You bemoan yourself. It works. I become more helpful. I pay more attention to your claims that you are the victim of abuses. Your colleagues have cancelled your experimental course. They gave you an early afternoon class rather than an evening class. They assigned you a first administrative task. You are no longer young, or a recent arrival, or someone who is admired and pampered. You answer back, you mutter, you growl over supper, which you cut short. You disappear into your office with your coffee. I clear the table and wash the dishes, which I put away, wondering whether you really are being discriminated against or treated unjustly. I think about how unhappy you are, about the effects of these violent recriminations which you can’t seem to set aside. I wouldn’t dream of reproaching you for them. Over supper you utter threats against your colleagues, vulgar intimidations that are your way of releasing your chronic discontent. I liberate you of all chores, respect your sleeping late in the morning, look after your clothes, adapt the smallest details of our life together to your timetable. I am even more willing to do the chores than when we were first married. It is your privilege to leave the house and not to clean it. You accord yourself that right and favour. You do not understand my perspective if I ask for help. You accuse me of being unfair, trying to steal and dispossess you of your tranquillity. In the face of this blackmail, I act in spite of myself. You are not yet threatening. I feel that this is imminent, that I will suffer your cruelty, intimidation, and the insulting words you are already using against your colleagues.
Your discontents affect and exhaust me. Worse, I begin to imitate you. I am a larva, an amoeba, a shapeless being that is stuck to you and that copies you. I try to get a grip. I get dry heaves; I get hiccups; I don’t have the right to let myself drift off in wrong directions. I stop imitating you. I am too impressed by your actual and your potential titles, by the genius everyone sees in you to combat your noisy and prolonged laments. Your profession comes before everything else. That is how you impress, with a great sense of duty. I admire this. From your first days at the university, you made a big impression on your students.
I am not able to distinguish true from false, real injustices from histrionics. From time to time a thought crosses my mind. You use the label “castrating mother” for a woman who directs you without your knowledge. I refuse this idea; I reject it. I want an alter ego, a husband, a companion, a friend. The Quebec matriarchy is a point of view. We both know better. I have seen your mother reprimand your father. She obeys him all the more blindly. I spent a long time looking for you among the young people I met. I dreamt we could invent or create our own ways of being that would suit us.
You fret and order me around. I should write as much as possible and excise the idea of publishing from my mind. You say formalism and avant-garde aesthetics must be privileged. You name writers who published too soon, close friends of ours and acquaintances who couldn’t wait. Their books lack power and don’t attain the heights of avant-garde work. You list the requirements that are necessary for publication. Your words are inscribed in me.
I do not feel calm as I lean over my first sentences, which I start over and over again. I can summarize what I do as follows: I write a page or two which I throw in the waste basket. My heart beats too strongly when I sit down to write. This is a travesty, a parody of the way I am. I have to write what is. I aim for the greatest possible precision in order to assert that this is how it is. What I find is discontinuity, fragmentation. I achieve little. My hesitation sets me face to face with unbearable erasures. I tremble, dizzy and suffering. Words betray me. I am translating the immaterial desire to move toward death.
A scene arises in my memory. It is important that I describe it. You are at your writing desk in the big closed room with the window overlooking Maplewood Avenue, today renamed Boulevard Édouard-Montpetit. Traditionally, the big closed room is the main bedroom. In our place, the smaller closed room serves as the bedroom. My writing desk is in the living room, a space that opens onto the entrance and the kitchen. I am not protected by a single door. I have no intimacy, or a window to look out of. It is true that you are quiet. At ten o’clock one evening you approach. I have a moment of courage the way timid people do. I am unthinking enough to show you what I believe will be the beginning of a short story. I take rhetorical precautions to point out how unfinished the text is. I do what you hate most – I read you the first page which I have just written. I know that you can’t stand when someone reads aloud; you consider it arrogant, showy, smug. You predict that I will fail miserably if I continue what I have begun.
You go on and on. Your usual lectures on the avant-garde come spilling out. You yell in that highpitched voice of yours, that grating voice that hasn’t changed. Accents that sound like sobs come through. You are in a total rage. You tell me I don’t know how to think. I tremble. I try not to tremble, and I fail. My teeth chatter; I clamp my jaws and lips. Tears come to my eyes. You continue to yell. You are punishing me. You stop. The crisis is over. You change your tack and decide that the lines I have written are not worth getting excited about. You attack me with derision. You call me “madame.” Your condescending look, which I know, is sarcastic. I try to get away. You stand there blocking my path. Your arms are wide open; they encircle me. I cannot escape my chair. I have transgressed your literary law. You go on and on about the principles of formalism. You do not stop propounding truths about language, about the preponderance of the signifier. I am subjected to a speedy lesson in linguistics. Your face twitches nervously; your bad teeth accentuate your protruding chin. You speak for a long time. You are engrossed in making a scene. If I got up, I would touch you. Your long arms keep me fixed on my chair. I have no wish to touch you. I tell you: stop. My words have the opposite effect. You will not stop now. I deserve your explicit contempt. I feel disassociated. I can hear my strong inner voice mocking you. The big scene I was afraid of is taking place. We have been together for so many years.
