Whatever: a novel (10 page)

In these circumstances the training sessions appeared to be an amiable pleasantry, a way of chatting to pass the time. That didn't bother me in the least.

Over the next few days I realize that Tisserand is gradually losing it. After Christmas he leaves to go skiing with an Under-25s club; the `no boring old farts' kind, with evenings in the discothèque and breakfasting late; in short, the kind where you do a lot of fucking. But he evokes the prospect without enthusiasm; I get the feeling he doesn't believe it for a minute. From time to time his bespectacled gaze drifts aimlessly over me. He gives the impression of being bewitched. I know how it is; I experienced the same thing two years ago, just after my separation from Véronique. You get the feeling you can roll about on the ground, slash your veins with a razor blade or masturbate in the métro and nobody will pay any attention, nobody will lift a finger. As if you were protected from the world by a transparent film, inviolable and perfect. Anyway Tisserand said so the other day (he'd been drinking): Ì feel like a shrink-wrapped chicken leg on a supermarket shelf.' He's also come out with: Ì feel like a frog in formaldehyde. Besides, I resemble a frog, don't I?' I gently replied `Raphaël . . .' in a reproachful tone. He started; it's the first time I've called him by his Christian name. He was flustered and didn't say a word.

The next morning at breakfast he stared long and hard at his bowl of Nesquik; and then in an almost dreamy voice he sighed, `Fuck it! I'm twenty-eight and still a virgin!' was astonished, even so; he then explained that a vestige of pride had always stopped him from
going with whores
. I upbraided him for this; a bit too strongly perhaps, since he persisted in explaining his point of view to me again that very evening; just before leaving to Paris for the weekend. We were in the parking lot of the departmental head office for Agriculture; the street lamps were exuding an extremely unpleasant yellowish light; the air was cold and damp. He said, Ì've done my sums, you see; I've enough to pay for one whore a week; Saturday evening, that'd be good. Maybe I'll end up doing it. But I know that some men can get the same for free,
and with love to boot
. I prefer trying; for the moment I still prefer trying.'

Obviously, I couldn't come up with anything to say, but I returned to my hotel deep in thought. It's a fact, I mused to myself, that in societies like ours sex truly represents a second system of differentiation, completely independent of money; and as a system of differentiation it functions just as mercilessly. The effects of these two systems are, furthermore, strictly equivalent. Just like unrestrained economic liberalism, and for similar reasons, sexual liberalism produces phenomena of
absolute pauperization
. Some men make love every day; others five or six times in their life, or never. Some make love with dozens ofwomen; others with none. It's what's known as `the law of the market'. In an economic system where unfair dismissal is prohibited, every person more or less manages to find their place. In a sexual system where adultery is prohibited, every person more or less manages to find their bed mate. In a totally liberal sexual system certain people have a varied and exciting erotic life; others are reduced to masturbation and solitude. Economic liberalism is an extension of the domain of the struggle, its extension to all ages and all classes of society. Sexual liberalism is likewise an extension of the domain of the struggle, its extension to all ages and all classes of society. On the economic plane Raphael Tisserand belongs in the victors' camp; on the sexual plane in that of the vanquished. Certain people win on both levels; others lose on both. Businesses fight over certain young professionals; women fight over certain young men; men fight over certain young women; the trouble and strife are considerable.

A little later I came out of my hotel with the clear intention of getting pissed. I found a café open opposite the station; a few teenagers were playing pinball and that was about it. After the third cognac my thoughts turned to Gérard Leverrier.

Gérard Leverrier was an administrator in the Assemblée Nationale, in the same department as Véronique (who was working there as a secretary). Gérard Leverrier was twenty-six and earned thirty thousand francs a month. However, Gérard Leverrier was shy and prone to depression. One Friday evening in December (he didn't have to go back on the Monday; somewhat against his better judgment he'd taken a fortnight off ‘for the holidays'), Gérard Leverrier went back home and put a bullet in his brains.

The news of his death didn't really surprise anyone in the Assemblée Nationale; he was mainly known there for the problems he was encountering in buying himself a bed. He'd decided on the purchase months before; but the realization of his project was proving impossible. The tale was usually told with a faint ironic smile; yet there was nothing to laugh about; these days the purchase of a bed does present enormous difficulties, enough to drive you to suicide. To begin with delivery has to be arranged, and then usually half a day taken off work, with all the problems that entails. Sometimes the delivery men don't come, or maybe they don't manage to get the bed up the stairs and you are obliged to ask for another half-day off. These problems recur for all furniture and domestic appliances, and the accumulation of difficulties resulting from this can already be enough to seriously unhinge a sensitive person. Of all your furniture the bed poses a particular, eminently distressing problem. If you want to retain the goodwill of the salesman you are obliged to buy a double bed, whether you need one or not, whether you have the room for it or not. To buy a single bed is to publicly admit you don't have a sex life, and that you don't envisage having one in the near or even distant future (beds last a long time these days, way beyond the guarantee date; it's a matter of five, ten or even twenty years; this is a serious investment, which commits you in practical terms for the rest of your days; beds last on an average much longer than marriages, as is wellknown). Even the purchase of a 140-centimetre bed makes you pass for a stingy and narrow petit-bourgeois; in the salesmen's eyes the 160-centimetre bed is the only one really worth buying; in which case you have a right to their respect, to their consideration, even to a slight knowing smile; this they only grant for the 160centimetre bed.

On the evening of Gérard Leverrier's death his father phoned up his work; since he was out of the office it was Véronique who took the call. The message was simply to phone his father urgently; she forgot to pass it on. So Gérard Leverrier got back home at six without knowing about the message and put a bullet in his brains. Véronique told me this the evening of the day they learnt about his death at the Assemblée Nationale; she added that it `scared the shit out of her'; those were her exact words. I imagined she was going to feel some sort of guilt, remorse; not at all; she'd already forgotten by the next morning.

