Planus (14 page)

Seventh Deadly Sin,: PRIDE (
Superbia
). A thoroughbred stallion running free, jumping hedges, rearing, lashing out with his hoofs, whinnying in the pasture, taking off at a gallop with long, supple and graceful strides, his mane flying in the wind, then rolling on his belly with his hoofs drumming the ground. I had my work cut out with that animal, a champion trained in secret, but Dufort, Roux and old Rimbaud, the trainer, jockey and stable-lad, had even more trouble. They were three proud men from the Ardennes, who, imagining the stable colours already blazing with glory, in their pride drank up the money for the horse's oats, ran up debts in the local shops, raped the village girls and, swaggering and aggressive, brought the police down on my head — and all this in honour of the boss, who, alas, was me! I went back to Paris in my 100 h.p. car with empty pockets.

Today, I no longer own anything and no longer want possessions, except for my pen, and all that makes me laugh, for at that time I owned a horse and a 100 h.p. car. But there's nothing to be done about it: the 100 h.p. still races from time to time through my sentences and the stallion gallops into my vocabulary. I should have realized. Pride and vanity. Ah, damn it! How hard it is!

And MELANCHOLY (
Tristitia
). The eighth Deadly Sin, and the only mortal one, for which there is no remedy but prayer, according to St Cassien, who analyses melancholy; but no one in the whole world knows how to pray any more since June 1940, when France, eldest daughter of the Church, gave way to despair.

I have not been touched by grace. ... I have never known how

to pray__ BLACK-OUT . . . NACHT UND NEBEL . . . THE

IRON CURTAIN . . . BIKINI. ... It is a prayer in reverse, a secular litany. We are entering a total eclipse. . . . Youth dies of asphyxiation. . . . Dead of night . . . congestion through lack of light.... REVOLUTION OR AMEN....

But it is not true. Life is not a dilemma, it is a gratuitous act. And action is liberating. That is why God is the Creator. His breath is life-giving. It is an escape.

Ah, live then, live! No matter what may come! Have no remorse, for you are not the Judge.

(During the years of the occupation, there were only novices at the monastery, I used to watch them skipping, hampered by their white robes, and listen to them laughing like young girls, in the cloisters of Saint-Maximin. Later, they immersed themselves in prayer, so as not to fall into melancholy.

Their Father Superior organized the maquis and was chaplain of the French Forces of the Interior, and we worried about him when he was taken across the border. But he came back, even from prison, full of joy. He had just discovered the young communists. 'The lads,' he said, 'the grand little lads !'

One evening, as I was digging in my garden, high up in the environs of Aix, I saw the Jerries marching past, in columns of five, on the old road to Tholonet. Their rhythmic steps and their singing to order, a kind of aggressive hymn, reached my ears. Poor fools, they did not know that right here, in this valley of Provence, among her fields, her vineyards, her olive-groves on the borders of the Arc, the great Teuton horde was massacred, and the first German invasion halted by Marius at the foot of Sainte-Victoire, the bald mountain, the mountain of Paul Cezanne. On the horizon shone the Sainte-Baume, Mary Magdalen's mountain, and, behind it, the peak of Mount Cassien, one of the holy places of Christianity, enclosing these secluded valleys.
Messieurs les Nazis, you are cramming yourselves into an impasse. There is no way out. You will die
! And I went back to my digging and sowing and watering. And I went and uncorked a bottle of Jase de Bouffant, for old Cezanne, yes, the painter, also used to make his own wine. And suddenly I felt light- hearted. I went to call a neighbour who was hoeing his asparagus or tying up his tomatoes, and who, like me, had a son who was a prisoner of war.

'Did you see, old man? Now they're done for!' I said.

And I filled two glasses.

'It's good,' said the man, raising his glass to make the golden wine sparkle in the evening sun, which was setting fire to the grandiose landscape.

But he did not understand my sudden gaiety and asked me: 'Have you had news of your sons?'

'No,' I replied, 'but never mind. I know now that
they
are done for.'

The German column had been swallowed up in the dust, we could no longer hear the tramp of their boots and, in the distance, their singing quavered like the bleating of a flock of sheep going to the slaughterhouse.

And I rejoiced.

The three holy ridges drew like a magnet all the concentrated fire of the sunset.

Night was falling swiftly.

It was all like a vision. The winking of an eye. But my heart was eased for the first time since June 1940, which had left me stunned.)

