Whatever: a novel (14 page)

-Well? Still a priest? I said to de-ice the atmosphere.

-I'd like to see you.

-Sure, we could see each other.

-Now, if you can.

I'd never set foot inside his house before; all I knew was that he lived in Vitry. The council block, moreover, was well kept. Two young Arabs followed me with their eyes, one of them spat on the ground as I went by. At least he hadn't spat in my face.

The apartment was paid for by funds from the diocese, something of the kind. Collapsed in front of his TV set, Buvet was casting a dejected eye at
Holy Eventide
. He'd knocked back quite a few beers while waiting for me, it appeared.

-What's up, then? I asked good-naturedly.

-I'd told you Vitry wasn't an easy parish; it's even worse than you can imagine. Since my arrival I've tried to set up kids' groups; no kids ever came. It's three months now since I've celebrated a baptism. At mass I've never managed more than five people: four Africans and an old Breton woman; I believe she was eighty-two, an exemployee of the railways. She'd been widowed for ages; her children didn't come to see her any more, she no longer had their address. One Sunday I didn't see her at mass. I passed by her house, she lives in a high-priority housing area over there . .

. (He made a vague gesture, can in hand, dousing the carpet with beer). Her neighbours told me she'd just been attacked; they'd taken her off to hospital, but she only had slight fractures. I visited her; her fractures were taking time to mend, of course, but there was no danger. When I went back a week later she was dead. I asked for explanations, the doctors refused to give me any. They'd already cremated her; nobody in the family had bothered to attend. I'm certain she'd have wished for a religious burial; she hadn't said as much to me, she never spoke of death; but I'm certain that's what she'd have wanted.

He took a swig, then went on:

-Three days later I received a visit from Patricia.

There was a significant pause. I shot a glance at the TV screen. The sound was turned down; a singer in a black and gold g-string appeared to be surrounded by pythons, or even anacondas. Then I returned my gaze to Buvet, while trying to communicate a grimace of sympathy. He went on:

-She wished to make confession, but she didn't know how, she didn't know the procedure. Patricia was a nurse in the department where they'd taken the old woman; she'd heard the doctors talking among themselves. They didn't want to have her occupying a bed during the months necessary for her recovery; they were saying she was an unnecessary burden. So they decided to give her a lytic cocktail; that's a mixture of high-dose tranquillizers that brings about a quick and peaceful death. They discussed it for two minutes, no more; then the head of the department came to ask Patricia to administer the injection. She did it the same night. It's the first time she's performed a euthanasia; but her colleagues often do it. She died very fast, in her sleep. After that Patricia was unable to sleep; she was dreaming of the old woman.

-What have you done about it?

-I went to the archdiocese; they knew the whole story. A lot of euthanasias are performed in that hospital, apparently. There have never been any complaints; in any case, up to now all the trials have ended in acquittals.

He fell silent, finished his beer in one go, opened another can; then, taking his courage in his hands, he pressed on:

-For a month now I've seen Patricia practically every night. I don't know what's taken hold of me. Since the seminary I've not suffered from temptation. She was so kind, so naive. She knew nothing about religious matters, she was extremely curious about it all. She didn't understand why priests don't have the right to make love. She wondered if they had a sex life, if they masturbated. I replied to all her questions, I didn't feel any embarrassment. I was praying a lot during this period, I was constantly rereading the Gospels; I didn't have the feeling of doing anything wrong; I sensed that Christ understood me, that He was with me.

He fell silent once more. On the TV screen now there was an ad for the Renault Clio. The car looked ultra-comfortable.

-Last Monday Patricia announced to me that she'd met another guy. In a discothèque, the Metropolis. She told me we wouldn't see each other again, but that she was glad to have known me; she really liked changing boyfriends; she was only twenty. Basically she liked me a lot, but no more than that; it was mainly the idea of sleeping with a priest that excited her, that she found droll; but she wouldn't say anything to anybody, that was a promise.

This time the silence was to last two minutes or more. I asked myself what a psychologist would have said in my place; probably nothing.

Finally an absurd thought came to me:

-You should go and confess.

-Tomorrow I must say mass. I don't see how I can do it. I don't think I can cope. I no longer feel the presence.

-What presence?

After that we didn't say much. From time to time I was uttering phrases like Òh, come on, come on'; he continued regularly putting away the beers. Clearly I could do nothing for him. In the end I called a taxi.

As I was crossing the threshold he said to me, `See you soon.' I don't believe it for a moment. I get the feeling we'll never see each other again.

It's freezing in my place. I remember that earlier in the evening, just before leaving, I smashed a window with a blow of the fist. Yet, oddly, my hand is intact; no cuts.

I lie down even so, and I sleep. The nightmares will only appear much later in the night. Not instantly recognizable as nightmares; even rather pleasant.

I am gliding over Chartres Cathedral. I have a mystical vision concerning Chartres Cathedral. It seems to hold and to symbolize a secret - an ultimate secret. During all this time groups of nuns are forming in the gardens by the side entrances. They greet the old and even the dying, explaining to them that I am going to unveil a secret.

Meanwhile I am walking down the corridors of a hospital. A man has given me an appointment, but he isn't there. I must wait a moment in a refrigerated storeroom, then I reach a new corridor. He still isn't there, the man who could get me out of hospital. Then I attend an exhibition. It's Patrick Leroy from the Ministry of Agriculture who's organized it all. He has cut people's heads out of some illustrated periodicals, stuck them on to various paintings (representing, for instance, Triassic flora), and is selling his little figurines very expensively. I have the feeling he wants me to buy one; he has a self-satisfied, almost menacing air.

