We’ll never hear Séraphine’s voice. Because her voice has seized the soil that denies by rights, drinks nothing but blood, and calls itself French. We’ll never hear it here, there’s no point in continuing the hearings. Poujadist venom is what makes her become Dr. Black’s executioner. Second-degree murder Séraphine Dergeda guilty involuntary manslaughter, she killed Dr. Black by repeatedly hitting him with studded shoes.
The people whose gowns tie in the back don’t even listen to Séraphine anymore. Piera Aulagnier Wing she wanders alone for eternity, her eyes having become the Hydra’s swooping down on everything in her path, her gaze is even more feared than Basilisk Slytherin’s: it’s known to be contagious, no one wants to catch it.
Hall
(Deserted)
Third Officer
Due to the strike action initiated by members of the Not a Clue staff, Miss Marple’s talk has been canceled, even though she had been hired as the Third Officer. In accordance with the decisions made at the Annual General Meeting, we will share a communiqué from Étienne Lantier, the spokesman for the fcu, who has come along in support of the strikers.
We’d like to thank our readers in advance for their understanding and apologize for any inconvenience.
Fictional Characters’ Union
Central Committee
Enough is enough!
As far back as page 36, and on more than occasion, the Omniscient Narratrix has overstepped her role and her rights. Abusing the power bestowed upon her, she’s accrued interruption after interruption, upsetting the plot, dispossessing the fictional characters of their work, and thereby going against general interests.
No!
We cannot tolerate such behavior within this novel and refuse to pick the plot back up, for as long as the Omniscient Narratrix continues with this intrusive policy.
Stop!
The increasing occurrence of such activity, as witnessed in our field with every new publishing season, is contributing to a noticeable decline in our working conditions. The increased number of positions exists simply for reasons of productivity, but without any respect for the personnel. The premises forced upon us are no longer up to the security standards established in the beginning chapters, which has led to a worrying increase in workplace accidents. Our roles are increasingly imprecise, our psychological structures rushed, our defining characteristics uncertain, as is true for the future of our profession. Our speech patterns are being standardized, soon we’ll be nothing more than simple interchangeable commodities. Moreover, allowing the Omniscient Narratrix to dispossess us of our initially allocated space and seeing her accumulate overtime hours that were never part of the collective agreement is intolerable for us.
That’s it!
The Omniscient Narratrix’s behavior can easily be described as psychological harassment. We’d like to remind you that psychological harassment consists of “repeated offensive behavior whose character—be it vexatious, humiliating, or detrimental to one’s dignity—prevents its victim from completing his or her work.” Most fictional characters, both primary and secondary, having worked herein with the Omniscient Narratrix, confide that they’ve felt undermined, diminished, and weakened by her machinations. As the large number of doctor’s notes confirm, our ridiculed comrades’ mental health has indeed been affected. We have therefore decided to initiate legal proceedings against the Omniscient Narratrix and are hopeful that the case will set a precedent. There are already enough martyrs in our Union, we must remain vigilant!
Take action!
The entire staff of Not a Clue must show solidarity against management’s excesses.
With this petition, open to all fictional characters concerned with preserving their rights, we intend to show our determination in the fight against our position’s precarious future.
We will not accept managerial sabotage. We demand immediate regulation of the narrative flow and complete freedom of action in this book.
Dining Room
They always serve us potatoes on purpose can I sit here potatoes aren’t a problem in and of themselves Jacques chews like a pig with his mouth always open I can’t sit across from him you can eat potatoes next time I’ll end up hitting him or throwing up the stuff we have to eat see it’s the sauce Séraphine took all the bread there’s no seconds because they make the gravy with the water they were cooked in such a pain in the ass to be at her table she only thinks of herself the fat bitch you know why Aline’s the one who gets to me because since she supposedly has to taste everything she’s always eating off everyone’s plate because the water the potatoes were cooked in was used as a weed killer out in the country it’s kind of an easy excuse especially at dessert time it’s an old farmer’s trick can I have another spoonful they say we have crabgrass in our head Mathias took mine to play the castanets see our brains are full of sharp weeds I want my Tercian pill right away tall weeds that’s right Mrs. Johnson you’re wearing your dresses way too high that grow any old way it’s well-known you’re not eating your yogurt them they don’t like the any old way Stanislas I’m talking to you you’re not eating your yogurt that let her admit it out loud they want to pull up the weeds slice into our brains so they say can I have your yogurt Mrs. Johnson you’re wearing your dresses way too high Mrs. Babeth I want my Tercian right away they want to get rid of our weeds whatever it takes because in her opinion being naked is her nicest outfit they’re really smart and the medication on top of it isn’t there any way to shut up the bald woman they want us to eat the water the potatoes were cooked in I’m leaving tomorrow for sure attacking the disease on all sides with psychotropics and 100 percent organic treatment Marc will you give me a cigarette I’m finishing my applesauce outside no way I’m going to be their guinea pig can’t give them the satisfaction so I never have any gravy.
