Shame

by Annie Ernaux

  The courtyard is a sort of wide passageway in beaten earth running between the house and the outbuildings used as storehouses. Behind these are a shed with rabbit hutches, a wash house, the toilet, a hen run and a small grassy patch.

  (This is where I am sitting, one evening in late May or early June, before that Sunday. I have finished my homework; there is a pervading sweetness in the air. I feel intoxicated by the future. It’s the same feeling I get when I sing Mexico and Miami Beach Rhumba in my bedroom at the top of my voice, the same feeling as when I marvel at the mystery of a whole lifetime stretching ahead of me.)

  Walking back from town, as soon as we catch sight of the grocery store, jutting out on to the street, my mother says: We are approaching the palace. (Out of pride as much as derision.)

  The store is open all year from seven o’ clock in the morning to nine o’ clock at night, continuously except on Sunday afternoons, when it stays closed; the café re-opens at six. The comings and goings of customers, along with their lifestyle and their occupation, command our working hours, both in the café (men) and in the store (women). A short lull in the afternoon, breaking up the constant bustle of the day. My mother uses the spare time to make her bed, recite a prayer or sew on a button; my father goes off to tend the large vegetable garden he rents nearby.

  Practically all my parents’ customers come from the lower end of the rue de la République and the rue du Closdes-Parts, the Champ-des-Courses neighborhood and a semi-industrial, semi-rural area extending beyond the railroad line. This includes a district known as the Corderie, named after a rope factory where my parents used to work when they were young, converted after the war into a workshop for the clothing industry and a plant manufacturing bird cages. It’s a single street, running below the railroad tracks; after going past the factories, it opens out on to a clearing where hundreds of wooden planks are piled up high, waiting to be made into cages. This is family territory: my mother lived here as a teenager until she got married; one of her brothers, two of her sisters and her mother still live here. The house occupied by my grandmother, one of my aunts and her husband, once served as the factory canteen, as well as a locker room: a raised hut on stilts with five tiny rooms and no electricity, where the floor vibrates and resonates loudly. On New Year’s Day the whole family congregates in my grandmother’s room, the grown-ups gathered around the table, drinking and singing, the children bouncing on the bed against the wall. On Sundays when I was a very little girl, my mother would take me to see my grandmother, then we would go to uncle Joseph’s house, where I would play seesaw with my cousins, balancing on the huge planks, or sit down and wave at the trains going to Le Havre, or tease any boys we met by calling them names. I seem to remember that we weren’t going there so often in 1952.

  Moving down from the town center to the rue du Clos-des­Parts or, further still, to the Corderie neighborhood means switching from a world where people know how to speak properly to a world where they don’t, expressing themselves in a mix of standard French and local dialect, according to the speaker’s age, occupation and ambition to better him or herself. The dialect, virtually the only means of expression for elderly people like my grandmother, would be conveyed by the odd phrase or intonation in the case of office girls. Everybody, including those who speak it, agree that the dialect is both ugly and old-fashioned but they give the following excuse: “we know the right expression but it’s so much quicker this way.” Speaking properly implies making an effort, searching for a new word instead of using the first one that springs to mind and taking on a softer, more cautious voice, as if one were handling a precious object. Most adults don’t think it necessary to “speak good French”; it’s something they associate with the younger generation. My father often says, “ain’t seen him” or “ain’t heard him”; when I correct him, he repeats “I-did-not-see-him” slowly, deliberately spacing out the syllables, adding in his usual voice, “if you say so”—a concession that shows how little he cares about speaking properly.

  In 1952 although I write “correct” French, I probably say “all what I know” and “to scrub” instead of “to wash,” just like my parents, since we share the same experience of the world. It is defined by familiar gestures—the way we sit down, laugh and grab hold of objects—and familiar words telling us what to do with our body and the things around us. We all knew how:

  —not to throw away food but to make the most of it: cutting up bread into small squares next to one’s plate to soak up the gravy; if the mashed potatoes are too hot, starting by the edge of the plate or blowing on the food to make it cool; tilting the plate so that one’s spoon catches all the broth or grabbing it with both hands and sucking up the soup; taking sips to cram down the food

  —to stay clean without wasting the water: using a single basin to wash one’s face, teeth and hands, and in summer one’s legs because they got grubby; wearing clothes that keep the dirt

  —to slaughter and prepare animals for human consumption with sharp, accurate movements: thumping rabbits behind the ear with one’s fist; squeezing a chicken between one’s legs and plunging an open pair of scissors down its throat; holding a duck down on to the block and chopping its head off with a scythe

  —to express silent contempt: shrugging one’s shoulders, turning round and vigorously slapping one’s ass.

