You killed Dr. Black. With your hands you strangled my mirror. I am Conscience, I ruin souls to better preserve the living.
I’m too busy in the real world to get lost tonight in the obscure maze of some little island liberated from the laws that govern it. The outside world has tired me out too much for me to have the energy to impose my weight, here, in your smoking lounge and its double. Besides for you it’s too late. I can leave the perspiration to the flies.
So I’ll settle for entrusting you with the words I once poured into a mustachioed body. Do with them what you will, but you’ve been warned: Is it fame on which your mind is set? Then heed what I say: Before too long prepare to let honor slip away.
Gardens
I’m Dr. Black. I’m wandering along the side path, I’m worrying about catching cold. At Sainte-Anne the pathways are named exclusively after poets or artists, probably in order to reassure visiting families about the social or even possibly posthumous future of their black sheep. Additionally, it’s not uncommon to leNAC Bulletin 002
Not a Clue, page 141, line 7
My Dear Readers,
Given the obvious incapacity of the nonetheless numerous contributors to the round that was just played, it must be noted that certain points concerning the above-mentioned Mathias Rouault’s supposed psychological problems remain obscure. My responsibility as Omniscient Narratrix leads me to share some additional information that will allow you to work out for yourself the diagnosis that the staff of this novel was unable to establish. The urgency of the situation left me no other choice than this undoubtedly sudden interruption, therefore, I apologize for being so abrupt. As for Dr. Black, he will gladly excuse my incursion in the middle of a chapter that was initially reserved for him, insofar as the remarks he was to develop were not particularly necessary to the development of the story.
Best,
The Omniscient Narratrix
Psychotic disorders are characterized by the psychotic symptoms at the root of their definition. Over time the term psychotic has had a number of different definitions. In the strictest sense it refers to delusions and pronounced hallucinations whose pathological nature is not recognized by the individual. A broader definition includes hallucinations that the individual recognizes as such along with symptoms of disorganization such as disorganized speech and/or behavior.
The following psychotic disorders are defined according to the psychotic symptoms that are present, and their duration, and according to the simultaneous presence—or lack thereof—of a mood disorder (depression or mania).
Schizophrenia. This lasts for at least six months and includes at least one month of symptoms in the active phase, in other words two (or more) of the following: delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech (e.g., frequent incoherencies or inexplicable digressions), grossly disorganized or catatonic behavior and negative symptoms (i.e., flat affect, reduction in speech, lack of will). The delusions are peculiar, and the hallucinations consist of one voice constantly commenting on the subject’s behavior or thoughts or of several voices speaking to one another. During a significant period of time following the onset of the disturbance, one or several major areas of functioning such as work, interpersonal relations, or personal hygiene are clearly below levels attained before the onset.
Schizofreniform disorder. The criteria are the same as for schizophrenia, with two differences: the duration (1–6 months) is between those of a brief psychotic disorder (1 month, see below) and schizophrenia (at least 6 months) and the absence of any functional deterioration (although this can occur).
Schizoaffective disorder. An episode of a mood disorder (depression or mania) and symptoms of the active phase of schizophrenia (see above) occur simultaneously and are preceded or followed for at least two weeks by delusions or hallucinations without any pronounced mood disturbance. In other words, the psychotic symptoms last longer than the symptoms of the mood disorder. This is what allows differentiation from a mood disorder (an episode of depression or mania) with accompanying psychotic symptoms. In schizophrenia symptoms of a mood disorder can also be present, but they remain less pronounced.
Delusional disorder. Characterized by at least one month of delusions that are not unreasonable (i.e., more coherent and plausible than with schizophrenia) yet without any other symptoms of the active phase of schizophrenia.
Brief psychotic disorder. Presence (unexplained by any preexisting mood disorder, schizofreniform disorder, or schizophrenia) for longer than one day but less than one month, of one (or more) of the following symptoms: delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech, grossly disorganized or catatonic behavior.
