by Enrique Laso
Not long after I took up my position in Montdevergues I found two guards breaking some clay figures behind my house, which they then threw away in a skip. As it was such an unusual sight, intrigued, I made my way towards them.
-“What are you doing?” I asked, in a half distracted sought of way, like an innocent, curious bystander.
-“We’re following the Director’s orders. We’ve got to destroy the objects and then get rid of them,” replied one of the guards, clearly bored and with no interest in the task at hand.
I moved a little closer to look more carefully at a couple of the figures that were still intact, and was struck by their exquisite beauty despite a simple, hurried craftsmanship using a crude and dirty material. These figures represented human torsos, intertwined, reaching out as though shipwrecked, having failed to find land as they came to terms with their sad, irreversible fate to drown in the sea together.
-“Do you know who made these?” I asked, so fascinated by the objects in my hands and so surprised to have come across them in such an unlikely place as Montdevergues.
-“Miss Claudel.”
I recalled the old lady, who only a few days ago had sat beside me on one of the stone benches in the beautiful gardens of the asylum. I remembered her dark-blue eyes and her disillusioned gaze, and it was difficult to relate her to these simple sculptures.
-“And why do they have to be destroyed? They’re so impressive.” I exclaimed, as I felt the weight of them in my hands, but still pretending to be indifferent.
The guards shrugged their shoulders, looking at each other without really knowing what to say to me. They seemed to be taken aback by my question. Finally, one of them spoke:
-“Sir, we only follow orders, nothing else. Speak with the Director if you want.”
-“I see...”, I whispered, clutching the two figurines as though they were my most prized possessions. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take these two with me, so I can talk about the matter more clearly with him”, I reasoned clumsily, like an inept crook who commits petty thefts.
-“As you wish,” said one of the guards, shrugging his shoulders again.
I turned around and headed slowly towards my house, as though at any moment a voice from the main building would shout “Halt! Give back what does not belong to you!” Fortunately, all I could hear was the distant laughter of the two guards, probably joking at my expense.
In the privacy of my room I spent hours inspecting the figures. I had always liked art, especially painting, but also sculpture and music. When I was a student I would often visit museums, and had a few good friends who had been taught at some of the best studios in Paris. I immediately recognised the hand of a genius in these figures; they were not just the innocent fruits of a mentally ill person in an asylum hidden in the depths of eastern France. I stroked the clay, still slightly cold and damp to touch, as though freshly-sculpted. You could tell they were crudely made, using a coarse, raw material without the right tools, perhaps with only one hand. The surface was uneven, showing tiny imperfections from not enough sifting. Even so my fingertips were left with the tingling sensation that comes from touching a human torso.
The two very first figurines I managed to get hold of from the guards are still sat here, exiles from the cruel end that fate had in store for them. Here they are, close to me, keeping me company as I write. These are the first ones I pocketed, but over time, many more found their way into my hands until I had a complete collection of about 50 pieces. Now they’re sleeping soundly on my library shelves. Most of them are unfinished, as though their creator had become bored halfway through, perhaps losing inspiration and never retrieving it again. Nearly all of them are made of clay; mud dug up from the flowerbeds in the garden during torrential downpours. When it was time to give Camille’s room a clean, I found a couple of tiny ones sculpted onto bits of marble that I had brought from a nearby quarry.
Looking at these figurines is like looking into Camille’s eyes. It is almost like going beyond her pupils, penetrating her soul and really seeing who she is, understanding her for a fleeting moment; a sensation that lasts only as long as it takes to look into her eyes for the first time. I never tire of it, and rather than diminishing, the effect rather strengthens, as though an eternal, prolific energy had impregnated those eyes the moment they were conceived.
It is not even a week since Camille passed away, but a good part of her broken spirit is still trapped in this room, right next to me.
Chapter 4
A madhouse
Montdevergues, 30th of October 1943
Today is Saturday, and like every Saturday I like to go and eat outside the asylum walls. It gives me chance to gain a new perspective, to escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere of Montdevergues and to see the world with different eyes. Normally I would head towards Avignon, but today I took a longer trip to Aix-en-Provence, where I enjoyed briefly wondering about the Saint-Sauveur cathedral. I am strangely passionate for cathedrals; they are perfect places for rest and patient reflection. Later I lunched at a small bistrot, one of those typical Provence-style cafes where they serve home-cooked food, prepared very slowly, without the haste usually demanded in larger cities. Being there made me realise just how many people believe that the war is coming to an end, that the Americans are making huge advances in Italy and that France will be next. I would love for this to be true, and for the end of this terrible battle to lead us into a new period of hope, as this is all that we have left.
No sooner had I arrived at the asylum I saw the light on in Camille’s old room, and for a second I thought she was there, once again, in silence as brooded over her misfortune, encased between those four white walls. But then I remembered a new patient must have moved in, so I headed towards my house, dragging my feet behind me. In as long as it takes to cross out a single word on paper, in a single stroke I had managed to scrub out any glimmer of happiness that still lingered from the day. This is how fleeting moments of joy are in times of deception.
