1953
Chronicle of a Birth Foretold
Translated by Robert Majzels
A Novel
France Daigle
Anansi
Copyright © Les Éditions d'Acadie, 1995
English translation copyright © 1997 House of Anansi Press
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First published in French as 1953: chronique d'une naissance annoncée in 1995 by Les Éditions d'Acadie
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Daigle, France
[1953. English]
1953: chronicle of a birth foretold
Translation of 1953: chronique d'une naissance annoncée
eISBN 978-1-77089-112-8
1. Majzels, Robert, 1950 . II. Title. III. Title: 1953. English. IV. Title: Nineteen fifty three.
PS8557.A423M5413 1997 C843'.54 C97-931854-8
PQ3913.2.D34M5413 1997
Cover design: Pekoe Jones
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
To my mother and father
Contents
Prologue
1 Celiac Trunk
2 Death of Stalin
3 The Problem of Knowledge
4 A Writing Scenario
5 Idle Talk and Composition I
6 Idle Talk and Composition II
7 Real Life II
8 The Long Road Back
Epilogues
Acknowledgements
Prologue
THE BALL RETURNS. Each ball is a challenge.
Whenever a story begins with a sports scene — which is quite common in films — there’s a good chance the tale that follows is really about something completely different. This type of opening, which calls forth its subject gently and from a distance, is one of the conventions that have evolved over time between artists and their audience. The sports scene is not interpreted in a documentary sense; rather, it leads to something else. As a result, it has become something of a cliché. And, of course, unless deployed with finesse, clichés ought to be avoided. On the other hand, the fear of clichés ought not to lead us into the opposite error — just as tiresome in the long run — of originality at all costs, yet another trap for the artist. The author’s problem.
And the ball returns.
This opening scene depicting a character — Brigitte in this case, momentarily overheated from the game — may or may not please. One may or may not enjoy this particular attempt at language, this manner of setting out to conquer meaning. Yet, independently of whether one likes or dislikes the scene, one senses that this deployment of physical force will be matched on a metaphysical level. Thus begins the activity in the reader-spectator’s mind, the activity of understanding what ultimately will be signified by this image of Brigitte’s body reacting like a machine to the ball which keeps coming back. In this search for meaning, the reader-spectator, like the person engrossed in her sport, is swept up in a game involving some difficulty and requiring a measure of skill, which are the bases of any exercise. One may like or dislike this. The reader’s problem.
Each ball is a challenge.
The last time I sat down to write something resembling a novel, I began with a kind of longish discussion on the nesting habits of the American robin. One begins where one can. The gist of it was to establish whether spring had come sufficiently early to allow robins a second incubation period, thereby enriching the summer with two sets of fledglings. In the end, I dropped the chapter, which really had no place in the book. Since then, I have often wondered how I managed to completely excise a passage that, when I wrote it, seemed to go straight to the heart of the matter. Mere chatter? A volley of words because you have to start somewhere? Let’s take another look at this chapter from Real Life entitled “Robins’ Eggs”:
For several days now, Élizabeth has noticed half-shells of a light blue colour scattered here and there over the neighbourhood sidewalks and flower beds. She knows they are robins’ eggs because these are the only eggs she can recognize, aside from chicken and Easter eggs. Seeing them, her initial conclusion is that the nests must have been attacked by cats who, like buccaneers, tossed the still-warm eggs overboard. Élizabeth has always been wary of cats, and the discovery of the shells confirms this wariness. It does not occur to her that the chicks may already have dispensed with their shells. This seems impossible, since winter is barely over.
Élizabeth remained a long time bent over the first half-shell she found. The blue was very pale. Too pale. In fairness to the feline species, she questioned her initial reaction and admitted the possibility that the robin, having recognized, in its instinctive wisdom, a diseased egg, might have rejected it herself. Élizabeth was tempted to pick up the shell and keep it in the pocket of her coat, but she did not do so, for fear of crushing it inadvertently before the end of the day. She did, however, collect it that evening as she walked home from the hospital. She had the feeling it was somehow valuable. In the days that followed, she spotted several more of these pale blue shells. One had been crushed, stepped on maliciously, or so she suspected. A particle of down remained stuck to another. For a moment, Élizabeth had returned to her nest-wrecking theory, but then she had to admit that the down could have come from the brooder’s abdomen.
Finally, after several days, and in spite of her incredulity, the abundance of shells had forced Élizabeth to conclude that the fledglings had, in fact, been born. Her gaze, which had been riveted on the ground, now rose up towards heaven and the wees, the image of a religious cliché which reminded her of Saint Francis of Assist. But she neither saw nor heard anything new. She looked into the crook of a branch where a pair of robins had settled the previous year. Still nothing. Neither adult robins coming and going, sharing the duties of the nest, nor incessant cries emanating from tiny beaks pointed skyward. Élizabeth maintained her vigil a moment longer before continuing on her way to the hospital.
