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Premise:
Like I said, SGR is chronologically the first of the three novellas I have placed under the “Deracinés“ umbrella [save for the fact that, as I have learned later to my great dismay,
the title has already been used and I will have to squeeze something else out of my little brain...]. However, it is not necessary to read it first in order to understand or follow the other two stories,
and this is the reason why I have placed it last in this section.
Apart from the sharing the same main characters, the common red thread uniting the three is the ambivalence of fantasy and reality (please note the tone-setting of the first quote from A. Bierce's The Devil's Dictionary) and the interconnecting and cross-sectioning of alternative plots. Whereas in “André” the text is broken down by a running-through poem, here the dividing theme is played by the comments and annotations of two screenwriters who are encharged with the task of turning the story into a film script. The purpose of these asides, as you may well gather, is to distance the reader from the main plot and take it with a light heart.
The samples I submit here to your attention are still in the earlier part of the story, but chopped off in such a manner as to give you a little taste of what the whole story would be.
Realism, n. The art of depicting nature as it is seen
by toads. The charm suffusing a landscape painted by a mole, or a story
written by a measuring worm. (A. Bierce, "The Devil's
Dictionary", p. 107)
Il pleure dans mon cœur
comme il pleut sur la ville.
"Here, let me
introduce you to a very good friend of mine. Jacques this is Madeleine, my
fiancée. Madeleine this is Jacques Laforêt, famous World Champion of
Formula 1. Jacques, Madeleine is a big fan of yours."
For that importune introduction, I should have hated Paul, who had accompanied his
presentation with a malicious smile. I had much to object to what he had
said: first of all, I didn't like the sound of ‘fiancée’; secondly, I was
no big fan of anyone, and least of all I did not appreciate it one bit being propagandized; and
thirdly, at that point, I had no intention whatsoever of being introduced to anyone at all.
Not being a lady myself, I wasn't in the mood nor in the condition most
appropriate for pointless arguing, making a fool of myself in front of
such celebrated people. Gracefully, meekly shake hands with young hero,
all dressed up and rather impressive looking.
Paul leaves me alone in
order to pursue his own social interests, I have to face the situation,
like it or not. Rather banal conversation ensues, centering on more or
less automotive issues. He asks me what I am doing in general, which
bothers me, and vaguely reply that I do what I want, including drinking.
Hypocritically he laughs, because he thinks I made a joke and makes a
blatant effort to sound interested in my blabberings. I would have
preferred him to be honest, come to the real purpose of our encounter and
cut off embarrassing conversation. Instead, I have to keep up a dialogue
which resembles more and more a monologue in monotone. We talk about what
he does during the off-season, how he became a racer, the wild opposition of
his old aristocratic family and other things about him.
· · ·
Foggy dreams I express interest in being introduced to the most prestigious pilot present in the room, and more effective than Aladdin's lamp, this innocent wish takes on the vigor of a command and am instantly introduced to Jacques Laforêt. Am not very impressed; in dreaming haze where my brain is floating now prevents me from realizing el tamano de la realidad, am therefore induced into thinking my interlocutor means nothing to me, like anyone else at this party; his drunken, casual appearance, the poverty of his clothes (strikingly opposed to party "theme") apparently suggest kinship to a sort of intelligentsia. Feel very sharp, very witty and with as great a command of the English language as I've ever had; for once I feel equal to my interlocutor. Forget it's not a dream, feel more daring in my speech than I have ever felt with a stranger; everything in our conversation is intense and simple at the same time; the way he talks, things we say, laughter we share, all seem so natural and familiar, as if I had known him for a long time. We both get so enwrapped in our private little talk I completely lose concept of time and we both show unwillingness to be interrupted by the few people left in the room where we have confined our talk and ourselves.
Maybe the fatigue originated by the character of a party I am hardly familiar with, maybe unsuspected qualities of conversational skills, or maybe thanks to intimate nature of our conversation, whatever the reason, he seems really entranced and oblivious (as much as I am) of surrounding confusion and fun, and we decide to escape from crowd and refuge ourselves in a smaller room, soon to take off again. This time we walk outside, we begin wandering aimlessly. Orphan moonless night endlessly black. Sense of obscurity. The tone and the scope of our talk shifted as soon as we left the party. Rhythm slown down considerably, we both fall into musing silence. Feeling of comfort and familiarity with my companion strengthened by physical and spiritual closeness, gradually replaced by ulterior motives; we have grown even closer, since we have noticed a link in sensibility and interests. Our conversation and our steps take us to the beach, where tired legs and heavy thoughts demand we sit down and rest our minds as well as our bodies.
Water is black and quiet, in rhythmically slow, relaxing motion. Behind us, sleepless city is being possessed by "bright lights" and "reckless activities". All socialites, jetsetters and whatnot are crammed in clubs, bars, cafes, or any possible party-like place. We are very much alone in our nonsocial little gathering by the sand. The night is so calm, only a little fresh breeze moves the thick air and refreshes our hot faces. We sit in silence.