When I am at my writing desk, you shut yourself up in your big room. You do not hang around me. I have stopped being a bothersome visitor in your private room. I seek out that perseverance that you have counselled so many times. I speak to you in the kitchen and the conjugal bedroom. I obey you, because of old childhood customs. I adjust to you. I adapt to the situation which is ours.
It happens that I reflect on my ability to adapt to you. I was once a malleable young girl, without a will of her own. You see, I am one of those people who think and say bad things about themselves. My feminine education sought to dispossess me of my will so that a male, within a marital relationship, could shape me according to his desires. I have been castrated. I think about what was required of me, about the fake education I received that led to my servility. I try to understand where this imposed passivity originated, where my absurd obedience and alienation stem from. I have to put out a constant effort just to attain the basic autonomy required by my status as a teacher. My private life is quite different. Your requests are orders. I welcome them; I do not answer back. You are my priority whenever we are under the same roof.
I don’t wait for you to make demands or ask for services. I can’t help it: I sense your desires before you even express them. I keep telling myself it will not suffice. This repetitive behaviour of mine, the repetitive way I express myself, these are mistakes; they have to stop. I’m in the uncertain terrain of words. Not a day goes by without you verbalizing your chronic dissatisfaction and misery. I am so close to you that I hear every word you say, your sighs, and even your breathing. My eyes linger on your angry face. I have one sole motivation: to anticipate your unformulated wishes. And so I buy a European car, costly and chic, according to your taste, a car I learn to drive since you refuse. Now we can get out of Montreal, spend our holidays at the edge of a lake. I propose trips; you refuse them all. I organize a stay at a rented cottage. I take all the responsibility. You protest up to the last moment. I am filled with unreal hopes. We take along our books and notebooks and reproduce our studious s
ituation. You invite friends. They surround you, seduced by your sweet words. You change your language; you become argumentative. Your bright mind carries you off into discussions. The spell takes hold again. You grab all the attention you want. I am loved by the man who is at the centre of the group, the object of every glance and every conversation.
You have the ascendant over me. When I see that you are in a foul mood, I know I have to do better. My well-being depends on yours; my joy depends on yours. I did not protest when you threatened me, when you were unhappy about the long page I read to you. My indecision has grown worse. In vain I try to stop believing you, and I feel shattered. That incident takes me back to my father’s contemptuous outbursts. He would proceed comparatively, a method that was deeply hurtful because it appealed to pettiness, meanness, everything low and degrading. He was always putting down his children. It was his way of making himself more important. He told me that my thinking was wrong, that I was reneging on my girlhood with my lengthy, my interminable, studies. He said a woman was not made for a serious life, that I was making a mistake, that university was reserved for the sons of good families. If there were girls at university, they were heading into a trap. They would one day repent. I was silent. I swallowed his words, gulped them down. Some still resurface in my memory. They did not stop me making my decisions. I don’t respond to your threats either. I receive them. I don’t have the moral force to not be touched by the man I sleep with. I no longer know what my position is; I feel panicky, tense, destabilized. I didn’t realize how much you resemble my father psychologically. I feel wretched. What I have constructed is being destroyed. Our marriage, which was a renewal, a new beginning, is turning out to be the continuation of my relationship with my father. I try to regain my former equanimity. Your violence mutters on but does not explode. Your graceless voice rasps. You hiss and breathe through your rotten teeth. I don’t take you seriously and that is a mistake.
I feel I am being polite and respectful when I take my father’s criticisms without a word. I accord him the right not to love me the way he loves his other children. I can see how serious my situation is; he knows about life. I see his fatherly functions in such grandiose terms that I cannot imagine taking any action against him. The misunderstandings are constant. I am humiliated by my inability to respond. What is a general rule in my father’s mind is the exception in mine. Normally I am not upset by your heavy, but short and nasty, diatribes. I have a lot of feeling for you. You are a frail man, distinguished among thousands of others by your intelligence. I believe that you are beyond the crowd, an uncommon being, full of promise. You are a giant. You are able to defend the artistic avant-garde with intransigent passion. Your steadfastness has my unconditional approval. Recently you have been calling for a political avant-garde. I have lost track of your avantgardes. There is not a single book on politics on your bookshelves. I have never seen you with such a book in your hands. Usually politicians are the butt of your trenchant humour.
We are the same age, you say. Let’s be precise: you are a year younger. I feel as though you are my teacher. You try to shape my thinking. In everyday life, I am an autonomous woman. The interests of an everyday mind are trivial, secondary, you say in front of our friends. I am the incarnation of the tedious duties that are my sole responsibility.
One lunch time I am seated before a salad that you have prepared. A perfect surprise, my heart is full to overflowing. I can hear it beating. For a fraction of a second I glimpse the beginning of a new development. A ray of light on the horizon. I wait for you to join me. I thank you over and over again. I tell you how pleased I am. Then, I don’t know what comes over me, I do something unexpected. I lift the lettuce leaves and find a dead snail in the middle of my plate. I am utterly devastated. I say nothing. I gag. Afterwards, I wonder how a fat brown snail could have dropped onto my plate. You never prepare another meal.
