For Sure (15 page)

“So, you know what the inside of a Church looks like . . .”

This time, the boy nodded proudly.

“And do you say your prayers at night before you go to bed?”

Étienne hesitated. As far as knew, he did not pray, but maybe he prayed without knowing it. After all, there were so many things he didn't know.

“You've heard about Jesus?”

The child nodded, but timidly.

“Did your granny tell you about him?”

Étienne nodded with more confidence this time, but Zablonski figured he had a clearer picture now.

“Alright. Shall we get back to our colours?”

All in all, the authors whose surnames begin with the letter
b
account for the largest number of works in
La Bibliothèque idéale
. These 190 authors, or 10 percent of the total number, wrote 253 books, or 11 percent of the recommended titles. A close second are the authors whose surnames begin with the letter
m
: there are 171 of these, and they account for 236 of the suggested books, i.e., 9 percent of the authors wrote 10 percent of the texts. Numbering 168, the authors whose surnames begin with
s
are almost as numerous as their
m
colleagues, but they have been more productive, accounting for 256 titles or 11 percent of the 2,401 books. Finally, coming in in fourth place are the authors whose surnames begin with
c
. One hundred and fifty-six of these wrote 211 works, a ratio of 8 percent of the authors for 9 percent of the total of works cited.

“How 'bout dat udder one 'bout de mote in yer eye?”

“You mean de fella dat sees de mote in anudder fella's eye, but doesn't see de log in 'is own?”

“You mean dat log is blindin' 'im?”

Grouping the authors according to the first letter of their surnames, we see that all the groups were more or less equally productive. The
a
group, for example, which represents 5 percent of the authors in
La Bibliothèque idéale
, is responsible for 5 percent of the titles. Only two groups were significantly more prolific, the
s
group,
by almost 2 percent, and the
g
group by slightly more than 1 percent. As for the rest, the
e, i, j, l, o, r, t, u, w,
and
x
groups were a little lazy, whereas the
b, c, d, f, h, k, m, n, p, q, v, y,
and
z
were relatively industrious.

“Me, I likes de one bout bitin' de hand dat feeds you.”

“Yer NOT to bite it, you mean!”

“I know. Only I likes de idea of bitin' it.”

By multiplying the digits in the presumed satanic number 666, we obtain the following result:

666 = 666

666 = 6 × 6 × 6

666 = (6 × 6) × 6

666 = (3 × 6) × 6

666 = (18) × 6

666= (1 × 8) × 6

666 = 8 × 6

666 = 48

666 = 4 × 8

666 = 32

666 = 3 × 2

666 = 6

And we arrive at an identical result by applying the same operation to the number 1,728, which is supposed to symbolize plenitude:

1,728 = 1,728

1,728 = 1 × 7 × 2 × 8

1,728 = (1 × 7) × 2 8

1,728 = (7 × 2) × 8

1,728 = (14) × 8

1,728 = (1 × 4) × 8

1,728 = 4 × 8

1,728 = 32

1,728 = 3 × 2

1,728 = 6

What motivated Élizabeth to go from preferring cases that were incurable to those that are inexplicable? Is it the same inexplicability that sometimes leaves her speechless in front of the brush strokes, abrasions, cracks — and caresses, too — with which the artist responds to the canvas?

There is reason to believe that numbers, like letters, are primitive markings that have survived repression. Most likely, in their own way, they too silence, cover up, dissimulate the inadmissible. Nor need we examine them for long to understand that they too evoke more than merely quantitative realities.

One thing led to another and the two Étiennes ended their afternoon together with each one creating a freehand drawing. Both drew a person. The boy recognized a few lines of the human body in Zablonski's drawing but the whole thing seemed unfinished:

“Is it de Cripple, den?”

This made Le Grand Étienne laugh.

“No, it's Ludmilla in the bath.”

Le Petit Étienne studied the drawing more closely, noting the effect of the yellow.

“And yours?”

“Dat's Dad singin'.”

The master studied the pupil's work.

“Yes, I see. It's good. Very, very good.”

