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

Two plays, one cry

I knew little of Jean-Luc Lagarce. A brief and beautiful encounter at the Jardin d'hiver after a reading of his play "Retour à la citadelle", a glance or a handshake exchanged at the chance of a theatrical performance, in short, the simple respect of rituals, and that's already something. Then, at the Athénée, while I was directing Samuel Beckett's "La dernière bande" in the small auditorium with David Warrilow (I think it was 1992), he was working on a revival of Lagarce's production of Marivaux's "L'île aux esclaves" in the Salle Louis Jouvet. At the time, he and David were facing the same incurable illness. And it was after he'd seen "La dernière bande", after we'd spoken at length about it (he had the look and voice of someone who no longer quite belongs to our world), that I had this strange dream: i was in a forest, exhausted, with an axe in my hand, and he, this sick man, appeared as one appears only in dreams, took the axe, and with a great laugh and immeasurable strength, felled the trees, opening up a clearing in front of me in no time. David Warrilow has since died, and so did Jean-Luc Lagarce, the same year, but even today, when I see a photo of him, it's always the man with the axe I see.