Not a Clue

by Chloé Delaume

  Everyone Is Connected

  Agence France-Presse. Friday, September 10, 2004.

  At 11:45 p.m. a bomb went off in La Chandelle, a libertine club in Paris’s 6th arrondissement during a private launch party for the third issue of the journal Proxénétisme and attended by the city’s literary elite. Reports already confirm more than one hundred people dead and sixteen with serious injuries transported to nearest hospital. Defense & Illustrations, a small group previously unknown to authorities, has claimed responsibility and its leader, the writer Clotilde Mélisse, was taken in for questioning overnight.

  Dance Card

  (La Java bleue)

  PARIS, SEPTEMBER 13, 2004

  Dear Dr. Lagarigue,

  Following our phone conversation of this past September 6, and as we agreed, I am sending you our patient Mathias Rouault, who’s been a resident of our clinic since last June 22. He was brought to us by the police after trying to commit suicide by jumping off the Pont des Arts. The subject suffers from a distinctive psychotic disorder: delirious ideas and episodes, hallucinations, disorganized speech, and cyclically catatonic behavior. Mathias Rouault’s occupation is that of writer, which could explain a good number of his symptoms. Despite the treatment administered, we have seen no improvement. Currently on Olanzapine, the patient remains manageable, but his condition leaves the staff and myself at a loss for an explanation. I enclose here a letter he wrote a few days after coming to us, and which he asked one of our nurses to stamp and send, so you can judge the situation for yourself, and thereby prepare the therapeutic and pharmacological welcome you deem most appropriate.

  In closing, I’d like to sincerely thank you for taking him on so quickly.

  Dr. Horace Bianchon

  His Excellency Le Petit Robert Dictionary

  27 rue de la Glacière

  75013 Paris

  I, the undersigned, Mathias Rouault, do hereby acknowledge:That I took possession of the Word with the unique aim of misappropriating it for personal gain;

  That I am guilty of desertion, even though I swore I would serve the dictionary;

  That I entered the Banana Republic of Letters following breach of trust in a number of instances;

  That once therein, in order to remain, I committedmisappropriation on several occasions;

  That I participated of my own free will in commercial collaboration;

  That I actively took part in the Great Debraining;That I am responsible for the mental deportation of several thousand readers.

  I confirm that my confession has been written on this day, June 25, in the city of Paris, under no outside coercion, I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions and remain at the disposal of the authorities.

  Mathias Rouault

  Everyone Is Connected

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  Professor Plum in the Ballroom

  with the Candlestick

  If Mathias’s footsteps don’t echo much, it’s because of the remains of the agape feast, the floor is strewn with the streamer cadavers, the enshrouded wooden boards mute. The deserted Ballroom is still flushed past echoes pungency. The chiseled marquetry has always absorbed more ghosts, it’s not out of chance or simple folklore that ladies of the manor confide in the memory of walls. Cracked as they are, the windows allow the infiltration of drops of wind that form frosty pearls on the shards, little marbles of dead words, arid, ancient words, roll chime bounce across the floor, beneath his soles Mathias sometimes bursts a tiny clot, a clot an agate, a dust speck of throaty laugh, a rusty remark, a stale watery statement escapes unharmed.

  The Ballroom is empty, Mathias’s candle has been completely consumed. The shriveled wick diffuses its rough, dark, dying, peaude-chagrin perfume. Mathias’s fingers are one with the candlestick, petrified transplant, drips of wax encrusted reddened knuckle epidermis silent despite burning emphasizing tumorous link continuity silvery mass trembling hand. The light was pale, the light sputtered out by the remembrance candle before its demise, blind Mathias at the scene of the crime crisscrosses the space, groping he brushes the mite-riddled curtains, bumps into every chair, not a single match left to offset the candlesque deficiency, not a single match, no, not a single wish, a single possible wish, nothing to say nothing is said in Mathias’s skull anymore, in his brainless skull Mathias walks and stumbles over the bits of emptiness scattered throughout its depths.

  Mathias breathes in deep, in the folds of the paneling his nostrils poach several odors, mold, honeycombed fungus crumbs of a musty pus-filled past. Mathias takes a deep sniff so he can finally sneeze. I made it into the Banana Republic of Letters by the strength of my wrist and I always wrote by candlelight. Dr. Lagarigue assents by holding out a big box of Kleenex for him to draw from.

  Let’s go back to your migraines, I don’t really understand. You explained that you filled your ears with hot wax to keep in the voices. But the voices themselves scare you, right, Mathias, the voices like music, the invasive laughter, there are times when you dread them, otherwise why would you have taken the fork yesterday to pierce your skull if it wasn’t to let them out. You told the nurse two little holes in each temple, blow into one of them anyone please it’ll make an in-draft. The voices are hurting you, Mathias. You’re hurting yourself, hurting Mathias. We’re here to help you, you know that, don’t you Mathias. I’ll give you another blanket, your blood pressure is so low, that’s why you’re shivering.