Why this particular structure? Probably because human beings — and writers all the more so — require many thousand lines of flight.

“Wot would be de opposite of a necessity? Well, dat's a queer question, anyway.”

. . .

“Alright den, how bout dose fancy hand towels women put out in de batroom, even doh yer not supposed to use dem.”

CHAPTER 3

Literature remains alive only if we set ourselves immeasurable goals, far beyond all hope of achievement. Only if poets and writers set themselves tasks that no one else dares imagine will literature continue to have a function.

Italo Calvino
,
Six Memos for the Next Millenium,
Harvard University Press, (1988)

It had been a while since Terry had attended one of Carmen's makeup sessions in its entirety.

“Were you doin' dat before, runnin' a pencil along de line of yer cheek like dat?”

Carmen, who was being careful not to smudge her line, did not immediately reply.

“I only just bought this pencil. It cuts down the shadow.”

She scooped a dab of anti-ageing cream on the tips of the fingers of her left hand and began gently tapping under her eyes.

Watching her, Terry chuckled.

“They say it's best to tap, rather than to spread it on. And you're not to tap too hard neither. Which is why it's better to use de left hand.”

Terry thought that was clever.

“Is der somebody dat teaches ya all dis stuff, den, or is it someting women're born knowin'?”

Carmen wondered if Terry was playing the innocent or truly innocent?

“Well, there are piles of magazines that talk about pretty much nothing else. I read dem over at Zone's.

Terry's memory flashed the row upon row of beauty magazines at Reid's and Chapters. Meanwhile, Carmen continued his education:

“Matter o' fact, only last week I was readin' dat now it's alright to be wearin' the same colour lipstick an' nailpolish. Used to be, that was something a girl ought never to do.”

“Dat's right, der's the fingernails as well!”

They say the entire oeuvre of a writer is already lurking in the interstices of their first book.
8

Not all the overheard conversations were dramatic. The most ordinary surfaced after closing time at the Babar, while they were cleaning up.

“Well, I never tot dat's de way 'twas done. Wot's yer opinion?”

“I tinks he was pullin' yer leg is my opinion! Der's no way dey does it dat way.”

. . .

. . .

“Still, it would be sometin' to visit one o' dem puzzle plants sometime, just to see how dey does it.”

. . .

“Does you do 'em?”

“Do wot?”

“Puzzles!”

“Lord no. I gets stomach-sick just turnin' over all de pieces right-side up afore I even gets started.”

“I does 'em wid me granny when I go's to see 'er. She enjoys it. She's all de time got one on de go, on a card table in de corner of 'er room. She's in a home.”

Materials continued: perle cotton, glossy silk thread, flower yarn, matte cotton embroidery yarn, wool thread, six-stranded cotton (embroidery floss), matted embroidery cotton, linen, silk and rayon floss, crochet thread, lace thread, metallic thread, sewing thread.

Many of Lacan's discoveries are rooted in the shimmering reflections of language, language as revelatory. In fact, it was in their speech that Lacan located the mechanism troubling his analysands. In addition, he was compelled to invent many new words and to recombine locutions to reveal how and to what degree the unconscious is manifested in language.

However, the symbolic numbers 666 and 1,728 produce different results in Arabic multiplication:

It would be unfair not to point out the important contributions made by individual authors to their alphabetical group, particularly Balzac, Bataille, and Breton; Calvino, Canetti, Cendrars, and Cocteau; Diderot and Duby; Flaubert; Gide; Hugo; Jünger; Kafka; Malraux, Maupassant, Michelet, and Musil; Nabokov and Nietzsche; Paulhan and Proust; Sand, Sartre, and Stendhal; Verne and Voltaire; Yourcenar; and finally, Zola. At least five books by each of these authors are listed in
La Bibliothèque idéale
. Organized according to dates of birth, this list would read as follows: Voltaire (1694), Diderot (1713), Stendhal (1783), Michelet (1798), Balzac (1799), Hugo (1802), Sand (1804), Flaubert (1821), Verne (1828), Zola (1840), Nietzsche (1844), Maupassant (1850), Gide (1869), Proust (1871), Musil (1880), Kafka (1883), Paulhan (1884), Cendrars (1887), Cocteau (1889), Jünger (1895), Breton (1896), Bataille (1897), Nabokov (1899), Malraux (1901), Yourcenar (1903), Sartre (1905), Canetti (1905), Duby (1919), and Calvino (1923).