Véronique was ìn analysis', as they say; today I regret ever having met her. Generally speaking, there's nothing to be had from women in analysis. A woman fallen into the hands of the psychoanalysts becomes absolutely unfit for use, as I've discovered time and again. This phenomenon should not be taken as a secondary effect of psychoanalysis, but rather as its principal goal. Under the pretext of reconstructing the ego psychoanalysts proceed, in reality, to a scandalous destruction of the human being. Innocence, generosity, purity . . . all such things are rapidly crushed by their uncouth hands. Handsomely remunerated, pretentious and stupid, psychoanalysts reduce to absolute zero any aptitude in their so-called patients for love, be it mental or physical; in fact they behave as true enemies of mankind. A ruthless school of egoism, psychoanalysis cynically lays into decent, slightly fucked-up young women and transforms them into vile scumbags of such delirious egocentrism as to warrant nothing but well-earned contempt. On no account must any confidence be placed in a woman who's passed through the hands of the psychoanalysts. Pettiness, egoism, arrogant stupidity, complete lack of moral sense, a chronic inability to love: there you have an exhaustive portrait of the ànalysed' woman.

Véronique, it has to be said, corresponded blow by blow to this description. I loved her - to the extent that it was within my power - which represents a lot of love. This love was poured down the drain, I now realize; I'd have done better to break both her arms. Like all depressives she doubtless always had a tendency towards egoism and a lack of feeling; but her psychoanalysis transformed her once and for all into a total shit, lacking both guts and conscience - a detritus wrapped in silver paper. I remember she had a white plastic board on which she ordinarily wrote things like

'petits pois' or `dry cleaners'. One evening, coming back from her session, she'd noted down this phrase of Lacan's: `the viler you are, the better it will be.' I'd smiled; in this I was wrong. At this stage the phrase was still only a
programme
; but she was going to put it into practice, point by point.

One evening when Véronique was out I swallowed a bottle of Largactyl. Gripped by panic, I called the emergency services straightaway. They had to take me to hospital, give me a stomach pump, etc. In fine, I only just made it. That bastard (what else can you call her?) didn't even come and see me in hospital. On getting back `home', if it can be called that, all she managed to find as words of welcome was that I was an egoist and a flake; her interpretation of the incident was that I was contriving to cause her extra worry, she `who already had enough on her plate with problems at work.' The vile bitch even claimed I was indulging in èmotional blackmail'; when I think of it now, I regret not taking a knife to her ovaries. But then this is all in the past.

I also recall the evening she'd called the cops to get me thrown out of her place. Why `her place'? Because the apartment was in her name, and she was paying the rent more often than I was. And that's the first effect of psychoanalysis; to develop an unbelievably ridiculous avarice and pettiness in its victims. Waste of time trying to go to the café with someone who's doing analysis: he inevitably starts discussing the fine points of the bill, and that leads to problems with the waiter. In short there were these three idiot cops with their walkie-talkies and their air of knowing more about life than anybody else. I was in pyjamas and shivering from the cold; my hands were gripping the table legs, under the tablecloth; I was absolutely determined to make them take me by force. During all this my scumbag friend was showing them the rent receipts in order to establish her rights to the place; she was probably hoping they'd get their truncheons out. That same evening she'd had a `session'; her whole stock of meanness and egoism was replenished; but I didn't give in, I asked for a warrant, and those stupid policemen had to quit the premises. Anyway, I left for good the next morning.

9

Buccaneer Cottages

All of a sudden it didn't bother me not being modern.

- Roland Barthes

Early Saturday morning I find a taxi-driver on the Place de la Gare who agrees to drive me to Les Sables-d'Olonne.

On leaving the town we pass through successive banks of mist, then, emerging from the last, we plunge into an absolute sea of dense fog. The road and the landscape are completely inundated. Nothing can be made out, save the odd tree or cow which emerges as a fleeting blur. It is very beautiful.

Arriving by the sea, the weather suddenly clears. There's a wind, a lot of wind, but the sky is almost blue; some clouds are scudding rapidly east. I get out of the taxi after giving the driver a tip, which earns me a `Have a nice day', uttered somewhat grudgingly it seems to me. He probably thinks I'm going fishing for crabs, something of the sort.

For a while I actually do stroll along the beach. The sea is grey, rather choppy. I don't feel anything much. I walk for a good while.

Around eleven people begin arriving with their kids and dogs. I turn in the opposite direction.

At the end of the beach at Les Sables-d'Olonne, in the prolongation of the jetty that seals off the port, there are a few old houses and a Romanesque church. Nothing overly spectacular: these are edifices of robust coarse stone built to withstand the storms, and which have withstood the storms for hundreds of years. You can readily imagine the ancient way of life of the Sables fishermen, with Sunday mass in the little church, communion for the faithful, while the wind howls outside and the ocean pounds against the rocky coast. It was a life without distraction and without incident, dominated by a tough and dangerous job of work. A simple and rustic life, full of nobility. An extremely stupid way of life, too.

Not far from these houses are some modern white residences meant for holidaymakers. There's a whole bunch of these apartment blocks, of a height varying between ten and twenty floors. The blocks are laid out on a multi-level promenade, the lower level being arranged as a parking lot. I walked for a long time from one block to the other, which permits me to affirm that the bulk of the apartments must, by virtue of various architectural ploys, have a view of the sea. At this time of year everything was deserted, and the whistling of the wind swirling between the concrete structures had something truly sinister about it.