THE GNAWING PAIN BEGAN ONE EVENING, IN THE JOINT of the thumb of my left hand. I suppose I must have knocked my hand without noticing; I tried to work out what intense manual activity I had done that day, but nothing came to mind. Two hours later the swelling evolved into an almost unendurable burning sensation, radiating through the joints of all my fingers. How was it possible that such a tiny part of my body could hurt so badly? Worried, my mother called the emergency doctor, who sent me for a blood test. The results showed an abnormally raised level of white blood cells. We were sent to the emergency room. By the time we got there, the pain had spread to the joints of all my limbs. Even before they found me a bed, I could no longer move. I was literally paralyzed. A doctor diagnosed acute rheumatic fever, triggered by a streptococcal infection.
I had to remain in the hospital for several weeks, which I remember as interminable, but illness has a tendency to distort the perception of time.
During my stay in the hospital, three unexpected visits left me with recollections that are respectively amusing, embarrassing, and devastating. The first took place only a few days after I was hospitalized. My mother (or might it have been one of her friends, motivated by the best of intentions?) wasted no time in introducing the patient to a psychoanalyst who, it was clear from the very first look he gave me when he walked into the room, was a deeply compassionate man. I had already met him two or three times at various dinner parties I’d been to with my mother.
“V., I’ve just come to chat to you, I think it might do you some good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think your illness is the manifestation of something else. A more deep-seated ailment, if you understand what I mean. How are things at school? Are you doing well?”
“No, it’s a nightmare. I almost never go. I skip all the classes I don’t like, which drives my mother crazy. I forge her signature on notes to the teachers, then sit and smoke in a café for the rest of the day. One time I even pretended it was my grandfather’s funeral, and she got really mad! I can’t deny I went a bit far there.”
“I wonder if this illness might have something to do with your . . . current situation.”
There. He’d said it. No more beating around the bush. What did he think, that it was G. who’d given me strep throat?
“What situation? What are you talking about?”
“Shall we start with how you were feeling before you fell ill? Do you want to try to talk about it? I think you’re smart enough to understand that talking is a way of beginning to get better. What do you think?”
Of course, as soon as I began to sense a genuine interest in my lowly self—and what’s more, from a member of the male sex—all my defenses crumbled.
“All right.”
“So why are you not going to classes? Do you think it’s just because you’re bored in certain subjects? I wonder if there’s another reason.”
“I’m, well, I’m kind of . . . scared of people. Isn’t that pathetic?”
“Not at all. Lots of people are like you, they have panic attacks in certain situations. School, especially at your age, can be very anxiety-provoking, especially in such circumstances. What about the pain, where is it now?”
“My knees . . . it’s horrible, it’s like they’re burning on the inside.”
“That’s what your mother said. It’s very interesting.”
“Really? My knees are interesting?”
“Have you noticed something about the word ‘knee’? The way it rhymes with ‘me’ and ‘we’? You’re suffering from joint pain, are you not? So, would you agree if I said that you’re also suffering pain in the joint between the ‘me’ and the ‘we’?”
With these words, the psychoanalyst’s face lit up with an expression of intense satisfaction. He looked almost in a state of bliss. My knees had never provoked such an effect on G. I didn’t know what to say.
“Sometimes psychic pain, when it remains silent, expresses itself through the body by triggering physical pain. Why don’t you have a think about all this? I don’t want to tire you out, especially when it is so important that you rest. Let’s leave it for today.”
Apart from, perhaps, a vague allusion at the beginning of our conversation, the psychoanalyst hadn’t said a word about my relationship with G. Thinking he was just another sanctimonious moralizer, as G. liked to dismiss anyone who cast disapproving glances in our direction, I said, provocatively,
“So you have nothing more to say about my ‘situation’?”
In a clipped tone of voice, he replied:
“I could say more, but you wouldn’t like it. Rheumatism isn’t really something girls of your age tend to suffer from, you know.”