Then I'm flying once again over Chartres Cathedral. The cold is extreme. I am absolutely alone. My wings easily bear me up. I am nearing some towers, but I no longer recognize anything. These towers are immense, black, maleficent, they are made of black marble which emits a harsh glare, the marble is encrusted with violently coloured figurines in which the horrors of organic life are glaringly apparent.

I fall, I fall between the towers. My face, which is going to be smashed to smithereens, is covered over with lines of blood which precisely delineate the location of the fractures. My nose is a gaping hole from which organic matter oozes.

And now I am on the deserted plains of Champagne. There are tiny snowflakes flying all about, along with pages from an illustrated periodical, printed in huge screaming type. The periodical must date from around 1900.

Am I a reporter or journalist? It would seem so, since the style of the articles is familiar to me. They are written in that tone of bitter lament dear to the anarchists and surrealists.

Octavie Léoncet, ninety-two, has been found murdered in her barn. A little farm in the Vosges. Her sister, Léontine Léoncet, eighty-seven, takes pleasure in showing the corpse to journalists. The crime weapons are there, clearly visible: a wood saw and a brace and bit. Everything blood-stained, of course.

And the crimes are on the increase. Always old women isolated on their farms. On each occasion the young and elusive murderer leaves the tools of his trade in evidence: sometimes a burin, sometimes a pair of secateurs, sometimes simply a small hand saw.

And all this is magical, adventurous, libertarian.

I wake up. It is cold. I dive back into the dream.

Each time, faced with these blood-stained tools, I experience the sufferings of the victim in gruesome detail. Soon I have an erection. There are some scissors on the table near my bed. The idea comes to me: to cut off my penis. I imagine myself with the pair of scissors in my hand, the slight resistance of the flesh, and suddenly the bloody stump, the probable fainting.

The sectioned end on the moquette. Matted with blood.

Around eleven I wake up once again. I have two pairs of scissors, one in each room. I go and fetch them and place them under several books. It is an effort of will, probably insufficient. The need persists, increases and evolves. This time my plan is to take a pair of scissors, plant them in my eyes and tear them out. More precisely in the left eye, in a place I know well, there where it seems so hollow in the socket.

And then I take some sedatives, and everything's dandy. Everything's dandy.

5

Venus and Mars

Following that night I thought it wise to reconsider Doctor Népote's suggestion about staying in a rest home. He warmly congratulated me on this. According to him, I was thereby taking the shortest road to a complete recovery. The fact that the initiative might come from me was highly positive; I was beginning to take responsibility for my own cure. This was good; this was even very good.

So, provided with his letter of introduction, I presented myself at Rueil-Malmaison. There was a park, and the meals were taken communally. In point of fact all ingestion of solid food was impossible for me at first; I was vomiting it up straightaway, with painful hiccups; I had the feeling my teeth were going to leave with it. It was necessary to resort to perfusions.

Colombian in origin, the chief doctor was of little help to me. With the imperturbable seriousness of the neurotic, I was putting forward incontrovertible arguments against my survival; the least among them seemed enough to warrant instant suicide. He appeared to listen; at all events he remained silent; occasionally it was all he could do to stifle a slight yawn. It was only after a number of weeks that the truth dawned on me: I was speaking softly; he only had a very approximate knowledge of the French language; in effect he didn't understand a word of my stories.

Slightly older, more modest in social origin, the psychologist who assisted him did on the other hand give me much-needed help. It's true that she was compiling a thesis on anxiety, and so was in need of data. She used a Radiola tape-recorder; she asked my permission to turn it on. Naturally I said yes. I rather liked her chapped hands, her bitten nails, as she pressed Record. Nevertheless, I've always hated female psychology students: vile creatures, that's how I perceive them. But this older woman, who looked like she'd been through a wringer, face framed by a turban, almost inspired my confidence.

At first, though, our relations were not easy. She took me to task for speaking in general, overly sociological, terms. This, according to her, was not interesting: instead I ought to involve myself, try and `get myself centred'.

-But I've had a bellyful of myself, I objected.

-As a psychologist I can't accept such a statement, nor encourage it in any way. In speaking of society all the time you create a barrier behind which you can hide; it's up to me to break down this barrier so that we can work on your personal problems.

This dialogue of the deaf went on for a little over two months. I think that basically she liked me well enough. I remember one morning, it was already the beginning of Spring; through the window birds could be seen, hopping on the lawn. She was looking fresh and relaxed.

First off, there was a brief conversation about the dosage of my medication; then in a direct, spontaneous, completely unexpected way she asked me: `Basically, why is it you're so unhappy?' It was something totally unexpected , this frankness. And I too did something unexpected: I proffered her a short text I'd written the night before to occupy my insomnia.

-I'd prefer to hear you speak, she said.

-Read it all the same.

Èarly on certain individuals experience the frightening impossibility of living by themselves; basically they cannot bear to see their own life before them, to see it in its entirety without areas of shadow, without substance. Their existence is I admit an exception to the laws of nature, not only because this fracture of basic maladjustment is produced outside of any genetic finality but also by dint of the excessive lucidity it presupposes, an obviously transcendent lucidity in relation to the perceptual schemas of ordinary existence. It is sometimes enough to place another individual before them, providing he is taken to be as pure, as transparent as they are themselves, for this insupportable fracture to resolve itself as a luminous, tense and permanent aspiration towards the absolutely inaccessible. Thus, while day after day a mirror only returns the same desperate image, two parallel mirrors elaborate and edify a clear and dense system which draws the human eye into an infinite, unbounded trajectory, infinite in its geometrical purity, beyond all suffering and beyond the world.'