Bits and pieces from my scrapbook

Day One

My marriage had failed for my inability to deal with the constraints that it logically comports, therefore my relationship with Paul was not bound to go much better. I have no complaints. Paul has been fair to me and loving all the time, and he's also been the lover I had always visualized in my wildest dreams, at night, of high depression. But things usually, in real life, don't turn out quite the way we had envisioned them, soon same pattern repeated itself. I realized the cause of all my failures lied in me. Very conveniently I had been blaming Peter and later Paul for faults only I could be blamed for, as my own sterility for lack of purpose in marriage, my own jalousy, for making Peter's life impossible. I had feared his overpowering control over me, and felt very much like at the times when I was still looking for Marco, a fictional fictitious male brother figure (parallel to my escaping from fictitiuos mean sister Mina). Marco did, in fact, appear, but only shortly, nothing happened. Paul, however, came on the scene and supplied plenty of that brotherly image to my deserted ego and I like a butterfly grabbed the opportunity to avoid troubles.A couple of years of "successful" marriage, spent mostly in passive existence, taking refuge into frentic reading, day-dreaming, hyper-active work, until we moved to the West Coast. I had a revelation and ran away. I wanted to pursue freedom, love and happiness. I barely knew what I wanted: men, comfort, money, no ties, everything I didn't have then. I realize that's hardly a goal in life, but considering the mental confusion I found myself in those days, I couldn't be less vague. What followed my escapade is hardly pelasant to recollect. Wondering life, alcohol, bars, hitch-iking, occasional roles in little provincial theaters, a couple of pornographic reportages; my depression was tainting everything with bleak undertones. I got into drugs from the back-door, letting them use me rather than the other way around. I wanted to forget, to harm myself, firmly believing that touching the bottom always makes you got straight up. I attempted suicide and failed. Death was not the solution, anyway, but the thought of it was a relief. In my sickness I had become quite bold and, at least sexually, I fulfilled my whims beyond expectation, reaching the bottom. My targets were men without a future, men without a present, possibly drunkards, pseudo-artistes, petty criminals. Losers were my favorite, losers I wanted and losers wanted me.

Day Two

In fact, we spend quite a long time talking about my unfortunate sex life, which is out of theme with the overall worry over Marcel. Speaking of the devil, he makes silent but equally shocking entrance in the otherwise empty cafáŽá. "Oh, there you are, we were worried sick over you! Where have you been?" He smoothly reaches the counter and sits away from Pierre and me. Hesitant, I get close to him and sit. I deposit my hand over his arm. "You all right?" Obviously he's not, and for an answer he gives a hiss. Somehow I feel guilty and look at Pierre, requesting succurse. Pierre comes to sit on the other side of Marcel and starts talking to him. This evidently annoys him. Georges, Pierre and I combined form a wonderful interrogative trinity mark.

He finally addresses me a confrontational look. "Bitch!" Am astounded. "Oh, come on, Marcel. What's the matter with you. Don't take it up on her!" "You leave me alone, OK?" "OK, but we are your friends, you know." "Oh, yes, really good, I'm very lucky. . .sometimes I wonder." I feel very sad and anxious and need to talk to him. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" He sneers, sarcastic. "Why, don't you know?" Georges, mute up 'til now, decides, unfortunately, to intervene. "Look, you don't come to my bar and insult my friends. You don't like it here, you can leave." I should be grateful, but I feel this is not very diplomatic. "I was looking for you, because I was worried, like an idiot, but you seem all right. You're hardly desperate at all, I see." "I shouldn't be? Can you tell me what's the matter with you?" He looks away, toward Pierre, who understands less and less. He breaks into a loud laughter, very rare for Marcel, and we all take a loose breath. "What the hell!" Pierre, Georges and I laugh hysterically like dummies, parroting Marcel, laughing because we don't know why we laugh. Pierre resumes his serious straight face.

