Departure

I was just thinking about him. If things had not been that bad over the past year, Steve could have called him and he would have come to pick me up at the train station. He really was, among all my friends, the only one I could count on at any time, and I know it would make him happy to do me a favor.

But, we had not seen each other for a long time. Alcohol, the alcohol he drank too much of was the reason for this long term silence between us. One evening, things went really bad and Steve and I took the only sensible decision at that time, not to see him again as long as he would drink... but he was still drinking.

Steve sounded tense during our phone conversations. Sitting in Patrice's car, on the way back from Amiens, I was distractedly listening to my friend talking about his projects and his problems. I sudenly had a feeling that something had happened back home and that Steve did not want to break the news over the phone. What was it? A burglary maybe? That was the only possibility that occurred to me.

I called Steve from Austerlitz, in Paris. When I told him I missed the train and the next arrival was at 4 AM., he seemed puzzled. I asked him if something had happened when I was away, and he said, with a very soft voice, that Domi was involved in a car accident and had passed away.

I don't know if everyone feels the same way as I did, when I heard about my friend's death, but the way Steve told me, softly, and the words he chose helped me not to be scared of this event. I was not shocked. Instead, I instantly was overcome by pain, sadness and loss.

I had to recompose myself right away. Steve had just given me phone numbers of other friends I needed to call. I also had to make arrangements to be at the funeral the next day. Once all had been settled, I was finally able to give in to the tears I had been fighting back.

It was strange to think that Domi was gone forever. It was strange to think that, out of all my friends, he was certainly the most fragile and the one who got off to the worst start But even though I'd often been scared for other people, I never would have thought he'd be the first to die.

I talked about this with someone, I cannot remember who, and his opinion was the exact opposite to mine. As for me, Domi had always been there, and he was always going to be there. I had never thought that, if he actually was going to be there, it would be in a different form.

In France, we always say the best ones leave first. Well, Domi was surely not the best. But he was my old buddy, one of my oldest friends in Bordeaux, and the one who had always been closer, despite our differences.

The day of his funerals is anchored in my memory as one of the saddest days of my life. All these people. He would have been so happy to see all of them together. He really had a gift for heterogeneous relationships. He always wanted to have a lot of people around him, and because of all his friends' differences, he would always have someone who would be willing to listen to him. Did he realize this?

His parents... he wanted so much to be in a perpetual romantic war with them, and yet, he worshiped the comfort of parental love. Even at thirty years old, he was shy to admit that it felt great to be pampered a little. Was I the only one he talked to about this?

His friends were all there. The serious ones, the advisers -- good and bad --, the profiteers, etc... All came, upset, moved, to say good-bye, adieu.

We had never visited him in the new house he was so proud of. One day, about two months before the accident, we had met him in a supermarket, talked for a while and he had given us the address. It was thus meant to be that we would visit the house anyway.

I recognized him in every room, even though some little valiant hands had worked overtime to give back some kind of cleanliness to Domi's style.

I noticed on the fireplace the calligraphy my Chinese friend, Guoqiang, had made for Domi. We all were having dinner at Fabienne's apartment, and Guoqiang had demonstrated his special calligraphic art. Each of us received a calligraphy. On Domi's, he had written : " Water, Boat, Sea". Following Fabienne's advice, I asked the family for the calligraphy. They agreed, it was a wonderful step for me because I had seen the frame in Domi's many apartments and I knew he liked it very much.

The coffin, impressive, had been placed at the entresol. When the time came to take my friend out of his house, I suddenly understood the frightening reality of the expression: "coming out feet first". "I will only come out with my feet first". I watched, hanging on to Christine, Domi's sister, my old buddy coming out of his house "with his feet first".

It is always easy to write nice things about someone who died. All of a sudden, they become the best friends we ever had. As for Domi, I don't really know how to say it, but he has --what can I say?-- been so heavy in my life that everywhere I go, something reminds me of him: a sentence he said, an expression, a smile or a fight. I have seen him everyday for years. I have seen him in extreme situations. How to explain? He was always there. Sometimes I'm reminded of something he said. Other times I laugh at things we laughed at together. Occasionally I argue about things we argued about. He meant that much to me. One way or another, he's always here.

Steve and me, we always talked a lot about Domi, and the fact that he is no more did not change anything, will not change anything.

When I look at his father, his son or his sister, I feel I am in a different dimension. He speaks to me.

The day of the funeral, his father suddenly gazed at me. I don't know what went through his head. But I said to myself and I said to him : "We did go through some heavy storms, didn't we..." . I thought as he hugged me that Domi would have deserved a little taste of durable happiness, since it was meant to end this way anyhow.

Could Domi's death be looked at as a cruel way to justify his rights to happiness? He paid such a high price for his desire to live and be loved by everyone. It really is unfair. Is everything finally pointless, useless? Like his mother who says that losing her son this way is a failure. Well, isn't Domi the one who succumbed to the most stinging failure?

I remember a New Year's Eve party when everyone drank a little more than usual. Someone was repeatedly explaining to Domi that we loved him the way he was and that there was no need for him to always try to prove that he deserved to be loved. I also remember how these words amused him and how he made sure -- with an incredulous smile -- that they would be said again.

I am angry with him for dying this way, for having done things without thinking and for having exposed himself to the risk of dying in conditions he would have hated. He detested being alone and he was scared in vehicles. Yet he died alone after a car accident. He had drunk too much but this may very well not be the cause of the accident. But it is precisely because he was drunk, that shortcuts are easy to find, reasons are too naturally understood.

The first year "without Domi" has been difficult, on the week of his death anniversary, we framed the calligraphy, added a photo of Domi and put it on the wall. In the beginning, I did not want to do it, but Steve wanted it so much that I agreed. I would never have thought doing it would help ease the pain. Instead it acted like a good bandage on a bad wound. The calligraphy has has once again become a work of art reminiscant of a good evening. In addition Domi's photo is like a smile pinned to the wall. No longer do I see his face with an angry look as I used to see it in my dreams. Peace has settled in gently.

On the evening of the 21st of June, we went to the restaurant, in Domi's honor.

Since then, life follows its course. The memory of my old buddy remains with us, and helps us too. Would he be happy to see that we just gave everything up to start of a new life in a different country? Surely he would, without any doubt...