The table is piled high with bills, reports and various patients’ notes, episodes and some annotations made by resident doctors. I have neither the strength nor the inclination to even to look at them, preferring instead to return to this strange diary that takes me from yesterday to the present, without a fixed course, yet with one clear, predetermined objective. I am not sure I will be able to achieve the goal I have set for myself. Three or four days after I first met Camille, I found her on the floor of her bedroom, huddled in the corner with her head buried between her knees. It was a sorry sight. I could just make out her matt of grey, wiry and unkempt hair. In that position, hunched over, she seemed weak and fragile, afraid and completely mad, so different from the woman I had met in the garden. I asked the guard who had accompanied me to leave me alone with her, and he agreed, somewhat reluctantly, as the first meeting between a new doctor and a patient labelled as psychotic was certainly risky.
-“Good morning, Miss Claudel, it’s Edouard, the new person in charge of female patients, do you remember me?” I asked politely, and extremely sensitively, maintaining a cautious distance from her.
-“Of course I remember you; it was actually me who came to greet you. I already told you I would prefer it if you called me by my first name, Camille.”
She answered, still with her head between her knees, her voice sounding distant and muffled, like an echo from a faraway place that no longer existed. I reflected on how difficult it was going to be to handle this old lady, who seemed to be so aware of everything going on around her, but who saw death as the only possibility to put an end to her indisputable suffering.
-“Fine, Camille. I don’t like formalities either. I would prefer to be frank and direct right from the beginning and for us to treat each other as friends.”
-“We will never be friends, Doctor. I see it as more a question of aesthetics. I can’t possibly be considered a lady in this hell, do you understand?”
I felt ridiculous. I briefly glanced ov
er her history, somewhat surprised by the fact that she had been in the asylum for several years, which would usually imply that she a patient of considerable standing, and I proceeded to review her diagnosis: dementia, neurosis, paranoia, delusions of grandeur, persecutory delusions... Too much, I thought, for a woman who seemed to me to be lucid, up to a certain point. I felt an unhealthy curiosity take hold of me again.
-“Camille, I would love to be able to see those blue eyes of yours,” I pleaded, dotingly, improvising a way to get closer to her as discretely as possible.
Finally, Camille lifted her gaze, and scrutinized me from head to toe. Some locks of hair had fallen over her face, giving her with a wild, primitive look. Despite this, she still seemed to possess beauty, one that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, that hid behind those pupils as though they were the last safe place left in her body to preserve the essence of what had once been in another era, without a doubt, an exceptionally striking woman. I think my compliments lifted something in her, as a faint smile was visible for a fleeting moment at the corners of her mouth.
-“Don’t think you can achieve a lot by flattering me all the time. I’m tired of kind words.”
I sat down beside her, but not so close as to arouse her suspicions. She watched me, mistrustful and rather conceitedly. Now, by her side, I was able to get a better look at her hands, which took me by surprise as they were strong, somewhat large and out of proportion to the rest of her body, with spindly fingers and short nails, chapped and mottled with age spots.
-“I was only trying to be nice, nothing more. You’re a very interesting person, and I can assure you I am being sincere. I would love to have a friendlier relationship with you.”
-“I hope you will be able to do something for me, something useful,” said Camille, in a thin voice.
-“Why else do you think I’m here?” I asked, trying to gain a better idea of how alert she actually was, all the while attempting to build emotional ties.
-“You should be able to answer that for yourself, Edouard,” she replied, signalling to the folder stuffed with papers I had with me.
-“Camille, I would like to know how you feel about this. We are going to be seeing each other rather a lot, and I need to better understand your condition to be able to help you.”
She shot me an icy, hard glare, filled with mistrust verging on rage. Then she let out a short, laboured moan, as though trying to contain an angry and violent reaction. She wrung her hands, and then let her body go, as if all the strength that had been holding her up had vanished, to never come back.
-“You’re hopelessly young and naive. Do you really want to know why I’ve been locked up in this awful prison?”
Despite being a little offended by her hurtful comment, I nodded, encouraging her to share her point of view with me. Her mind was poisoned with bitterness, and I realised that it was going to be very difficult to help her to open up.
-“I’m here because I’m a woman and because I wanted to be free. I’m here because I loved, because I aspired to be something more than just a puppet, because I wanted to take control of my own life. I’m here because I was more talented than my teacher. I’m here because of all these reasons,” she said bluntly.
Camille buried her head again between her knees, revealing her grey, tangled head of hair. I was stunned. After several days examining some patients for the first time, I had finally encountered someone who was really interesting, unique and extraordinary. The tone of her voice was firm, extremely sane and deliberate, contrary to someone who was supposedly afflicted by so many ailments at once.
-“They don’t seem to be enough reasons,” I noted, trying to make her see that there was something she was hiding from me, or that perhaps she was actually deceiving herself.