"Why are we laughing?" "Beats me." "Because Marcel's laughing." "What a joke!" "What, Marcel?" "Bah, never mind. It's history now. I need to cool out, serve me some beer, Georges." Tension still hangs over the air, but it's out of uncertainty and ignorance.Now I start feeling rather agitated. "What?" "Well, someone had come to see him this morning, telling him... well, that you had got him drunk, seduced him and finally robbed him of a platinum cigarette case and that this guy, hm, I believe it was a certain Jacques, right Georges?" "Well, he said that he was going to keep his mouth shut with the flicks if Marcel did him a favour." "What? This is incredible! I didn't steal anything to anybody." "That's what Marcel told him, that he didn't believe a word he said, but this guy insisted on going to the police if Marcel didn't recover his 'precious' from you." "How could Marcel believe a guy like that? I know him, I did in fact sleep with him, but I was drunk and he definitely seduced me. I even went to Marcel the next morning to find some comfort. He knows that." "Well, apparently the object turned out in Marcel's flat." "Well? No harm done, right?" "Not really. True, this Jacques has promised to forget the whole matter, but in the meantime he apparently told Marcel a lot of things about you." "Like what?" "I don't know, but it sure was something that made him very mad at you." "And so he's mad at me?" "I didn't know the real you. We must talk, come upstairs with me."

Submissively follow him, feeling a huge burden over my shoulders. Look back and the duo left at the counter and perceive all their support.We enter his attic and feel very awkward, sense of doom. "Sit down." I sit. On the bed. "No, sir, not on the bed. There, on that chair." He starts pacing nervously up and down the room. I'm awaiting the trial. "I saw Jacques la Foret this morning." "I know." "Good. You didn't know he's my brother, did you?" Another ton has been dropped on my shoulders. I breathe a faint "no." "I suppose you also didn't know he's married and has two children." No, I didn't even know that. What else am I going to learn? "Nor that he has helped me all along and that he's the only member of the family who hasn't shut the door in front of me, did you know that?" "How was I supposed to know? I told you how it happened." "No, you didn't. You told me that a brute had raped you; no, I'm sorry, that you had let him make love to you and that it was very traumatic for you." Swollow some goop. "So?" Rage is violently tranforming my usual sweet Marcel into the fury I only scarsely met during our friendship.I'm beginning to feel scared. What is he getting at? What is my fault? What do I care that Jacques is his brother? I should feel sorry for Marcel. But why is he so angry at me? I don't dare to ask. I limit to give him my innocent, victim look. He doesn't soften up. "You pestered him, you seduced him, you followed him on the street, you insulted him, and finally, oh I hate you, you blackmailed him. I'm ashamed for you." Apalled, amazed, stunned, I cannot believe what he has just told me.

"I... I didn't do that! I didn't follow him, I ..." "You what? You didn't go yesterday at his place and check up on him and ask him for money? Ha?" Right, the Proust apartment. "I wanted to see the apartment where Proust had lived, I just was curious. I didn't know he lived there." "Liar! He had received you before, on that night, in that very apartment, can you deny that?" "I was drunk, I didn't remember. I told you, I had no idea..." "Then why did you ask him for money, in exchange for your silence with his wife?" "I didn't, I didn't!" My conviction seems to soothe him. Doubts starts running through his head."Why can't you believe me? I am sorry he's your brother, and I'm sorry he's married. He certainly did not tell me that, for what it could matter.... I don't think too high of him, that is true, but, believe me, what you think of me is false." He remains silent. And I feel like crying. Here I am, sitting on this wooden chair, sobbing like a child, and I know he's still looking at me, like a judge. I wouldn't care so much if he were someone else. I cannot stand his losing confidence in me. He's all I got. "I believe you, but he's my brother and he's always been good and truthful to me." I'm still mopping my eyes with tears.

He bends toward me and tries to look at me in the eyes. "I'm sorry I've been so angry at you. But it hurts, you know, it hurts when the person you think you trust the most lies to you." I make a vague hint of protest and he retrieves his words. "I know, I know, you didn't, but put yourself in my position, my choice is between trusting you and him. I'll have to talk to Jacques. Truce?" I nod between sobs. "Occasionally. I can't really, I have to make sure that my reflexes aren't in any way affected. Mostly alcohol and dope, when I want to cool out. Some drugs don't react very well with me." "Yes, I know what you're talking about. We call it the "friendly coke". Some of my friends would do it every day. After a while, however, I couldn't deal with the situations that it inevitably created. Sure, the feelings are good, but after a couple of days they're gone, and if you've got close to someone while the effects were still strong, afterwards you're in for a disappointment. It's a delusion, that's what it is."