  There were a few dances here, dances with complicated steps. I was a good dancer, wow did I ever dance here. Next to the open hatch, there was a big platform, the musicians played from up there. Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women. They had Hertzian bows. There’s a shoulder where Death comes to cry. And harelip plated flutes too. I still know all the steps, I know them watch me, watch me dance, There’s a lobby with nine hundred windows I’m dancing like an irreducible sulfur fireproof flame. There’s a tree where the doves go to die a lunar strobe is playing through the panes, There’s a piece that was torn from the morning I’m dancing I was the king the little prince And it hangs in the Gallery of Frost I’m the king the little prince yes the king is dancing by the light of the lunar strobe I-I-I-I I’m dancing like I wrote the words, Take this waltz I burned the words the candle at both ends burned the words Take this waltz the candle’s out I’m dancing the grand ball has started again the grand ball nothing’s lost Take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.

  The voices and the music in your head Mathias only exist through you, for you and only in your head, do you understand Mathias, you’re hurting yourself, really hurting yourself Mathias, no one can survive for long inside their head, you think you’ve taken refuge in there, but you’re the prisoner of your own head Mathias, we’re going to help you get out of that head let me help you, come out of your head you’re going to bang into something.

  If I dance for a very long time the grand ball could start again. Oh, I want you, I want you, I want you I remember sometimes the floor was cold and the dance floor in ruins but I was the first one danci
ng On a chair with a dead magazine and a few steps later there were hundreds of us in the middle of a whirlwind. I’ll dance for a long time I’m dancing In the cave at the tip of the lily in the doorway I can see a fragile silhouette delicately appearing In some hallway where love’s never been a silhouette gliding softly toward the center, On a bed where the moon has been sweating the center is me In a cry filled with footsteps and sand the center, I-I-I-I I’m the grand ball centrifuge Take this waltz partners will fall Take this waltz into my arms Take its broken waist in your hand into my pale arms. This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz I pick up speed I extend my hand to her she comes forward, With its very own breath of brandy and Death the silhouette comes toward me she comes forward Dragging its tail in the sea.

  Let’s go back to the migraine you had in July, Mathias, torturing your head, you mentioned a song that ordered you to fall, saying jump off the bridge. It was a long time ago but tell me about it anyway, what were the words to that old song, it’s important, Mathias, really important, you have to understand it’s in your head, that everything in your head is part of you, only of you, Mathias, listening inside your head is hearing yourself, you were talking to yourself Mathias, you meant yourself harm, you wanted to hurt yourself, you hurt yourself so much but I want to help you.

  It’s dark, of course, so dark, I can’t see much, it’s because of the stick, the thin wax stick so quickly consumed, There’s a concert hall in Vienna consumed by its flame Where your mouth had a thousand reviews in less than seven years. I’m dancing in the shadows There’s a bar where the boys have stopped talking and someone takes my hand. The movements are graceful the wind rushes in They’ve been sentenced to death by the blues they aren’t droplets of wind anymore Ah but who is it climbs to your picture but rather gusts snorting gusts of dry revived voices. With a garland of freshly cut tears There are two of us we’re dancing under my right palm I-I-I-I I can feel a slightly rough piece of linen behind it the vertebrae of the opaque silhouette Take this waltz that lets me lead I’ve always been good at leading Take this waltz the restricted vertebrae crackle rhythmically I don’t dare squeeze too tight for fear of snapping them and annoying their noble owner Take this waltz, it’s been dying for years.

  Take your drops, Mathias. I’ll bring the chair closer don’t talk so loud. There’s no grand ball, it’s in your head we’re in your room you’re in your bed, I swear to you in this room there are no candles and no candlesticks, don’t get agitated, nothing will hurt you here, nothing at all will hurt you, we’re helping you, Mathias, we want what’s best for you.

  You’re beautiful when you’re out of breath, Dr. Lagarigue, you’re beautiful There’s an attic where children are playing you’re waltzing spinning wildly. Where I’ve got to lie down with you soon let me lead, dear Dr. Lagarigue. I’ve always been good In a dream of Hungarian lanterns at leading my very deliberate steps In the mist of some sweet afternoon carry slippers petticoats away see we’re whirling And I’ll see what you’ve chained to your sorrow soon the Ballroom will be overflowing with expert couples spinning tops soon the Ballroom will be overflowing with life All your sheep and your lilies of snow. I-I-I-I I like you out of breath, Dr. Lagarigue, you remind me of a hundred easily swooning women the alcoves of the Castle are brimming Take this waltz with them how sweet it was, Doctor, Take this waltz to have your ego reflected in their eyes as they rolled back in their heads. Feel how the atmosphere is cooling off now. See, we’ve created disciples or turned the tables, the shadows bristle with intertwined dancers who’ve come back to brush against us for as long as we want Take this waltz, with its “I’ll never forget you, you know!”

