by Nizon, Paul.
OTHER WORKS IN DALKEY ARCHIVE PRESS’S
SWISS LITERATURE SERIES
Isle of the Dead
Gerhard Meier
Why the Child is Cooking in the Polenta
Aglaja Veteranyi
With the Animals
Noëlle Revaz
Walaschek’s Dream
Giovanni Orelli
The Shadow of Memory
Bernard Comment
Modern and Contemporary Swiss Poetry: An Anthology
Luzius Keller, ed.
The Ring
Elisabeth Horem
MY YEAR OF LOVE
PAUL NIZON
TRANSLATED BY JEAN M. SNOOK
Contents
Chapter
THIS DREAM, I’M WRITING IT DOWN NOW in the afternoon, more or less for practice, here in my boxroom, while the dove man starts nagging his missus again, whining, his whining getting louder and softer until her shrill, raspy voice cuts him short, making it clear who’s in charge; and while the small child screams, but it’s not a scream, the sound is more strained and nasal, a matter of life and death, of self-defense with nothing but this baby sound that verges on suffocation, on respiratory failure; while from a lower window the stubborn, orgiastic stamping of a rock band continues relentlessly, from farther away there are normal voices and laughter, and then the monotonous, robotic, artificial speech of TV dialogue with sound effects in the background
while all that’s been going on, it’s become late afternoon, but since we’re an hour ahead here with daylight savings time, it’s just a little after four, I’m writing down this dream that I’m in Rome, right at the place where, in my ever-recurring DREAM ROME, I come to that gateway or that narrow passageway where it “goes around a corner into paradise or into supreme bliss,” down a long, long, sloping flight of stairs—but it’s difficult to find the gateway to that corner that leads to supreme bliss
but I was there two hours ago and ran into Livia from my scholarship year, she’s older too now, by the more-or-less seventeen years that have passed, you can see it, and yet she’s the same freckled redhead, apparently she’s lived in Naples all these intervening years, she’s the daughter of a professor, I remember now, and so there she is, in the company of several others in the same age bracket, and despite that, they’re all still students, all still on scholarships, I’m the only one who isn’t anymore, I happen to come across them where they’re drinking tea or having a picnic behind ruins overgrown with vegetation, with hardy evergreen ivy, thorny, pretty, I’m not particularly welcome, but they let me stay, so I sit down with them on this bench for idle Deutschrömer, German artists and writers who came to Rome in the nineteenth century, it’s almost as if I’m invisible, or not quite as real as the others, I’m with them but they’re by themselves and take no notice of me
and there at my feet, under the table, is a cat who starts playing with my shoe, eventually turning over onto her back and hitting at it playfully with her paws, but also really wildly, and then she grips the shoe or my foot firmly with her teeth, and although I keep wanting to shake her off, I notice that I can’t, I’d have to grab her by the fur at the scruff of her neck and fling her away, or push her away forcefully with my foot, and I finally turn to my company on this stone bench to ask them for help, they should get rid of this cat for me, but they don’t react at all, and only now do I notice that I’m with a party of the blessed—or am I the dead one among the living—they don’t react, or they act as if I didn’t exist
and then all of us, these overage students or Deutschrömer and I, ride down a road in a sort of handcart, we’re going to the institute, I presume, and I’m between the shafts, but can’t steer properly anymore, it’s going too fast and will end up crashing
and later, at last, this Livia, who’s gotten rather heavyset and really tall, she was always a beanstalk who thought herself sylphlike and behaved accordingly, this Livia turns to me now, frankly bored, and asks if I still work as a journalist, and I reply, almost indignantly, that I haven’t been a journalist now in a long time, for really quite some time now I’ve been a full-time professional author writing books, yes, she had heard that, but also that I wasn’t making a go of it, she says, and as I energetically protest, she’s already turning toward someone else again, and what’s a dream like that supposed to mean, but I woke up in a good mood to the noise and voices from the courtyard, to the accumulated sounds of human life in France, of Parisian life that volubly invades my courtyard, this droning, talking, this roar of life here that never stops. And life there will never end, I once wrote and meant THE OTHER LAND, the sought-for or promised land—of inexhaustible, eternal life
