The reunion

The distribution turned out to be quite an eclectic one: the heart went out to a morose clerk in Prague, the lungs to an Andalusian gypsy, the two shiny kidneys were flown to London destined for a punk girl and the liver ended up saving the life of a sixty-something alcoholic in Naples. Such broad geographical range complicated the plan somewhat, but time and patience are not in short supply on my neck of the woods. Eventually, through fake coincidences, subtle suggestions planted in dreams and sudden inexplicable obsessions, I managed to gather all my recipients on a fall afternoon under the same Parisian sun.

The cover story on Le Monde, as hyperbolic as one might expect, referred to the situation as “a wanton orgy in broad daylight, right at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, where participants of varied ages, races and provenances threw themselves into their passionate task as if an invisible hand were kindling their most basic instincts”. I prefer to think of it as a rather lovely way of getting back in touch with myself.