Ah, the moon, that perfect star, muse of poets and lovers. They called her the poor man’s diamond; a gem that no fortune could possess. The vestal sphere that shone for all life, looking down upon us and offering consolation. The queen of the sky, queen of stars, so beautiful and mysterious. She might shine blue, crimson, purple, or white as snow, for she was mercurial with her many faces. A grinning crescent or a full moon like a great eye, hiding behind the clouds, defying the laws of darkness and the chaos of the night. The last light, the last torch that remained lit amidst the infinite darkness, the last warrior standing against obscurity. A lamp made to light every street around the world, thought the boy, his eyes fixed on the moon from behind his binoculars.
His name was Pierre, but his mother called him ‘Pierrot’ after his love for the night sky (this was a name that appeared in a nursery rhyme known to all French children: “Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot…”). Nobody knew the stars as well as Pierre did. At night, when the lights of the town went out, he snuck out of his bedroom. He walked the streets in his robe and pyjamas, and came to his favourite viewpoint, standing on a pile of cinderblocks that overlooked the town. He rarely crossed paths with anyone; the odd man walking a dog, sometimes, or a pair of secret lovers. But most of the time he could enjoy the night alone. The moon was a tranquil comfort to him; always there, always the same. When he felt lost, trapped under the weight of all those things that might trouble the life of a teenager, he always came back to the moon. Sometimes he even prayed to her, sending up his secret thoughts. He knew she was watching over him, that kindly old moon.
Today he had something to confess: he was in love. It was perhaps not the first time, but he felt that before it had not been as real, nor as intense, and that those times had simply been a sort of preamble to real love. Those loves had not been the kind that stuck in your head all day, or that kept you up at night and took away your hunger, and stripped you of all desire to do anything other than dream wistfully of the one you love. Her name was Anne. She was blond, with rosy cheeks and the most beautiful mouth he had ever seen, as if drawn by an artist, plump and juicy as an orange, a mouth you wanted to kiss forever. A mouth you loved to see speak, or sing; a mouth that changed like the moon, each night new and yet the same. So the moon should understand, and she should, this time, answer his prayer to be able to kiss the girl whose smile was just like her.
Alan Alfredo Geday