A few days later, it was the turn of my mother’s lover to turn up unexpectedly at my bedside. With his moustache and elegant collection of bow ties, he had never shown me any particular sign of affection. And now, here he was, on his own, with a serious, grave expression on his face. What could he want of me? Had no one told me I was at death’s door? Was that why I was arousing such pity? Without waiting for permission, he sat down in a chair on the right-hand side of the bed and, with an affectionate gesture that I didn’t recognize, he took my hand in his, which was large, warm, and slightly clammy.
“How are you feeling, my darling V.?”
“Okay, fine . . . you know, it depends on the day.”
“Your mother tells me you were in terrible pain. You’re so brave, you know. It’s so good you’re being looked after here. The children’s hospital is the best there is.”
“It’s nice of you to have come.” (Though actually I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was doing there.)
“Don’t be silly. Of course I came. I know I’ve rather monopolized your mother the last few years, and I don’t suppose you see me as a friend. But . . . how can I put it . . . I’d like . . . you know, given your father’s complete absence, I feel a bit guilty not to have been more involved in your life. I’d like to have more of a role, but I’m not sure how to go about it.”
I smiled, a little taken aback. But deep down I was touched. At last he let go of my hand and, with a desperate glance around the white walls of my room, seemed to be searching for inspiration to continue his monologue. Eventually he found unexpected support in a book that was sitting on my bedside table.
“Do you like Proust? How wonderful. He’s my favorite writer, did you know that?”
G. had given me the first volume of Remembrance of Things Past. “There’s nothing like illness to understand the work of poor Marcel,” he explained. “He wrote lying down on his sickbed, between coughing fits.”
“I’ve just started . . . I’m enjoying it. I’m not so keen on all those duchesses, mind you, but all the romantic passion is really moving.”
“Absolutely! Romantic passion! That’s it! Actually, I wanted to tell you. Things with your mother aren’t like they were. I think we’re going to split up.”
“Oh, right, so that means you were together? News to me.”
“Right, well, yes, um, you know what I mean. But I’d like to stay in touch with you. We could have lunch together.”
Then he looked at his pocket watch (of course!) and announced that, unfortunately, he had to go. He stood up and leaned over to give me a goodbye kiss. In a sudden involuntary movement, his head tipped and his great big purple mouth with its coarse moustache landed slap bang on my lips. Scarlet with embarrassment, he pulled away, not knowing where to put himself, and disappeared as if pursued by a ghost.
Subconscious acts implicate only those who pick up on them, as my new psychoanalyst friend might have put it.
How to know if it was intentional or not? My mother’s lover’s suggestion had appeared sincere, but this sideslip of a kiss cast doubt on his motives.
Two days later, I was blindsided by yet another impromptu visit. Clearly there was no way I was going to be left in peace while in the hospital; the place was an open house. A face that I’d been trying to fo
rget for the last three years suddenly appeared in the doorway. It was my father, with that stubbornly ironic expression of his that drove me mad. The pain in my joints had kept me from sleeping for much of the night. I was exhausted and tense. What was he thinking: that he would just turn up and, as if by magic, I’d forget everything? All those years of silence, the hours I’d spent crying as I tried to get hold of him by phone, his new wife or his secretary assuring me he couldn’t be reached, he was awfully busy, away on business, and who knows what else.
No, there’d been a clean break, and I had nothing else to say to him.
“What are you doing here? Have you suddenly remembered you have a daughter?”
“Your mother called me because she’s worried about you. She told me you’re suffering terribly, and no one knows how you caught this strep infection. I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
If I’d been able to move, I’d have pushed him out the door by force.
“What difference does it make to you that I’m ill?”
“I thought you’d be pleased, that’s all. I am your father, you know.”
“I don’t need you anymore, okay?” The words burst out in spite of myself.
And then suddenly it all came out in a rush:
“I’ve met someone.”
