Europa Editions
214 West 29th St., Suite 1003
New York NY 10001
[email protected]
www.europaeditions.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2010 by Éditions Albin Michel
First publication 2013 by Europa Editions
Translation by Alison Anderson
Original Title: Une forme de vie
Translation copyright © 2013 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
ISBN 9781609451073
Amélie Nothomb
LIFE FORM
Translated from the French
by Alison Anderson
LIFE FORM
That morning I received a new sort of letter:
Baghdad, December 18, 2008
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
I’m a private in the US Army, my name is Melvin Mapple, you can call me Mel. I’ve been posted in Baghdad ever since the beginning of this fucking war, over six years ago. I’m writing to you because I am as down as a dog. I need some understanding and I know that if anyone can understand me, you can.
Please answer. I hope to hear from you soon.
Melvin Mapple
At first I thought this was some sort of hoax. Even if Melvin Mapple did exist, what right did he have to speak to me like that? Wasn’t there some sort of military censorship to prevent words like “fucking” from being used in conjunction with “war?”
I took a closer look at the letter. If it was a fake, it was a remarkably good one. The stamp was American, the postmark Iraqi. The most authentic thing about it was the handwriting, that basic American script, simple, stereotypical, that I had noticed so often on my visits to the United States. And the tone of the letter, so direct, indisputably legitimate.
When I was no longer in doubt as to the authenticity of the missive, I was struck by what was the most incredible aspect of the message: while there might be nothing surprising about the fact that an American soldier, caught up in the war right from the start, said he was “as down as a dog,” it was completely mind-boggling that he would write to me about it.
How had he come to hear of me? A few of my novels, five years or so ago, had been translated into English and garnered a, shall we say, rather intimate readership. As for soldiers, Belgian and French ones had written to me, there was nothing surprising about that; more often than not they were asking for a photograph with a dedication. But a private in the US Army, based in Iraq? That was beyond me.
Did he know who I was? Other than the fact that my publisher’s address was spelled correctly on the envelope, there was no proof that he did. “I need some understanding and I know that if anyone can understand me, you can.” How could he be so sure that I would understand him? Assuming he had read my books, were they any sort of solid proof of human compassion and understanding? I could not help but be puzzled by Melvin Mapple’s choice of wartime pen pal.
Moreover, did I really want to have him confide in me? There were already so many people who wrote to me at great length about their troubles. My capacity for putting up with other people’s pain was fit to burst. What’s more, the suffering of an American soldier would take up a lot of room. Did I have that sort of space? No.
Melvin Mapple must have been in need of a shrink. That’s not my job. I would not be doing him any favors by allowing him to confide in me, because he’d think he no longer needed the kind of therapy that six years of war surely warranted.
But not to reply at all would have been a low-down rotten thing to do. I decided on a compromise: I autographed some dedicated copies of my books that had been translated into English to the soldier, put them in a parcel, and sent them off. That way I felt like I’d done my duty by this US Army underling, and my conscience was at ease.
Some time later it occurred to me that the lack of censorship might be explained by Barack Obama’s recent election to the presidency; although it was true he wouldn’t be taking office for at least another month, this upheaval must already be having a certain impact. Obama had been a constant, vocal opponent to the war, and had clearly stated that in the event of a Democratic victory he would bring the troops home. I had a vision of Melvin Mapple’s imminent return to his native land: in my dreams he would return to his cozy farm surrounded by cornfields, and his parents would be standing there with their arms spread wide. This thought was enough to calm me altogether. And as he would surely take my signed books home with him, I would have done my bit, however indirectly, to promote reading in the Corn Belt.
Not even two weeks had gone by when I received Private Mapple’s reply:
Baghdad, January 1, 2009
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
Thank you for your novels. What do you want me to do with them?
Happy New Year,
Melvin Mapple
I thought this was a bit much. Slightly annoyed, I wrote back right away:
Paris, January 6, 2009
Dear Melvin Mapple,
I don’t know. Perhaps you can use them to balance a piece of furniture or raise up a chair leg. Or give them to a friend who has just learned how to read.
Thank you for your new year’s wishes. Same to you.
Amélie Nothomb
I mailed the note, fulminating against my stupidity. How else had I expected a soldier to react?
He wrote back right away:
Baghdad, January 14, 2009
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
Sorry, I must not have made myself very clear. What I meant was, if I wrote to you it was because I have already read your books, all of the ones in English. I didn’t want to bother you with that, that’s why I didn’t mention them; it went without saying. But I’m glad to have the extra copies, all signed on top of it. I can lend them to my buddies. Sorry to have inconvenienced you.
Sincerely,
Melvin Mapple
My eyebrows shot up. This guy had read all my books, and was establishing a relationship of cause and effect between that event and the fact he was writing to me. This plunged me deep into an abyss of thought. I tried to understand what, in my novels, could have incited this soldier to write to me.