  I can’t see anything, Mathias. I’d like a chair because my heart is beating too fast. The grand ball exists, doesn’t it, not only in your head I can see the room engulfed in paneling, I’d swear the room is decorated with candlesticks and so many candelabras, my lips are moving, it’s not me I’m afraid I’m not the one I’m really not the one who’s talking Mathias, through my mouth I don’t know who’s vomiting out these words, for the time being I’m bracing my tongue clenching my jaws, I fear that the enamel on my poor incisors will soon shortly give way from such battering.

  I only live to dance, dear Dr. Lagarigue, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz deep down you know that, that’s all we live for. With its very own breath of brandy and Death Being a star on the dance floor, Dragging its tail in the sea taking the risk a bird winding up a shooting star I’ll dance with you in Vienna becoming a constellation I’ll be wearing a river’s disguise Announces the Ringmaster shapely display concentrating on proper head position Take this waltz neck weighed down with a thousand eyes Take this waltz feeling the heat of glory reducing remaining scruples to a puddle and evaporating remorse Take this waltz, take this waltz, take this waltz, take this waltz.

  I’m your migraine, it’s me who’s talking, Mathias, me, the dead one buried in the hollow of your oblivion, me, the cadaver dismayed by your stunted choices. The hyacinth wind on my shoulder, Look at me, Mathias, I’m right here, against you My mouth on the dew of your thighs. Caress my old bones hold me tighter dig your fingers into the space between the tiny bones. And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook Look at me, Mathias. I said: look at me. Plunge your cerulean eyes into my deepest gaps. I have two big holes, Mathias, where my eyes should be. With the photographs there, and the moss my eyes dissolved as they read you, Mathias, as they read your stupidity-spreading prose your pimpish syntax, Take this waltz your pretentious prepositions Take this waltz My eyes dissolved, Mathias, witnessing every page of your subjugated words, every line, Mathias, every line since you started leering at the Castle gates Take this waltz, take this waltz, take this waltz, was a piercing blow plunging harder bursting eyeballs. See the Word, Mathias, you compromised it, see language, Mathias, your pages turn it into a hustler, you prostituted it, decked out in flirty pathetic ploys, your language is a whore, Matthias, a miserable whore, and to get it so dirty, so ugly, so gaunt, it had to be over my own dead body. I’m Dr. Black, Mathias. And I’ll yield to the flood of your beauty I’m speaking to you through the mouth of my colleague tonight to finally prove to you that shame will never spare anyone. I’m Dr. Black, and you killed me. My cheap violin and my cross. I lived inside you, you even loved me. And you’ll carry me down on your dancing For years I was an obvious restraint, not a bridle to gnaw, I galloped full of spirit through your venules, was the protégé of your own brain. You killed me, Mathias. To the pools that you left on your wrist I was too cumbersome, an insoluble obstacle to your battle plans, I advocated combat and never retreat, you had to compel me to silence so you could enjoy the feast of capitulation. O my love, o my love The candle gave off a blinding light, your writing preferred obfuscating blinders. To get into the Castle you have to let down your guard but arm yourself with sightlessness, that’s why your right hand closed up sharply, grasping the candlestick and smashing my skull with it. It’s yours now. It’s all that there is.

  I’m Dr. Black. I’m dead, and you killed me. Let that poor Dr. Lagarigue rest in Room 37 and come out of that stupid hiding place. Your feet are sticking out from under the curtain. Go to the smoking lounge. Sit quietly. I accuse Professor Plum of massacring me the day the dictionary bled at his hand. I accuse Professor Plum of murdering what within him was the Cerberus of the Ballroom. I accuse in the Ballroom Professor Plum who made me see stars.

  There are two of you in the room. There are two of you, and you killed me. There are four of them in the Study, there are two of you in the smoking lounge. Keep time, keep it right, Mathias. Go sit with Aline she’s humming Nana Mouskouri her favorite worn-out tune between two Lucky Strikes: Often the warmth of a sunny day turns a girl’s thoughts to love.

  Second Officer

  I’m your Conscience. I take a capital letter not as an affectation, I am well above such formalities and obscurantism, which are the realm of stylistics. Legends, whether in white coats or bundled up in extra-rough
hair shirts, have, across the centuries, denatured my name, my soul, and my function.

  I’m your Conscience, but in the beginning I wasn’t compatible with everybody and even less so with anybody. I’m not a concept, an idea, an entity, and certainly not a cricket in a top hat and waistcoat vainly bouncing around on a wooden shoulder until the sudden spurt of a donkey ear silences him with asphyxia.

  I say: I’m yours. So I’m cheating, I arrange the truth so as not to frighten those I’m speaking to by this revelation. Conscience, just Conscience, this is how to address me when I intervene. Within you, silently. To guide you, surely, irrefutably. Your quest is arduous. The rooms are so fleshy and the weapons anemic. You’ll soon understand that no one, anywhere, can escape their own choices.