A dawn

 “Their reasonings bear on the diagonal in itself, not on the diagonal they draw. Of the things they depict and which have their reflection in waters, they make use of them as so many images in order to try to see those things in themselves which otherwise are seen only by thought.”

Plato, The Republic

Wherever he may be—whether in his consulting room or in Félix’s office, as comfortable as a living room, or again, as today, perched on a mountain far from everything—Lucian rereads his notes. He comments on them aloud, imagining himself to be in his supervisor’s office. From afar, one might imagine an actor rehearsing a text he is about to perform on a theatre stage.

In Félix’s consulting room

— You see, Félix, will you believe me… a notebook arrived, quite literally “arrived by itself.” I don’t know how… A notebook in which Sang Chaud—who, as you already know, is an imaginary character… imagined by my patient Igniatius—relates something you will have no difficulty understanding.
— If you would tell me what this notebook says, my dear Lucian?
— It recounts, in detail and in a somewhat chaotic manner, what I will try to simplify…
— Please do!
Félix adds nothing—though he hesitates, Lucian knows, to add something… He can almost see him thinking: Take your time… but he does not say it.
I resume my reading:
— “In the middle of the ring of a circus, itself situated on one of the islands of the Archipelago where this story takes place—a circus with neither beasts nor tamer—a man named Don Carotte struggles with his own shadows, which he tries to master. Having vanished from the sight of his faithful Sang Chaud—myself—he reappears from within…”
From within what? I still wonder…
“It is thus that I began to grow thin… and to grow taller… to think differently… to resemble… until I came to embody him… Don Carotte… Naturally, this did not please him, who always wants to be first…”
— Are you following me, Félix?
— I am following you.
I continue.
— Sang Chaud…
Lucian resumes.
— You won’t believe me, Félix…
— I believe you, Lucian. Go on.
— This is not in the notebook… This is only my opinion. Gradually, Sang Chaud—who was the opposite of Don Carotte—has become ‘in his image’…
— I see, says Félix.
Lucian continues.
— I told you: for some time now Sang Chaud has been rebelling against Igniatius… and the latter, during our previous session, complained about it!
“As if it were proper, even legitimate, for a character to escape you and wish to become his own master… or even his own author,” he told me, adding: “Just imagine it, Lucian!”
In a low voice, Lucian thinks intensely.
— I can see that Félix is watching me and thinking that I am no longer entirely myself… He is right… it must be visible, and it is true that I am no longer quite myself…
Félix’s voice, coming from afar, resumes, and I pull myself together.
— Simply return to the notebook, Lucian, please, and let us come back to what it says.
— Well then, in this notebook, Don Carotte—clearly furious himself—questions Sang Chaud… who has taken his place… make of it what you will… Remember, if I am to believe the story told by Igniatius, Don Carotte is supposed to have disappeared! And yet, in this notebook, I read that they speak to one another… It is written… Don Carotte asks:
— What could possibly be going on in Igniatius’s head for him to plot such a move? How could I exist within you… well then…
Then, on the next page, Sang Chaud—who admits he is no longer entirely himself—writes:
“At that moment Don Carotte is no longer facing me; he has forgotten me and imagines he is facing Igniatius. This is what he adds:
— In the form, even a purified one, of this… forgive the expression… oaf?”
Sang Chaud, still in a kind of in-between—not yet entirely in Don Carotte’s image, but without taking offence—writes in the notebook the reply he gives Don Carotte.
“— And who, then, is this one called Igniatius, whom until now I have never heard of?”
Don Carotte answers him:
— He is our creator…
Lucian, somewhat tired, struggles to follow his own discourse. He stops speaking. Félix lets some time pass and, without pressing anything, asks:
— How do you, Lucian, understand “what is being said” in this notebook?
— It is thus, my dear Félix, that for Sang Chaud begins the difficult ascent of Don Carotte’s refractory mind. He has within him two voices that literally can neither hear one another… nor even feel one another!
— That is very interesting, Lucian. Would you like to develop these last two points?
The question was asked in a calm tone that was not really a question—rather a marker, almost a cue.
Lucian, no longer quite present, hears himself say:
— I no longer see, I hesitate. I feel more than I know that Don Carotte, Sang Chaud, and Igniatius are one and the same…
And he adds, without thinking too much:
— Three in one… giving birth to Anatole… the light that rises…