and now, in my room, I’m thinking of Dorothée, that’s the name my girlfriend goes by in Madame Julie’s maison de rendez-vous, I had chosen her from the selection of girls who were paraded quickly past in Madame Julie’s grandiose salon, and I had chosen well, because it isn’t easy to decide so quickly when so many of them, one after another, step up to you at the bar and smile at you as they shake your hand and Madame Julie calls out their respective names, and while you’re trying to form an impression and you want to remember a name, which is of course an alias, the next one is already coming along—but I had made up my mind without hesitation, although I would have considered two or three of the others as well
then when I was upstairs I looked at this one more closely, because I wasn’t entirely sure if she was the one I had meant, but she looked pretty upstairs too, very pretty, in our plush bedchamber, her short, dyed blonde hair framed a pert French girl’s face, in which two brown eyes glistened wonderfully, eyes that laughed pleasantly from the start, offering friendly companionship, and her mouth was seductive, full, not too large, protruding, as if slightly swollen from a bee sting, I read that once and found it wonderfully put, and I noticed right away that her hair was dyed blonde, her natural hair color is dark, my God is she beautiful when she stands there naked now, having slipped the close-fitting black evening gown over her head, and having nothing else on underneath, she is beautiful, I think, her slender body has wonderfully smooth curves, it’s magnificent how her stomach and bottom and thigh swell outward, not too much, but with a seductive effect, one would like to drink such a body, you have a delicious body, easily digestible says the Robber in Robert Walser’s novel to a maidservant, I think, that’s put so damned nicely, it’s awkward and de-eroticizing, whereas this body, for all its slenderness, says woman, which is a rare impression to get from such a young girl, and her breasts are so provocatively curved, firm and full and turned slightly upward, one would like to drink someone like that, to drain her like a clamshell, and now, quite unembarrassed, she’s washing herself on the bidet, and I’m standing in the doorway and talking with her, and then, when we’re in the big wide French bed, everything belongs to me, all our limbs are now intertwined in that wonderful show of confidence that exists only in love, you can see from my pubic hair that I’m not really blonde, she says, and she candidly—if that’s the right word—tells me all kinds of things about herself
Dorothée used to work in a clothing store, she was in sales, but she also took care of purchasing, she said, and when the store expanded and added an upper story where she had full responsibility, all by herself, she thought she would get a pay raise, she wasn’t even earning two thousand, more like one thousand, she said, and the boss refused, she quit in a fit of anger, she hadn’t even worked there a year, and now she works for Madame Julie, she has a boyfriend, he’s twenty-eight and writes music for chansonniers, he’s even written for Sardou, never heard of him, I say. What, but you must listen to the radio and watch TV, Sardou, you’d certainly know him
and then in bed this whole rubbing against each other and strok
ing and kissing and more and more and this entire girl, this woman in the girl called Dorothée, when she lies there like that afterward, she puts her hands over her breast and stomach, one up over her breast, one down over her stomach, but not actually as a gesture of self-protection, because after all, down below she’s bare and relaxed and lying there with her legs spread, bare and relaxed, what are you doing with your hands, that’s pretty, I say, but why that. That, she says, is how I always lie, when I’m asleep, or rather, when I wake up, I see myself lying like that. It’s a little like a small child’s posture when she caresses herself, possibly, but I don’t understand anything about that
that really is love, I say to myself, simply because it’s all there, everything that belongs to real love, from the kissing to the inability to stop and every form of embrace and then the real bit of loving, accompanied by a lot of panting and sighing and little screams and puffing by both of us, and as we do so we do love each other, when we desire each other and our limbs and skin are mutually attracted to each other, because if we didn’t we wouldn’t be able to let ourselves go and
