Not a Clue

by Chloé Delaume

  Dance Card

  (Saint-Tropez Twist)

  The property is huge, the guest list long, and Mathias’s memory lapse even deeper than the mascara-packed lash plumped sapphire gaze emanating from the blonde bimbo lingering in the lounge chair, which isn’t very hard. Mathias finished off his next manuscript, finished off like a beast of burden, no pleasure or enthusiasm. With his brain amputated the task wasn’t as arduous as you might think. Taking note of the real, the collective fiction sustained by his peers, intensely enveloping anecdotes and glimpsed emotions at the mercy of the community that is. Mathias forgot, the desertion of his principle organ sometimes subjects him to a draft that freezes his cranial cavity, but he knows the steps, the remedy solutions that always let him heat up his fear until it evaporates. Mathias forgot, his only object of worship is the current spectacle, conscious of the libations at the altar of self-consumption, convinced of knowing, accepting the mechanism, participating on a daily basis in the circus of abjection his awareness clearing him of any wrongdoing, that cynicism isn’t the spoiled legacy of the nineties but a lifeline that belongs only to the powerful.

  His lips are chapped by an oppressive month of August and all the caipirinhas he drank, his lips are chapped because of the hundred and one tall tales his mouth swallowed over so many months that it’s been two years. Mathias forgot because of the immediate, the immediate relationship, musty-smelling publishing circuit, consuming collective fiction, producing fiction fed on the same, feeding it, writing promotion-perfect clever snippets and mouthwatering concepts promotion, with every chapter thinking of the humorous witticisms to be served on TV, first four months on tour with stops at all the high priests of the media world, second four months the machine’s back at it with new stock–secured signings all over the country, last four months quick, efficient writing, locked on target weakening stock in trade, writer’s boredom, blocked tomorrows will September be pink and the reception cherry red.

  Mathias has sawdust blocking his pipes. In the past it had been more like curdled blood because Mathias was buried under the mass grave, the mass grave of books, he knew it was possible to come back like Colonel Chabert, to resurface with the help of an old tibia, a rotting limb ripped from the corpses, the living corpses whose bones are wrapped in will-o’-the-wisp flesh giving them strength, fortifying arms, letting writers make their way through the mass grave filled with works from a past that will never die, that can’t die, no one’s near death in that grave, though some are waiting near petite mort asking for nothing more than to help, Mathias not so long ago understood all this because of his greedy necrophiliac brain, Mathias not so long ago said I’m digging around in the depths of a mausoleum, I dig and I climb, maybe one day I’ll be worthy of a resting place there, one day perhaps my body might be fertile, my bones useful to others, one day someone will play jacks with my vertebrae and they’ll knock together, I’ll be a maracas or slender bow.

  Mathias has sawdust blinding his nights. Glaucoma shavings cover his irises. Mathias never reads anything now except articles and the drab production of the community that is. Mathias in the Castle has donated his time, many divest themselves of their most precious possession, it’s compensation for all the knighthoods. Mathias has forgotten both names and words, he doesn’t make anything live anymore, expressionless, functional vocabulary, sterile syntax, plastic-wrapped terms. Mathias in his works describes, explains, observes, and tells. He doesn’t write anything anymore.

  Nth evening in the villa, nth mechanical wriggling, the publisher makes his guests dance. On the cozy couch some guest or another wants to make a good impression. Mathias answers I read really dead writers and the live ones who are all here. The guest in question is surprised. There was a time when you quoted different ones, I guarantee you, and none of these at all. Dead writers who can’t die and living ones who are way too alive to be locked up in here. Mathias forgot, he’s quit even trying to lay flowers on the graves stuffed with soldiers, he thrice denied Eden, doesn’t bother with the drowned anymore, his language is stunted, dry, an olive pit. Mathias can’t hear the songs rough echoes of the first words anymore, Mathias can’t anymore the Word has stopped talking to him, in his head subject verb connection object, dull, docile little carriages, in Mathias’s skull sentences a little train in first class his soul, sentences a little train carrying off his soul, in Mathias’s skull the train kept a-rollin’ all night long.

  Round 4

  (The Dice Are Definitely Loaded)

  Every night I write letters that I don’t send him. I slip a lot into them, it’s more than love, it’s a lot more than that. I can’t send them to him, I tried, every time black-and-blue stomach I think of my horrible words, my words are so unworthy and sound so hollow, I can’t do it, it’s impossible. I don’t throw them out, throwing them out would be garbage-chuting love, thinking about all that love defiled by vegetable peels drains my head, really, just thinking about it. I don’t want to be drained, not of love, especially not of Mathias. In the morning since I’ve been crying the paper is soaked, the sheets tear easily, obvious blotter saturated with inky mistakes that are ripe for the slashing. I cut off little bits, little piles of easy-to-swallow bits. I swallow my love. Mathias would think that’s right, maybe even sweet.

