Georges-Olivier Chateaureynaud - A Life on Paper - Stories

I thought she was about to speak, but it wasn't time yet. I was witness to an awakening that could only happen slowly. I suspected that the slightest thing would be enough to hinder, delay, or even ruin it forever.

That was all for now. No doubt that hint of a smile remained on her face after I'd replaced the mask. Three nights later, the mummy, spoke her first words.

I'd gotten a Breton dictionary in anticipation, but there was no need. When she spoke, she spoke French. A few disjointed phrases, none of which had anything to do with the situation at hand: something about a younger brother, a house by the sea, a cat. The reminiscing must have exhausted her, for she soon fell silent once more. A bit later that same night, she spoke up again, mostly repeating herself. After that, the situation developed with lightning speed.

When I say "lightning," bear in mind that whatever their nature, manifestations of the vital spark animating the mummy remained limited and intermittent. She lived the way a lamp flickers. She was rather more like a battery, in fact, a depleted battery sporadically calling on its last reserves. From now on, let's use her first name: Gaud. Her parents probably got it from An Iceland Fisherman. Gaud had no organs left, and therefore no anatomy. She had no way of replenishing what she'd spent. Of course, her expenditures were negligible. A few words, a few slow and awkward gestures… At her request, I undid the bandages wrapped tightly around her body. She reminded me of a newborn fawn, not yet able to balance on her frail legs, tottering with every step. But the fawn would soon grow stronger and bolder, prancing gaily about the clearing where it was born, whereas the unlucky Gaud would never prance about.

Still, she made undeniable progress. It was impossible to speak of a "normal" life for her. She neither ate nor drank, and her attention span lasted no more than ten minutes, after which she grew still, her face frozen. Eyes wide open, she sank into sleep, or a kind of sleep, for an unspecified length of time.

Once I'd removed her bandages, the question of clothes came up. I gave her a blanket, and bought her an outfit the next day. Picture a mummy in jeans and a sweater: that was how Gaud looked from then on. I'd also bought her sneakers and a baseball cap; her shaved head bothered me. Docilely, she assumed the appearance of a modern-day teenager.

She'd come in a Styrofoam sarcophagus, but she didn't like it there. I offered to lay her on a folding cot like I said, there isn't much room in my place, and she was so slight. She categorically refused my offer, and instead chose to dwell in my double-bass case. Whenever seized by one of her unassailable languors, she'd curl up in this cavity, this womb, with a sigh of pleasure. With a weary wave, she'd ask me to shut the lid, and I obeyed. I was afraid she'd suffocate at first. I feared in vain. She was as likely to suffocate as she was to catch a cold.

She suffered a great deal. Not physically. She was racked by anguish all the more deep-seated since she never managed to give it a name. Everything in her was unsettled, shifting. She sought for words at length to say the least thing. I don't know if you could call what she had amnesia, but the events of her own life seemed distant and uncertain. Sometimes she seemed completely detached from them. The next moment, she was overcome with immeasurable nostalgia as she recalled a possibly invented memory. A moment later, and she'd forgotten everything.

I was used to her, of course. Wasn't she pitiable, and in distress? Wasn't I available? Besides, through the simple act of "owning" this object which was also a being, I'd taken on certain responsibilities. But I'd taken them too lightly. A few scraps to clothe her, a few words to comfort her when she woke chilled through by a cold not of this world… What loved one wouldn't ask more of us? If I'd continued to perform these tasks with my undivided attention, she'd probably have reached the end of her path in peace. Little by little, consuming what energy was left to her, she'd have slowly faded away.

Life, it seemed, had it in for her. Here I was, a man who'd lived alone forever, making do with affairs that ended the morning after, and I had to go and meet Delia! Delia was passionate. She was passion itself. Fierce, fearless, fervent in everything she did. Someone else might've deserved her more, and been better equipped to brave such a human tornado. But through some divine unfairness I'll never be thankful enough for, she chose me. Before her, my life was stale and musty.

I hadn't felt the need to tell Delia there was a teenaged female mummy in my life, more or less alive to boot. She found out by accident, even if that accident was inevitable. We'd been lovers for a few months already. We almost always wound up at her place. It was more convenient, especially because of the size of her bed. So she'd only been to my place two or three times, and had never spent the night there, when a metro strike forced her to stay over. I'd already shown her my instrument collection before, neglecting of course to open up the double bass case. I'd stashed the double-bass itself in a closet. Since I'd started dating Delia, I rarely slept at home. I felt a vague remorse at the thought of all those nights when Gaud woke up and found no one to open the lid and keep her company. I settled this remorse by telling myself that she hadn't ever brought it up. That either meant she hadn't noticed, or that she forgot any hypothetical grief my absence caused her. At any rate, while Delia and I lay entwined on my narrow couch, the Breton lament sounded in the silence.

"Good God, what's that?"

"Don't be scared." I said, "It's Just Gaud."

I opened the case. Delia and Gaud studied each other with clear mutual loathing. Could they have been friends or allies? Perhaps in each encounter there's a moment-a split second-when our feelings might go either way. Perhaps the only difference between love and hate is chance. Weren't Delia and Gaud complementary? Together, with one's perfect body and the other's sublime eyes, they could have made the ideal woman. But this miracle failed to happen.

They never spoke to each other directly. Gaud ignored Delia, and Delia pretended to see her as nothing but an anatomical curiosity. Though Gaud sang and spoke, Delia considered her no more sentient than she would a mynah bird. At least in theory, for she never missed an opportunity to humiliate her. Right in front of Gaud, she advised me to let her go because "it wasn't sanitary" I pointed out in vain that Gaud was in fact very sanitary, and when she wasn't needed only a little dusting or occasional vacuuming. A few weeks later, Delia tried another approach. It was not only "unclean," but "dangerous," too. From then on, whenever she found herself alone and free to move about, Gaud played pranks, big and little. She might try to vandalize the apartment in some way within her paltry means, like knocking over a vase or making a minor mess. Reshelving the books exceeded her strength. But she might also leave the gas on, or slit her wrists. The incident with the gas didn't lead anywhere, thanks to the firemen's intervention. Nor did slitting her wrists: nothing flowed out. I kept the box cutter she'd used under lock and key, and put a bolt on the kitchen door, thus keeping her from reaching the gas, any sharp objects, and above all any potentially dangerous sources of heat.

Life went on-an odd life, I'll admit. What Delia and I had shared at the outset of our relationship was ruined. Where she once gave herself to me without restraint, she now refused two out of three times. The woman who'd once seemed so well-balanced and optimistic to me now often seemed willfully sullen or aggressive. For my part-torn between what I owed my mistress and the feeling of responsibility for Gaud that I couldn't quite shake-I was getting gloomy. As for Gaud, well, if a mummy could waste away, it was clear she was also feeling the effects of the situation. We were all unhappy.