On the other hand, this event had transformed me into that ridiculously delighted individual: the author who discovers that someone has read their oeuvre. The fact that this someone was a private in the US Army was even more gratifying. It made me feel as if I were a universal writer. I felt a grotesque surge of pride. In a supremely contented disposition I composed the following epistle:
Paris, January 20, 2009
Dear Melvin Mapple,
I do apologize for the misunderstanding. I am genuinely touched that you have read all my books. Allow me to take this opportunity to send you my latest novel translated into English, Tokyo Fiancée, which has just been published in the US. The title annoys me, it sounds like a movie with Sandra Bullock, but the publisher assured me that Ni d’Ève ni d’Adam was not likely to find a better translation. From the 1st to the 14th of February I will be in your fine country to promote the book.
Today Barack Obama was inaugurated as president of the United States. It is a great day. I imagine you will be home soon and I am glad.
Best wishes,
Amélie Nothomb
While I was on my American tour, I took every opportunity to inform whoever would listen that I was corresponding with a soldier based in Baghdad who had read
all my books. This went over really well with the journalists. The Philadelphia Daily Reporter entitled their article “US Army Soldier Reads Belgian Writer Amélie Nothomb”. I wasn’t exactly sure what sort of aura this news item would surround me with, but it seemed to produce an excellent effect.
Back in Paris, a mountain of mail was waiting for me, including two letters from Iraq.
Baghdad, January 26, 2009
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
Thank you for Tokyo Fiancée. Don’t be annoyed, it’s a good title. I love Sandra Bullock. I’m looking forward to reading it. I’ll have plenty of time, you know: we won’t be coming home just yet. The new president said the troop withdrawal would take nineteen months. And you’ll see, since I was the first to arrive, I’ll be the last to leave: story of my life. But you’re right, Barack Obama is the man for the job. I voted for him.
Sincerely,
Melvin Mapple
Baghdad, February 7, 2009
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
I loved Tokyo Fiancée. I hope Sandra Bullock will agree to play the part, that would be great. What a beautiful story! I cried at the end. I don’t need to ask you if it really happened: it’s so authentic.
How was your trip to the States?
Sincerely,
Melvin Mapple
I wrote straight back:
Paris, February 16, 2009
Dear Melvin Mapple,
I’m glad you liked my book.
I had a good time in your beautiful country. I talked about you wherever I went: look at this article from the Philadelphia Daily Reporter. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to tell the journalists where you were from. I know so little about you. If you don’t mind, do tell me more about yourself.
Best wishes,
Amélie Nothomb
I preferred not to comment on a hypothetical film with Sandra Bullock: I’d said that as a joke, I didn’t expect to be taken seriously. Melvin Mapple might be disappointed if he found out the film didn’t stand much of a chance of seeing the light of day. Let’s not drive the Corn Belt to despair.
Baghdad, February 21, 2009
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
I really enjoyed the article in the Philadelphia Daily Reporter. I showed it to my buddies, they all want to write to you now. I told them there was no point, that your American tour was already over. All they want is to get their name in the newspaper.
You want me to tell you about myself. I’m thirty-nine years old, I’m one of the oldest at my rank. I went into the army late, when I was thirty, because I didn’t have any prospects for the future. I was dying of hunger.
My parents met in 1967, during the famous Summer of Love. They were ashamed when they found out I’d enlisted. I told them that in America when you’re dying of hunger, there’s nothing else to do. “You could have come and lived with your parents, couldn’t you?” they said. I would have been ashamed to go and sponge off my parents, who are barely making ends meet. They live in a suburb outside Baltimore, where they have a gas station. That’s where I grew up, I really didn’t feel like going back there. Baltimore is no good for anything except rock music. Unfortunately I am not musically talented.
Before I turned thirty I had dreams and ideals, and I tried to fulfill them. I wanted to become the next Kerouac, but no matter how hard I tried to hit the road high on Benzedrine I couldn’t write a single decent line. I drowned myself in booze trying to become the next Bukowski, and that’s when I hit rock bottom. So, okay, I figured it out: I didn’t have what it takes to be a writer. I tried painting: a disaster. Drip painting is not as easy as you think. I wanted to be an actor; I got nowhere there, either. I lived on the street. I’m glad I went through it, sleeping rough. It taught me a lot.
I enlisted in 1999. I told my parents there was no risk, the last war was too recent. My theory was that the Gulf War in 1991 would keep things calm militarily in the US for a good long while. The army in peacetime seemed like a cool idea. Okay, there was stuff going on in Eastern Europe, in Africa, there was still Saddam Hussein in Iraq, but I couldn’t see any major conflicts lurking on the horizon. Which just goes to show I don’t have much of a head for politics.