Shared psychotic disorder. Develops in an individual under the influence of someone who presents delusions with similar contents.
Psychotic disorder due to a general medical condition. Hallucinations or delusions are considered as due to the direct physiological effects of a general medical condition (i.e., a brain lesion, epilepsy, a migraine, hyper-and hypothyroidism, adrenal insufficiency, hypoglycemia, liver or kidney disease, etc.). If the subject retains a good understanding of reality and recognizes that his hallucinations are the result of his medical condition, this diagnosis is not applied.
Substance-induced psychotic disorder. Hallucinations (when the subject is unaware that they are substance induced) or delusions are considered as due to the direct physiological effects of an addictive substance, a medication, or exposure to a toxin. Psychotic symptoms can also be present in other disorders (depression, e.g.), but they are not a fundamental part of the definition of these disorders.
Mrs. White
Céline was oozing out of the radio for the sixth time since that day when the news interrupted it: Cannes’ Palme d’Or had just been awarded to Claude Lelouch, also Hugues Aufray shut the hell up and left some room for Nicole Croisille and her cha-ba-da-ba-das. Françoise Pithiviers thought to herself that she really was having a shitty year and then her water broke on the couch.
She spent more than eleven hours in the labor room, and finally had the opportunity to let loose the swell of verbal garbage that had been stagnating in a syrupy swamp inside her. While the medical team was busy with her uterus, she hoped so hard she would die that her life passed before her eyes between two off-color expressions. Her mouth was distended with the flow of raw, heavy, acidic words; her body retracted sharply enough to snap steel forceps, Françoise was nothing but repudiation. She heard I see the head and arched her back even more, contracting from the inside till she was twisted with cramps, aspiring to strangle the neck of the half-evicted newborn with her own intimacy. A dry sob shook her throat when she received confirmation of the final exit. Her bitch of a mother had won. Mothers often win, mothers always win when their children perpetuate the family line. It’s easy to kill the father, to decapitate a guardian, to chop the head off an intellectual, to guillotine a pretender: so common an activity that it’s healthy, the heart as death row for as long as a life goes on. Mothers often win because they never die, no, never completely. You can’t kill the mother, you can’t even say it, sometimes you picture it, but you procrastinate cowardly when faced with the extent of the task. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. People with less maternal glue are perfectly aware of it. Knife in hand they dig into the cadaver, feverishly trying to find out how to slay the phantom that emanates from it years, many, many years after the burial. And faced with the black dress soiled with bits of ancient flesh and lethargic worms and faced with the putrefied inhumed body, they all pillage their skin embedded fingernails, their neck remains constrained the umbilical leash nibbling their tissue and their will as well. Mothers often win, they’re here forever. Celebrate the funeral, imagine you’re free, tomorrow their matronly voices with their well-considered advice and wise sayings will slip into your eardrums as they whisper the bitter song of genetic zombies. Little does it matter that their bosom is now nothing more than gaping bones and rot. The magnet and its two poles, attracting repelling, all ha
tred carries some regret. You’ll bow before the ghost, abusiveness is a yoke that never oxidizes. We’re all Jewish, Mother.
As for her mother, Françoise did everything she could to get away from her, removed herself from her sight and her arid belly, in order to give her genealogical pretensions a vigorous snip, leaving her family tree nothing but a lichen-swollen stump. Unfortunately, one night a hormonal spike combined with an excess of Vouvray wine got the better of her wood-chopping tendencies.
The owner of the generous seed entrusted to Françoise’s ova was never identified due to the deficiency of the light bulb in the apartment building lobby. And the young lady was caught quite off guard when her lateness showed up and she went and found Jacqueline, begging her to use her some knitting needles on her. The operation must have been botched or the fetus outrageously resistant, since all through the following weeks, Françoise sheltered the undesirable little puppet in her womb. With a heavy heart and increasing morning sickness, she went right out in search of a social smokescreen that was likely to do the job.
