Guy Bedos had played in 2005 at the théâtre Hébertot Output stage, a play written by his son, Nicolas. Disappeared last may 28, the comedian, author and actor, will be buried this week in Corsica, his " Algeria spare ", as he confessed sometimes. Not far from the tomb of his friend Michel Rocard, who is buried at Monticello... He said to find in Corsica the odor of Algeria, when he " breathed the maquis ". He was born in Algiers, pupil of the lycée Bugeaud, was a party before the process of decolonization and had always kept indelible memories of his childhood there. In 1988, he had made a pilgrimage to the country with his son, Nicolas, at the time aged 9 years : Constantine, Annaba, Algiers... It was the owner of a house in Lumio, sold since, and had bought a concession in the cemetery. "I find the parisian cemetery like the Père-Lachaise, gloomy, cold and concrete. I need sun, even in the cemetery. "Nicolas Bedos announces a ceremony in Saint-Germain-des-prés today, Thursday, for a last farewell," even if he was not very friend " with the religion, he says. The young man wrote a moving letter to his father read this morning by Augustin Trapenard on France Inter.
A text which we reproduce in extenso.
Read also Guy Bedos in the text : his best quotes
Paris, may 31, 2020
Dad,
A last night close to you. Candles, a little whisky, your hand so thin and feminine that serves the mine to p'tit day of the last day. Your look childish that disarms a little bit more the kid that I turn back. Above your bed, a mess of photos, Jean-Loup Dabadie to Gisèle Halimi, of Desproges to Camus, passing by Guitry. It voted not the same, it does not pray to the same ghosts, but you were grouped in with a sense of humour and love.
At the end of your legs that do not work, your cats – serene, as custodians. On the night table, a glass of Coke, which is the ultimate link between this world and you, a few sips of force that allow you, from the depths of your weakness, to throw us of the gestures of elegance and tenderness insolent. Angry for not being able to talk, you send kisses dumb to your beloved wife, your dear and beloved daughter, at the window on the ile Saint-Louis, in the sun as you flee.
quiet gestures that make a racket wonderful in our eyes unhappy. You have mixed the vacheries and love up until the fall of the curtain. The "splash the camp" and " I love you ". Hugs and slaps, until the end. Incorrigible cabotin, you had planned your move : in your last piece of memory, you had put " you're beautiful, I'm glad I have the chance. It is your mother, there, in front of me ? This is my wife ? Oh, So much the better ! "We're going to take you, now, in your stage costume. The sketches and journals of the press, tvs and radios, the one who surveyed the France, in length and breadth and across of the throat of some mayors. I've undone your tie is black.
It will take you where you wanted, it is you who is so-called the program, it is you who drive without a licence. First to the church of Saint-Germain. You were not very up to date with the religions, but the churches, it means you wrap. You said " Should be able to hire them for performances of music-hall, film screenings, concerts, poetry. "There will be the atheists, full of Arabs and full of Jews. It would have appalled your mother, you would have liked your mother to be angry. And then you fly away in Corsica, in the village that you made him a little ta the Mediterranean to Algiers.
We are going to sing with Izia and the Tao, Higelin, the Trenet, the Dabadie and Nougaro. It's going to make violins, the melodrama a cappella : do not mégoter his grief, at the exit of an actor. Need to let go on the bravos, and hold each of the subway's jump seat. It is their loot is your loot. I sense that you're not away... You're not dead : you're sleeping finally.
Nicolas Bedos
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