Based on a True Story

by Delphine de Vigan

  BASED ON

  A TRUE STORY

  BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  No and Me

  Underground Time

  Nothing Holds Back the Night

  BASED ON

  A TRUE STORY

  DELPHINE DE VIGAN

  Translated from the French by George Miller

  CONTENTS

  Books by the Same Author

  One

  Part One: Seduction

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Part Two: Depression

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Part Three: Betrayal

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  A Note on the Author

  A Note on the Translator

  Also available by Delphine de Vigan

  1

  A few months after my last novel came out, I stopped writing. For almost three years, I didn’t write a single line. Hackneyed phrases sometimes have to be taken literally: I didn’t write a formal letter, a thank-you note, a holiday postcard or a shopping list. Nothing that required any sort of effort or necessitated any concern about form. Not one line, not one word. The sight of a pad, notebook or index card made me feel nauseous.

  Over time, the act of writing itself became rare, hesitant and no longer occurred without apprehension. The simple act of holding a pen felt increasingly difficult.

  Later, I experienced panic as soon as I opened a Word document.

  I would search for the right position, the optimal screen angle. I’d stretch my legs out under the table. And there I’d stay, motionless for hours, staring at the screen.

  Later still, my hands would start shaking as soon as I brought them near the keyboard.

  I turned down every invitation I received without exception: articles, short stories, prefaces and contributions to edited collections. The mere mention of writing in a letter or message was enough to tie my stomach in knots.

  I couldn’t write any more.

  Writing was out.

  I now know that various rumours went round my friends, the book world and the social networks. I know people said I’d never write again, that I’d reached the end of something, that bonfires of straw – or paper – always burn out eventually. The man I love imagined it was my relationship with him that had made me lose my drive, or the flaw I needed to feed my work, and consequently thought I’d soon leave him.

  When friends, relations and sometimes even journalists ventured questions about my silence, I cited various reasons or obstacles, including tiredness, foreign travel, the pressure that comes with success, or even the completion of a phase of my work. I gave the excuse of too little time, too little focus or too much to do, and got myself out of it with a smile whose fake air of calm didn’t fool anyone.

  Today I know that all this was just a pretext. None of it counted for anything.

  To people who are close to me, I probably sometimes mentioned fear. I don’t recall speaking of terror, but that’s what it was. I can admit it now: writing, which had been my main activity for so long, which had so profoundly transformed my existence and was so precious to me, terrified me.

  The truth is that just when I should have got back down to writing, according to the cycle that alternated fallow periods, incubation and actual writing – virtually a biorhythmic cycle, which I’d experienced for over a decade – just when I was preparing to embark on the book for which I had taken lots of notes and collected a mass of material, I met L.

  Today I know that L. is the sole reason for my powerlessness. And that the two years that we were friends almost made me stop writing for ever.

  PART ONE

  Seduction

  It was as if he was a character in a story or a play, a character whose history is not recounted like history, but created like fiction.

  Stephen King, Misery

  2

  I’d like to describe how L. came into my life, and in what circumstances. I’d like to describe precisely the context that enabled L. to invade my private sphere and patiently take possession of it. But it’s not that simple. And as I write the phrase, ‘how L. came into my life’, I’m aware of how pompous the expression sounds: a bit overblown; the way it emphasises a narrative arc that does not yet exist; a desire to announce a turning point or plot twists. Yes, L. ‘came into my life’ and turned it upside down: profoundly, slowly, surely, insidiously. L. came into my life as though she were stepping onto a stage right in the middle of the play, as though a director had ensured that everything around her dimmed to make way for her; as if L.’s entrance had been prepared for so as to communicate its importance, so that at this precise moment the spectator and the other actors on stage (me, in this case) would look only at her; so that everything around us froze, and her voice carried right to the back of the auditorium; in short, so that she would make an impact.

  But I’m rushing ahead.

  I met L. at the end of March. By the autumn, L. was part of my life, like an old friend, on familiar ground. By the autumn, we already had our private jokes, a shared language of hints and double meanings, of glances that sufficed for us to understand each other. Our complicity was fuelled by shared confidences but also by what remained unsaid, by unspoken observations. In hindsight, and in view of the violence that later marked our relationship, it’s tempting to say that L. broke in to my life, with the sole aim of annexation, but that would be untrue.

