In her columns, Nathalie Plaat calls on you to tell her stories. This summer, she asked you to tell her about your friendships. The “News from you” section gives you excerpts from your answers, including this one, written by one friend to another.
She is tall, rather sturdy, walking with a nonchalant gait, it seems as if she has all the time in the world. Long, soft hair frames her pretty face without makeup. A few strands fall over her eyes filled with softness. I can glimpse delicate feathers, tangled in her hair, slipping from her ears. She smiles. Life seems good and easy to her, a little too much for me who does not have her apparent nonchalance. Her loose dress in floral cotton falls to mid-leg, dresses her curves, swings with her slow and airy steps. Her large feet are shod in flat leather sandals with straps crossed on her ankles. I have in front of me a peace and love embodied, a hippie who opens the door to a world other than mine.
I don’t remember who made the first move, she or I. First class of the session, the psychology teacher gives us an assignment to complete in teams of three or four students. I don’t know anyone in the class. With two other more or less chosen strangers, we form a team. It’s the beginning of a friendship for the quartet.
Strongly united during our three years of study, we do all our work together. Gathered at one or the other’s house to conscientiously fulfill the academic requirements, our work sessions overflow, become opportunities to laugh, drink, smoke a joint, debate taboo subjects, and confide our secrets.
Over time, with moves and diverging paths, I lose touch with the other two, but not with her. Although they appear different, our lives converge: the search for Love with a capital A, the appetite for life, the unwavering love of our children, the propensity to help others, reasonable transgressions, the quest for truth and beauty, the bursts of madness to spice up our escapades. We are tolerant of companions we would not have chosen.
— My boyfriend is French. He came to study at the university.
— Mine comes from Brossard, we knew each other as teenagers.
After my divorce, she had fun looking for a partner with me on Réseau Contact.
— Have you seen this one? He writes well, he has the same interests as you, he looks good in his photo.
The day after a dateI have to give him a detailed report.
— How was it? Did you make love? Are you going to see him again?
The years have gotten the better of our excesses and have calmed us down. Now 50 years that we have been sailing together, never far from each other, on the turbulent current of life, always ready to jump into the water to help the other. Our conversations stretch late into the night, faithful witnesses of what we see passing in our lives: men, heartaches, moments of great joy, waves of sadness, mourning, births, rebirths.
Our confidences push the limits of our secret gardens. We have clashes without the bond ever being questioned. We understand each other, forgive each other, without saying anything. The coldness is short-lived.
We look with indulgence at our dark areas. With our ears wide open, we know how to console ourselves during our misfortunes, big and small. We project flashes of light on our singular detours and our sometimes bumpy roads. I imagine us, always accomplices, backs bent, leaning on a cane, half deaf, wrinkled like old apples. Always there for each other.
Friendship has its face.