Trio (10 page)

Talking about my late wife, him talking about his, I realized right away that she would be a good housewife, do you know how to judge a woman you’ve got your eye on, give her some cheese to eat, if she leaves the rind she’s a spendthrift, if she eats it she’s a skinflint, but if she scrapes it she’ll make a good wife, yes, these things and their consequences, sorry to come back to them, they’re enough to drive you mad, to kill you, repeat, I am dead.

To emerge from less than nothing.

Traces of effacement.

Then my route along side-alley number seven hundred and seventy-seven, no less difficult, no less slow, with its zigzags and occasional obstacles, which were only monuments, swards, piles of dug-up earth, bushes, pots of flowers either botanic, plastic or ceramic, which were only the monuments of mould and muck that misfortune accumulates in a feeble head at a turning point as they call it of life, with age and the regression of desire battered by the tempest of the great forgotten myths, evil suddenly regains all its force and leaves you defenseless in the jaws of the ogress, humanity triumphant, the Mother Ubu of nightmare.

Papers.

Take a hair of the night that bit you.

A great deal of distance, a great deal of height.

The gravediggers had come to make a clean sweep, to clear all the bones out of the old tombs, the out-of-date concessions, they spat on their hands, dug, and found the remains of skulls and tibias, poor children collected them in shoe boxes, cleaned them up in the stream and went and sold them for a couple of sous to medical students in the town.

They discovered a rabbit’s bone in a sepulcher.

Surging back, the old myths, cockchafers of despair.

I knew your mother well, she said, but she had got the wrong generation, all the calculations had to be made again, the lateral branch, the child of the child of the child of, second, third, fourth, n
th
, the whole repeated, harped on, drawn out, joggled from one age to the other and then forgotten, to leave room for
 
…
 

Nightmare papers.

In that limp, nauseating darkness, it seemed to me that a decision had been taken, but by whom, that I should elect as my domicile an abandoned vault, its grille open and its paving still more or less stable, I installed my backside on the little greenish altar and I said, this is where I’m going to recover my wits, there was a slate on the ground, maybe left there by a gardener, a slate and a bit of chalk so I could make notes, but what is it like, this new time that I’ve mentioned, apart from being cut off, fragmentary and furtive, that has this very night come to replace former time like a big, fully-blown flower instead of the expected daisies, and which may be premonitory of eternity, what is it like.

Installed in my vault with my slate within reach, it’s mild and humid, I only go out at night.

Do you believe in that absurd old wives’ tale.

…
 
then forgotten, to leave room for the outside world, let’s call it a window open onto the world, as they say, but the illusion was in keeping, an imaginary landscape imposed itself and contracted from one speech to the next, no more open, no less secret than this room sealed off from every gaze, it was here that it started and restarted, never begun, never finished, listen, yes, the story, was it that of a father or of a son, listen, long speech in which the words of a father and those of a son alternated, those of the son being muddled up, intercepted, or intermingled here, even before this place was discovered, this place from the beginning of the murmur, an illocalizable whisper, voices from all around at first, and then here, without appeal, those who had chosen it remain in it unscathed, the voices went on speaking here, a few words exchanged among themselves, all this time the same, the unique web of their lives, the jabbering Parca span dismal or cheerful days according to whether a word here or there was said or not, the vocabulary or grammar of the being, at such and such a page a time to love, at another page a time to yield up your place, one word rather than another would make them last for all eternity.

This room sealed off from every gaze.

The life to come, it conditions, it contorts, it confuses, it’s just life.

While the other was going back up to his room and once again immersing himself in old papers, old newspapers, old dossiers, and making notes, the obituary columns in the place of honor, the list of the deceased is getting longer.

The local paper followed on with a great many hypotheses, amongst them that of the death of the gentleman as a result of choking on the bone in question, that relating to the practices of sorcery and to the superstitions of the time which apparently attributed a certain power to the rabbit bone, that relating to the attachment the dead man had felt toward the rodent buried with him, after the example of pagan customs, that relating to a tame rabbit that tunneled its way into the said tomb where it apparently died of exhaustion or myxomatosis.