  L. entered gently, with boundless delicacy, and I experienced amazing moments of complicity with her.

  On the afternoon of the day we met, I’d been invited to do a signing at the Paris Book Fair. I’d met my friend Olivier there. He was a guest on a live broadcast from the Radio France stand. I mingled with the public as I listened to him. We then had a sandwich in a corner with his elder daughter, Rose, all of us sitting on the shabby Book Fair carpet. My signing had been advertised for two thirty, so we didn’t have a lot of time. It wasn’t long before Olivier told me I looked exhausted, truly; he was worried about how I’d get through ‘all this’, by which he meant having written such a personal, intimate book, and the reverberations that the book had caused – reverberations he knew I hadn’t anticipated, and for which I was consequently unprepared.

  Later, Olivier offered to walk with me to my publisher’s stand. As we passed a dense, tightly packed queue, I looked to see which author was at the other end of it. I remember looking for the poster that would reveal their name, and then Olivier whispered:
‘I think they’re for you.’ The queue stretched into the distance, then turned the corner, all the way to the stand where I was expected.

  At another time, even a few months earlier, this would have filled me with joy and maybe even pride. I’d spent hours waiting around for readers at book fairs, sitting patiently behind piles of my books without anyone coming. I was familiar with that feeling of helplessness, that rather shameful solitude. I was now overwhelmed by an entirely different sensation: a kind of dizziness. For a moment it felt too much; too much for one person, too much for me. Olivier said he had to head off.

  My book had come out at the end of August and for several months I’d been going from city to city, from events to signings, readings to discussions, in bookshops, libraries and media centres, where increasing numbers of readers awaited me.

  It sometimes overwhelmed me, the feeling of having hit the bull’s eye, of having carried thousands of readers along in my wake, the probably mistaken feeling of having been understood.

  I’d written a book whose impact I hadn’t foreseen.

  I’d written a book whose effect on my family and those around me spread in a series of waves, causing collateral damage I hadn’t anticipated; a book that quickly separated my unwavering supporters from my false allies, and whose delayed effects were to prove long-lasting.

  I hadn’t imagined the book’s proliferation and its consequences. I hadn’t imagined the image of my mother, reproduced hundreds, then thousands of times, the cover photo that contributed significantly to the spread of the text, the photo that very quickly became dissociated from her and now was no longer my mother but a character in the novel, blurred and diffracted.

  I hadn’t imagined readers feeling moved or fearful; I hadn’t imagined that some would cry in front of me, nor how hard it would be for me not to cry with them.

  There was that very first time, in Lille, when a frail young woman, who was visibly exhausted by repeated hospitalisation, told me the novel had given her the crazy, insane hope that in spite of her illness, in spite of what had happened and was irreparable, in spite of what she had inflicted upon her children, that they might, just maybe, be able to love her . . .

  And there was another time, one Sunday morning in Paris, when a troubled man had talked to me about mental-health issues – of how others looked at him (at them, all the people who cause such fear that they’re all lumped together: the bipolar, schizophrenics, depressives, labelled like shrink-wrapped chickens according to the current trends and the magazine cover stories) – and talked to me about Lucile, my invulnerable heroine who redeemed them all.

  And on other occasions, in Strasbourg, Nantes, Montpellier, there were sometimes people I wanted to hug.

  Gradually, I established a sort of imperceptible rampart, a cordon sanitaire that enabled me to go on, to be present, but at a safe distance. I developed a movement of the diaphragm that blocked the air at my breastbone to make a tiny cushion, an invisible airbag so that I could then gradually breathe out through my mouth once the danger had passed. That way I could listen, speak, understand what was being created around the book, the to and fro between reader and text, as the book almost always sent the reader back – why, I cannot explain – to his or her own story. The book was a sort of mirror, whose depth of field and contours no longer belonged to me.

  But I knew that some day it would all catch up with me – the number, the sheer number of readers, of comments, invitations, the number of bookshops visited and hours spent on intercity trains – and that then something would give under the weight of my doubts and contradictions. I knew there would come a day when I would not be able to extricate myself, and there would have to be a thorough stocktaking, if not a settling of the score.

  That Saturday at the Book Fair, I had signed without a break. People had come to talk to me and I was having trouble finding the words to thank them, answer their questions, meet their expectations. I could hear my voice trembling. I was having trouble breathing. The airbag was no longer working; I couldn’t face up to things. I’d become permeable. Vulnerable.

  Around 6 p.m. the queue was closed off with a stretch barrier between two posts to deter latecomers, obliging them to turn around. Nearby, I could hear the staff on the stand explaining that I was about to stop: ‘She has to go. She’s stopping. We’re sorry, she’s leaving.’

