Bad Dream - February 2023
He felt a liquid flowing along his right arm. He was not in pain. Above him he saw the glow of a lamp that lit the room with a yellowish light. He tried to sort through his memories. There was Munich, the hall, his long speech, the long applause from the unanimously approving audience. And then the return on the presidential plane. After that, a complete blank. What had happened? He remembered that he had fallen asleep immediately after takeoff. Had the plane been diverted? Had there been a crash?
Yes, that was it. The plane must have crashed, and he had been wounded. Perhaps a missile, fired by extremists. He had survived, that was the main thing. But where was he? He had not the slightest idea. Had other passengers on the presidential plane made it out?
He tried to sit up to try to see better. But a searing pain shot through his shoulder and his right arm, and he collapsed back onto his bed at once. He waited long minutes for the pain to subside, then, with his left arm, began to explore the right side of his body. He discovered shreds of his shirt, damp. Blood, no doubt. On the upper part of the arm there was a tourniquet. It was certainly a tourniquet, a surgical device, with a cold metal part, a key used to tighten it. His hand moved lower. He discovered a bone, protruding from the wound, for nearly ten centimetres.
He did not want to push the exploration any further, for fear of what he might discover. In any case he could no longer feel his right hand. He could not move it. He told himself that it was perhaps the effect of the tourniquet, which produced both the numbness and the loss of muscle control.
Someone came in. He heard words exchanged, in an incomprehensible language. But it was clearly a language from an Eastern country. Before crashing, the plane must have been diverted, on the way back from Munich. But where?
A face leaned over him.
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I speak a little French, but very little.
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Do you speak english?
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No - no - not english - only a very tiny little French.
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Where are we?
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We are going to do surgery on you. The arm -
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Yes, the arm, and then?
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Your arm, no good. We are going to cut.
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Cut? You're going to amputate me!?
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Yes. Too broken. Explosive device, you understand? Much damage. Much shrapnel. The right hand, very broken. But the left hand, good!
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What? The plane crashed? There are survivors? And the others?
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Me, not understand. No plane! It's ... the war ...
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The war!
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I am going to get morphine. You not suffer. It will be fine, it will be fine.
The man's face disappeared. He tried to fix his gaze on something. At the cost of a superhuman effort, clinging to the frame of what seemed to be a camp bed, he managed to roll a little onto his left side. The room was in the greatest disorder. There was a weapon, placed on a table, an automatic weapon, next to which several magazines could be seen. And many glasses, with a bottle, half empty. Alcohol, no doubt. On the wall a map with places marked by pins, a map of the front. Good heavens, where had he landed? On the Ukrainian front? But if that was the case, which side was he on? The Ukrainian side, or the Russian side?
There were things written on the map. But, he knew it well, the Ukrainians use the same Cyrillic alphabet as the Russians. Exhausted by this effort he collapsed again onto the bed. He closed his eyes and suddenly heard a female voice:
- Mr. President - Mr. President - I am sorry to wake you, but we will soon be landing at Roissy. I must ask you to fasten your seatbelt.
Wars follow one another and resemble one another.
They have the coldness of the metal of bombs.
They have the dull grey colour of coveted silver.
They extinguish the flames of truth and rekindle the embers of hatred.
They stifle, asphyxiate, bury all possible joy, shared together.
Whoever falls, it will be a human being.