||[Jun. 23rd, 2006|07:38 am]
All hail the glorious dead.
Once we've arrived to Egypt everyone began to feel uncomfortable because of the weather. Most of the people didn't want to be there, except for some enthusiasts, like my dear commander (you know who). I was a few days in a kind of impass and confussion I was sure I wanted to remain in the cities and not wander everyplace in the desert. I had the chance to meet Monsieur S. (one of Desaix's aides de camp) and invite him for a drink, the man was very confident about his ideas on this campaign. He was truly stressed and hated the place as the rest of us, I manage myself to gain his confidence to the point of making a proposition (c'mon it's the army!) in exchange of any object belonging to the General he could get for me. S. wave me a look of disapproval but finally he accepted the deal.
I gave him probably the best fellatio ever performed in my entire life. He left very pleased with the promise of sending me what I've requested and I spent a couple of days on embers. Being such a sad and pesimistic person I was sure the guy forgot about me and I couldn't go and claim for his promise. On the third day I received a small pack with my name on. It contained a recently used feather and a handkerchief with black stains and marks of fingerprints, the ink was still fresh on both objects. I thought it was joke from S. but the handkerchief had the Desaix monogram so I choose to believe that it was his. Besides S. could be a little morally unreliable but the guy had his honor.
Every night I smelled and kissed both things and I keep it inside my shirt everytime. I hide it in thin leather wallet that was with me at every moment in my miserable life. The day I died I had it with me, closer to my heart. I don't know if my wife keep it or destroyed it. She had promised me a lot of times that after my death she'd burn everything that reminds her of my army life. She said that my soldier personality interferred in our marriage like an impertinent mistress. Alas for her, if only she could know the truth... but she wouldn't understand anyway. Sometimes I stop to think that she probably married a rich farmer and they raised my son as a real idiot. I really never care too much about such things.
Ah, let me tell you that I wasn't a good person all the time. Although my memories get confused with those of the people I knew well, I have some awful stories about me being a real bastard. There's a sad history about a young polish hussar who commited suicide because of me... but that's for another time.
An excerpt from my previous life