miðvikudagur, mars 16

Meira um Nico

Kristín Parísardama minntist á son Nico og Alains Delon í kommenti í síðust færslu, "the super-beautiful progeny of a union between the North and the Mediterranean". Það vill nú reyndar svo til að ég rakst í gær á brot úr bókinni Nico, Songs They Never Play On The Radio, sem er eftir fyrrum hljómborðsleikara í hljómsveit Nico. Frekar súrar djammsögur þar á ferð. M.a. þessi hjartnæmi kafli um endurfundi mæðginanna (Nico var heróínfíkill og kom syni sínum á bragðið):


NICO's LOVING SON ARI

There was a figure, waving, at the bay window that overlooked the untended garden. Nico suddenly seemed overjoyed and rushed on ahead. Raincoat cast a glance up at the house.

'I see we 'ave Le Fils with us, Le Vray Baujolly Neuvo 'imself ... Le Kid.'

'Her kid?' I'd forgotten about the son.

'Yeh,' said Echo, 'her very own creation. Yer gonna love 'im.,

'What's he called?' I asked.

'Ari.'

'Yeh.' Raincoat glowered up at the window. 'An' we're jus' wild about Ari.'

Ari, Le Kid, was about nineteen, the super-beautiful progeny of a union between the North and the Mediterranean, Nico and Alain Delon. Nico had a brief fling with Delon in her model days. Now Delon absolutely didn't want to know. Le Kid had turned up at the matinee idol's Paris apartment, only to be turned away by the maid. Even though Delon's mother took him in, Le Kid did not exist. Neither did he exist properly for Nico. While he was still in the womb she'd dropped acid along with the usual family favourites, and when he'd cried she found the most expedient solution was to lock him in a cupboard. It must have pained Ari to see pictures of that other Delon Jr, waterskiing with Princess Pixie of Monaco. Famous folk usually buy off responsibility with money - Nico hadn't got it, Delon wouldn't give it. Le Kid opened the door.

'Maman. Maman.' They embraced. He looked over her shoulder at us. His nose twitched in that Frenchified manner, like there was a bad odeur. Who were we? More shit she'd picked up on her boots. He turned away from us.

'Maman ... suis-moi, j'ai un petit cadeau pour toi.'

We followed them down the hall, me walking backwards, clattering the harmonium against the walls.

'Ferme les yeux,' he said to her. I don't know why, but I did too. 'Bien ... ouvre!'He held out a shining new hypodermic, loaded and ready to go. Nico gasped with joy.

A truly loving son understands (and shares) his mother's needs.

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