Кристин Анго - Incest

I associate things others don’t associate, I bring together things that don’t fit together. Dog-child, incest-homosexuality or AIDS, cousin-couple, blonde-bitch, money-hate, movie star-bitch, Léonore-gold, mass grave-gold mine, Holocaust-ghetto, worker-black, etc., etc., and what’s more, I highlight opposites, all the time, for example: Eustache is better than Nadine Casta, Dominique Quentin is also better than NC, I bring things into focus. Frédéric is right, she’s Nadine’s cousin, she could have been a cousin of Le Pen. He’s right but it blocks me. I have to get rid of the block, unblock it all.

I am used to rather particular punctuation. I punctuate my sentences in an unusual way, I’m going to try to stop. I will use punctuation only for clarity, so that readers can find their way. The clarity of my statements. So that my statements are clear, are understood. A bit fastidious, maybe, but this time properly. I won’t write anymore, for example, “I licked her, this woman, whose child is a dog,” I won’t write that anymore, what’s the point? Other than ending up alone. We’re now separated for good, for good this time. I will no longer write, Nadine Casta, NC, haine c’est , hate is, it’s hatred. Not that either.

How I went insane because of a simple trigger, Christmas. A three-day momentary fit of insanity. Before I would have written: momentary fit of insanity, three days. My system of punctuation, I need to get rid of it, to find one that’s more common, more natural, so that people won’t have to make as much of an effort, it’s ridiculous, it was ridiculous. Especially since virgule , comma, etymologically means verge , little penis. I just learned this, I had lunch with Laurent Goumarre and two of his friends, psychoanalysts. I’m losing the thread, I was talking about the trigger. About the three-day momentary fit of insanity. Of breakdown. Which does not mean that I didn’t become profoundly and completely, totally insane, no, I really am insane. The trigger. What the trigger is that occurred, let’s be precise, on Wednesday, at noon on Wednesday, that led me this morning, after a night of trembling, trembling really trembling, my entire body, even though I took my dose of pills, to decide to ask Moufid Zériahen to accept me into L’Alironde for a time.

The trigger

November 25th, a month to the day before Christmas. For years Marie-Christine has spent Christmas in Paris with Nadine Casta, her actress cousin. Surrounded by family. It’s a “ritual” from “time immemorial,” it’s “family” and besides, it’s “one day of the year.”

Rewind: November 15th, we’re at Frédéric’s. We’re happy to see each other, it’s obvious. A pleasant evening aside from two false notes, nothing serious, life is full of them. The conversation turned to Nadine Casta’s Chambord with Decourt, Dupont, Durand. Doesn’t matter. I’m not obligated to like her cousin’s films. Like Frédéric says, she could have been a cousin of Le Pen. At least Le Pen is not an artist. I rant, I take it back, I let it go so everyone knows where I stand. Second false note, during dinner, someone trots out Christmas. Second slap in the face. It was still a very nice evening, our need to be alone together was urgent. We call a taxi, in the taxi, we’ve barely sat down, we start in. We get to the hotel, far from making love, we hate each other, we go to bed, I cry. I cry, I cry, I can’t breathe and am in a very very bad way, my anxiety level is rising. It’s horrible. It’s because of Christmas. I put on an act, OK, maybe, no doubt. I ask her to go back to her cousin’s to sleep, it was a mistake to get together again, we were better apart. It’s too late, but she’s going to get another room, she calls reception, I stop her at the last minute, she lets me. She goes back to bed. My anxiety level is still rising. I get out of bed, fall to my knees, I try to breathe, it’s blocked, I pant (putting on an act doesn’t mean you aren’t suffering), I insult her, with her cousin, like all good homosexuals, she’s the family lackey, always available to serve the real woman. She has paid no attention to me at all for Christmas, and yet she still claims she loves me. In response, I get to hear it all, in short: poor thing, you’re not making any sense, you’re mixing everything up. The ‘poor thing’ is the insult-trigger: I screamed, I think the entire hotel heard me. I hit her hard, on the head, and for a long time. She hit me on the side of the head, my temple, her fingernail on my eyelid, another fingernail on my ear. I had a hematoma, I still have it, a scar on my eye.

Back in Montpellier, I telephone her, my anxiety builds, several calls and hang-ups later, I tell her it would have been really nice if we had prepared, the two of us, a beautiful Christmas for Léonore, her mother, mine, André, and Frédéric, of course. On the 24th, Claude would have taken Léonore on the 25th, we would have gone on peacefully, we would have spent a quiet day, we would have gone to the movies or taken a nap. Impossible, concepts like family, godchildren, obligations to people who have always been there, it’s not like things are going to change all of a sudden, just because I’m there, like they’ll change at all. It’s all normal, it’s all considered completely normal. I’m the one who’s raving. All I need to do is look around me. She was talking to me about the civil solidarity pact just a few weeks earlier, I remind her. You have to keep this shift in mind. I cry, I go to bed, I don’t want to see her anymore, I tell myself I don’t want to see her anymore, I unplug the telephone. The next day, there’s a message, “answer me, please pick up” in a nice voice, “it’s twenty past eleven, pick up the phone.” She calls again, she really wants to spend Christmas with me, she’ll do whatever she can to make it happen. She hopes it won’t cause any scenes, if there are any conflicts, she’ll go to Paris after all. That’s what she tells me. I’m happy, I buy a copy of Marie-Claire , the special New Year’s issue. I tell my mother, I tell Frédéric, I don’t tell Léonore yet, though, “you never know, let’s be cautious.” But I believe Marie-Christine, she’s happy, our first Christmas together. It’s very important. She telephones her aunt, “I can’t bring Mother to Paris.” Her aunt understands. Marie-Christine, delighted, was very wily. She said to her aunt, “Godmother, I’d like to ask you for some advice,” not a bad opening, it worked, Marie-Christine felt very clever. The big nut, Nadine, was still in Acapulco. She telephoned Marie-Christine on Wednesday, the call went badly, Nadine cried, there will be about twenty-five people, but she needs Marie-Christine to bring some lightness to the holiday. Everyone needs her, it’s not possible, she has to come. Twenty-five people and she must be one of them. It’s not possible, you have to come. She cries. She flips the person I was ready to take as my love like a crêpe. The person who calls me, tells me the news on Wednesday around noon. It takes my breath away, I tell her I’m done with her, I can’t, it’s too much, too much is too much. She could at least have waited until after my reading at the CRL. How am I going to manage?

The day of my reading at the CRL

November 26th, the reading has been announced and it has to be good. The 27th will be just as dark, the night of the 27th to the 28th will be terrible.

But the 26th: at 6:30 p.m., I have a reading, it has to be good. It’s a day full of symptoms.

Breathing: Ragged. I can’t get my breath back. Noisy. Desperate panting. Enormous anxiety. It comes from a very deep source, you can feel it.

Insomnia: I take sleeping medication, I can’t sleep. Even when it’s warm, I’m cold under the duvet, I’m shivering, my fingers are blue, my knees are knocking. My lips are dry, purple.