  Instances of daily behavior that distinguish men from women:

  —placing the iron close to one’s cheek to see how hot it is; kneeling down on all fours to scrub the floor or standing with one’s legs wide apart to pick weeds for the rabbits; sniffing one’s panties and stockings at the end of the day

  —spitting into one’s hands before grabbing hold of the spade; shoving a cigarette behind one’s ear for later on; sitting astride chairs; snapping one’s penknife shut before slipping it into one’s pocket.

  Polite phrases such as, It’s a pleasure! Have a nice day! Or Have a seat, we won’t charge extra.

  Sentences magically linking our body to the universe or to our destiny—there’s an eyelash on your cheek, you’d better make a wish; my left ear is popping, someone’s saying nice things about me—as well as to nature—my corn is hurting, it’s going to rain.

  Affectionate or stern threats said to children: I’ll box your ears; get down from there or I’ll smack your face.

  Mocking remarks to ward off demonstrations of affection: get lost, give me a break, run along, I don’t need your fleas!

  Because of the dusty color associated with post-war demolition and reconstruction, black and white movies and textbooks, and dark fur-lined jackets and overcoats, I see the year 1952 as being uniformly gray, like former East European countries. Yet there were roses, clematis and wisteria growing over fences in our neighborhood, and blue dresses with red patterns like the one my mother wore. The wallpaper in the café had pink flowers. The sun was shining on that Sunday. It’s just that it is a silent, ritual world where isolated sounds, linked to people’s daily routine, punctuate time and the passing of seasons: the Angelus bell of the old people’s home summoning its residents to get up or go to bed; the siren of the textile factory; the cars on market day; the barking of dogs and the dull thud of the spade hitting the earth in spring.

  Each week is divided into “days for . . .” defined by social and family habit, as well as by radio programs. Monday—dead day, stale bread and leftovers, Le Crochet radiophonique on Radio Luxembourg. Tuesday—washing day, Reine d’un jour. Wednesday—market day, the poster announcing the next movie at the Cinema Leroy, Quitte ou double. Thursday—my day off, a new copy of Lisette. Friday—fish day. Saturday—scrubbing the house, washing our hair. Sunday—Mass, the supreme ritual governing all others, a change of underwear, a new outfit, cakes from the baker plus our “special treat,” minor pains and pleasures.

  Every evening of the week, at twenty minutes past seven, we listened to La Famille Duraton on the radio.

  A
lifetime is split up into successive stages when people become “old enough to”:

  —take Holy Communion and receive their first watch, have their hair permed in the case of girls, wear their first suit in the case of boys

  —start having their period and be allowed to wear stockings

  —drink wine at family gatherings, be allowed a cigarette, listen when grown-ups tell rude stories

  —get a job and go dancing, start “seeing” boys or girls

  —do one’s military service

  —go and see naughty films

  —get married and have kids

  —wear black

  —stop working

  —die.

  In our lives nothing is thought, everything is done.

  People are forever remembering. Their conversation inevitably begins with “before the war” or “during the war.” No family or social gathering takes place without the Rout, the Occupation or the bombings being mentioned. Each person plays their part in retracing the great epic, describing their personal feelings of panic or horror, reminiscing about the bitter winter of 1942, the rutabaga and the air raid warnings, mimicking the drone of V2 missiles patrolling the sky. The Exodus gives rise to the more lyrical accounts, invariably ending with “when the next war comes around, I’m staying home” or “we never want to see that again.” In the café arguments break out between the men who were gassed during World War I and those taken prisoner in 1939-1944, dismissed as cowards by the former.

  Yet they never stop talking about progress, seen as an inexorable driving force which cannot and must not be opposed, evidenced by more and more new products: plastic, nylon stockings, the ball-point pen, Vespa motorcycles, dried soup and free education for all.

  At the age of twelve I was living by the rules and codes of this world; it never occurred to me that there might be others.

  Because children were thought to be naturally malicious, chastising them and teaching them how to behave was the duty of all good parents. Be it a “box on the ear” or a “proper spanking,” corporal punishment was encouraged. This didn’t imply that parents were harsh or spiteful, so long as they didn’t overdo it and took pains to spoil the child in other ways. When parents were telling about how they had disciplined their child for doing something wrong, they would often end the story with a proud “I almost did him in!” satisfied at having given him a good hiding and having contained the fatal outburst of anger which such malevolence would nonetheless have warranted. Fearing no doubt that he might “do me in,” my father refused to lay a finger on me, or even reprimand me, leaving this role to my mother. You slob! You little brat! Life will sort you out all right!

  People were continually spying on each other. It was essential to learn about other people’s lives, so that they could be talked about, and co protect one’s own, so chat it couldn’t be. It was a tricky balance, “worming information out of someone” but not letting chem do the same in return, or else just “saying what you could afford to reveal.” Socializing was people’s favorite distraction. They loved to mingle with the crowds pouring out of movie cheaters or rushing off the station platform at night. The mere fact that people congregated somewhere was a good enough reason for joining in. A brass band or a bicycle race provided an opportunity to enjoy not only the event but also the sight of the crowd, and to go home saying who had been there and with whom. People’s conduct was scrutinized and their behavior analyzed in minute detail, including the most personal traits; these signs were gathered and interpreted, shaping the history of other people. A sort of collective novel, with each of us making our contribution, adding the odd detail or a few narrative flourishes to the general picture, which people in the store or around the table usually summed up by “he’s a good guy” or “she ain’t worth much.”

