epilogue
OFFICE OF MR. DELIGNE,
ATTORNEY TO MR. PAUL MILLECAM
Listen, Mr. Deligne, I did what you asked. You’re my attorney, I’m paying you enough as it is so I shouldn’t have to do the work for you. You wanted concrete proof that my wife has no intention of coming back to real life and doesn’t want to take care of our children, and I’ve given it to you on a platter. What’s the problem? I just don’t see.
Yes, but that’s only because the family law judge is a woman! Is there really no way we can ask for a different judge? I’m sure a man would understand better.
Of course I won’t say that in front of her! Do you think I’m an idiot? I just think her obstinacy is unfair and misplaced. After all, I did nothing wrong.
But what difference does it make that Katia’s my wife’s niece? She’s not my niece. And I love her. And she loves me. Can’t you marry the person you love anymore in this country?
By marriage, Mr. Deligne, by marriage, remember that! I’m her uncle by marriage. No blood relationship. And let’s be sensible about this: if, as I’ve been asking for months, I finally get this divorce, Katia will no longer have any connection to me, either biologically or “by marriage,” and I’ll be free to marry her. It’s pretty straightforward. Even a four-year-old would understand that.
Aggravating circumstances? Listen to yourself, Mr. Deligne! Anyone would think I’ve committed a crime. Are you my lawyer or my wife’s?
Yes, the family law judge, I know. But there are no extenuating circumstances that would hold up in court. There are just the circumstances of love, that’s all. And they’re more on the attenuating side, at the end of the day. We got here by chance. I could have met Katia anywhere: at the supermarket, at the local coffeehouse, in one of my theater studies courses. But no: I met her because she came to live with us after her parents died in a car crash. I didn’t jump on her, if that’s what the judge wants to know. We talked a lot, we got to know each other, and we loved each other. It’s completely natural. She’s twenty-five years younger than me, okay. So what? Just like Woody Allen, and in his case it was his wife’s adoptive daughter!
Legally, I’m not her uncle, not at all! Ask her whether she thinks of me as her uncle, ask Katia! When she left for Rodez (my wife found her a job, she agreed to go, you see, she tried to fight this), she was totally depressed, she was all alone, still grieving for her parents, and crazy about me. We talked every day on Skype or Facebook when my mother, uh, when my wife—ouch, sorry, spot the Freudian slip—when my wife wasn’t around. Katia was afraid of my wife, she’s her aunt but Katia felt she was hostile toward her happiness, and it’s true that Claire really is very neurotic, what happened next proved that. She wasn’t kind to Katia, she just wanted to get her out, get her away from the house, even though she had a sort of obligation to look after her.
Yes, probably. But it was too late anyway. Eventually you have to accept the facts. Acknowledge that you’re wrong. I love Katia and I no longer love Claire. I want to divorce her and marry Katia.
The kids? I talked to the kids, you know. What they want is for everything to be okay. They really like Katia—excuse me? Yes, she’s their cousin, so what? At least she’s young, she understands them. A divorce would be best for everyone. It wouldn’t stop them from loving their mother. And if she ever comes out, we could arrange joint custody. That would definitely be better for them than having to—being forced to—go see her in the psychiatric hospital.
So this is exactly the point I wanted to make. Claire’s lawyer has put it to the family law judge that, because Claire is sick, it’s wrong for me to ask for a divorce—apparently it’s the “moral aspect of the marriage contract.” Well, what I think is they’re trying to extract as much money from me as possible, they want to claim damages and interest, and because I don’t have the funds, they’re using that to hold up the divorce. But this has nothing to do with any so-called illness. Claire isn’t sick, she doesn’t have cancer, as far as I know. She’s not crazy either—that would have shown up, in all this time. Everyone can have episodes of hysteria. Panic attacks, blackouts, nervous breakdowns, we all get those. But she’s gilding the lily. She was an actress, let’s not forget that, she knows how to play it up.