Élizabeth did not normally suffer from insomnia. Nevertheless, from time to time, she would wake suddenly during the night after several hours of deep sleep. Each time this happened she was surprised by the abruptness of the awakening. Each time, she had the feeling of passing instantly from black to white. Following one of these awakenings, in the pre-dawn darkness, she heard the insistent song of a robin whistling the same refrain over and over with as much conviction the twentieth time as the first. Other birds were singing in the distance. Some seemed to be replying. As she listened, Élizabeth was finally able to make out, somewhere nearer her window, a tiny choir actually echoing the robin. At that moment, she felt something extraordinary was happening. In fact, it seemed to her that the chicks were making a determined attempt to learn the robin’s language by imitating its song. Élizabeth listened even more closely. Everything confirmed her initial
impression. Could this be? She was well aware that her interpretations of life’s events sometimes amused others. She was not offended. On the contrary, she was glad her interpretations served to disconcert, at least for a moment, the strict heel-and-toe of knowledge.
The little concert lasted a minute or two longer, after which the little ones, either drifting off-key or out of breath, were unable to complete the refrain. The adult robin made a few more attempts to lead them into song before abandoning the exercise. And in the ensuing silence, Élizabeth fail gently back to sleep, satisfied that the robin chicks were well and truly born, and happy to know that they had already begun to learn.
On the off-chance it might be relevant, I would like to add that I had intended the subsequent chapter to be entitled “i, as in Italy, or the paradoxical sleep.”
The ball returns. Each ball is a challenge.
1
Celiac Trunk
Baby M. is admitted to the hospital—A. disease of refusal — Style according to Roland Barthes — Nobel Prize in literature awarded to Winston Churchill — The politically dedicated man and the téléscripteur — The impact of the politically dedicated man and the téléscripteur on Nurse Vautour and Baby M.’s mother — Peristalsis and mother tongue according to Françoise Dolto — Chaos of continuity and silence of the organs — Nurse Vautour and the literary instinct — Marshal Tito’s impertinence — Bananas for Czech children — Triumph of Personality over History
NURSE VAUTOUR is careful not to wake Baby M. as she lifts the child out of her mother’s arms. The little one, who only moments ago was crying, has just fallen asleep. She’s awfully pale and her dark-ringed eyes seem to have shrunk back into her head. In a few minutes, when Nurse Vautour changes Baby M.’s diaper for the first time, she will see her stomach, swollen and hard as a ball. The bulging stomach contrasts sharply with the rest of Baby M.’s body: the rump and thighs almost bare of fat, the groin wrinkled as an old man’s skin.
As she places her child in the arms of the nurse, Baby M.’s mother can’t help but feel relieved that someone else is taking over. But this feeling is really only a manifestation of her confusion, for Baby M.’s mother has never had such a sick child. And yet, she has lavished the same care on Baby M. as on the four children that preceded her, all of whom are in fine health. True, in the beginning, she was not seriously worried by Baby M.’s lack of appetite. It is not uncommon for a child to balk at its food. Later, after Baby M. had vomited several times, her mother more or less concluded it was a virus, some sort of temporary illness. But the persistence of the child’s profuse and nauseating diarrhea had seriously perplexed her. Finally, the doctor’s diagnosis confirmed the strangeness of the phenomenon.
In the early 1950s, little was known about the cause of celiac disease, also called intestinal infantilism or idiopathic sprue. In spite of this, the once fatal disease had been reclassified as curable, conditional on the scrupulous maintenance of a strict diet. Not only did this dietary treatment increase the success rate for the treatment of celiac children, but it also refuted the theory that the origin of the disease was psychic. Indeed, many doctors and researchers believed that celiac disease was a psychological illness based on refusal. They pointed to the absence of any expression of joy or pleasure in the faces of celiac children, who tend to concentrate all their attention on themselves rather than on the surrounding objects or people.
As she takes Baby M. from the arms of her mother, Nurse Vautour can’t help but share the feeling that she has never seen such a sick child. Baby M.’s tiny sunken eyes, squeezed tightly shut, her tiny, ethereal, almost lifeless body, go straight to Nurse Vautour’s heart. On one level, she can’t bear this suffering, and yet, she is gripped by a kind of desperate love for the situation. As Baby M. passes into her arms, something which Nurse Vautour cannot name transpires, something like a veil falling and draping over life, over all life, and propelling, as it falls, Nurse Vautour into its orbit.
***
The celiac trunk is an arterial trunk attached to the aorta at the level of the twelfth dorsal vertebra. Part of the celiac plexus (which extends from the solar plexus), the celiac trunk measures from one to three centimetres and is composed of three terminal branches. It carries the arterial blood to the liver, the stomach, the great omentum, the spleen and, to some degree, the pancreas. The celiac trunk resembles, therefore, the thousands of systems or organizations which more or less make the world go round, including hospitals for the sick and a host of other achievements of civilization. As evidenced by Baby M.’s medical file, the Hôtel-Dieu de l’Assomption Hospital of Moncton was part and parcel of this fabulous universe of organization. One learns from the aforementioned document, drawn from archives which constitute further proof of the splendour of this organization that, with the exception of a few undoubtedly well-earned days off, two nurses, relaying each other virtually night and day, tended to Baby M. during her three-week stay in the hospital. Nurse Vautour lavished her care and monitored Baby M.’s antics during the day, while her colleague Nurse Comeau watched over the child at night.