While the other goes on his way, carrying, dangling from a string, a parcel containing his bones, as he walks he reads a leaflet advertising copper or copiers, you can’t read very well, comes to a dried-up well, sits down on its rim and unpacks his bones which he starts sucking to stave off the thirst that is torturing him.

Wait in this vault for the manifestations of a new life, not despise the little consolations of the former one, you never know, to reject them would be totally out of place since in fact reminiscences are making demands on me.

A probable observer, weary of probabilities, perched up in a tree, sees things I cannot discern from my refuge, things are happening outside my range of vision, the slate records them through some phenomenon which is beyond my scope.

The slate, always come back to that.

The voice on the slate which is becoming effaced.

The jabbering Parca.

That’s how I know that some sort of action is taking place in the cemetery, controlled, like a ballet or a drama, by an invisible manitou, characters are moving around, I can hear orders being given, hear, that’s saying a lot, orders, too, murmurs sensed like vibrations under the skin which coincide with this or that movement of the bodies, or should I say shadowy figures, in this darkness spreading like a patch of oil, the eye gradually becomes accustomed to it.

A gray slug crawls along the stone and disappears down a hole.

Its underground journey.

Irruption of slugs-hyenas making their way down to the depths of the tombs, at dawn they come back up to the surface, sated and slobbering, then go off to the lettuces in a nearby kitchen garden.

Illocalizable.

Or go over to the well, listen to the sound rising from its depths, a murmur, a whisper, go up, lean over, hands gripping the rim, an equally indistinct murmur would seem to be coming from the well, from the surrounding meadow and from the elm wood, but only audible at a point determined by the intersection of a straight line starting at the wood and going off in the direction of the hamlet, and of another starting at the corner of a farm building and leading to the forest, intersection, the well
 
…
 

Lost, the key of the, the key of, lost, something at this place, you remember, an accident, you remember, repeating more distinctly the key, an effort toward an effort, tension, it’s necessary, it was, it was there for a long time, listen, here, a long time ago, a certain thing, or, no, it was a pledge, or a prayer, or a speech, yes, a long speech, you remember, forgetfulness or loss, or what, judgement lost, judgement, a story about what, listen, lean over, no, it doesn’t speak, the well doesn’t speak, but this precise place, this very intersection, stay here, never give up, never leave this place, beyond it there is nothing, it was here that it started and restarted, never begun, never finished.

Repeat, I am dead.

Take a hair of the night that bit you.

This room sealed off from every gaze.

It sometimes happens that the observer sees nothing, but the slate goes on recording.

The altar-bench that is freezing my backside, on my left a cast-iron vase and a little iron candlestick, on my right an antimony crucifix and the mildewy remains of a holy image.

These slugs after all are the kind that are at home in cellars and underground passages, try not to think of them anymore or even to see them as edible creatures.

On the slate, all the time, the afterlife, eternity, light, entries crossed out and then effaced, but they come back.

The relief of no longer being the sole master of one’s text.

The absurd amusement of establishing the definitive destination of the present lucubrations, the little mandarin games must make me laugh somewhere now, from now on my simple obsessions will be written for the benefit of simple souls.

Say everything again, for fear of having said nothing.

Went back up to his room and reimmersed himself in his work, what, actually, an essay, memoir, or diary full of reflections and unpleasant memories.

The soul, that vagrant wind.

Or another room, there have been several, whether hazy or crystallized, in the last room certain elements, even though inassimilable, recompose of their own accord a different place which stimulates dreams, during the time it takes to transcribe a phrase.

Calm reestablished, take stock of the unbearable situations within which he had to struggle, whereas he had hoped they would be his salvation.

A character in the drama is monologuing indefatigably, I try vainly to listen, he must be with the actors not far from the side-alley in the space where the family tombs form a little island of suffering.

