Cut.
They arrived in full dress, one evening, through the forest, in open carriages harnessed with larger than lifesize horses, you couldn’t hear them on the gravel, the occupants got out and climbed the steps up to the main entrance where the master was waiting for them under the vault wearing a carnival mask, they paraded past him for hours and then dispersed into the salons, and he said I recognized you, you can’t bamboozle me, for in fact those fine gentlemen had concealed their faces too, out of consideration for their host, they were no longer really there, they were simply the medium for the old man’s obsessions, his papers, his nightmares.
What a lot of dead people around us.
The maid got out of a carriage coming from her niece’s, she went up the steps, he was waiting for her under the vault in full evening dress, she inquires after the deceased and goes into the bedroom with its black crêpe hangings, the fine gentlemen stand in a circle around her, the room was filled with a pink light, she brought some more suitable candles, and he was looking through his papers to find those concerning the deceased but there was a page missing on which the hour, the date, the place, the circumstances were written.
No one ever knew what he died of, according to Léo it was a heart attack, his third, found with his head in his plate, according to Théo in his chamber pot, according to Monsieur Alexandre with a knife between his shoulder blades, but at the time he was questioned he was already losing his wits.
Poor Monsieur Alfred, we were very fond of him, always effacing himself, in the shadow of his brother, he had an exaggerated admiration for him, when you think how spiteful Alexandre was, all the work for that review, what was it called again, that was interested in their family and the history of the place it had lived in for generations, all the work, yes, had been done by Alfred but signed by his brother, a glib talker who frequented this one and that, boasted of his efforts, complained about his …
Alfred who spent his whole life on his researches between Fantoine and Agapa, town halls and presbyteries, for their registers, but also all the stories going around about this one and that as far as Sirancy where they still had some family, pages and pages of notes, sketches, plans, which Alexandre used to consult unmethodically to give people the impression that he knew all about it but which he made a shambles of, this didn’t make Alfred’s work any easier, he never complained, you can understand why after his death the other couldn’t find his way around in them, and that the chronicle, that was the word I was looking for, came to an abrupt end.
After that it was the period of Alexandre’s delirium, he used to go the rounds of the cemeteries, you can imagine the sort of thing, you might well wonder who would ever write its history, it looked as if there would be no one but that cook who was losing her marbles at the time she was being questioned, ever since then any sort of evocation being devoted to …
That package of jumbled-up pages looking as if they’d been hit by a hurricane, what patient hand would restore it to order.
A missing link.
An invisible manitou.
Or else the nephew, which of the two, goodness how they bored us with that mythological figure, Uncle Alexandre, the old crackpot, there was nothing to be proud of.
To relive one of Mortin’s days in that house, not that one, the other one, to go into all the details, salon, dining room, corridor, hall, yes really it was enough to make you lose your marbles.
Enough to make you believe that the deceased had only ever existed in the mind of a dangerous maniac.
To make it go down to posterity as Alfred’s creation, but what of the memory of the survivors, then, those who were still around to be questioned, they remembered Alexandre as someone exceptional, inoffensive yes, sickly yes, furtive yes, but nevertheless there in their midst from this date to that, as his epitaph testified.
As if the dead man by that joke from beyond the grave were using the only power that remained to him to reproduce endlessly the image of his failures.
Two or three words, you can’t hear very well, at your slightest movement piles of documents collapse, cuttings fall out, muddle up the words, waste of time, lack of method.
And the grandmothers, the grandfathers, the great-great ones, not forgetting the lateral branches, the children of, the children of, the whole tribe in the drawers, the wardrobes, the closets, he’d lost his specs, or was it a retouched photo of an uncle by marriage, what was his name again, I must have it in a notebook, a beautiful frame with a colored border in artificial tortoiseshell with wavy silver lines.
Or those visits to Aunt Marie for the New Year, her fritters were marvelous and she made her own tonic wine from essence of quinquina, a charming stout lady, a bit reddish, wore a wig, a little girl’s voice, perfect diction, what memories she had, never left her kitchen, she lived in an annex of the ancestral house, their coat of arms in the armorial of our province, very corpulent, yes, wasn’t there perhaps a smell of, note the refinement of the decor, of that little brownish-red dish, you can’t find those anymore, wallflowers maybe, the garden will be full of them in a month.
He went on looking in the notebook for the name of the grandmother’s brother, or of the sister of the one who … while they were looking at the details of the angular yellowish face, deep-set, very pale grayish-blue eyes, as if they were inwardly fixed on a disappearing landscape, problematical paradise, aquiline nose, very little hair, he’s always in his dressing gown.
While they were changing something in the order of the, would it be pages or passages, you can’t hear very well, last moments, a question of killing what remains of them, personally his habit of never finishing his phrases gets me in such a state.
As for the nephews, how many times did I tell him you spoil them too much, you’ll turn them into delinquents, as if not spoiling them could change the fundamental rottenness of their nature, the little hoodlums.