So in the fall of 1965, Françoise Pithiviers had an exceptionally full calendar. Between six forty-five and eight thirty in the morning, she’d go to the different cafés in her neighborhood. Between nine and eleven to the Sorbonne library. Between noon and two any brasserie would do, but the more expensive the better. Between three and six to the movies, then the bars in the area. Between seven and nine trendy restaurants. Between ten at night and sunrise, parties, nightclubs, or jazz spots. Françoise didn’t sleep much and always carried a big bag full of shoes, stockings, and different outfits suitable for the different situations and places. She’d received, from a recently deceased aunt, a little nest egg and she’d promised herself she’d put it to good use. At first this meager bounty was meant to let her go to college without the scourge of running short of food, but given the turn of events, Françoise decided it was a better idea to use it to be able to give birth without being the object of ridicule.
Her strict schedule had the advantage of cornering the potentially marriageable male population. She came in contact with many different socio-professional categories, and as she reapplied her makeup on the bus she thought that she’d really have to be cursed not to at least dig up a laborer, a student, an office clerk, a lawyer, or a doctor in the course of her different interactions. Françoise asked about compensating her frivolity regarding wriggling embryo consequences with the most minute calculations. She increased the number of her relationships, simultaneously seeing more than fifteen boys and gentlemen simulating with each a committed couple with a promising future. After two months she became aware that she couldn’t saddle the secretly expected newborn with status of premature without arousing doubts and anger within the future head of household if she didn’t act soon. It was time to launch the second phase of the plan, especially since the frequency of her many sexual encounters was starting to be a problem in a period of such raging gonorrhea.
A whole week was devoted to revealing rendezvous. She acted out breaking down, tears, and panic. Included suicide blackmail for the richest, for the most uptight the Damocles of the family reputation. For the most lovestruck she praised the clear cusp of a destiny to be sealed, for the most lost a sure way to finally get some structure in their lives.
Sunday night when she got home to her little shoebox apartment, she checked off all the names on her list. Four possibilities were viable: Jean-Christophe Risson (25 years old, a classical studies major, son of a rich family), Georges Bluteau (49 years old, working in finance, a family man), Rémi Barberin (26 years old, a mail carrier, not a family man), and Azzâm Derdega (29 years old, a roofer, an undocumented immigrant). The others had given her anger, refusals, escapes to go buy cigarettes, and the usual cowardly loss of color in the face, along with a few slender wads of cash offered insistently in return for a promise of abortion and definitive silence. A good investment of Aunt Suzon’s inheritance, concluded Françoise as she observed the extent of her gains.
Jean-Christophe Risson had said I’ll be back my love, and Françoise waited for him for a whole afternoon, sitting in a wing chair, in his cute little bachelor pad. At four o’clock she realized it was a furnished apartment and not a sign of things to come. Georges Bluteau didn’t show up at the Hôtel de la Croix-Rouge. Françoise paid for the room, along with a heavy charge for the damage. Rémi Barberin didn’t set foot in the Café des Lilas. Françoise was annoyed but thought about how she was escaping a narrow apartment with cracked walls that smelled like soup. She went out on the hunt again, but every night the chime of fear rang so loudly in the depths of her skull that at the end of the third month her belly finally pushed her into in the arms of the roofer.
Françoise’s sin was that of pride. For years her adorable and very friendly little face had led her to understand that she had a kind of upper hand with men. Like all young and moderately educated young people from culturally integrated families draped in middle-class values, as the years passed she’d developed an endless superiority complex. Getting surreptitiously knocked up could have given her the chance to finally realize she really wasn’t much, maybe not a nobody but not better than her mother, a stiff country girl who proudly displayed her lovely hairdo ever since the blessed day when the son of some absolutely flat-broke bigwigs took her away from her farm. Françoise hated her mother, not out of habit or after careful consideration but simply because she’d never shown any love toward her. For her whole life her mother only had two passions: her husband and manicures. Her ears and her mouth could only focus on her husband, whom she built up like God despite the ravages of gout, bankruptcy, and alopecia. In her mother’s eyes Françoise only existed intermittently, when the father finally asked her a question or proudly commented on her last report card. As a little girl, Françoise sometimes fell prey to tactile impulses, to the irresistible need to snuggle up against the maternal bosom. Then her mother would scream because her nails were drying. Her little girl memories smell of acetone. Because she had read the works of Maupassant, Françoise got the nickname the intellectual of the family. Because she had three suitors in high school, Françoise was baptized a beauty like her mother. Annette, her younger sister, who was in seventh grade for the third time and whose dimensions equaled a cubic meter, made absolutely no attempt to dissuade anyone at all concerning these assertions. At the age of twenty-four Françoise was as vain as any spoiled brat.
