I must have been sixteen when I snapped this photo of my dad and his mates, faces grimed using a burnt cork by candlelight during a birthday party, one summer evening in the south of France. Last night, forty years later, the awesome and funny spirit of these fathers had swung by another dinner, somewhere between Uzès and Arles. Enchanted by this magic, I hadn’t paid attention to the date. Yesterday, August 14th, René Goscinny would have celebrated his 91st birthday. No doubt that he did, his wings brushing lightly against us, his daughter, his wonderful grandchildren, and all of us poor souls.
Je devais avoir seize ans lorsque je pris cette photo de mon père et ses copains, maquillés au bouchon brulé aux chandelles d’un dîner d’anniversaire, un soir d’été dans le Midi. Hier, quarante plus tard, l’esprit génial et drôle de ces pères habitait un autre dîner, quelque part entre Uzès et Arles. Enchanté par cette magie, je n’ai pas fait attention à la date. Ce 14 août, René aurait fêté son 91e anniversaire. Sans doute l’a-t-il fait en nous frôlant de son aile, sa fille, ses magnifiques petits-enfants, et pauvres de nous tous.
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