and now, early on a Sunday morning, I’m sitting at this little table, Place Clichy, in September, a bright, clear morning, and bitingly cold, and I see Rue d’Amsterdam with its own magnificent sky reflected in the street canal, not much traffic yet, and we’re sitting in the enclosed sunroom on the café patio, Beat and I, Beat in his Burberry, he can wear that, he’s tall and slim, even if he’s really broad in the shoulders, so that the English coat hangs correctly and can even hang loosely as he walks, Beat with his Watusi skull and his dark, searching, and slightly ironic eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses, the two of us are sitting there, he’s a visitor, I’m the resident, but what does resident mean in such a city, what would be better is: I’m the one who’s vanishing, the fly, the louse, the atom here, the one who has escaped, and I say, I’m so happy, Beat, that I’ve managed to do it, to finally make the break and to move here, don’t you think, it’s like starting life anew, at almost fifty, don’t you think, I say, and I tell him what the others are saying, that my whole official departure, the bureaucratic process of canceling my registration with the local police and having my emigration officially sanctioned, none of it was really necessary, those were just gestures, and look at all the disadvantages they brought, such as the loss of my health insurance and old-age pension and survivor benefits, all of which were obvious drawbacks, they say, I tell Beat. It’s like a marriage certificate, it’s the creation of an unambiguous predicament, it’s the inverse dilemma, he says, and that makes a difference, quite clearly. He means the difference between being someone on holiday who does return to his homeland after all, even if he departs repeatedly for longer or shorter sojourns abroad. It’s a burning of bridges, it’s a real risk, says my dear friend Beat, and now I think I could welcome him here and feed him, I’m on the other shore, free, footloose and fancy free, I once copied down longingly
at first, Beat’s eyes were sleepily stuck together, his skin doughy and pale, his complexion that of someone who hasn’t had enough sleep, you must have been partying last night, Beat. He was, even if I only find out about it from him bit by bit.
I’m sitting at this little table as if I were in the New World, like an emigrant, I feel like an outlaw now and am grateful to my wet nurse, to this great old city, and also somewhat proud that she’s turning herself out so magnificently on this gleaming cold September morning, Place Clichy, and now, just to strut about a bit, I cross the square to buy some cigarettes. I wrote two letters late in the night, still wildly elated, while listening to a jazz program on the radio, and now that I’ve mailed them at the reception desk in Beat’s posh hotel, I can give him my undivided attention. We’ll go out for lunch soon, Beat, don’t eat too much now, because I want to make off with him to the Portuguese canteen I just discovered recently, almost as far out as Porte de Clignancourt. To pass the time, we take quite a roundabout route across Place des Abbesses, then down Boulevard Rochechouart, and even into the Arab streets that are so disreputable, supposedly, but so wonderfully alive, and, yes, almost unnatural, because to our way of thinking they’re so completely sealed off, they have names like Rue de la Goutte d’Or and Rue de Chartres, and we seem to be right in the Orient. Then along Boulevard Barbès with its busy Sunday market, and further along Boulevard Ornano. Escaped, escaped, a voice and a small voice in me rejoice as we walk along
yes, how the other voice rejoiced, the clarinet of this young man, probably a student. He was playing with two banjo players and a bassist in front of the Printemps department store, just a while ago, it was last week, and a considerable crowd stayed and stayed there on the widened sidewalk in front of the store. The people couldn’t tear themselves away, young and old, whatever skin color, even children, and now and then someone would walk forward to throw a coin into the instrument case on the ground, that was so moving, these individual people stepping forward, going up to the stage to say thank you, it wasn’t at all as if they were “just passing by,” because the people who made the contributions stepped right back again into the ring of listeners, each of them was giving thanks, alone—like going up to an altar with an obolus, like laying a wreath, bowing down, it was a public show of feeling. These individuals who stepped out from the crowd to go up to the four young musicians, some of them were shy, among them very old people, others were cautious, as if not to disturb anyone, but all of them went up to show something, but what? Gratitude, approval, solidarity?