I organize a picnic. We go to Mont Royal. The air, the blue sky breathe calm peace. It is hot in the sun; we follow paths in search of some shade below the trees. You communicate love through your good mood and childish wordplay.
You smile; you murmur silly onomatopoeic expressions. You are happy; you come close; you touch me. The softness of your skin moves me. I kiss you. Simple words are what suit you. We explore a few paths. We enjoy the quiet. We find an isolated spot for our picnic. You seem feverish, joyful. You give me gold jewellery, real works of modern art. I am full of emotion; my hands flutter. There is a long necklace and a wide bracelet, light and well-designed. You attach the necklace, I slip on the bracelet. This very sophisticated jewellery is the work of a skilled artisan; they may be unique pieces. You do not tell me where they come from. This adds to the mystery and the beauty of your gesture.
Silence falls between us. I’ve gotten drunk on air. My head spins when I get up. We leave Mont Royal at the end of the afternoon. You are at peace. We come back to picnic several times in the summer, and explore the mountain from Lac des Castors to the municipal chalet. Life with you, which is normally so difficult, is completely different: it is a reconciliation. I do not forget these serene and relaxed times.
***
Over the holidays we pay visits to our respective families. I see you the way you are; at your parents’ home you are silent and indifferent to conversation. You are a little absent as though floating above all the topics. I make an effort to talk to your mother and your stepsister. I see to it that there is conversation, which is not conversation. What I say falls flat. I receive a yes or a no in response. I miss the mark. No one is interested in what I have to say. We are at the table. Your mother serves up the food. The meal is tedious. My mother-in-law has prepared a cooked meal. She tells us where she got the recipe to make a meal from canned goods. We are all sitting there around the table. Nothing happens. I think I may be criticized for not being sociable. When the meal is over I clear the table and help your mother and stepsister with the dishes. I feel guilty for not being interesting. At least I am useful. That’s enough until the next time.
When you come to my parents’ place you greet everyone effusively with large smiles, deliberate and showy gestures. You want to please. You appear to be the most amiable and charming man there is. The evening goes by with chitchat. You show off; you do impressions. Your behaviour makes me sick; it is painful. You put on an act you don’t produce anywhere else. Then the dirty stories commence; racist, sexist, sexual jokes lighten up the end of the meal. That’s not you talking. You’re participating in the general hilarity. Over the years we’ve become aging children playing an outdated tune that was invented by others, by the same people who revel in anecdotes, and turn on the humour. There is no connection between one story and the next. The role-playing goes on. I keep my mind in the present; I try to stay calm and wear an enigmatic smile on my face. I do not permit myself to sulk. You are not yourself. You turn into a little boy. You let your sister-in-law make you her flunky. Your servility is unbearable. I need a man at my side. Your keen, demanding knowledge, the genius your peers recognize, has vanished. Your compartmentalized pocketbook knowledge shows itself at the university and with our friends.
I feel betrayed. I am married to a worthy man who is behaving like a fool. This has been going on since we first met. My family does not appreciate your ingratiating behaviour. They are upset at your lack of virility. You appeal for their understanding and sympathy. Every time we visit them I feel more alone. My father detests intellectuals. He talks about them with endless disdain, with poisonous bile. I suffer his aggressive comments. I swallow his vicious words. I wait for you to assert yourself and justify our professions. You make stupid sophomoric jokes; you try to please. You flirt and chat. My brothers and sisters find you charming. You gargle with wordplay. All these years together have not changed this inflexible ritual of family get-togethers. I come home exhausted, my head and my heart in tatters. The day after is always heavy. My heart beats fast. I need to spend time alone. I seek out a classical author on the boo
kshelves. I read Flaubert, or Choderlos de Laclos.
We are on holiday, the time between Christmas and New Year. We have a few quiet days to spend in our well-heated apartment, safe from the winter. We do not do any sports; we do not go to the movies; and we rarely have guests. I go out to do the shopping and I come home. We have free time. Silence reigns. I am encased in my unhappiness. I do some reading. I pay attention to what I am reading. Otherwise there are recurring visions, images that come back to touch me, occupy my mental space, cut me off from my feelings. I feel nothing but shame for what I have become.
You would like me to play games, put on a show, play a role, be a Real Woman. I can see that – you like kittenish behaviour, sexy games. You laugh when a woman touches you, flirts with you. You become talkative and extravagant. You spout flatteries. I constantly see women putting on shows for men, doing impressions. They wear extravagantly high heels, tight dresses with plunging necklines. They make up their faces with bright colours and they all wear the same, outdated, hairdos. You want me to be one of them, the type that men call real women. I don’t play at being someone else, that’s the big difference.
What is deemed the female psyche is quite precise and necessarily coded – by opinion and dogma. According to those categories I am not an authentic woman. Nor do I display any of the attributes of the religious kind – the little simpleton who serves her family, and prepares copious meals between doing the laundry and the dishes. That attentive version holds no attraction for you. The other version, the histrionic, stereotyped one, turns you on, attracts you, puts you in the mood. Captivates you. We are in our own home. You return to your den to organize files so that you can get back to your studies the next day.
The Stalinist's Wife Page 2