  When I’d finished signing for the people who’d been designated as last in the queue, I hung around for a few minutes talking to my editor and the sales director. I thought about my route to the station. I felt exhausted. I could have lain down on the carpet and stayed there. We were on the stand and I’d turned my back on the Book Fair aisles and the little table where I’d been sitting until a few minutes earlier. A woman came up behind us and asked me if I could sign her copy. I heard myself say no, just like that, without hesitation. I think I told her that if I signed her book, more people would get in line, expecting me to start again and a new queue would inevitably begin to form.

  I could tell from her eyes that she didn’t get it, that she couldn’t understand. There was no one else around; the unlucky latecomers had drifted off; everything seemed calm and peaceful. I could tell from her eyes that she was thinking: who does this bitch think she is? What difference do a couple of extra books make? And isn’t that exactly why you’re here? To sell books and sign them? So what have you got to complain about . . .

  I couldn’t say: Madam, I’m sorry, I can’t do any more. I’m tired, I’m not up to it. Simple as that. I know that others can last for hours without eating or drinking until they’ve made sure everybody is satisfied. They’re real troupers, genuine athletes, but I can’t; not today. I can’t even write my name any more. My name’s a fake, a hoax. Believe me, my name on this book has no more value than if pigeon shit had happened to land on the title page.

  I couldn’t say: If I write a dedication on your book, madam, I’ll split in two, that’s exactly what will happen. I warn you, back off, keep a safe distance. The tiny thread that’s keeping the two halves of my self together will break and I’ll start to cry and maybe even scream, and that could get very embarrassing for all of us.

  I left the Book Fair, ignoring the remorse that was already flooding through me.

  I caught the metro at Porte de Versailles. The carriage was packed, but I managed to find a seat even so. With my nose against the window, I began rerunning the scene; it played out in my head once and then again. I’d refused to sign the woman’s book even though I was standing there talking. I couldn’t get over it. I felt guilty, ridiculous, ashamed.

  I’m writing about this scene now, and all its exhaustion and excess, because I’m almost certain that if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have met L.

  L. wouldn’t have found in me something that was so fragile, so shifting, so liable to crumble.

  3

  When I was a child, I used to cry on my birthday. When the assembled guests launched into the familiar song with words that are more or less the same in every family I know, I would burst into tears as the cake with its candles was brought towards me.

  I couldn’t bear being the centre of attention, the bright eyes all focusing on me, the collective emotion.

  This had nothing to do with the genuine pleasure I experienced at a celebration in my honour. It didn’t in any way spoil my delight at receiving presents, but there occurred at that precise moment a sort of feedback loop, as though in response to the collective noise produced on my account I could only make another, even shriller noise, at an inaudible and disastrous frequency. I don’t know until what age this went on (the anticipation, tension, joy, and then me, in front of everyone, suddenly sniffly and distraught), but I have a precise memory of the feeling that used to overwhelm me at ‘our sincerest wishes, and may these candles bring you happiness’, and the desire to immediately disappear. Once – I must have been eight – I did run away.

  At the time when birthdays were celebrated in class (at nursery school), I rememb
er my mother having to write a note to the teacher to ask her to ignore mine. She read the note aloud for my information, then slipped it into the envelope. The word ‘emotional’, which I didn’t understand, appeared in it. I didn’t dare ask her, aware that writing to the teacher was already something exceptional, an effort, which had the aim of obtaining from her something equally unusual, a privilege, a special dispensation. In fact, for a long time I believed that the word ‘emotional’ had something to do with the size of an individual’s vocabulary. I was emotional, and lacked the words to express myself, which appeared to explain my incompetence at celebrating my birthday in company. So it seemed to me that in order to live in society you had to arm yourself with words, not be reticent about accumulating them, diversifying, grasping their tiniest nuances. The vocabulary thus acquired would through time form a breastplate, thick and fibrous, which would enable you to operate in the world, alert and confident. But there were still so many words I didn’t know.

  Later, at primary school, when I had to fill in the registration card at the start of the year, I continued to cheat when it came to my date of birth, shifting it by a few months to the middle of the summer holidays, just to be on the safe side.

  Similarly, in the school canteen or at friends’ houses (until quite an advanced age), I several times swallowed or hid the lucky charm that I was alarmed to find in my slice of Epiphany cake. I found it impossible to declare my victory and be the general focus of attention even for a few seconds, let alone several minutes. I’d pass up lottery wins, crumpling my ticket or ripping it up when it was time to claim the prize, even going so far as to pass up a voucher for Galeries Lafayette worth a hundred francs at the end of my last year in primary school. I remember gauging how far I was from the podium – I would have had to get there without stumbling, looking natural and relaxed, then climb a few steps and probably thank the headmistress – and concluded it wasn’t worth it.

  Being the centre of attention, even for a moment, tolerating being looked at by several people at once, was quite simply unthinkable.