Кристин Анго - Incest

As Claude would say with contempt “I suppose her friends…” A poor woman with no cock. Yet she cried all night that November day. Telling me “there’s no such thing as love.” I answered “of course there is.” She said “sure, for others, maybe, that could be, but not for me. I wanted to believe in it. I believed in it with you. I was wrong. Wrong again. There’s such a thing for others, not for me. You, you’ve felt it, maybe, with Claude.” Return, I went back. When I’m in Italy, I miss France. When I’m in France, it’s Italy I miss. The face of a woman you’re trying to force to leave you is beautiful. Her mouth all small, her eyes that won’t let go of yours, her arms open wide. I might never have known this. If I’d held on to my disgust for other women. There was a couple, two men, on the café terrace in January. It was one of the rare days when Marie and I were getting along well. She had just said to me “I know him, I see him on Avenue Saint-Lazare, he looks sad.” I said “well, sure, he’s homosexual,” but as a joke, of course! She didn’t like it. After that it was my rants on the telephone. Which she didn’t like. Claude arrived at the same café with Léonore and a girl, about twenty, who seemed to be his mistress. The brunette from Rue Saint-Guilhem, she’d seen her one day and then told me “she’s not worth your little finger.” One night I had a dream. A record of Mireille Darc was playing. She was singing the Francis Lemarque song, À Paris , in her insufferable voice. Marie wasn’t paying attention. Even though this song, this song… I woke up and she called me “sweetheart.” I wrote down the dream in a little notebook, on the mantelpiece. “Did you sleep well, my love?” Yes, my love. “What time is it?” Seven thirty. “Do you like waking up next to me?” Yes, my love. “I’m going to buy you a miner’s hat with a little light on the front so you can write things down at night.” I had gotten up and opened the shutters, I wanted to see her face. One day, just like that, I was ready to buy a house with her. With a large terrace and a garden would be ideal. To go out, to come and go, inside and outside. I’d do this, I’d do that. I didn’t want to stop. The test was responding! I love seeing you, I love seeing you walk in the door. I love who you are. I love your hair, your eyes, your sunglasses, your clothes, your nose, your mouth, your waist. I dream: We have a house. We share it. We both love it. We choose things we love. Léonore is there. No one can find anything to criticize. You love what I write. You love it a lot. You go to Paris with me. We love each other. We feel strong together. With Léonore, too. Pitou my heart watches over her. Pitou my heart was her dog’s nickname. She would laugh, she’d laugh briefly, “in eight days, you might say the opposite.” I believed everything I said. I would have been ready to move into a house with her on a day like the one with the miner’s hat. With the little light, to write things down at night, ideas and dreams I had. A two-story house, her with a garden below. Me with Léonore above. There was also: “You just left, it’s nine twenty. It’s ridiculous to love your eyes the way I love them, to love your hands, your palms and the backs of your hands, your body, its softness, its slenderness, your hair and your neck with your golden necklace. You have to burn this letter. It’s silly. I love you. Christine.” In the beginning, there was the thrill, but it was always followed by disgust, we got dressed again. Then one night she said to me, “this is the first time I’m not afraid of being deceived.” And Claude, the next day, “it’s crazy how you can be so completely in someone else’s life and then it all disappears.” I couldn’t work. I called Marie to say, I called her again to say “give me an idea…” There were patients in the waiting room, she was in a hurry. “Give me an idea, I’m not going to hang up until you give me one. Give me one, please, I’m blocked. —Talk about the fact that I have no cock, which drives me to despair everyday. —Everyday? —Everyday a bit more.” Thank you for the flowers, they wilted, I threw them away. Irises don’t last long. I called Marie to say “do you remember that in November I was a hair’s breadth away from buying a two-story house with you?” It was late, I had to hang up. Before, when I called her, she would say before going to sleep, “I kiss you very very very,” “I kiss you very very very and all over.” Muzil coughed like crazy. In the beginning I’d say to myself “the incisions for cloning will be unpleasant.” Muzil, Misty, Yassou, she has turtles as well, and fish, but Baya eats their food, Pitou, my heart. She’s such a glutton. “I love women,” how many times did we hear that? Saying “I love women” when you’re a man is easy. “I love animals” is easy for a human. Muzil told me how completely the body, once it’s delivered into the web of medical treatment, loses all identity, is bled dry of all history and dignity. Bénédicte writes me “maybe you don’t show the reader the door, maybe you don’t leave him on the doorstep, and maybe I simply haven’t known how to recognize the light in your books.” I liked the position with me lying on top of her. It worked well, it was like with a man. We both liked it. I remember once, I’d barely recovered, barely caught my breath, hadn’t had a chance to rest, she wanted to make me come again. My body was drained. It needed time to recharge, like a hand-held phone. It has to sit in the base for a while without being removed. Drained, no feeling in my breasts. She was licking me, even though that position… She was rushing, I’d barely rested, barely caught my breath, I ran through a few possible fantasies, none of them worked, like the faxes to Jean-Marc, I burned through them. One after the other. Exhausted. Not a single one worked. None fit. Not one, there are days when. I finally said “stop.” For the first time, we were confronted with failure. I couldn’t go to sleep on that note. I placed her fingers on me. “You don’t like settling for failure, do you?” I looked at the curtain covering the window. Claude and I chose the fabric together. We chose everything together, we were “the lovebirds.”