“You’ve met someone? What do you mean? You’re in love?”
“Yes! And that means you can go now, and carry on living your little life in peace without me, because finally I’ve found someone who cares about me.”
“I see. Don’t you think you’re a little young, at fourteen, to be having that kind of relationship? Who is he, anyway?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe it, because he’s a writer, he’s wonderful, and the most amazing thing is, he loves me. He’s called G.M. Does that mean anything to you?”
“What? That sleazy piece of shit? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I’d got him. I flashed him a smug smile. But his reaction was dramatic. Overwhelmed by uncontrollable rage, he grabbed a metal chair, lifted it over his head, and threw it against the wall. With the back of his hand he swept some medical instruments lying on a table to the floor, and then began yelling, reeling off a volley of insults, calling me a little whore, a slut, ranting that he wasn’t remotely surprised at what I’d become, with a mother like mine, she couldn’t be trusted, she was nothing but a whore as well. He spat out his disgust for G., that monster, that piece of shit, he swore he would turn him in to the police the minute he left the hospital. Alerted by all the noise, a nurse entered the room and, frowning, asked him to either calm down or leave the premises immediately.
My father grabbed his cashmere coat and left. The walls were still shaking from his yelling. I lay there, prostrate, ostensibly in shock, but in reality not at all dissatisfied by the effect I’d had on him.
If this declaration was not what psychoanalysts call a cry for help, then I don’t know what it was. No need to point out that my father never did file a complaint against G. and that I never heard from him again. It turned out, in fact, quite the opposite: my revelation furnished him with the perfect alibi for his innate negligence.
The weeks dragged on in the gloomy hospital, where G. came to see me almost every day and no one batted an eyelid. Happily, the doctors eventually found a remedy for my swollen joints. And before I left one more episode took place that deserves to be told.
I was encouraged to make the most of my stay in this highly respected pediatric medical establishment, with a consultation with the resident gynecologist. The doctor, a very solicitous man, quizzed me about my sexual activity and, in a surprising display of trust (always this girlishness when faced with the charm of a pleasant deep voice, and a sincere display of interest), I ended up confessing that I was on the pill, having met a lovely boy, but that I was suffering from a complete inability to give myself to him, terrified of the pain of being deflowered. (For several weeks, all of G.’s attempts to get over my difficulties had been in vain. Which did not appear to bother him a great deal, my buttocks appearing to satisfy him amply.) The doctor raised an eyebrow, a little surprised, then declared that I appeared to be somewhat advanced for a girl my age, and that he was willing to help me. He examined me and declared, categorically and happily, that I was indeed the “Virgin incarnate,” for he had never seen a hymen so intact. Conscientiously, he immediately suggested a small incision under local anesthetic, which would finally allow me to discover the joy of sex.
Apparently, information did not circulate between the different departments of the hospital, and I choose to believe that the doctor had no idea what he was about to do: help the man who visited my bedside every day to ejaculate freely in every orifice of my body.
I don’t know if it qualifies as medical rape or an act of torture. But whatever it was, at a—deft and painless—stroke, I finally became a woman.
Part Three
The Stranglehold
“What captivates me is not so much a specific sex, but rather extreme youth, the age between ten and sixteen, which seems to me to be—more than what we usually mean by this phrase—to be the real “third sex.”
—G.M., “Under Sixteen”
THERE ARE NUMEROUS WAYS TO STEAL A PERSON’S SELFHOOD. Some appear quite innocent at the outset.
One day, G. decided he wanted to help me with an essay. My grades were usually very good, especially in French, and I never felt the need to discuss my schoolwork with him. But that afternoon, obstinate as a mule, and in a particularly cheerful mood, he had already and without asking opened my homework notebook at my task for the following day.
“Have you done your essay yet? You know I can help you. You’ve left it a bit late if you’re to hand it in tomorrow. So . . . let’s see: ‘Describe one of your achievements.’”