  Conversation classified people’s actions and behavior, slotting them into categories—good or bad, permissible, sometimes even encouraged, and inadmissible. There was an outright condemnation of divorcees, Communists, unmarried couples, single mothers, women who drank, who got an abortion, whose heads were shaved at the Liberation, who didn’t keep their house tidy and so on. Lesser disapproval was shown toward girls who got pregnant before they married, men who had a good time at the café (to have a good time was the privilege of children and young people) and masculine demeanor generally. People showing courage at work were praised; although it didn’t remedy their bad ways, it made them more acceptable: he drinks but he’s hard working. Health was seen as a virtue; she has poor health was as much a reproach as a sign of sympathy. Illness was invariably tinged with guilt, as if people had somehow been neglectful with their lives. There was a strong reluctance to accept that people could be justifiably and genuinely sick; instead they would be accused of fussing over themselves.

  Storytelling involved an element of horror that came across as natural, or even necessary, as if to warn people of some terrible fatality—accident or disease—which they had little chance of escaping. The narrative resorted to powerful images which would remain imprinted in one’s memory: “she sat down on two vipers” or “one of his skull bones is growing soft.” More often than not, these nasty twists were unexpected, in lieu of a happier, more predictable ending: children are quietly playing with a shiny object that turns out to be a bombshell and so on.

  Being easily shocked, being excitable, served only to arouse suspicion and curiosity. The best thing was to say, it didn’t do a thing to me.

  People were judged by their ability to socialize. One had to be simple, straightforward and polite. Children who behaved in an “underhanded way’’ and workers with a “quarrelsome temper” failed to observe the rules of normal conversation. Those who kept to themselves were looked down on and accused of boorishness. Wanting to live alone (contempt for bachelors and spinsters) and refusing to speak to others was seen as the denial of an act that carried human dignity: they live like savages! Besides, it clearly showed that one took no interest in what was undoubtedly the most interesting of all things—other people’s lives. And therefore that one ignored social convention. On the other hand, spending too much time with neighbors or friends, “always hanging out with so­and-so” was just as bad: it showed one had no pride.

  Politeness was the supreme virtue, the basic principle underlying all social behavior. It involved, for instance:

  —reciprocating an invitation or a gift; observing the order of precedence for age when wishing the family a Happy New Year; taking care not to disturb people by dropping round unexpectedly or by asking them personal questions; taking care not to insult them by refusing an invitation or a biscuit. Being polite meant that one was on good terms with everyone and that one never gave rise to gossip: looking straight ahead when one crossed the courtyard didn’t mean that one wasn’t curious but that one didn’t want to be caught peering into other people’s houses. Salutations exchanged in the street, greetings one was either granted or denied and the manner in which these rituals were performed (speaking in jocular or curt tones, stopping to shake hands, saying a few words or else walking straight on) were scrupulously analyzed, prompting all manner of assumptions—he can’t have seen me, he must have been in a hurry. Those who ignored the existence of their peers by refusing to look at people were beyond forgiveness.

  A façade against the outside world, social graces were unnecessary between husband and wife, parents and children; at home they were seen as a manifestation of hypocrisy or even malevolence. Harshness, aggressiveness and grousing were the usual means of communication among families.

  To be like everyone else was people’s universal ambition, the ultimate dream. Those who were different were thought to be eccentric or even deranged. The dogs in our neighborhood were all called Rover or Spot.

  In the café-grocery store we live surrounded by “people”—our way of referring to the customers. They can see us taking our meals and leaving for church or fo
r school; they can hear us washing in a corner of the kitchen and peeing in the bucket. Because we are continually exposed to them, we need to be on our best behavior (no insults, no rude words, no gossip) and to contain our emotion, anger or grief, concealing anything that might excite envy or curiosity, anything likely to be talked about. We know quite a few things about our customers, for instance, how much they earn and what sort of life they lead; it is agreed, however, that they must know nothing about us, or only the bare minimum. So, “in front of people,” it is forbidden to say how much we paid for a pair of shoes, to complain of stomach ache or to reel off my good grades at school: we always throw a dish towel over the baker’s cake and slip the bottle of wine under the table as soon as anyone comes in. We wait until the last client has left before starting an argument. Otherwise, what would people think?

  The code of behavior of the perfect storekeeper involves a number of rules; the following ones apply to me:

  —I must say hello in a clear, loud voice every time I enter or walk through the store or the café

  —I must be first to greet customers wherever I meet them