"What are you thinking about?" Giggle mildly. "Something funny?" "Yes, you." Men, always asking same questions. "This is quite pleasant, you know?" "Indeed." Silence again. "So, you live in the U.S. of A." "Yes. At least for the time being." He looks at me with questions on his mind. So I answer them, reluctantly. "My first marriage brought me over there, and then... It's a long story, you don't really want to hear it." "I've got time." "Usual stereotypical housewife middle-age crisis. Betty Friedman would love me. I went through a terrible period until I found Paul, who put me back together. So, I never left, I never thought of that." "Have you ever been to Switzerland?" "A couple of times, when I was a child. My father always loved to travel, but I was too young to appreciate it. Why?" "Have you ever been on Lake of Geneva?" "It's possible, I don't remember." "I live there, you know? It's very nice, secluded, you'd like it there. See, I like to travel too, but you have to have a home somewhere. Geneva is a place like any other, only more similar to my temperament than the rest." "Why not France? You are French, aren't you?" "Certainement, ma petite." What a joker! I'm not amused. "I don't like the Swiss." "Come on, now! What's wrong with the Swiss?" "I guess you haven't noticed. I think they're fascist, they don't let women vote, they are xenophobic and only care for money. Otherwise, they're clean, even too clean." "I understand. But if you live in the French part, it's quite different. It's not the same in every part of Switzerland, you know. So, I feel pretty secluded at Yens, nobody bothers me, and I don't bother them. I don't speak German. Politically speaking, I don't give a damn about what they do."
To this I look at him reproachfully, so he adds: "I know, I should care, but look at my situation: how can I care? I hardly have time to spend with Jenny." Wife? Daughter? "I didn't know you were married. I'm sorry." "Sorry? What's there to be sorry about? Not for you, anyway. I'd rather not talk about it, it's a quite story, but not for publication, yet. All I care is racing. I love cars, I love to talk about cars, or get into the specifics of driving and engineering. Do you like to talk about cars? You're smart, I could talk with you about cars for hours, you understand. Not like those stupid assholes, all they care is autographs, right?"
Right. Can't refrain
from blushing. Admittedly autograph pretty much on my Grand Prix shopping
list, but opportunity never came up. Unexpected statement reminder of
something now has little importance to me, I have the original now next to
me. Manage to confuse blushing action with overall darkness which
envelopes us and, naturally, avoid answering rhetorical questions. Warm,
filled silence ensues. Rather confused, weird, and am tempted to make a
move (bad idea for a woman in my situation to make first move, very bad!).
Repress it, remain absent, motionless, and thoughtless for an imprecise
length of time. Am awakened from this sort of sleep by his taking my hand
and kissing it. Renewed blushing, once again disguised thanks to moonless
night. "You in love?"
Plagiarize, v. To take the thought or style of another
writer whom one has never, never read. (A. Bierce, ibid, p. 100)
· · ·
[Martin, as you can see, I haven't devised a title yet, do you have any suggestions? I'd like something musical, although I understand there is nothing musical about this story, even hardly harmonic, but I like to pretend I'm an intellectual. Or else, I would like some subtle reference to the work of M.P.: "In search for men past"? Kind of presumptuous... maybe "Men and days"? I give up! You figure it out, I'm tired. Augusta]
[A., no title is fine really, there is always time for it later.
Don't worry about this.
Actually, I kind of like the musical theme myself, something like...
variations on a theme? M.]
[Like this?]
[Sure. Anything you say...]
· · ·
The pompous scoundrel (and yet, how sexy he is!) goes on and on about himself which after a while becomes really boring subject. I start feeling sick almost to the point of gagging and desperately look for Paul with my eyes. I don't know if my interlocutor has noticed my indifference. His chin is virilly protruding as he speaks, his aquiline nose fishes in the air as if afraid of smelling ugly scents. Paul remains engulfed in the party, nowhere to be seen, I am stuck. Abruptly, Jacques asks me very personal question: am I serious? do I really find it useful to live with such an old relic? I assume the old relic is Paul and am displeased with the epithet. Weakly reply that yes, there's nothing wrong with the guy, he has done me loads of good and I love him a lot. Jacques attempts at providing unsolicited advice and at psychoanalyzing my situation (which I don't need). I'm fed up with his boorish act; before I realize what I'm saying, my lips release words of disdain, telling him to mind his own business, that I don't need a boring asshole with an attitude problem and ask him to leave me alone, please. This seems to disturb his self-image greatly.
· · ·
After endless sleepless night, ferocious headache salutes me; to such an alarm clock I have subscribed after every sexual sarrabande, but have not yet got accustomed to. I'm in his bed. He's still asleep. I'm left to myself to ponder and regret last night affairs. What will Paul have to say about this? Millions of answers come up to my mind, all very disturbing. Should I run out and wonder through holiday Paris? Should I run out and go to Paul kneeling? Should I go in the kitchen and make coffee? Should I go into living room and get myself a drink? What have I done? Boy, my head hurts! Look at clock on other side of bed: it's 12. My stomach has decided to join my head in the hurt department. I look at Jacques. No, he's still quite handsome, now that he's asleep and harmless, he has gained a certain innocent hue. I would like to wake him up. I'd like to melt my pain and confusion in his arms. I touch him lightly; he jerks around in bed. Not appealing.
Go to bathroom. On way back to bedroom change my mind and perlustrate flat. It's really a nice place, but a bit too modern, cold, artificial, kind of place that you keep up for visitors. Find liquor cabinet in living room and feel very tempted to pour some magic fluid for me. Am afraid he might not like that, but I don't care; he brought me here. Change my mind. In kitchen find stale coffee, heat it up and gulp it down fast, burn my tongue. Smoke a cigarette and wait; smoke another one and wait. How long should I wait? Should I wake him up? No. After an hour of sitting and waiting, make up my mind to wash up. Always better wash yourself if you feel dirty inside. It won't wash out your sins, but it'll improve the mood considerably. In bathroom shower tempts me and I proceed in that direction.
sour g-rapes - part i
© 1999-2005 marina pianu, italy | narrative ::
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