Yes, but she’s pretending, I’m killing myself here trying to get you to see that! I could do it too, couldn’t I, wander through the streets naked saying people want to kill me, and I’m being persecuted. No, she’s just sick with jealousy, crazy for what she’s lost. I don’t want to rub salt in the wound but her only illness is she’s not aging well. And surely no one’s going to stop me from getting a divorce because my wife has hormonal mood swings. I want to have a life, Katia wants kids…Can’t she let us be happy for fuck’s sake?
Yes, yes, I’ll calm down.
I wouldn’t have thought so. There are no damages, and the only vested interest is hers, because she wants to destroy me. Compensation, in a pinch. But compensation for what? She has a good job, friends, pastimes. She can have a perfectly good life without me, she could find a lover, especially if she stops dicking around like this, she could remarry, who knows? So I don’t really see why I should give her money, honestly!
But let’s get to why I’m here today. I brought a video of a documentary that was made at the La Forche Clinic, where my wife is…interned—well, they say “a resident,” you know, the crazy, the depressed, the carers, the kitchen staff: they’re all in the same boat. And I can tell you, you sometimes wonder who’s who. The place is a shambles. Well anyway, a while ago, I told Chris—Christian Lantier, a video maker who worked on one of my shows—that he should do a piece on La Forche. He’s basically a documentary maker, he immediately liked the idea, he wanted to work in a psychiatric environment, and he actually put a lot of himself into it, immersed himself, he must have had his own reasons. To make a long story short, he got the authorization he needed and did his filming last February. Okay, I won’t show you all of it, you have other things to get on with, Mr. Deligne, but just watch this excerpt—wait, do you mind if I put it on your computer? Otherwise, I have it on my tablet, but it’ll be smaller.
So wait…[click] Skip this, skip this. Sequence two, here it is [click]. Oh actually, there’s something else before that, this is interesting too [click]. They’re reading a play, there are three of them, my wife Claire (the little blonde) and another chick she’s very buddy-buddy with. And take a good look at the man, the young guy, watch how they look at each other, my wife and him.
ARAMINTE. You shall find every consideration that is due to you here; and if at some later stage I have an opportunity to be of service to you, I shall not miss it.
MARTON. That is my lady: I recognize her.
ARAMINTE. It is true that it still angers me to see honest people with no fortune, when an infinite number of worthless people with no merit have dazzling wealth. It is a fact that pains me, especially in someone his age; because you must be only thirty at the very most?
DORANTE. Not quite yet, my lady.
ARAMINTE. What may be of some consolation to you is that you still have time to be happy.
DORANTE. I’m starting to be so today, my lady.
[click] You get the picture. Really depressing, huh?…Yes, yes, of course, they’re rehearsing, okay, but that’s just the point: this is my line of work, Mr. Deligne, in case I have to remind you, I’m a theater director. I’m sure my wife’s doing it on purpose, she’s taunting me. But [click] watch this bit, filmed in the gardens at La Forche, it’s not very long.
[Man’s voice out of shot.] Hi. Excuse me, could I interrupt for a moment? [Collective nodding of heads: the same people as before.] Today I’d like you to talk a little about yourselves, if you’re okay with that. About life here. You, Claire, for example, how long have you been here?—I don’t know exactly. Several springtimes. Several flowerbeds of daffodils. I must be in season three. How about you, Chris?—Um, me?—Yes, you. How long have you been here?—Well…I…[
he seems disconcerted]—Chris, Chris. Do you know the story about the madman walking around the grounds of the asylum? No? So there’s this madman walking around the grounds. He comes up to the boundary wall, climbs it, looks at the other side, and calls out to a passerby: “Hey, tell me, are there lots of you in there?” [She gives a bright little laugh, the others laugh too.]
[click] Right, stop, that’s enough! Did you hear that, Mr. Deligne, did you hear the way she laughed? You can see she’s perfectly fine. She’s making fun of us, that’s all, she’s enjoying the trick she’s playing on us. And at the taxpayer’s expense, may I point out.