Fourth Officer
SimCity, 34 SimSial 2004
Dear Omniscient Narratrix,
I’ve received your proposal, and have studied it with great attention. Even if job offers are extremely rare, especially in my chosen field, I am afraid I’ll have to decline yours.
As you already know, over and over again I’ve refused to compromise myself in a novel, believing them to be confining and structurally alienating. I left Somnabulia with this one condition, temporarily appearing in a body that was sufficiently uncomfortable to draw the necessary conclusions, and, strengthened by this gruesome experience, have been living for the last six months Outside Time in a video game. Life here is much more exciting than in a book, I’m not under the yoke of an imposed plot nor of narrative contingencies that make the lives of fictional characters such a nightmare, as we all know. Literature, just like real life, is incapable of definitively establishing a fulfilling place to live. My status means I should join you in Not a Clue, both out of solidarity and out of respect for your superior status. But I am unable to convince myself that my participation would be sound and even less inclined to subject myself to such a sacrifice.
I’m familiar with the book and understand you concerns and your needs. If I may, I’d like to share my own opinion: with or without me, it doesn’t matter, you won’t succeed. The space is quite large, you’re right, the rooms numerous and well laid out, it’s possible to move around freely, it’s open, pleasant. The major drawback with the place isn’t, despite what I thought at first, it’s architecture. Even though the ceiling is a little too high for my preference for a constant temperature, and the walls, as cracked as they are, point to an impending collapse. No, I could accept the place in itself. That’s not where the problem is.
The problem, prosaically, relates to the inhabitants. I won’t be so hypocritical as to describe the Sims as a divinely friendly and enriching community, with a particular liking for cultural exchange. The Sims, I won’t pretend otherwise, are often bewildering, not to mention downright awful, with their pixels animated as they are by a market-oriented system. Yet, compared to Not a Clue’s tenants, these beings seem absolutely delightful. I
spent a good deal of time on it, but I really don’t see how, even with the firmest of resolves, I could tolerate the flock you’re responsible for. And certainly not how I could possibly interfere. You took on a ridiculous project, nobody but an omniscient narratrix would ever do such a thing, and despite my deep respect for you, it is my duty to open your eyes right here and now.
No mentally healthy person, not a one, could want to spend any time, not even a little bit, with the characters you hired. Not only are they pathetic, worthless, and exhausting in their mediocrity, but their cowardice is unacceptable. Even though you promise me I wouldn’t be with them very much, in the course of one chapter and in the final scene, the very idea of being in the presence of such rejects makes me nauseous.
You tell me you’ve lost the plot, that despite its rigidity the structure’s no longer containing the overflow, that even Dr. Black is whispering to you that he’s disconcerted by the turn of events, how disgusting he finds this flood of horrors. All this was highly predictable. You’re the hostage of a book that talks about nothing but everyday filth, common tipping points, unspeakable weakness, bastard Faustishness. How could you expect not to get dirty when it all overflowed?
You whisper to me how isolated you are, the annoying repercussions of your overzealousness, the humiliating mutiny you recently bore the consequences of. While I’m deeply touched, because I know how very sensitive your heart is and can easily imagine the torment crushing it, I know my presence will do nothing but make this absurd, distressing situation even worse. Diplomacy is not one of my crown jewels, and yesterday as I thought leaning against the bar at Le Vieux Loup de mer—which is famous for its gourmet meals and Polish queues—about what I’d do when confronted with my dear colleagues, the only idea that crossed my mind was murder. Killing a Sim is easy: drowning, starvation, or carbonization. It’s not much more arduous with fictional characters. There’s a bigger choice and it’s a lot more fun. Why not lighten up your plot by taking an ax to some of the paragraphs? It’s completely under your control. Bring back order, however you would like. Why burden yourself with all these useless beings? Their blood is hardly even ink, they’re so human, they’re not like us, get rid of them.