Fidelity, n. A virtue peculiar sensual nature. He tries to to those who are about to be betrayed. (A. Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary, p. 42)

jealousy Marc fictitious Marc frantic pleasant hiking look at Pierre, requesting succorg the trial.
"I saw Jacques Laf Swallow transforming scarcely Appalled

XVII

"So you don't like it? I'm sorry to hear that." "No big deal. I can live without it. What drugs do you use?" "Well, it's a long story. I used to smoke dope, and nothing else. But, then, well, when I was alone, I started doing heroine, too much, and I got a bit addicted." "Well, no addiction works with me. You know, it's all in here (and I point to my temple). You either use drugs (and that applies to alcohol as well) or they use you. I used heroine. As things got better, for me, I went back to dear, good old pot, and the addiction was gone. No hospitalization, no long treatment, just myself." "Sounds good. Not everybody is that lucky, you know." "I don't know and I don't care. My life and my well-being only count.""Oh, good to know." (this last utterance makes me conclude that I went too far in the selfishness department, and desume that he's not that selfish after all, which I like)

Reluctantly I take seat in front of wheel. He's sitting next to me, quiet, self assured. I confront the board, which antagonizes me and challenges me with its extraneity, then given an interrogative look at Alain. Encouragingly he smiles back at me."Nothing to worry, right? You can only live once; you cannot prolong your span of life, but you can certainly make it more intense. Drive, fast." Slowly, each step emerges from oblivion and I start the car. The recollection of the mechanical steps engenders renewed feeling of power and independence that used to overcome me in my early years. Actually, I think I'm doing mighty fine and wish my companion would appreciate my skill aloud. But unsolicited praise comes not. Instead, he chats, occasionally urges me to go faster (which I enthusiastically do), asks me questions on more private, touchy issues (which I'd rather avoid), while giving me instructions as to the route to take.

On second thoughts, I don't want to venture any further, and park the car in a little deserted terrace by the sea. Don't get off. "Nice little spot you got here! Tired of driving?" Should feel offended at this remark, as I am not tired, and I don't particularly like the spot. But present emotional state of mind urges me to get right to the point, and not waste time in any subtleties. Don't be so hard on yourself. Marcel knows you well, he knows what kind of a person you are, and obviously he accepts it." "I'm afraid not. I think it hurts him to see me sleep around so much. Maybe that's why he's got into his mind to become my lover." "Well, can you refrain yourself from doing that? Can you resist for the love of Marcel?" "I don't know, Georges. I broke a marriage for that, and even with Paul I ended up ruining everything for that also. Good thing too, that Paul is so understanding and has developed a life of his own. We leave each other alone now, we just share the place and confidences if we need to. But I'm afraid I'd kill him." "Nobody kills Marcel. You might hurt him, but he's stronger than you think. Believe me. I've known him for a long time, before you even came here. Paul not in(n). Go to the bathroom; still no trace of R's body. Look at myself in the mirror. I expect to see the reflection of a more-afflicted-than-usual yellowish, wrinkly face, but, as it turns out, I surprisingly notice a radiant face smiling back at me. Refuse to believe any relation between myself and the lively face portrayed in the mirror, nor do I attempt to feel guilty toward Paul, I'm too tired. Not even a promise to meet again in the future, in any city, town or country fate would assign to us, was exchanged and console myself with a good night sleep.

the remains of my scattered self

[Martin, I really like this expression, but I don't know where to fit it.]

[Then it is settled, right? Men: Variations on a Theme... but I don't like it at all. "musical lovers" would get him really upset; remember what happened to Proust? do try again. "sour g-rapes or the city of men" Fellini would have some complaints, I can hear him already. Oh I give up.]

Proof-reader, n. A malefactor who atones for making your writing nonsense by permitting the compositor to make it unintelligible. (A. Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary)

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