No, it’s not worth it, the rest just gets worse and worse. Well, if you really want to…Let’s drink the cup down to its last dregs. I warn you, she’s always liked telling stupid jokes, like that, out of the blue, just as they come to her. She’s no more crazy than you or I, and this is proof of it, she’s acting, she’s pretending so she can stay out of reach and keep the world at bay, that’s all. And her literary quotations, her hodge-podge references, it’s all the same. She’s challenging us, me, Katia, but everyone else too. You, the judge, everybody.
[click]
Chris, Chris, film over there instead, film the park, film beauty and freedom. Do a big closeup of the daffodils, over there, did you see them?—[A short balding man with a preoccupied expression comes over toward the group, waves hello to them, and, as he walks on past, says] Lehem means bread. And also, something to warm you. And also, sex.—Thank you, Michel. [Everyone in the group waves to say thank you.]—Okay, Claire, I’ll do that. But tell me, you didn’t answer: don’t you want to get out? Get back to your previous life, your work, your family?—Ah! Wait, I have another one, a really good one. There’s a couple in their sixties, they’ve just retired and they’re living a peaceful life in their little house. One day someone knocks at the door. There’s an old lady on the doorstep and she asks for their help. They show her in and offer her a bed and some food. After she’s eaten, she says, “My friends, I’m a fairy. You can each make a wish and I will make it come true to thank you for your kindness.” They’re thrilled, amazed, delighted. The woman goes first. “Well,” she says, “because we retired recently and this is something we’ve always dreamed of, I’d like us to travel around the world together, a really beautiful long trip.” “No problem,” says the fairy. Psshtt. A cloud of gold dust, and suddenly the old lady has two tickets for a round-the-world cruise. “And you?” the fairy asks the husband. The man hesitates for a moment, looks sideways at his wife, bites his lip, then makes up his mind: “Listen, you’re not going to like this but I’m sorry, I’ll never have this opportunity again, so tough, here goes.” He turns to the fairy and says, “I’d like to have a wife thirty years younger than me.” “No problem,” says the fairy. She waves her hand toward the husband and psshtt, he’s ninety years old.
[click] Right, this time I’m stopping it. You see the sort of thing. And they’re all laughing along with her, like a kids’ playground. It drives me crazy, hearing her laugh.
The guy next to her? A psychiatrist, I think. Like I said, in that place you can’t be too sure. He’s her lover, most likely. Did you see the way they look at each other? They look real close, wouldn’t you say? As thick as thieves, don’t you think?
The other woman, the tall blonde with the piercing eyes? She kind of scares the shit out of me, that one. I don’t really remember. Camille, um…Camille Morand, something like that. Apart from that, I don’t really know, I think she’s…Oh, yes I do! She’s no one, she’s a writer.
I dedicate this book to the memory of Nelly Arcan
Notes
Apart from the explicit references to various works, this novel contains reminiscences or quotations (some of them unfaithful) from A. Artaud, H. Melville, L. Aragon, J-F. Lyotard, N. Arcan, J. Racine, D. Winnicott, J. Didion, G. Flaubert, P. Lejeune, O. Steiner, J. Joyce, W. Shakespeare, J. Renard, M. Duras, P. Quignard, J. Lacan, W. B. Yeats, H. de Balzac, H. Cixous, R. M. Rilke, L-F. Céline, R. Juarroz, M. Leiris.
The poem quoted on this page is by W. H. Auden.
The song “De la main gauche” (With my left hand) was written by Danielle Messisa.
The text on this page was loosely inspired by the work of J-P. Winter, Les errants de la chair: Études sur l’hystérie masculine, and various popular science Internet sites on the subject.
The words “People don’t die, they’re killed” (this page) is the leitmotif of a film whose title I’ve forgotten.
CAMILLE LAURENS is an award-winning French novelist and essayist. She received the Prix Femina, one of France’s most prestigious literary prizes, in 2000 for Dans ces bras-là, which was published in the United States as In His Arms in 2004. She lives in Paris.
ADRIANA HUNTER has translated more than fifty books including Hervé Le Tellier’s Eléctrico W, winner of the French-American Foundation’s 2013 Translation Prize in Fiction. She won the 2011 Scott Moncrieff Prize, and her work has been shortlisted twice for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. She lives in Norfolk, England.
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