It was infectious, it was above all the clarinet, it grew out of this very young guy like an elongated mouth, a trunk, that seemed to be grown together with, connected with his puffed out left cheek, and the kid was all music, a shrill, jubilant, wonderfully sustained clarinet sound, vibrating through and through, carrying, carrying us away, the whole young man was sound, indignation and complaint and consolation, the melodies hung almost visibly out of his mouth, out of his body, sometimes he squatted down, as if waiting for his three friends and inspiring them, his instrument turned toward them, a singular invitation and inspiration, and the banjo-boys and the short fat one on the bass played noticeably better
how that rang out, complained, rejoiced, tugged and tugged, tugged at our feelings. Sometimes, when the banjos led, or the bass had a solo part, he sat down on the protruding base of the department store, small and bent forward, tapping his right foot to the beat and very quietly, almost murmuring, playing an accompanying melody, an accompaniment to the entrances of the others, until he leapt up again for his own entry and the air and our hearts burst. No one could tear himself away, and there was no contact at all between the musicians and the listeners except for this deep contact conveyed by the music
later on, inside the department store, as I was looking for a purse for my mother, a purse I thought of taking her as a present for her approaching birthday, her seventy-ninth, I still heard the music, but I wasn’t sure if I was really hearing it or if it had merged with me, entered me to such an extent that I now heard it playing, singing, complaining and triumphing in me
and I felt only love for all the others who had stood in the circle outside with me that morning
my mother, I see her stalking stiffly to the door with short steps, she’s gotten short and bent. It’s her new apartment, this senior’s apartment, modern and cool, somehow this apartment makes a gray impression because it’s so purely functional, but maybe that’s just because of the gray wall-to-wall carpet and the relative darkness—although an entire glass wall looks out on the patio at the back, the living room is only bright when there is really brilliant sunshine; the building is located below Kornhaus Bridge, and even though it’s surrounded by a magnificent circle of trees, it’s not light here. And Mother keeps the apartment clean and sterile, as if it didn’t belong to her, as if she had only been put here to keep it clean, to keep things in order, in the bathroom and the kitchen with all their built-in cupboards and compartments, there’s nothing lying around that would in
dicate the apartment was occupied, and yes, I see fear in my mother’s face and hear it in what she says, fear of making a noise, fear of noises of any kind. And a correspondingly exaggerated, downright subservient show of friendliness to the outside, to the other occupants of this seniors’ complex, I don’t know, is she intimidated, in some way humiliated. When she comes running with little steps, so stiff and bent, and opens the door to this one-room apartment that seems empty despite all the furniture, as empty as a garage, in fact, even her surprise, her pleasure is or seems feigned, I’m not sure if she fully realizes that I’ve made the trip here now to visit her or if she thinks I’m always here; that would be terrible, if she were in such a mental state, or would it be liberating? Given that she’s gotten gray as a mouse, is no longer in service, has been pushed aside
how nice that you’ve come, you’re the only ray of light in my life, she says, and the tears are already coming to her eyes: you know, I think all the time now of passing away, if only I could pass away . . . But what are you thinking of, are you having difficulties, don’t you have any coffee, I ask brightly, and now she makes a pot of coffee, it really smells or tastes strange, I say, unfortunately, and regret it right away, because she’s already starting to act defiant or angry, and she stalks into the kitchen to show me the tin, Nescafé, my God, and it comes pre-ground in buckets, is that old age, I think, because my mother used to be really proud of her coffee, and now she brings out a bowl of cookies that have almost turned to dust already, if not to plaster, she puts it down beside the dreadful dried flowers and the bowl of fruit with the oranges and apples that are already shriveled
and we sit by this wall of windows at the pretty little triangular table with the Biedermeier base and the Biedermeier chairs, and I notice right away that she herself never sits here, you’re still not taking your meals here, Mother, I ask, because everything seems so unused, and she admits that she’s accustomed to having her breakfast and even the main meal of the day at the kitchen counter, this built-in counter, you know, then I can clear everything away again in a minute and do the dishes and not waste any time. But you have time, Mommy, I say, why don’t you make yourself at home here, you have all the time in the world. No, she says, already acting defensive, as a cautious and preventative measure, and soon she’ll start to accuse me of things and get annoyed with me: no, what makes you think that. Every morning I get up at six, then I clean the kitchen and the apartment, after I’ve made the bed, your mother has always worked, all too much, as it happens, and now I notice that an odd, musty smell pervades the apartment, and I catch myself thinking that she won’t be able to bathe very extensively, with the open sores on her legs, her legs have always had slightly open, oozing sores, and in the evening or the morning she has always treated them with ointment and wrapped them with elastic bandages, no, with those legs she’ll hardly be using the hypermodern shower, and why should she shower, I think, and now, on her beautiful head, that’s gotten somewhat smaller, I detect something like a horn under her full hair tied back in a bun, it seems to me that her forehead is sporting something slightly like a horn, or is it just because I find her so obstinate and narrow-minded that this image occurs to me and flits before my eyes