She added, where have I put my glasses, I can’t see a thing, what you could do to make yourself useful, here, the dust on all these little frames, I’m getting tired, they went downstairs, the aunt and the niece I mean, into the hall, the old woman was dragging her steps, I must go and see to the onions, she said, they adore that, a nice tart, and then you do the dishes, put an apron on, where did you find that little blouse, it’s charming, those flowers with a big M embroidered over the left titty, she’s called Marie as well, in short all the household worries, a fine November morning, no, doesn’t time fly, the end of February, they’d already celebrated Candlemas, go over it all again from the beginning, from before the beginning, the central event, phenomenal upheaval, concierge’s terminology but we’ll get there in the end with a little method.
To reflect other people’s hidden truth, as if our own mannerisms and obsessions could only create people who don’t resemble us.
To give an idea of the vagueness that seemed to him to emanate from the spectacle.
The old man, cut to the quick, what vagueness, do I exist or don’t I, shit, what more do you want, certificates, sworn statements, aren’t there enough people around me, maybe there’s not enough furniture, not enough junk.
Mythological figure of Uncle Alexandre.
Problem concerning Uncle Alfred, something wrong there.
Those people who run around from one folder to the next in the dossiers.
As for the house, he apparently never even lived in one until a few days before his death.
Remarks which certainly seemed somewhat long-winded to us, but who would have suspected that he was already not quite right in the head, such a clean, nice little old man, so levelheaded, so punctual, that work he had been doing so methodically for half a century, surely that was a reference, poor Monsieur Alphonse, I can still see him coming back from the library at a quarter past noon, writh his bum-freezer frayed at the elbows, his leather briefcase under his arm, with the other one he used to raise his hat politely to his numerous acquaintances, at that hour everyone was going home to lunch, and with what amiability
he accepted a drink in the café, always sitting in the corner near the window on the left as you went in, with the men he still used to call his pals, they used to tease him, they got him to drink one too many and he became so merry it broke your heart, telling about his youth, the pranks he used to get up to as a student, the Saturday evening dances, the war, the ration coupons, all this in an adorable confusion, his little pince-nez on a little ribbon failing off his nose, he would smooth his little moustache and repeat the story of the sick little elephant and the little mouse, what was it again, that story.
It seems that his maid used to give him a good hiding when he came home tipsy.
His maid, do you mean the first or the second.
He never had more than one until a few days before his death, poor fellow, and I’ll take that piece of pumpkin as well.
Careful, you’re on the wrong page.
No, it’s the same one, what’s pumpkin.
Go on.
He was lapsing into second childhood, memories assail you, two or three moments’ inattention, bang, it’s soon done, ah, he wouldn’t have been the one to oppose the idea of evoking one of his days, not he, poor little angel, at six o’clock it was the first feed, his mama could barely open her eyes, exhausted as she was by all her housework, never in bed before midnight, you know what it’s like when you’re breastfeeding, the sound sleep you fall into just at the moment when the kid starts whining, quick she pulls him out of his crib so that the father, for Christ’s sake, shitting hell, come on my love, bares her breast, shoves the nipple in his mug, how often have I fallen asleep with the brat on top of me, after that it’s the father’s turn, half the time he misses the pot he’s supposed to be pissing into, even so couldn’t you go as far as the WC in the morning, he managed to find some pretext for his filthy language, a sock under the bed, or a button coming off his pants, he’s got a belly now, does yours …
And that he should have gone like that when he was in perfect health, every thing was like clockwork, his liver, his stomach, his intestines, no one ever knew what of, according to his maid it was a sudden bad chill, according to the doctor it was some filthy thing he’d had for years, it didn’t stop him doing his work every day, I used to see him on his way to the cemetery, his greasy little hat on top of his head, for that business of the concessions, a government employee I believe in the department of the deceased, what’s it called, was he going to check on where the graves were, their upkeep, what space was available, the person who could have told us was the caretaker, he died last week.
And Monsieur Théodore, what could he have told us on this subject, he only knew him very late in life, already on his way out, practically gaga, it was an act of charity he was doing him, sorting out his papers, you can’t imagine the disorder and lack of interest of it all, he used to collect any old printed stuff, he was incapable of throwing away even an advertising leaflet, Théo really went through the mill, to put all that junk away in suitcases in little piles, little bundles held together with string or rubber bands, et cetera, the old man never went out without taking a bag or a leather briefcase full of those papers, he went from bistro to bistro getting plastered, people took him for a down-and-out salesman, it happened more often than it should that he got thrown out by the waiter when he’d had a skinful and he used to sit for hours on a bench in the park, or else, when it was cold, take refuge in the post office and snooze against the radiator before he got his wits back and went home where he didn’t even have anything to …
What are you saying, I tell you you’re on the wrong page.
The little head dropped forward, the beautiful little eyes closed, and the maid …
Then they went over the text again together and saw that it was right after all, it was just that the child had skipped one or two lines, really, for one or two lines, no need to make a drama out of it.
And it was the same with restoring the decor, he found it impossible, it’s all very well telling yourself that such and such an object was there, such and such another there, or even having a detailed photo of the place, restoration doesn’t depend on the material elements you have at your disposal but on something very different, and anyway, restoration, what does that mean, and who does it interest, one imposture more or less, the uncle wasn’t going to come back to life to order.
