We watched as the light dimmed in the cabin. Basile installed a makeshift screen and asked us to pull our window curtains closed. Without my beautiful bus altering its course or delaying its progress along its fastidious route, we watched, more than once, a film that played without sound, since we didn't have headphones to plug into the armrests of our seats.
The camera (just like the projector) is set in the bus, and rolls down the road through the opening credits. But soon it decides to liberate itself from the rectilinear road, from the smooth surface packed down by steamrollers, cambered by engineers, and repaved by public road-maintenance crews. My beautiful bus, light as can be, drifts off the pavement. Using my jacket as a makeshift drop-cloth, I block the light, which might overexpose the film, from coming through the window. We have taken a dirt trail, a shortcut, which will itself need to be abandoned, in turn, for a path. The bus no longer has windowpanes. The wind whips one side of your face through the openings. We move forward over a cushion of grass. The movie is in colour. I see nothing but green while we're in the temperate climates. Soon I see yellow. If I were a painter, I would pour out a lot of yellow on this twisting and turning course. The wilderness is empty, uninhabited. My beautiful bus has slowed down. It glides silently along in the unmoving forest. Not a soul stirs; no forest ranger's cabin is in sight, and not a single farm.
[My Beautiful Bus, Jouet, J.]
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