The atmosphere in the Kubrickian room of the Community Council is electric, as they said then, this winter evening in 2004. Shopkeepers are waiting in the air and spotted marks, not to mention an anti-knife in their teeth, with a push the young socialist president of the scholarly assembly, a certain Franোয়াois Quillandre, is trying to push through his tram project in Brest, which he has held since his 2001 election. Holding it firmly in his hand. This sweat and revenge council lasted for eighteen years or more, ending by majority approval but far from being unanimous. What an adult, who laughs at us today, in the memory of this rat-race.
Sounds reassuring in silence
The atmosphere at the doorstep of St. Martin’s Station is not descriptive as I leave home this morning in April 2022. A mechanical eye asks about the waiting time on the illuminated panel, the masks hanging from the chin, like the memory of this curse captivity, and whose use is essential in the tram. Trump, the sound of iron in the silence that broke the void two years ago, the sound of life in the ether of endless days. As clear as tram is, even in the days of captivity, tram as a routine, tram that we no longer notice. The tram that sometimes reassures its inhabitants wakes them up with skeletal ears, to the humming of the first wagons that roam the pale at the end of the night.
The adhesive pachyderms end
Just remember the hysteria and turmoil caused by Barbara (and perhaps a few more) rail adventurers. However, it is not so far away. Think about it, except in 2004, at least in 2009 when the Jackhammers arrived it didn’t take much to go back. Before that, T’Jeff might have thought of the hellish rise of Rue Jean-Joures somewhere in the crowd, the reflection of rain on the asphalt, the neon lights of the store, the irose bus line, the emerald or the ocean. Cars, everywhere, all the time, where ordinary pachyderms were stuck in the automobile antlers. And then came the construction machinery. Heavy. Too heavy. Three years. They stay for three years.
On the 14.5 km route where the skilled snake had to replace the trapped elephant, bitumen flew, the road was opened to lose all its previous courage. Dust, hassle and delay: The site made this promise without ignoring the reality of Macadam. It was. Softeners made with intelligent barriers, ongoing work, and fiercely controversial assistance have certainly served as an ointment, but the memory of a city remains running in its very flesh. The chaos and abandonment of certain traders, just as much. But, everywhere, the conversation is the harvest of future births. Old or simply epidermal opposition became exciting, as the holes became aggressive, while dreamers were eager to see the breasts re-arranged. Newspeak, not once late, then repeatedly boasted of a “formation project” during a communications conference. “Importantly, this arrival will change this city for the next fifty years,” added a leader who did not. Idiot.
Day of celebration
Then, the rail laid, bolted. Then, choose colors in anise green and raspberry pink. Then more iron than tires, then the flow of time, then the arrival of Warsaw and a date that ends the next day of summer, in 2012. The sky is great despite one month of June being quite busty. Holes are stuck in the tracks, marching bands and street art have come alive. Naked artists, painted in bright colors, talk about good people, but who cares: Nantes has a “machine de l’ille”. Metal elephant walking, wearing frills and sequins. They guide this long lime-green eagle, which finally appears. The crowd is enough, from dawn to night. He sees and touches this funny thing, hurrying to get into it. In front of the town hall, the Moral Soul Company, then very popular, removes the illuminated municipal walls. The show has seemed a bit unfocused in recent episodes. It’s midnight, and the big drops signal the end of the party. For the only time in his life, trams run slower than pedestrians. Like a whirlwind of honor for the exceptional guest, the slow procession draws the curtain on an indefinite day.
And then life does its business. On this morning in April 2022 at the St.-Martin station, the anise-green buzuk indicates its narrow spit, below, just in front of the Minu lighthouse which is at its Sentinel distance. Dawn is purple, and people are panting. Adjust their masks, talk or not. The tram stops. No one looks at him anymore, but no one opposes him. He is a member of the Jeff family.