That voice on the slate which is becoming effaced.
As for the remarks about the family, the greedy, guzzling, insatiable family, no text, no paper, but the sound of things said, re-said, forbidden to be said from one generation to the next, which are swarming in the accursed head of the scapegoat of the herd.
Slaughter the animal before contagion sets in.
Or tie the heretic to the stake.
The procession of masks paraded through the corridor, then went out through the garden and got back into the carriages which drove off noiselessly, leaving the master alone under the vault, she heard his sobs, nothing impresses Monsieur Léo, she said, when Monsieur Albert took to his bed he didn’t even call the doctor, it was left to me to telephone but it was too late, the harm had been done, we never really knew what it was all about, and the other said even so, listen, couldn’t you make an effort, who was that Albert again, didn’t we have enough with Alphonse, and Alfred, and Alexandre.
Cut.
They’d got to the evocation of the gala dinner which was supposed to recall the former splendors, but how could they suggest them with the facts at their disposal and in that framework of a sadness that almost kills you, we mustn’t ask the impossible of them.
And then the great figures became blurred, became symbolic, no matter what you did the hour was past, the heart was no longer in it.
When my niece came to tell me that, I said at once let’s wait a bit before we break the news, Monsieur Alfred might well have a heart attack, we must find the right way, and above all the right moment, but he didn’t react the way I feared, after all he’s getting old too, a touch of indifference came to his aid, no, definitely, nature hasn’t done things too badly, and he said thank you, we’ll wait until tomorrow to go and see him, people’s temperatures go up in the evening, he’ll be calmer in the morning, and he asked me to bring him the herb tea they drink every evening at half past ten, my niece stayed with me until half past eleven.
That evening confused with the one she spent ten years later with her niece in almost identical circumstances but apropos of Monsieur Alexandre’s end, very distressing days which hadn’t helped her poor brain, she’s in an old people’s home now as you know, her end seems to be never-ending, I hardly ever go to see her these days, it upsets me, she hasn’t recognized me for years, really, nature, what bad workmanship, what a wretched thing.
Imagining himself in ten years’ time, thinking back to this day, the everyday things, the people he’d loved, there’ll be no one left but the person thinking back to what he imagined then, waste of courage, mind wandering, desire obliterated.
But Marie said to him, what is Monsieur thinking of, does he remember at this moment what he imagined ten years ago, surely not, we forget, look at me, my poor husband, the first one I mean, I can barely remember his voice, the color of his eyes, whatever Monsieur may say the imagination is two-edged, let him use it for his memoirs but in life it’s a waste of time.
Imagination in place of memory.
Memory in place of imagination.
The days slimy.
Impossible anamnesis.
They’d finished the soufflé, I was in my kitchen waiting for them to call me but the bell didn’t ring, there were still the endive and the cheese to serve, I was getting impatient and then I began to worry, all of a sudden I saw them both immobilized, sitting opposite each other, they’d had a heart attack, I headed for the dining room, I listened at the door first, I didn’t hear them talking, I open the door, there was no one there, the table had been cleared, everything was in order, the clock said three o’clock.
It was at this period that she started being
unable to sleep, she used to prowl around at night from her bedroom to the kitchen, she noted down on the slate whatever came into her head, she went back to bed and in the morning she couldn’t read what she’d written, she quickly got scared, she effaced it with the sponge, or else …
Apparently they found on her bedside table drafts of letters she had taken out of the master’s wastebasket, and cuttings from newspapers which mentioned, but I …
Impossible to hear yourself speak in this din, dangerous crossroads, why don’t we go and sit in the square for a moment, it’s going to be a nice day.
And indeed the first signs of spring were in the air, the blackbird this morning, the cold less cutting, the daffodils in bud, a certain resonance between the houses, a certain light, in short the ladies went and sat under the war memorial, a brand new bench, they put their bulging shopping bags down beside them and talked once again of that prehistoric story that had shattered everyone, they’d been in a real nightmare, they were suspicious of their neighbors, they didn’t dare go out after nightfall, but it was all so allusive and mixed up with present day preoccupations that a third person who wasn’t in the know wouldn’t have understood a word.
That’s the way life is in a little country district, the stranger is lost there, their habits have been formed since time immemorial, woe betide anyone who doesn’t conform to them.
Like the life of people’s brains, at that, a different organization, a different balance, the amateur can only find his way around them with difficulty, and she compared the brain to a soufflé, you put it in the oven at around the age of reason, it rises very gently, it swells, it dilates until it gets to the age of manhood, which varies with every individual, then it gradually sinks and ends up quite flat, or else burned, which was certainly the case with Marie and her master, what’s going to become of them, I was only speaking of it the other day to Mademoiselle Moine who said that in serious cases where there’s no family the mayor has to intervene but he’d never dare risk it after all the tales you hear about madmen barricading themselves into their houses, she could already see Monsieur Alexandre and his maid armed with shotguns refusing access to the castle.
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