It was the dead of night. A fair wind was blowing. Standing at the wheel while the ship's boy dozed, I had a novel sensation, a mixture of fear and pride in the responsibility I had undertaken in face of the unknown : my eyes were not big enough to scan the darkness. One's eyes are devoured by the darkness, and the desire to penetrate the black night in anticipation of an ever-possible collision is so strong that one has visions; ghostly sails appear to port and starboard, the lights of a cargo-boat bear directly down upon you, a brilliantly lit packet-boat passes you on opposite tack, close enough to graze you, and if you raise your eyes to the sky, not so much to find your hearings as to shake off the nocturnal phantoms and beguiling apparitions, it is like sticking your head into an ant-heap, so teeming and sparkling are the stars. Add to all this other illusions : the sporting of a sea monster in your wake, and, when the moon rises, the enchantment, the mystery of moonlight, her deceptive brilliance and the tricks of the fog rising off the water and vanishing in spirals. The breeze murmurs half-aloud, the sails whisper, the rigging whistles in the wind when the sea is choppy, the ship throbs like a heavy heart. What anguish! Panic! Then I nudged the ship's boy, who woke up with a start, afraid that it was his uncle, whom he knew to be jealous, and the boy started telling me about his homesickness for his
marina,
his native village clinging to the steep cliffs of the island, and the agile kids browsing on the meagre grass while the leader of the herd, followed by brown billy-goats with their menacing horns and sonorous bells, circled perpetually in search of food among the rocks on the minuscule farm where his mother was busy with domestic chores and his little sister, in a full skirt of light blue cloth, edged with brilliant colours, and an embroidered
caraco,
took his place now and followed the herd of goats, loitering to gulp down ripe figs, as he used to, from the rows of ancient, stunted trees which held up terrace after terrace of crumbling walls.

'Why did you leave it all?'

'Oh, Lord, it was the Barbary organ playing every Sunday at the fishermen's inn in the port that turned my head and made me embark with my uncle.'

'And your father?'

'My father is dead.'

But the boy was dropping with sleep. He put his head on my shoulder, or curled himself up by my side, or stretched out on the thwart with his head on my left thigh.

'. . . Sometimes you meet a
papa
, a monk, on the paths in the morning, with his hands folded into his wide sleeves, lost in his meditations, but he never fails to return your greeting, bowing his head and saying a melodious
"Kallimera paysan!"
(that means "Good morning"), or wishing you a good evening. ..

'Kallinecta,
Mademoiselle !' I said.

The boy smiled, well and truly asleep.

Once the visions have faded, your anxiety and panic are stilled, and that anguish which gives birth to the immeasurable depths of the night itself within your innermost being is appeased, how good it is to stand at the wheel of a ship and go back as far as possible into the memories of tender infancy and discover there the intermittent gleam of awareness that palpitates like a lost

star, winking and perhaps sending you a message. But what is it?

Once, I published a poem,
Le Ventre de Ma Mere
, in which I described my first earthly dwelling-place and did my utmost to describe precisely how, as a result of an external sensation which was always the same and frequently repeated, the first spark of my consciousness flashed into life. I was still a foetus. Women were scandalized by this poem. It had not been my intention to shock anyone, I had simply tried to pinpoint this external sensation which was always the same, due to the repeated thrusts of my father's member, and which shook my skull loose, since the sutures were not yet closed, touched my brain and produced such a disagreeable sensation that I eventually interiorized it and became conscious of it, so much so that I remembered it later and was able to express it in poetry. There is nothing scandalous about it. This poem is the only evidence known to date of the activity of consciousness in a foetus, or, at the very least, of a glimmering of prenatal consciousness.

May I draw the conclusion that, as with sun-spots, the deeply buried memory is a fringe that gnaws the grey matter, but bears witness to an internal fire, igniting and blazing and fusing with tremendous energy?

If this is so, then all thought belongs to the night.

Generally, Papadakis put in his appearance two or three hours before dawn, gave the wheel a turn, brought the ship about towards the land, took his bearings from a point, a lighthouse, the mass of a distant mountain, gave the wheel another shove, hugged the wind an,d turned out to the open sea again, due north.

I was surprised that we were keeping on this course. It would lead us straight into the lion's den, to Genoa. But I said nothing. The skipper was not chatty. He hardly ever addressed a word to me, and when he fancied taking over the midnight watch, after waking the ship's boy with a slap and sending him forrard to sleep, we would remain side by side for hours without a word, Papadakis plunged in some solemn meditation of his own, emerging now and then to go and spit into the sea, and I, wrapped in a poncho I had fashioned for myself by cutting a round hole in a square of sailcloth and thrusting my head through it — for the humidity is penetrating at night — smoking cigarette after cigarette.