  I’m jealous, I think. The more Mathias tells me about his life and his nights without knowing I’m the one behind it, always behind the pseudonym he confides his secrets in, the more I’m sure that my place is by his side. In the beginning I was really surprised by his books, his new books, a strange turn, a very wide angle. I was mad at him because they were so far from his little blue notebook, unknown territory, I was looking for my Mathias, mine, the one I knew, but I was being selfish and completely stupid. Mathias certainly has his doubts, I can tell from his emails, but he’s strong, really strong, solid concrete, he’s got this rock solid, Mathias knows what he’s doing of course, there can’t be any other way. This afternoon at the café across the street, some girls were looking through magazines and they stopped at a picture of him. He was posing in his boxers, with his pillow hugged against his clean-shaven chest. The young maidens commented on the interview that followed, questions about his morning routine, tea or coffee, shower or bathtub, if he wrote more in the morning or the evening, computer or notebook, he answered seriously, which surprised me, I think I was actually furious but I still don’t know why. If it’s from seeing him put himself on display like that any old place, any old way, if it’s from hearing I’m single instead of I live with Esther, my first love and she still manages to surprise me, I’m going to marry her. I really don’t know, but it hurt me so much. Such a sharp pain that the root contracted, I’m still short of breath from it. Getting dropped by Mathias weighs heavier on my numb heart than a quintal, seeing him everywhere way too much my ventricles exhausted from so many spasms, sometimes I feel like I’m nothing but a knitted ball of tension. But knowing he’s living at the top of the podium without me leaves me gasping even more that all the rest. I could weave his crown of laurel branches better than anyone, and by abandoning me there’s nothing but a wide-open field of possibilities, my possible lives he gambled scorched earth. I can’t help it I keep on dreamily caressing this pride, this immense pride that would grow in me, would grow me too, being a princess consort especially Mathias’s would go well with my complexion and even better with my heart, I’m dying to see myself quoted, inspiration partner or muse it doesn’t matter, I was born only to be an iridescent muse. Mathias is the only one who doesn’t know it, I have to fix that.

  Everybody’s Connected

  I’m Mathias’s blog. On this November day I’ve received the order to proclaim: Prix de Fior winner. When you click on those words you discover Mathias now in the good books, posing in front of a Métro station. Some hackers thought it would be a good idea to interfere with me, since nine forty-three this morning a superimposed flash mosaic mosquito, beneath it scroll the words Talk, talk, talk: the utter stupidity of wo
rds. It’s quite annoying, but there’s nothing I can do. But man do flash animations itch, you have no idea.

  Round 5

  (Dice Unfailingly Loaded)

  There was an announcement on his site: live this morning Mathias on the radio on France-Inter. I have a hard time getting into the broadcasting center. Since the last wave of terrorist attacks and the Vigipirate plan all the entrances are blocked with hellhounds. On the other side of the doors a metal detector, on the other side of the metal detector a uniform, head toward the back no not the elevators, not the elevators right away, first say hello to the lady sitting cozily behind the counter, check id card you’re expected where which studio which office by whom phone picked up explanation fill in the sheet last name first name signature, I lazily took advantage of a moment of hesitation to slip surreptitiously into the confines of the elevator. The Maison de la Radio has eleven miles of hallways, without the army of medics winding their way across the floors all day long its basements and every nook and cranny would be littered with the skeletons of interns, production managers, visitors, guests who’ve died of exhaustion starvation panic and dehydration it’s so impossible not to get lost, a thousand times I thought I’d end up walled in. A kind technician took pity on me and managed to find the right coordinates for the object of my quest. It’s not about observing Mathias but about really seeing him, seeing him right to the end, seeing him home and with the utmost discretion. Usually when you’re waiting for someone to come out you hide behind a corner and hold your breath. In this case it’s complicated because the floor is round. I took my papers big sheets out of my bag, I hid my face behind them and it worked quite well. I was really scared in the elevator, my lungs were swelling with the same air as Mathias, sharing oxygen in a space so confined it’s intimate was making my root tremble, I could feel it was ready to leap out at him ripping flesh fabric crawling panic-stricken along my cleavage, ruining my plan with its hotheaded excess. I hugged my bag against myself as tight as I could, squeezed the leather plumpness, a shield upon my chest, and it worked pretty well. I was wearing a wig and tinted glasses, face hidden behind jet-black stems, eaten away by dark halos I was unrecognizable, on the way I accidentally said hello when I saw my own reflection. Mathias didn’t say anything to me. He was immersed in a deep discussion with his press agent, who didn’t even look at me either. They went their separate ways at the Métro station, she took a taxi and he took the rer. The platform at the Kennedy–Radio France station is wide and on top of that it’s a drafty hollow. I exchanged my wig for a purple scarf, my hair was too tangled I couldn’t see a thing. I got into the car, strategically chose my place, a seat on the lower level behind a glass pane but facing forward it goes without saying. Mathias went to the upper level. He’s always had a soft spot for double-deckers. He got off at Pereire. I trotted along behind him discreetly. He rushed onto Line 3, I took off my scarf headed toward Gallieni my hair was pulling elastic suffocating, I shoved it under a tweed cap and changed my glasses. Dark little glasses with rectangular-shaped plastic frames. I almost lost Mathias at the transfer, at the Opéra station the hallways were so full of people and my vision darkened, no matter how hard I scanned the fauna was unreadable in the middle of one tunnel. I stayed just behind him, stood right behind my eyes devouring his neck all the way to Sébastopol. Mathias changed his cologne. He doesn’t wear Fahrenheit anymore, it’s certainly a Hugo Boss, but I’m not sure which one yet. I brushed up against his jacket two or three times, I’m still surprised that along my aorta my pounding heart didn’t leave a fatal fissure. The car was deserted on Line 4, I camouflaged myself in the hollow of a double seat set and pulled on a platinum blonde bob. Between the lipstick and the painted eyelids no need for glasses, I added a pair of old Chanels just to make it absolutely perfect. He opened the door with a rather sharp motion a couple of seconds after the Saint-Sulpice stop. Mathias has a way of prancing when he goes up stairs, it’s because of smiling the dimples he’s had on his bottom since he was a teenager. He made two phone calls that I couldn’t really make out, the wind was blowing toward me so I couldn’t catch any of the words. Then he stopped in at Yves Saint-Laurent and spent twenty minutes. He came out with one really big bag and another smaller one. He went to the right, his cell phone played the notes from Strauss’s waltz, but he didn’t lift a finger to answer it. At 27 rue Madame he sesameed the door code. I waited for a long time and concluded that his apartment must be on the inner courtyard.

