Traduction anglaise de la nouvelle 'Léo pédale' (Babillonnaires)

20.09.20 – 16.11.20

Pedalling suits Mike as he bikes. No matter the place he straddled, no matter the place he will dismount, a mere glimpse of him passing you by is a sight to behold. He bikes his way up the verdant mounds, cheering all the same through the windy winter days and the sultry summer times. As he draws nearer, fastidious forest paths and rocky roads alike lay smooth and flat, unfolding beneath his tires like carpets of silky velvet: should it cut through meadows of emerald green or wind through lush jungles of beryl hues, let there ever be a pathway to his advance. When he comes, it is like all things in creation are bathed in an endless state of merry bliss. There is no questioning it, Mike's temper is one of a kind: as he bikes on, he brightens the world with delight, and even the most forlorn of landscapes find solace in his shine. It would be tempting to stop, if only for a moment! Then he could learn to know the countless vignettes to which he gives motion as he breezes by; and they would be so eager to dive right into the stream, as he drags their colours in his wake! But should he ever stop, he'd be pedalling no more, and all of this boundless energy would flee his body; then he'd go back to being Mike with no bike, Mike and nothing more, nothing more than his plain old self. And thus he never, ever stops, weaving behind him a sempiternal scarf of spirit. It is not long before he irrigates the moors and the mounts, the beaches and the bridges, the hamlets and the conurbations with his own pulse: glazing each and every place with glittery glee, flesh-coloured draperies rising on rows of pearly teeth, fresh dew blooming on blossoms. Beauty awakes from her slumber, but 'tis no matter, Mike is simply passing by. On his ever-going path, merry country dwellers are greeting him- they invite him to doze, dine and digest. They get a faint smile in lieu of Mike's answer, for he fears he would lose his breath. It is a simple life, but he likes it that way.
And what is left for a storyteller to add? Mikes on bikes have a mind like a broken record: it spins endlessly, rolls and repeats mechanically, without ever producing a note of its own. As he cleaves an infinity of diverse landscapes, Mike is oblivious to everything, even to the advent of a new world of his own device. Fleeing, flying is the only answer he can come up with to the World's graces. To him countries, varied as they may be, are one and the same; they all merge, mingle and melt into a tasteless, odourless gruel he bolts down hurriedly, pressing onwards. Time becomes a forbidden secret, places soulless vessels.

Until one day, Fate decides to have it its own way: Mike crashes down, headfirst into the mire. With one big gulp, it gobbles his tires down; the now freed handlebars wander off into the depths, going for an adventure of their own. As for Mike, he limps his way out, though not without a few lovely leeches latched onto his legs. Even now he is pedalling, without really knowing how or why. But how on earth did he fell down in the first place..? Like a lonely, shivering infant learning to walk for the very first time, he hobbles on to the next town, still in shock from what has just befallen him. There, no more trumpets, no more cheers to greet him: how would anyone know Mike, if not on his bike? They help him, still. And he has no choice but to content himself with their help. There is this cute little maid with her rosy cheeks. He looked so ordinary she could not help but noticing him at the inn, and now she is the one plucking his leeches, one by one.

In a daydreaming state, Mike is gazing at the ceiling. Among the kitchen smells and the cigars' smoke, he catches a glimpse of a haze of missed opportunities. A myriad of tiny little dots flashing before his eyes and dying right away, just as many worlds lost to his frenzy. Had he just stopped for a while as he redefined the canopy of the land, they could have become full-fledged bubbles for his life to bloom in... But no, it had not been so. He had done nothing to make it so. He had peddled to his heart's content, and now, he was reduced to reigning over the deserted lands of his empty memory, lifeless and bare, as pain mischievously started to crawl up his legs. He lets out a sigh.Come on Mike, cheer up lad! There is all the time in the world for you to get used to walking on your own two feet.

traduit du français par V. H.-M.