“Who was it again said ‘hell is de udder'?”

“Nobody. Dat's a proverb, everybody says it.”

“For sure, but somebody had to go and say it first, right?”

“A proverb happens when its been such a terrible long time people's been sayin' it, don't matter no more where she comes from.”

“And anyhow, it's only to get people talkin'.
Pro-verb
,
pro
means ‘for,' an'
verb
means ‘talkin'.' ‘Fer talkin'.”

“Half de time, those sayin's don't make no sense at all.”

“I tot dat one come from de Bible.”

“Well, wouldn't make no sense at all comin' from de Bible, now would it.”

“Why, pray tell, not?”

“Well, who would 'ave said it?”

“Don't know, do I. You tink I knows every wag in de Bible?”

“I never heard it in Church, dat's fer sure.”

“Me neider.”

“Whoever 'twas, should 'ave said ‘hell is de Other,' wid a capital
O
.”

“When somebody's just sayin' it, folks aren't goin' to see de capitals, now are dey?”

“Right enough. De big indivisible
O
.”

“Invisible, you mean . . .”

“I means both.”

“Wot are dose two yappin' about?”

“Haven't a clue.”

. . .

. . .

“Shall we haul ass out o' here den?”

“Awh? You don't like it 'ere?”

Human beings are not made to be happy? This is how Freud describes life in relation to the id, the ego, and the superego: a rider (the ego) holds a fractuous horse (the id) in check, all the while fighting off a swarm of bees (the superego). In addition to these already perilous tasks, the horseman must constantly survey the surrounding landscape, and learn from his experience as he advances. Hence Freud's idea that man does not live; he is lived by this condition.

Terry explained as best he could, and still Étienne came back with exactly the same question, and in the same words as the first time:

“How come den ee was swallowin' money?”

Terry tried again:

“On account of dat was 'is sickness: swallowin' money.”

“Dat's a sickness?”

Entirely by accident, Étienne had once swallowed a dime. He'd never told anyone, because his parents had often warned him not to put coins in his mouth.

“Anytin' can be a sickness, see, if a fellow overdoes it.”

Étienne was somewhat relieved, but happy nevertheless that Terry's explanation did not end there.

“See, dis fellow we's talkin' 'bout, swallowin' all dem loonies . . . well, fer sure dat boy ‘ad a problem. On account of a normal person wouldn't do be doin' dat, now would dey.”

. . .

“A normal fellow wouldn't even tink of such a ting. See?”

“But, how come ee was swallowin' money? How come not stones?”

“Well, wid him 'twas money he were swallowin'. Some udder fellow, might be stones, anudder might be nails. All depends on wot 'twas caused de problem in de beginnin'.”

Terry slid the shepherd's pie into the oven, and glanced at Étienne; he could see his answers had not entirely satisfied the boy.

“See, a fellow might decide to swallow, I don' know, de cap off a bottle o' beer, say, just for a lark, showin' off in front of 'is pals, or some such ting. An' could be it don't even make 'im sick or nuttin'. Sure and a ting like dat could happen.”

Étienne nodded.

“Right, well de next day, dat same fellow's not goin' to up and swallow anudder beer cap, now is ee? If ee do, and if ee gets to swallowin' more an' more beer caps all de time, on account of ee can't stop himself, well den, dat's startin' to be a problem. In de first place, on account of our stomach isn't built to handle metal. Could end up killin' 'im, like dat fellow who was swallowin' coins.”

So far Étienne understood, but he was waiting for the rest of Terry's explanation, which didn't seem to be coming.

“An'?”

“An' wot?”