Military life wasn’t all roses, I found that out right away. All the training, the discipline, the shouting, the schedules, I never liked any of that. But at least I wasn’t a bum anymore. That was important. I’d understood my limits: sleeping on the street, cold and afraid, was one of them. Hunger was another.
In the army you can eat. The food is good, there’s plenty of it, and it’s free. The day I enlisted they weighed me: a hundred and twenty pounds for five foot nine. I don’t think I fooled them for one minute as to the real reason I’d joined up. I know I’m for sure not the only one who’s ever become a soldier for that reason.
Sincerely,
Melvin Mapple
I’d been way off with the Corn Belt: the suburbs of Baltimore, that was a lot harder. Baltimore: it’s not for nothing that the filmmaker John Waters, the king of trash, set all his films there. It was a city that looked like one ugly suburb. So a suburb of Baltimore, I hardly dared imagine what that might be like.
On September 11, 2001, poor Melvin Mapple must have come to realize his mistake. No, it was not a time of peace. He would pay dearly for his hunger.
Paris, February 26, 2009
Dear Melvin Mapple,
Thank you for your very interesting letter. I liked it very much, I feel like I am getting to know you. Don’t hesitate to tell me what comes next, or share other aspects of your life with me, as you like.
Best wishes,
Amélie Nothomb
Baghdad, March 2, 2009
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
In the army we make a little money. With my salary I’ve been buying books. By chance I read the first of yours to be translated into English, The Stranger Next Door. I was hooked. I got hold of all your books. It’s hard to explain, but your books speak to me.
If you knew me better you would understand. My health is deteriorating. I’m very tired.
Sincerely,
Melvin Mapple
This note worried me no end. I imagined all kinds of reasons to fall ill in Iraq: the toxic substances used by the military, the stress, perhaps a battle wound. But I’d already asked him to tell me about himself, so I couldn’t go begging him for more. Was it his health that was holding him back? I thought I sensed a reticence of another order. I did not know what would be the best approach to adopt and I didn’t reply. It was just as well. I received another letter:
Baghdad, March 5, 2009
Dear Amélie Nothomb,
I’m feeling a bit better, and have found the strength to write to you. Let me explain: I’m suffering from an illness that seems to be more and more common among the American troops in Iraq. Since the beginning of the conflict, the number of patients has doubled and is still growing. Under the Bush administration our pathology was kept hidden, because it was considered degrading for the image of the US Army. Since Obama, the newspapers have started talking about us, but ever so quietly. You’d be justified in assuming it’s some sort of venereal disease, but you’d be wrong.
I am obese. And not by nature. As a child and adolescent I was normal. As an adult I got really thin because I was poor. I enlisted in 1999 and very quickly I put on weight, but there was nothing shocking about it: I’d been famished, all skin and bones, and at last I had the chance to eat. In one year I reached my normal weight for a muscular soldier: one hundred and seventy-six pounds. And I stayed there without any effort until the war. In March, 2003, I was part of the first contingent sent to Iraq. The trouble started as soon as I got there. I saw my first combat, with rocket fire, tanks, bodies exploding next to me and the men I killed myself. I discovered the meaning of terror. There may be some brave people who can stand it, but I’m not one of them. S
ome people lose their appetite, but most of them, including me, have just the opposite reaction. You come back from battle in a state of shock, terrified, amazed that you’re alive, and the first thing you do after you change your pants (you’ll have soiled them for sure) is make a beeline for the food. To be more exact, you start off with a beer—beer is another thing for fatties. You guzzle down one or two cans and then you reach for something more solid. Hamburgers, fries, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apple pie, brownies, ice cream, all you can eat. So you eat. You wouldn’t believe how much you can eat. You go crazy. There’s something broken in us. It’s not exactly that we like eating in this way, we just can’t help it, we could kill ourselves eating, and maybe that’s what we want. In the beginning some of us threw up. I tried but I never managed. I wish I could have. You’re in pain, your belly is about to explode. You swear you’ll never do it again, it hurts too bad. Then the next day you have to go back into combat, the atrocities you have to deal with are even worse than the day before, you just can’t get used to it, you get these horrible stomach cramps and you’re shooting and running all the while, you just want the nightmare to end. The men who make it back are just empty. So you start with the beer and the food again, and your stomach gradually gets so huge that it doesn’t hurt anymore. The ones who were vomiting didn’t vomit anymore. We all started getting fat as pigs. Every week we had to ask for uniforms the next size up. It was embarrassing, but no one knew how to curb the tendency. And then you start thinking that it’s not your body anymore. It’s happening to someone else. All this food is getting shoved down someone else’s throat. The proof is that you notice it less and less. Which means you can shovel down more and more. It’s not pleasure you feel, but a horrible comfort.
Life Form Page 1