The feeling she was in control was confirmed by the fall she spent with the sinister schemes she’d concocted to protect her position as a respectable young lady when May’s oh-so-organic death knell would finally toll. Françoise imagined she was oh-so-clever, bending to her will the people she chose, thanks to her smug brain secretly directing complex games she always won. When nothing was working, when everything was going sideways and why not against her too, Françoise would conclude that it was destiny and think she’d been promoted to a precious, glorious, dazzling future, justifying her failures with a superior hand that had everything planned, thwarted this round for very good reasons that her current mind hadn’t yet conceived of but whose true designs would be understood at a later time. Françoise saw Azzâm Derdega not as an absolutely sordid last resort but as a strange path that would one day lead her, that could only lead her, to her own success. Françoise used this word just like everyone else in her family. Like an Eldorado but without common sense.
Françoise didn’t see Azzâm as. Françoise didn’t see anything including herself as, Françoise didn’t see anything, not anything at all. The marriage bans were published and her family absent, outraged by the exotic nature of her choice. During the lunch dedicated to introductions, the father—already shocked that the Pithiviers dynasty would be corrupted by distant blood and working-class on top of that—had as much trouble digesting the tagine as Azzâm’s remarks about the great General himself. The marriage bans were published, family on both sides was amputated from the wedding, since the Azzâmien relations were all implant
ed within the confines of Morocco. A few friends, some rice, a generous buffet, a hall that was really too big so footsteps echoed just like Azzâm’s loud laugh, Azzâm’s loud laugh driving into the eardrums of the white-dressed Françoise despite the lack of altar what a deal followed by an exclamation point. The French nationality in exchange for protected honor, Françoise being too busy admiring the loops and swirls that her lovely brain was engraving on her life hadn’t thought of that, not even for a second.
Azzâm didn’t stoop to any comments at all when the scrawny infant made her appearance at the Bagneux maternity clinic, even though her eyes persisted in staying blue like nobody else’s. Now that he wasn’t working off the books he left to his wife the choice of names, clothes, and wallpaper. Françoise would have preferred to keep her name, she taught French in a private school and when the students heard Derdega they giggled and pretended to belly dance. But above all else Françoise was determined, and with singular passion since the parental breakup, to show that she had succeeded. Women who succeed have a fulfilling relationship, a very cozy home, and people who envy them. Because of one of the proverbs that her father repeated over and over and over: it’s better to be envied than pitied. Françoise never dabbled in nuance. Being envied or pitied, she dreamed which side would be hers. Her bosom stung with secret grudges. Next to her bed the newborn slept. Without her, without this girl who had stubbornly embedded herself in the parentheses of her belly, Françoise would still be blossoming and a Pithiviers, an elegant bachelorette with a thousand roads to choose from, without this sticky foreign name clinging all over her and even on official documents. Françoise spent an hour picking out a name, she scared herself a little with her own darkness, a nervous half-smile you’re going to pay little lady, you’ll wear the cross of my bitter wit. When the doctor wrote down Séraphine Derdega he thought so loudly Lord that’s ridiculous that Françoise’s heart burst like an abscess, juicy, dripping relief, quivering ventricles splashing her whole being, the warm revenge coulis radiated her inside.
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