Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Michel Layaz


When I was born, my mother burst into tears. On the photograph taken of the two of us a few minutes after my birth, you can clearly see—despite the lipstick freshly applied to her lips, despite the foundation spread over her cheeks—you can clearly see her moist eyes. My mother in tears. After a crying fit. My mother’s tears. A tearful birth. I don’t remember who said terrible flood while looking at the photograph. My mother had slipped a few things into the pocket of her silk nightgown and as soon as the child arrived, in other words, as soon as I was there, before she even looked at me, not yet knowing if she had brought a beautiful baby into the world, a healthy baby, with no defects, with no infirmities, my mother had apparently plunged her hand into the pocket of her nightgown and pulled out a makeup bag. She put on fresh lipstick. She dabbed foundation on her cheeks with no concern for what had just left her womb, relieved to have less weight to carry around out on the street, up the staircase, when getting up in the morning and going to bed at night, those three and a half kilos of male child flesh from which she would never completely free herself despite the nurseries and nannies, despite her trips and weeks abroad, despite my father and my father’s patience. The crying fit, I’m told, occurred just then, immediately after she applied


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