-“No!” she exclaimed, sounding irritated, “Is there any sin greater than this in such times of betrayal and jealousy? I can assure you that being a woman and trying to be free is seen as almost obscene, and for lack of any other crime worthy of locking me up in prison, they chose to hide me away in this despicable place.”
It was true that Montdevergues was no first-class hotel, but for an asylum, it could be a lot worse. You could even call it wonderful; the patient care techniques were not behind like other places in France. It seemed to me that this hate for what she saw as an unfair confinement had been brewing for years, and the criticisms had more to do with her personal take on the situation rather than an objective analysis of her surroundings.
-“Montdevergues doesn’t seem such a terrible place to me. I can assure you there are far worse institutions in France.”
Camille looked at me again indignantly, seemingly repressing her fury. Her blue eyes had turned even darker, revealing an anger of someone who refuses to accept their condition and confinement.
-“You can obviously come and go as you please, you can escape whenever you want to Paris, Lyon or Avignon. You can do what you want with your life. You could even leave this place and never come back, if that’s what you choose. You have something I’m missing, and maybe that's why you take it for granted. This place seems less terrible to you because you’re not obliged to stay in it, because you haven’t been confined in it for more than ten years. But in my case, everything was taken away from me.”
-“I sincerely hope I can help you.”
-“Do you really want to help me?”
I nodded tentatively, knowing that with this I would be inviting her to express her deepest desire, an aspiration that was surely not beyond what had already been taken from her after giving up so many things.
-“Have me transferred to Paris. I'm not asking to be let out, just ask me to be moved to an asylum near Paris. Nothing else. If you can manage that, then you will have helped me, and I will be eternally grateful.”
Chapter 5
Cruelty
Montdevergues, 2nd of November 1943
It took me more than a month before I went to the asylum Director for an explanation as to why the guards were destroying Camille's figurines. Deep down I was rather reluctant to tackle the subject, it made me uncomfortable, but the sleepless nights searching for a plausible answer alone was far worse a prospect. Sometimes I had nightmares where I would see hundreds of men with their gleeful laughter as they incessantly smashed up plaster figures. The whole situation seemed utterly absurd. Finally, the right time came during a regular meeting, where we routinely reviewed the general state of the patients in my care.
-“I hope you're setting in, Edouard. It can’t be easy adapting to a place like Montdevergues in just a few weeks. We are very far from Paris, and you must miss the capital,” said Cyril, as he looked over a short report that I had prepared for him.
-“Sir, generally speaking, the truth is that everything is better than I expected. The asylum has a certain charm, the location is ideal, and although we’re a bit tight for space, the patients don’t have any reason to complain. As for Paris, I don’t miss it too much, at least not for the moment.
The Director raised an eyebrow, and then continued reading my report. He scanned it quickly, skipping lines, trying to speed up the meeting. Naturally he was someone who liked to get to the heart of the matter and would rather appear blunt than waste time.
-“I like your style. It's solid, and your assessments are spot on. But the complaints about food, are, well, to be expected. Even at the best restaurants in France people will find a way to criticise the menu, don’t you think?” he asked cynically.
I wasn’t complaining about the food for the staff so much as for the patients; this I had tasted for myself and it left much to be desired. Patients not getting the best treatment annoyed me, as at the end of the day they had enough problems to deal with. We carried on going over my notes for about half an hour. He was a severe but polite. He didn’t seem to take much notice of the patients, and I couldn’t work out if it was down to his nature, or the fatigue of having shared this space with them for so many years.
Al
though he appeared to be weary from his work, I could see that he was not one to restrict the freedom of others because of his own flaws. On the contrary, I sensed that he was hoping that someone would bring new things.
-“Very good, Edouard,” he said, handing the folder back to me with my report, as he tried to bring the meeting to a close. “You’ve done a great job, and I am sure that you will have an important role in this institution. You’re young, intelligent and diligent, you’ll definitely be a great help to us,” he concluded, tapping his desk, and getting up so as to hint subtly that I leave the room.
-“Excuse me, Sir. There’s a matter that I haven’t mentioned in my report, because it isn’t relevant, but one I find very interesting.
Cyril Mathieu sat back down in his chair and stared at me in silence, as though suspecting my motives. He let out a laboured sigh. He still did not trust me, and it was as though he knew there were holes in the way he was running the place, that I would find sooner or later. Perhaps he was prepared to try to argue the reason behind any deficiencies or faults, which is why my next words took him by surprise.
-“I’m listening,” he said, tenuously.
-“It’s rather a delicate matter...” I stammered, without knowing the best way to address the topic without raising his suspicions.
-“Don’t worry. You have to trust me. We’re a team, and just like I said, I am convinced that you will bring new ideas and will improve the asylum.
-“In fact, it’s not such an important issue. A few weeks ago I found a couple of guards smashing clay figures behind my house. You see, it was something that really intrigued, I couldn’t resist asking them what they were doing.”