Her father’s notebook: My balls: My parts. Europe, Asia, Africa, Oceania, America: the five parts of the world. 1937, my youth. I was born December 18, 1906 in Carcassonne. That’s where I spent the first six years of my life. I only have a few memories of that time. Léonore will remember everything. Her dog, Baya. Yassou, the turtles, the fish in the aquarium after school. Clara. Doing the thing with your lover. Mama and Marie. Maybe the house on Île de Ré. When we walked along the beach, we had a dog with us, like many homosexuals, our child had become a monster due to degenerate unions. Fortunately Léonore was with us, throwing pebbles into the sea. Her small presence alone cutting it short. I licked her, this mother, whose child is a dog. I’m crazy, really, I’m crazy. I’ll only reach a small readership of lunatics like myself if I keep this up. As Janine predicted. I stopped, I’m getting to work, my little audience of lunatics is my life preserver. When I stand up from my chair and start to stagger. Overcome with nausea again. Walking down the Rue de la Loge, supporting myself on the walls, climbing the stairs to the lawyer’s office, leaning on the banister. At first, I hugged the walls, now I lean against them. “I love women,” “I love animals.” I’m still in shock. I didn’t have any intention of calling last night, none at all. I was exhausted, I wanted to go to bed early. Very early. I had a good day. I’d spent hours with Claude. Léonore came home in a good mood. She had spent the day with Clara at her grandmother’s. I had plans for May 8th with Claude. Things were going well, everything was more relaxed. I called. But I had muscle spasms from the bottom of my abdomen to just below my chest, it hurt a lot. I pick up the phone. I ask if I’m interrupting. She says “I’ll call you back in five minutes.” Fine. Are you OK? My stomach hurts, I’ve got muscle spasms. I’m so tired. Then all happy she says “I went to the opening of the Arpac show, I decided to host an evening on the 16th with Agnès and Annie.” It went downhill from there. I was invited, I could bring anyone I wanted. Whom should I bring? She thought it would make me happy. Well, you’re wrong. We’re not seeing each other anymore, not at all, not even as friends. Always, always, always, trying to break up, to break it off, to stop. I believe, right now I’m describing without thinking. Repack my things, my bag, adios, I’m sorry we ever met. I regret going to that dinner on September 9th. Where I met you. Always, always. I saw Alain, I’m going to work with him. That’s good. You must be happy? Stop pretending you care. I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted. Yes, that’s better, you’re right, go to bed. Get some rest. Kisses. Yes, that’s it. Goodbye. See you one of these days. But still we keep going. We talk. But it’s not working. And there are problems with the connection. She says “I’ll call you back.” I call Frédéric so the line will be busy. I stay on for a good half hour. Then I call her back. I say “sorry, Frédéric called me, you must have gotten a busy signal.” The project with Alain sounds good. Stop it, please. Little by little, it becomes unbearable. I hang up, I say I’m sick of it. I call back, I say I’m sick of it. We have to stop completely and not see each other anymore at all. I can’t stand it any longer. I go to bed, I brushed my teeth and am ready to go to sleep. I even unplugged the phone. I go to bed, but I call her again, I plug the telephone back in and call again. To tell her: I’m fed up, fed up, fed up. We spend hours like this every night. She says to me that we could spend the time reading instead, or watching movies, or with friends, or resting, instead of this, hours wasted, for nothing. Unplugging the telephone, then calling back. I go to bed, I call her again. I went to bed, telling myself, now it’s finally over. I couldn’t take it anymore. The only good thing about it is that tomorrow I can write this scene down. Rita told Claude “in Les Autres , Christine went too far,” and then, “is she still together with that woman?” And Herman “we’ll find out everything in her next book.” I wasn’t seeing my father anymore, I’d met Claude, I’d married him. I decided to see my father again. With him, I’d only had inconclusive sexual relations. Like an ephebe, as if by chance… I needed a complete overview, for my writing to strike hard. Yes, strike hard. Like blows and blood. Anal penetration wasn’t so bad at the start, but after. I’d read in the media “press coverage has to be earned.” Shaming the journalists, little jabs, the way you shoot small arrows at the carnival, it’s ethical and it’s relaxing. Using the muscles of the sphincter and perineum to write certain pages. Marie. What are you doing right now, Marie? Are you seeing patients? You’re at the hospital this morning. This afternoon, you’ll play tennis. Tomorrow is your day off. You won’t do anything, you don’t want to do anything. Saturday you’re driving Léonore and me to the theater. You don’t give us much choice as to dates. But it’s nice of you. Over the phone I read her the passage “this mother, whose child is a dog.” She didn’t react, it didn’t get her worked up, their dogs are children, often Labradors, everyone must know.