J'étais dans ma maison et j'attendais que la pluie vienne

There are five women: the old one, the mother, the eldest, the second and the youngest. Five women who have waited. For days. Months. Years. Sitting in the scullery, watching out the window for the slightest noise, the drop of a letter, the trace of a return, the slamming of a car door. Replaying the reasons for the departure, the quarrel that preceded it, the confusion that followed, memories of balls and village parties. Inventing journeys, adventures, destinies from which he - the younger brother - would one day return, adorned with all the triumphs, having overcome all the pitfalls and the paternal curse.
Today, there he is, the younger brother, back from his wars, exhausted, sick, on the verge of dying in the bedroom of the child he once was. Today, he's here, and his agony unleashes the din of resentments and repressed words, fears, and settling of scores: cries, whispers, laughter, tears, invectives, confessions, sentences, lies and confidences. Here they are, speaking, these five women, as if freed from the weight of silence in which they had taken refuge.
Today, there he is, the younger brother...Really? Not so sure, all things considered. What if this return was just another fabrication? A necessary ritual for the word to finally come out, to break the solitude of their existences? "I thought I heard a noise" says the mother. These are her last words, and the last words of the play too. What kind of noise is it?

Philippe Sireuil