“No, don’t worry, I’ve already thought about it, I’m going to do it in a bit.”
“But why? Don’t you want me to help you? It will take less time, and the sooner you’re done, the sooner . . .”
He slid his hand under my shirt and gently stroked my left breast.
“Stop it! You’re obsessed!”
“Well, let me tell you, by the time I was your age I’d done something truly extraordinary. Did you know I was a three-day event champion? I was! And one day . . .”
“I don’t care. It’s my essay.”
G. scowled, then ensconced himself against the pillows at the end of the bed.
“Very well, as you wish. I shall read a bit, since my adolescence doesn’t interest you.”
Contrite, I leaned over him to give him a kiss, in the guise of an apology.
“Of course your life interests me, everything about you interests me, you know that.”
G. sat up again.
“Is that true? So, you do want to hear! And we’ll write it at the same time!”
“You’re impossible! You’re like a kid! Anyway, my teacher will know immediately that I didn’t write it.”
“No, we’ll make it about a girl, and we’ll use the kind of words you use, she won’t notice a thing.”
So, hunched over a piece of A4 paper with large pale blue squares and a thin red line for the margin, I began to take down G.’s dictation, in my delicate, neat handwriting, studious as always, the story of a young girl who managed to jump ten extremely challenging obstacles in a few minutes without knocking down or even brushing a single bar, sitting straight up on her mount, cheered on by a crowd of spectators transfixed by her proficiency, elegance, and precision of movement. I learned an entire vocabulary hitherto unknown to me, words whose meanings I had to keep asking him, for I’d only been on a horse once in my short life, and afterward I’d been rushed off to the doctor covered in eczema, coughing and weeping from the edema that had made my scarlet face swell to twice its size.
The next day, I shamefacedly handed my essay to my French teacher. The following week she returned it, exclaiming (whether or not she suspected anything I shall never kn
ow):
“You’ve surpassed yourself this week, V.! Nineteen out of twenty, there’s nothing to add, it’s the best grade in the class. Listen to me, the rest of you, I’m going to pass your classmate’s homework around and I would like you all to read it carefully. And let it be a lesson to the lot of you. I hope it won’t bother you, V., especially as your friends will find out what a brilliant horsewoman you are!”
And so the dispossession began.
After this, G. showed no more interest in my schoolwork, never encouraged me to write, or pushed me to think about what I might like to do with my life.
He was the writer.
AMONG MY VERY SMALL CIRCLE OF FRIENDS, THE REACTIONS to G. were confusing. The boys felt a visceral disgust for him, which suited G., because he had no desire whatsoever to get to know them. He preferred hairless prepubescent boys, no older than twelve, as I was soon to find out. Any older and they were no longer objects of pleasure; they were rivals.
Conversely, all the girls dreamed of meeting him. One day a girl asked me if he would read a story she’d written. Nothing could be more valuable than a “professional” writer’s opinion. The adolescent girls of my era were a lot more brazen than their parents imagined. A fact that obviously delighted G.
One day I turned up late to school as usual. The music lesson had already begun, and everyone was standing and singing in unison. A scrap of paper, folded in four, landed on my desk next to my pencil case. I unfolded it and read: “He’s cheating on you.” Two grinning heads, fingers raised above their skulls, mimed two twisting horns. At the end of the lesson, as the students rushed all together to the door, I tried to flee, but one of the jokers caught up with me and whispered in my ear: “I saw the old man you’re going out with on the bus, kissing another girl.” I started to shake and tried to hide it. The boy threw me with one last comment: “My dad told me he’s a stinking pedophile.” I’d heard the word before, of course, without ever wondering whether it was true or not. Now, for the first time, it stabbed me through the heart. First, because it referred to the man I loved, and labeled him a criminal. And then, from the boy’s tone of voice, oozing with contempt, I realized he had spontaneously placed me not in the camp of the victims, but in that of the accessories to the crime.
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