While waiting for the obligatory check-in at the various offices where our identity cards were gradually being filled out before our departure for training, the "downtime" was spent on small community service projects for the benefit of the Legionnaire community in the various locations where it was stationed.

One day, like any other, I was selected to serve as a "duty" at the Malmousque rest center for soldiers on leave in Marseille, a short distance from the lower Saint Nicolas fort, on the seafront, near the Corniche Kennedy.

Shortly before arriving at my destination, at the corner of the Traverse Sainte Hélène, a strange facade with tinted windows and a curious sign caught my eye: "Madame Zaza of Marseille." Seeing a few elegant and beautiful women emerge, all very chic and refined, was enough to ignite my imagination, which took a prodigious leap, setting a fire of dreams ablaze within me, a fire that the upbringing I received from my parents could barely quell…

“Madame Zaza of Marseille”—this was certainly an establishment I had to visit during one of my still-distant leaves of absence… I was already setting myself the obligation of an unmissable appointment.

Placed by my imagination before the eternal conflict between dream and reality, I plunged back into this quest for freedom that clashed with the rules of a society, the obligatory crucible for shaping the model citizen, caged by obligations, in order to survive in a world without compromise.

I knew from experience and also by instinct that what I loved in dreams was sensation, the very opposite of this reality that forced me to reason while wide awake. In my life, I often found myself wondering if I was dreaming, even though I knew that when you dream, you know it as soon as you ask yourself the question…

A few years later, when “Madame Zaza of Marseille” had faded from my memory, chance led me to that mysterious sign; alas, time was short, I couldn't satisfy my curiosity again, and once more, the years passed relentlessly.

From time to time, I would think of that name, which stirred an unsatisfied curiosity within me, but time passed and water flowed slowly under the bridge. Some fifteen years had gone by, and during another visit to La Malmousque, I noted in my diary a stop at the mysterious house… unusually, I felt a certain apprehension about what I would find there. It would be truly heartbreaking for me if a dream of over fifteen years were to end in such a mundane way; it would be utterly despairing. A kind of fear gripped me, and a deep anxiety settled within me. Courageously, I headed towards the object of my questions.

Arriving at the establishment, I decided to throw myself into the lion's den.
Upon entering, my surprise was as profound as the shattering of my dream: I found myself in a women's clothing store, surrounded by a group of women who didn't seem to particularly appreciate my presence…

Stunned, I turned around and went back outside, watching a dream of so many years crumble like a fragile edifice. Instinctively, I knew I was destroying something by crossing the threshold of a dream. It's never good to return to a place where you were happy; time always imposed a kind of shipwreck, and so, despite the opportunities that presented themselves to me to return to Madagascar, I declined the invitation, knowing that going back could only leave a bitter taste, reflecting our aging and a well-being lost forever.
Luckily for me, I still dream…