“You said in de first place. Don't dat mean der's more yet to come?”

Terry wondered if it was normal for a four-and-a-half year old child to have such a logical mind.

“Alright den. In de second place, like I says, most folks don't have a yearnin' to swallow metal and such. Most folks just wants to eat food, and food dey likes besides, food dat makes dem feel good. Take me, for example, I can't say I really likes turnip soup. Only I knows it's good for me, so I end up likin' it a wee bit anyway, on account of it's good for me body.”

“I don't like turnip soup neider.”

Among the 29 authors of whom at least five titles have been selected by
La Bibliothèque idéale
, Hugo and Voltaire share first place with eight books each; Flaubert, Gide, Nabokov, Sartre, and Stendhal are close behind with seven works each; then six each by Balzac, Calvino, Cendrars, Duby, Malraux, Paulhan, and Zola; five each by Bataille, Breton, Canetti, Cocteau, Diderot, Jünger, Kafka, Maupassant, Michelet, Musil, Nietzsche, Proust, Sand, Verne, and Yourcenar. Listed according to date of death, the list would read as follows: Voltaire (1778), Diderot (1784), Stendhal (1842), Balzac (1850), Michelet (1874), Sand (1876), Flaubert (1880), Hugo (1885), Maupassant (1893), Nietzsche (1900), Zola (1902), Verne (1905), Proust (1922), Kafka (1924), Musil (1942), Gide (1951), Cendrars (1961), Bataille (1962), Cocteau (1963), Breton (1966), Paulhan (1968), Malraux (1976), Nabokov (1977), Sartre 1980), Calvino (1985), Yourcenar (1987), Canetti (1994), Duby (1996), and Jünger (1998).

“De wot?”

“De Color Marketing Group, dey's de folks dat decides which colours is goin' to be in fashion from one year to da next. Once dey've made der choices — say two or tree years ahead — dey makes up wot dey calls de palette of colours fer dat year, an' dey sends 'em out to de manufacturers so dat everyting matches up.”

!

“Wot? Were you tinkin' everytin' was matchin' up by some miracle?”

In other words, still according to Freud, the human being is born in such an immature neurological state that it is impossible not to injure it.

“Mum! Mum! Dad wanted I should drowns meself . . .”

“Drown. I should drown myself.”

Terry had come from the swimming pool with the children. He'd brought them in through the secret door, as he called it, to drop in for a brief moment on Carmen at the Babar.

“. . . an' I couldn't do it!”

Carmen could not guess the source of the child's excitement.

“I was only about showin' 'em it's not so easy to go an' drown yerself. In de end, a body doesn't want to sink.”

“An' now, I'm not afeard no more of puttin' me head under water.”

“Is that right? Well, that's wicked! An' how about you, me beauty? Did you swim as well?”

Marianne nodded beaming.

Terry glanced out at the bar.

“Are you busy, den?”

“Won't be long, now. Wot're you three plannin' on doing with yerselves?”

“I promised Étienne I'd make de macaroni an' sausages fer supper.”

Carmen mussed her son's hair.

“Mmmm, that sounds tasty. Mum'll come up fer a bit in a while.”

“To read a story?”

“If you like.”

Carmen stepped behind the bar, grabbed four candied Marachino cherries by their tails, and handed two each to the kids.

“Wot do we say?”

In France, they say talkie-walkie instead of walkie-talkie.

Freud's father Jacob's third marriage was to a woman 20 years his junior. One of two sons from Jacob's first marriage had children, which meant that when little Sigmund was born, he was already the uncle of a child a year older than he, and who would become his favourite playmate. Also, the young Freud believed his half-brother Philipp was sharing Sigmund's mother's bed, so that he suspected Philipp was actually Sigmund's sister Anna's father. All this may shed some light on Freuds' lifelong compulsion to penetrate secrets. In addition, a nanny to whom Freud had become especially attached disappeared without explanation when he was two and a half years old, which only added more pain to a burden of confusion sufficiently heavy to justify the birth of psychoanalysis.