The ceiling of the vault which must formerly have been made of stones in the shape of an arch must have been damaged, seeing that it has been replaced by large flat bricks joined to the cement without any mortar.

This imposition, invincible fatigue.

Ask oneself in what wretched, nauseating depths the germs of duty survive, the duty of pursuing the inventory of what is offered to the senses and springs from memory, to call that imagination would be to insult poetry.

My exit into the darkness of night, but which night, not that permanent night whose name may not be pronounced, a remote reference to nocturnal states for the histrion looking for the vague melancholy of the soul, profound, indiscernible darkness of the being and of love, in that case I should have made a theatrical exit, a false exit, I must put up with it, call on whatever signs may make it acceptable, even so there is an opening onto something, one can’t deceive oneself with impunity, for the imposition was there at the outset, make punishment the basis of one’s only chance of salvation.

As for those illocalizable people or rustling sounds, voices from all around, from before, from tonight, from after, a pointless distinction, I am their effacement, their spokesman, effacement, write the word again, unaware of what it means for the other people whom my solitude revels in.

That voice on the slate which is becoming effaced.

The former paths reascend up to the same points, the difficulty of keeping silent, the recollection of special moments when everything seemed possible without the aid of any other presence, but the myth is taking hold again, words no longer suffice to disconcert logic, the mouths that pronounce them find a face again, you fall back into primitive fable-making, this story for incorrigible babes in arms.

Other images ad libitum found in the master’s papers, the abandoned cemetery is now no more than a jungle in which you clear your way with a machete, a thick, bushy curtain of dense lianas, inextricable, populated by snakes and predators.

They penetrate into the jungle and lose their way, darkness overtakes them, they camp where they are, they organize a meal, a flayed animal is roasting on a spit, some of these unfortunates cry vengeance, raising their fists, they can hear the muted sound of a military march scrambled by radio atmospherics and by the buzzing of enormous mosquitoes.

The mosquito hunt, then the meal around the fire, all of them pulling bits off the roast, arguments arise, but they had children with them whom they had left to amuse themselves among the flowers, suddenly shrieks from a mother who sees her child being carried off by a predator, more abductions follow, and more shrieks.

A missing link.

Calm again gradually, the mothers bathed in tears, you can see them with their mouths full asking for more roast lamb.

Songs of praise offstage from the sated vultures on the treetops.

Desert of stones under a torrid sun.

Then the whole cemetery is perched on a mountaintop, precariously balanced, gusts of wind tip it over to right and left, and then hurl it headlong down into the abyss.

Traces of effacement.

Go over to the well and listen.

A cold early morning in October, very bored in my tomb, sleep having deserted me for hours and my rosary between my fingers no longer commanding my attention, all of a sudden another decision has been taken to get myself out, right away I’m through the grille. I hesitate before starting down the side-alley again, pains in my knees, legs like jelly, I sit down on a nearby sepulcher on which when it gets light I make out, engraved in noble letters, the name of the deceased, Alexandre Mortin.

A brief thought for the unknown man, feeble reflections on the vanity of belle-lettrist inscriptions and the like, I was going to take up my rosary again out of indolence when at the intersection, quite a way from the side-alley and from alley number nine hundred and ninety-nine, I think I can spot someone, I only have to wait, and not in vain, the character takes shape, it’s a young man carrying a pot of chrysanthemums, unexpected luck, the day of the dead is approaching, this boy has come to put flowers on a grave before the November rush.

He had the pale complexion of an aristocrat racked by remorse, a characteristic that isn’t so common, my horror of the vulgar was thereby spared, luck had smiled on me, it could have been anyone coming up with chrysanthemums, I said to him young man, let’s not beat about the bush, sit down there and open your heart to me, as you would have to the dead person whose grave you have come to put flowers on, it’s so easy in the early morning, and in these circumstances I am full of all the indulgence, pity and softening that could be desired.