“One day, in a thousand years, archeologists will find your refuge. They will understand that the military structure has been repurposed as a hermitage. And if it occurs to them to scrape away the paint and chalk, they will exhume colourful frescoes entitled “The Life of David Claessens in seven tableaux”. I know them by heart. They are engraved forever in my mediocre memory. I can describe them to you, if you want to test your imagination:
The prodigal child chooses his path.
He evokes hopes and ambitions.
The son stumbles, wanders far, broods.
In exile, the child becomes a man.
The prodigal son, in an attempt to return home, loses his way.
Wounded, he wastes away in his concrete prison.
But, unlike the New York tapestries, your story is under way. There are still some tableaux for us to write, you and me, and I have not lost hope that you will one day leave your bunker. The key to your enclosure, to your cell No. 77, is held by me, David. Me, Ariane, your sister.”