are spent there, boredom is guaranteed, the refund is even provided, if you ever find some pleasant moments.

This morning, I am forced to rush since I have an appointment at the bar, which is behind the Town Hall. Located a quarter of an hour’s walk, running, I will arrive on time. This bar has a modest appearance, a black storefront, a tinted window, after pushing a door, the customer discovers that it stretches in length. Jeremy is waiting for me, a juice between his fingers. He is the son of my math teacher. Mr. Cachin, hearing his surname every time, I associate him with drizzle and Brittany, while his origins link him to Lille. I laugh, this confusion of words is silly, I am aware of it and I resent it. He is a dry man, with a beard in the manner of Jules Ferry, from time to time he throws sarcastic words. Everyone wonders about the reason for such statements in the midst of the most bizarre equations. Goblin, that’s what he is, he’s just a parody of a teacher. I order a coffee, and I join him.

Each in front of a little black, we listen to the silence. Jeremy likes to eat, his slightly greasy appearance matches his smile constantly displayed on his face, he forms a rictus of death on his face. Passionate about banknotes, he must surely collect them. Mr. Cachin, his father has bizarre conceptions of education. Her son must learn to cope with his play needs, including finding a job on Wednesday afternoons to earn his pocket money. But the latter does not appreciate wasting the time reserved to chase girls in such trivialities. Jeremy slips a shirt, and I have twenty euros. We finish the coffee by exchanging about the ladies and rap music. It is inexhaustible especially with regard to the waist, buttocks, chest, hands, skin and scent of young girls.

On the way to high school, I look at the content of my purchase, the future written math question. Jeremy follows me, we both go to the same high school. I imagine him feeling his ticket like me when I curl a girl in a dark corner. The mijaurée utters the cries of frightened chickens, then its eyes almost beg me, when I stop.

As I walk through the gate, a desire to escape seizes me, holds me and hugs me. I suffocate at the thought that my mother wants me to stay here for two more years.

My delay is no longer measured in minutes, my watch reads nine hours and fifteen minutes. I am unable to give a coherent explanation for this slight setback, I am sorry. The student office is waiting for me peacefully nailed to the spot, it has only that to do. A supervisor recognising me as a regular says hello. A smile lights up his face, he looks like a light bulb, when I tell me that the CPE wants to talk with me, his hand shows me his domain to his right, as if he were pointing to the devil’s den. I go there as joyful as a soldier of the Great War went up to the Ladies’ Way. I am going to be given another moral lesson.

A tall man in his thirties in a white shirt beckons me to approach. It is he, the chiourme guard, his name is Michel Croisard. I compare it to the eleventh plague of Egypt, and I am kind. No sooner have I closed the door than he reminds me that my late count exceeds twenty.

‘I am always surprised at these in view of your father’s profession! Sending him a summons would bother me. ‘I’m going to write down a little note that you will make him sign, but before you do tell me if you have an explanation about this time difference,’ he asks.

I smile at this expression.

‘My alarm clock went to sleep,’ I chuckled.

Madame Troket’s history class is waiting for me. I can wait in the hallway, but I prefer not to go back to the CPE office. I climb the stairs taking my time. My fingers knock on the door, I push it and almost tiptoe in. The teacher, a person in his fifties, asks me if I think high school is the hotel of draughts. I shrug my shoulders as I present him with my signed CPE notebook. After winning my place, by sitting down next to Brigitte, spring presses me so that she can put on a skirt, so I could subdue her thighs. It would be better than looking at the cracked face of the old mole. Who could lower it? You should give your husband a medal. She’s really too ugly.

My pen writes a few notes without motivation.

When I get back, I prepare the questions of mathematics and history, still English to recover, the other subjects will pose fewer problems. My father wants to start a discussion about my orientation. This almost solemn interview worries me. I expect a hearing comparable to those taking place in the courthouse. Accuse yourself! A judge vowed. Why do you have all these delays in high school? Reply! Confess to your crimes, otherwise you get another ten years of blunder. Oh, no, pity, I beg, with my head resting on the log?