  Today I took three rolls. Mathias isn’t very regular, and I didn’t find a single apartment to rent on his street, except a really tiny one a couple of buildings away, but even if I stopped eating, I wouldn’t be able to afford the thousand euros a month. It’s really too bad, not to mention very limiting. I have to get up early to come in from Carrières, between the equipment and all my disguises my backpack is heavy, I’m really tired and I’m afraid he’s going to spot me. I answered an ad to be an au pair in Mathias’s building, but the hours were ridiculous and on top of that I hate kids. I waited till one of his neighbors went out so I could slip inside. A courtyard and two stairwells. Mathias’s place is off the one on the left, yesterday he got three letters: one from the electric company, one from a reader who’s appallingly familiar with him, and one form his brother complaining about never hearing from him. Today a postcard from Eugène who’s in Berlin and an invitation to a party. Mathias’s place is on the fourth floor on the left and he listens to English pop music pretty loud. He has his coffee at home and picks up his mail as he leaves the building. He has no habits, no rituals, no walks at set times. As far back as I can remember Mathias always said he’d hate Immanuel Kant till the end of his days.

  The woman at the perfume shop was positive. It’s a Hugo Boss in a bottle with the same name. Before I left the Café du Vieux Colombier, on his temporarily vacant chair I placed a package containing a scarf made of much better cashmere so that my larceny doesn’t have a negative effect on his adorable tonsils. I think I love Mathias right down to his tonsils. When I think of his body I don’t stop at his skin, I love him on the inside. Mathias is handsome down to his colon. One day I’d like to hang pictures from his endoscopy next to the ones I take and tack up in my bedroom.

  Dance Card

  (Flamenco)

  In his sleep Mathias is at Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. Seated at a sidewalk café, he orders a low-quality Bordeaux. His neighbor whispers to him: Gypsies are right when they say that you never have to tell the truth anywhere but in your own tongue; in the enemy’s language a lie is enough. When he wakes up Mathias is afraid he’s lost his voice.

  Everybody’s Connected

  I’m Mathias’s blog. In a year and a half the site I’m on experienced a drop in visits of 76.43 percent. Nobody reads me anymore, besides that my updates are the same as the ones under media: all but nonexistent. Secretly, I communicate with Mathias’s computer. We exchange our impressions concerning our common dominator. It also gives me access to the Word documents that Mathias opens. Since I’m naturally connected to the internet, I pass on the information I find. I know my end is very near. Mathias’s last novel, which came out in 2003, following an insufficient number of characters in the file A second chance.doc in the fall of 2002, shows eight hits on Google, including Amazon and fnac.com. The other links are to TV programs that Mathias did when he was promoting it. Three go to France 2: the reality talk show Ça se discute about near-death experiences; the celebrity talk show Tout le monde en parle, where Mathias is on the guest list alongside various members of the French intelligentsia and entertainment world: Jean-Marie Bigard, Monseigneur Gaillot, Nolween Leroy, François Bayrou, Massimo Garcia, Loana, Emma de Caunes, and Julien Courbet; as well as to an appearance on Laurent Ruquier’s daily show, where he auditioned. And one to France 3, a special episode of that other reality talk show C’est mon choix on pets, where he appeared with Nerval, his recently adopted Burmese cat. One goes to his publisher’s site and the last one to a webzine with an articl
e entitled Let’s Save Another 14,99€. According to the computer’s statistics, Mathias mostly uses Outlook and a Tetris game he downloaded. The majority of his emails are addressed to Lain, Eugène, and his publisher. Since not long ago, a read receipt is systematically requested from the last two.