There are five women: the grandmother, the mother, the eldest daughter, the second daughter and the youngest daughter. Five women who waited. Days. Months. Years. Sitting in the back kitchen watching from behind the window, the slightest noise, a letter deposited, the trace of a return, the banging of a car door. Going over and over again the causes of the departure, the argument which preceded it, the distress which followed it, memories of dances and village fairs. Inventing for themselves the travels, the adventures, the destinies from where he - the young brother - would return one day, covered in all the triumphs, having overcome all the pitfalls and the paternal curse.
Today, he is here, the young brother, returned from his wars, exhausted, ill, on the verge of dying in the bedroom of the child he used to be. Today, he is here, and his approaching death releases the racket of resentment and repressed words, fears, and the settling of scores: cries, whispers, laughs, tears, abuse, confessions, sentences, lies and secrets. Here they are, these five women, speaking as if liberated from the weight of the silence in which they had taken refuge.
Today, he is here, the young brother … Really? It's not so certain, all things considered. What if this return is only yet another fabrication? A necessary ritual for speech to come at last, to end the solitude of their existence? "I thought I heard a noise," says the mother. These are her last words, and the last words of the play. What noise is it?

J'étais dans ma maison et j'attendais que la pluie vienne: this play came into my life like a break-and-enter. I had left the book on a shelf without even bothering to open it, as one often does with the books and plays that arrive: they're put off till tomorrow, till later, sometimes till never. However, one evening, the title caught my eye. That's not a title, I thought, it's almost a poem. You've really got to have a cheek, a nerve, to do that, I thought … I opened the book, read the first words, the whole of the first speech - when the eldest sister describes the young brother's arrival - and immediately closed it again, captivated, shattered, bruised. I had to find a different setting to continue reading, a place where I could be alone with the writing, in the necessary intimacy which I presupposed. So I immediately went home, and in the half-light of the apartment, devoured the play. In one go. With a nervousness like that of a teenager on his way to his first romantic rendezvous.

Once the reading finished, the book re-placed - this time with care -, I was absolutely certain of one thing: I would not be putting off, not until tomorrow, nor until later, nor for ever, the desire to direct this play. And the performance took place a few months later at the Théâtre de l'Ancre. I think I can safely say that it was a real success, where pleasure and emotion were combined, both on stage and in the auditorium.
Here it is today at the Atelier Théâtre Jean Vilar . A pleasure which, I hope, you will share.

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