Baby M.’s treatment was essentially the same throughout her stay in the hospital: injections in the buttocks, feedings, baths. In their daily notes, Nurse Vautour and Nurse Comeau reported the degree of distension and hardness of the abdomen, and the consistency of the stool. They noted that the child was not difficult, that she seemed happy to drink and eat, and that she slept peacefully. From time to time she cried. Nevertheless, the statement “little change” returns like a refrain at the close of almost all their periodic observations, giving the lie to the quasi-angelic behaviour of Baby M. who, meanwhile, continued to grind her food to death and expel it without the slightest restraint. This extraordinary diarrhea is really just the final phase of the disease’s process, which begins we know not where, perhaps in the pancreas, perhaps in the liver, perhaps in the stomach. Or perhaps in the brain, in the area where refusal speaks. And indeed, the mystery of the cause of celiac disease compels Nurse Vautour and Nurse Comeau to tend to the spirit of Baby M. as much as to her body. Nurse Vautour is especially sensitive to this. Each time she swaddles Baby M., she is thinking as much about her soul as her body. In fact, she always washes Baby M. with special care, taking the time to cuddle her and whisper words which, at the time, were snatched from eternity, but have long since been returned to it.
***
And while Baby M. continued to remain impermeable to the nutrients so essential to her survival, Roland Barthes was writing, in Writing Degree Zero, that “language is a kind of natural ambience wholly pervading the writer’s expression, yet without endowing it with form or content: it is, as it were, an abstract circle of truths, outside of which alone the solid residue of an individual logos begins to settle.” Furthermore, he added, “imagery, delivery, vocabulary spring from the body and the past of the writer and gradually become the very reflexes of his art. ... Its frame of reference is biological or biographical, not historical,” the writer’s style nothing more than “the decorative voice of hidden, secret flesh; it works as does Necessity, as if, in this kind of floral growth, style were no more than the outcome of a blind and stubborn metamorphosis starting from a sub-language elaborated where flesh and external reality come together.”
As, once more, she confronts the language of Baby M., Nurse Vautour is unaware that she is changing the diaper and washing the bottom of a writer. She does not suspect that her hands are immersed in a budding literature. She cannot appreciate, at their just merits, the nuances in the yellows, greens, and greys of the excrement, not to mention its greasy textures, its frequency, and its stench. Nurse Vautour is not thinking about literature. She is thinking about life, Baby M.’s life in particular, while the latter seems as indifferent as ever to the fact that life might escape her at any moment, might slip away, take another route, take root elsewhere. She searches for the thread by which to draw the child back to life. The doctor has ordered
that Baby M. be fed bananas. Nurse Vautour proffers bananas. And more bananas.
Nurse Vautour does not think of herself as someone who knows much about literature. In fact, literature is something Nurse Vautour does not think about. Not directly anyway. Nevertheless, she does sense in Baby M. an inclination towards inaccessibility, a semblance of camouflage. She senses Baby M. is merely circling around the disease rather than plunging straight into it. Which explains the difficulty of breaking the child’s stagnant condition. On the other hand, Nurse Vautour also believes something holds Baby M. to life. She thinks this something could be the disease itself, as though, for Baby M., the illness were a sort of positive attraction, a door into life. Whereas for most people, disease is a way out, for Baby M. it could be a way in. And so Nurse Vautour is alert to other signs which might demonstrate Baby M.’s intention to cross the threshold to life. And she makes every effort to give Baby M. the opportunity to demonstrate that intention. But the days pass and still nothing. Baby M. accepts the food she is offered, submits to the injections, sleeps quietly most of the time, allows herself to be wrapped and rocked, but she refuses to give in to life. She keeps life imprisoned beneath the dome of her hard, round belly, only releasing it after long slow ruminations punctuated by excrement as formless as it is fetid.
Nurse Vautour’s intuition concerning Baby M. is not unlike Barthes’s, according to whom “style is properly speaking a germinative phenomenon, the transmutation of a Humour . . . a secret . . . locked within the body of the writer.” It’s probably a good thing that Nurse Vautour did not read Writing Degree Zero at the time of its publication. She might have found it impudent of Baby M. to hijack medicine in this way for literary purposes. Was it really necessary to go through so much in order to be born to literature? In any case, even if she had read the book, Nurse Vautour lacked the necessary distance to see the bigger picture. Celiac disease, or intestinal infantilism, or idiopathic sprue, was simply one of the components of this writer’s body circling in the orbit of her eternal subject “above History as the freshness of Innocence.”
1953 Page 1