Edward takes his bow
Edward brought the glass to his lips. The servant returned to his seat behind him. The setting was marvelous, the citadel of the hotel was lit up at every window, in front of him, in the middle of the vegetation of the park. In his impeccable white tuxedo, the old man stood straight, lost in thought. His table was set on the edge of the pool of the Indana Palace in Jaipur. He had come a long way to get there. And it had been a huge mistake.
Tomorrow he would leave for Europe, for this monastery in Morgon where he hoped to end his days. Perhaps then he would be a little better prepared for the terrible appointment that awaited him.
He could still see himself as a young man, candid and full of plans. At that time, everything seemed so simple. He had grown up in a deaf and blind suburb. Small houses alternated with empty lots, people slept there. The kind of closed life that was lived there, the closed horizon of these small communities did not suit him. As soon as he could, he escaped.
First he went to the nearby big city to continue his studies at the high school. There he discovered friends from other towns in the region, lively markets, bookstores, and a large bookstore that decorated its windows. What a pleasure it was to be able to leave the school between classes, to stroll in the streets, to breathe the fascinating air of adult life! Those high school years were carefree, carefree. He had the freedom to move around, to discover, without the constraints of a professional or family situation.
Then, Edouard had finally spent a few years as a student. The temptations and pleasures of student life are famous. He had seen little or nothing of it. He had walked the streets, played sports in the halls, frequented the cafés without ever knowing how to relate to anyone. He didn't hang out with many people from his university either. His fellow students went home after class or went out with their friends. No one invited him. He himself had kept few relationships with his college friends, with this suburb that did not interest him. The most original among those he had known, those who had a "dimension", had left to conquer the world. They had often been precocious and had already initiated themselves into the circles that fascinated them and from which the uninitiated, like Edouard, were excluded.
He found himself alone, more than ever. No doubt, he would have needed more determination to find the courage to push open the doors, to make his way in one milieu or another. But the truth is that Edouard had no desire to do so. He went home to his television and his daydreams for companionship.
What did the young man that he was want? Nothing in particular, an easy life above all, travel, adventures perhaps, but without danger. He probably felt an attraction for people of the other sex. But all that remained vague, abstract, easily lived by proxy through improbable fantasies and pornographic films.
Will one never say the fabulous amount of abandoned projects, never undertaken, because of daydreams?
Of course, drugs, alcohol or marijuana reinforce the passivity of the individual, his velleness and his asociability. But daydreaming, already, achieves this. How many love stories, business projects, trips have been aborted by a collapse of willpower? Our society is full of people who hypnotize and paralyze themselves, of teenagers who cling to a dream that never comes true. These are all lies that slowly kill souls and inhibit wills.
The old man was now thinking back to those barren years, all those lost years perhaps. At the same time, hadn't he run the world to never find those barren years again?
At the age of nineteen, twenty perhaps, the opportunity had arisen to set off on a long journey. It was a question of taking any boat to cross the seas. Edouard set off on all sorts of maritime routes as long as they took him far, far away from home. He left for the gates of the Orient and the Middle East, for the Americas and Africa.
The years passed quickly, made up of human encounters, adventures of sailors and human storms, with their unfortunately inevitable lot of drownings and shipwrecks.
Of course, he had not wasted his time. He had known many people, brilliant and poor people, luminous beings, rich people. It was the latter who took the brunt of his talent. One day, a worldly friend suggested to him the idea of importing opium to the West. The business was certainly risky, but he only had to discreetly introduce a few anonymous bales in the hold of a ship, even if it meant throwing them at sea, in the happy proximity of a ship on the lookout?
This activity allowed him to quickly earn enough to think about more ambitious projects. He continued his sea travels for a while before making discreet contacts with people who wanted to earn some money by serving him as ants. If he was lucky enough not to be arrested during this fragile period of his business development, he quickly understood the interest of not getting wet any longer. As his business expanded rapidly, he could afford to recruit his couriers through intermediaries who did not know his identity. They called him "the professor", in reference to his polite speech and good manners. But no one could know more. He knew the environment, the men, the trade, but he never gave his name or made personal contact. Many knew him and worked for him without knowing it. He did not limit himself to drug trafficking. He dealt in alcohol, weapons, works of art, precious coins, and became a fence. But his last principle was never to get involved in human trafficking.
There you have it, he had filled a life with money, lots of money, girls, lots of very young girls. He had fabricated an identity as a businessman, calling himself Eddy. He had reached a level where the street dealer who worked for him had no idea of his existence. He had dozens of shell companies based in tax havens, owned hundreds of apartments around the world. He kept a low profile, never getting involved in politics to avoid anyone getting too interested in his activities. He had a life like that, with little exposure to the sordid.
But he had never been able to suppress his conscience completely, forbidding himself to marry and have children, for fear that they would one day discover the abominable truth. He didn't need a particular event, a shock to realize the despicable nature of his choices, he had lived with them all his life.
Now he knew that life could not be summed up in gold and silver. He had fired the last girl who shared his bed, put his affairs in order, given money to charity. He would still have some for the Franciscan monks of Morgon. With their second-hand sandals and underpants, they deserved to be helped. It would, after all, be the best whitewash of his career.
Eddy had become Edouard again. He was having a last drink on the terrace of the luxurious palace in Jaipur that he had loved so much.
But he stank. His body, his soul was rotting. It was high time to get out of the game.
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