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

Five women in the house, towards the end of summer, from late afternoon until the morning of the following day, when the freshness will have returned and the night and its demons will have moved away. Five women and one young man, back from everything, back from his wars and battles, home at last, laid there in the house, now, exhausted by road and life, sleeping peacefully or dying, nothing else, back to where he started to die.

He's in his room, this room where he lived as a child, as a teenager, where he lived before leaving them abruptly, he's in his room, it's where he's come to rest, to die, possible, to complete his road, his wandering. They turn around this young man in his bed.

They protect him and reassure each other. They nurse him and listen to his breathing, they walk in slow steps, they whisper their own story, this absence of a story they've been living since he left them, and his own story, his long ba- lade across the world, his aimless flight for no reason.

It's a slow pavane of women around the bed of a sleeping young man.