In the living room, the family sitting on armchairs is preparing to discuss the post-baccalaureate period. At my father’s request to draw up a project for the future, without taking the time to think, I replied that I would like to be an artist. My mother inquires about the field. Silence is required. My parents always have weird questions. My future, I do not conceive it, I have a vague idea of painting, the only certainty I have is to reject the law. But it’s simple to understand. Turning to her, I confess that I don’t like it either. My father advises me to enrol in a faculty of letters, a sabbatical year studying the poetry of Ronsard or other dreamers will help me to draw a coherent future. He adds that this kind of university is just a waiting room, it was only created for that. To do one’s law is to become a man, to make the letters, it is to transform oneself into something that one hesitates to attach to one sex, one day male, the next day female. He retracts, and offers me a year as an employee at my uncle’s home, I shake my head and pronounce by clearly articulating each word of my refusal of a legal profession. My father reassures me, without training, I would occupy an administrative position. In addition, the Southwest remains a pleasant and sunny region. My promise to think about it soothes parental anxieties. If working in such a place is the only possible solution, I will become as smart as a donkey.

In the evening at the bottom of my bed, the path that my destiny will take bothers me. I am sure that, in one thing, I do not wish to follow a road that combines law, science and mathematics. What my mother proposes would fit better with my aspirations, but the task at hand already tires me. I don’t want to become a rote learning machine. Going to the Faculty of Arts would be possible, taking a route that would lead to literature would please me. To paint or write is to use one’s talent to create.

The months go by, they sprint around June. Even when working, success is not assured.

The great marathon of the clock will stop on June 10, the winner is the national education, it always wins in this race. 

That day, I get up, sweaty hands, I have lunch taking my time. My father encourages me with his exploits during this exam, I do not intend to compete in the Olympics. My mother is moved by her dry eyes, a tear runs down her cheeks, when I see it, I realise that I could evolve towards poetry.

Livid, sitting behind a numbered table, blank sheets, my pens in front of me, the wait begins. The philosophy test is able to go well or be worse than Waterloo, like Napoleon’s soldier, I would only have to go into battle singing and knowing he was lost in advance. My hand on my forehead, sweat dripping, I suffer from the anguish of the empty page of words. Some authors complain about the lack of inspiration, I would proclaim my stress at the same time as them. A supervisor distributes the subjects. I read it, the one who thought such a question, he got hot in the head. He had to spend a long holiday in Africa. I grab his pen. A miracle happens, the theme ignites my brain, the incredible emerge, the impossible becomes unimaginable. Minutes go by in slow motion.

During lunch, my parents ask me about my morning, I admit my uncertainty, because the eccentricity of the subject can give rise to unpleasant surprises.

—Does the idea of the unconscious exclude freedom? I stammer.

‘It’s probably very interesting to deal with,’ my mother tells me.

‘I remember mine, he spoke of justice,’ confesses my father. 

He had his ass lined with noodles, do we respect equality when the son of a judge dissertates on such a subject?

The other exams all take place in a climate where uncertainty meets pessimism. If successful, a faculty of letters will welcome me, I refuse the offer of work within a law firm. Words horrify me, I can quote decree, law, regulation, law, magistrate, trial. I get goosebumps when I hear them

once the exams are over, I am waiting for the results.

At the triumph of the sun, euphoria reigns everywhere, I remain impassive. I narrowly passed my baccalaureate, but only success counts.

The month of July is approaching, on the 10th, we go on holiday to my grandfather in the Southwest. Thirty days being stuck between the Civil Code and the Commercial Code, I get depressed.

Chapter 2

The paternal cream Mercedes rolls at high speed towards the sun and Occitania. My mother always feels a little out of place in this country. Originally from the Massif Central, by marrying my father, she acquired a family and a region. The woman becomes a member of the lineage of the man, the opposite cannot exist, it would contravene the admissible. I look at the dog, Cinanom, a miniature Cerberus who lends himself to smiles, he follows his little mother everywhere, pink bow ties equal to Minnie mouse adorn his head. I liken it to a suckling pig meant to be roasted. I have never seen a canid so stupid and suck.

As every year, when we arrive, the family will already be reunited in front of the drawbridge of the ancestral home.

The lineage gathers in the heart of the manor of one thousand two hundred square metres, at the thought that my grandfather never feels alone, I am always amazed. Eighteen people live together for a month between clashes and smiles without being cramped.

The landowner waits for everyone on the drawbridge,