I was even beginning to distrust the skipper, who must have been brooding over the incident which had set us at loggerheads on the first day and which he must now consider as an affront. I was half expecting the Greek to take his revenge. On reflection, I had to admit I had sorely tried his authority and self-respect as master of the ship, and for whom, ye Gods? A lousy dog of a Bulgar! As for

the latter, he snored away every night beside his barrel, his face turned to the stars, the skin of his belly marbled by the shadow of the rigging, and, right in the middle of his face, a sort of black hole which was the shadow cast by the truck of the mast. How loathsome he was!

Once Papadakis, who had lost the gift of the gab he had displayed at Pozzuoli when he had persuaded me to embark, said to me suddenly : 'Hey man! You were very pleased to meet me and come aboard my ship. It saved your skin for you, didn't it? I dare say you'd been up to no good, eh?'

'Why, Papadakis? You're the one who should congratulate yourself on having me aboard, a trustworthy man. Isn't that true?'

'It's true enough,' said Papadakis, spitting overboard, 'but . . .'

'But what?'

'Nothing,' said the skipper.

On another occasion it was I who questioned him: 'I don't understand. Why are we making straight for Genoa? I thought you were carrying contraband, Papadakis.'

'Hey, man ! I told you to mind your own bloody business,' replied the Greek, turning his back on me.

Then, after spitting into the sea, he turned round again to explain : 'Now that they're building modern ports, which cover a vast area, the Customs officials keep the contraband for themselves. The days of deserted beaches and secret landings are over. Nowadays we disembark right amongst the administration offices, and we share the proceeds. You understand?'

'Ah, good!' I said.

But I was not convinced. The skipper seemed too simple for that.

Another night Papadakis asked me: 'Was he rich, your grandfather?'

'Why do you ask?'

'He must have been rich to buy you a boat.'

'Ah! My lugger, the Albatross? Yes, grandfather was a millionaire.'

'But why did he buy you a boat? Was he a sailor, then,?'

'You5 re joking. Grandfather was a passionate horseman, he never set foot on a boat. But he doted on me, my wish was his command, and I had told him I wanted a boat.'

'A lugger?'

'What do you think! A mechanical toy I had seen in a shop- window and was pining for. But grandfather adored me and he was proud of me, so he had the Albatross built for me.'

'A real boat?'

'A real boat, Papadakis, and a beauty! Not bad, eh, to be

captain of your own ship at ten years old? Grandfather was the only man I ever loved.'

'But I don't understand. Why did he give you this boat?'

'Why? Because Grandfather was not a man to do things by halves. Let me explain. Grandfather died at the age of 116, and his wife, six months later, at 101. They had had seven sons and three daughters. Apart from Aunt Claire, who lived with her parents, all of them married and had families, so on the day of Grandfather's death, there were eighty-two of us at his table, all children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and the old man died with a glass in his hand. We were having a big family reunion, I forget what the occasion was now, and, at the end of the meal, Grandfather ordered champagne to be served, stood up, said a few words, raised his glass to toast Grandmother, then sat back in his armchair. Suddenly, someone said: 'Sssssh! Grandfather's asleep. . . .' As he sometimes dozed off after meals, the children were sent out, but Grandfather was not asleep, he was dead. He had never been ill in his life. He was a gay spark. The only rifle-shot fired in the revolution of 1848 was fired by him, at the Prussians, who were fleeing from the principality of Neuchatel. He had a fine head of hair, pale gold rather than white, and he was still a good-looking man. He had all his own teeth except one, which he had been vain enough to replace with a false tooth. He used to saw up wood for an hour every morning and on his hundredth birthday he plagued the life out of Grandmother, accusing her of not taking proper care of him, because his leg was stiff that morning and he had not been able to get on his horse. It was his first touch of gout! At one time he was a hotel-keeper, but he had the poise of an English lord, he was always elegant and well turned out. His father was of Scottish origin. He was a terrific authoritarian and everybody trembled in his presence, especially Grandmother, his saintly wife, whom he led a hell of a dance. Out of all his children, grandchildren and greatgrandchildren, I was the only one who dared address him, and I could ask for, and get, whatever I wanted. I was the apple of his eye, and he spoiled me. Such a thing had never before been seen in the family, and everybody took advantage of it, pushing me forward whenever they had a favour to ask of Grandfather, and my father was the worst of the lot, for he was always in desperate need of money and Grandfather cordially detested him for having taken his eldest daughter abroad and gobbled up her dowry several times over. My mother, who interceded successfully for her brothers and sisters, had no chance when it came to her husband's business affairs, for her father refused to take the 'inventor', as he contemptuously called him, seriously, and so Mother left me to plead his cause.