Sell them in an auction, on eBay you can find all kinds of directors that put a price on parts in their next movie. I’d be curious to see what a fictional character is worth, in euros or dollars. Take the six of them in order and turn the weapon they used in their crime back on them. They’ve got it coming, and that’s what they’re there for. Pile them up in a closet somewhere, call in Lagarigue and Dr. Black and have them play Scrabble, it’ll be less tiring. I’m no good at endings, that’s not my job, I’m not a storyteller. But you really should face it, it would be a lot simpler, knock them all off, and let’s be done with it. No matter what you try, the novel’s going to be shaky, it doesn’t hold up, let it go, pack your bags, apply for some other jobs, transfer to a Japanese video game, their rpgs use people like you, they’re preparing the next Final Fantasy now, I could give you a recommendation.
I really do hope you’ll understand my position, and that you’ll be able to find a way out of this sticky situation, despite my defection.
Sincerely,
Chloé Delaume
Colonel Mustard
It’ll be okay. I can manage on my own. Finally manage on my own here and now, above all. It might seem strange but I think I had to end up here in order to be able to act. Finally act, do something let’s say, let’s not go too far either. Act is a little strong, a little too strong for me. I’ve always hated exaggeration. Well hated I’m exaggerating. Exactly. I never really hated anything. I don’t really care for it, let’s say. I don’t really care for things or I like them, generally and even always that’s where I sit, I’ve never understood how some people can get so carried away one way or the other. First, it seems really tiring. And pointless too, above all really pointless. Loving or just liking in concrete terms what does it change. For the better I mean. It doesn’t make much any better as far as the people who get excited are concerned. It doesn’t mean they own it or have better access, they just get all worked up for nothing. Well, that’s what I think. Or rather I assume, I wouldn’t be that categorical, let’s say I assume that they get worked up for nothing. There. That never happens to me, getting worked up for nothing or even just getting worked up period so I don’t really know. I have no opinion.
Generally speaking I have no opinion. It’s been going on for a long time. Well, for a long time, I don’t know. If it’s been going on for a long time, that means there was another state before, that a new one took its place and that it’s been like that ever since. I don’t remember a before. I haven’t had an opinion in forever. I think it’s structural. Can you say describe a structural state as going on for a long time, I don’t know. I haven’t ever had an opinion since I was born. About anything. That means it’s been going on for longer than a long time then. Oh well, I just said it without thinking.
Although I know why I’ve been in the Piera Aulagnier Wing for the last year and a half, I have no idea what I’m doing in the Study. I was quietly smoking a Craven, I was listening to the redheaded girl talking to the bulimic girl in Room 19, and then all of a sudden I didn’t know what was going on. I waited quite a while, somebody said it was my turn, I don’t see I mean I really don’t see what I’m doing here.
They decided I had to manage on my own, I’ve got nothing against it, but it really is a pain that it’s happening to me. I didn’t really hear the ones who already played because the rooms were too far away but I thought I understood that they had done some things. Serious things I mean. Dr. Black’s voice rang out really loudly at one point, he seemed really wound up. I don’t feel like I did anything to justify my presence in the game, actually, I don’t feel like I did anything at all period. I’ve never done anything my whole life honestly, never budged, never said a thing and on top of that I pay my taxes. I think it’s just a mistake. I’m the victim of an injustice, I’m appearing in a trial in which I should be called Joseph. I have to manage on my own, if I had something to blame myself for it would be a lot easier. It would be a help to me to have the Omniscient Narratrix around right now, she’d know how to tell a bunch of really meaningful anecdotes, put her finger on my hypothetical embezzling, direct me so I could take the floor after the introduction scene. But since I have to do it without her I’ll just have to find a way.
So.
My name is Stanislas Courtin. I’m forty-seven years old. I’m an only child, I was raised and loved outside Limoges, my parents are going to die soon but since it’s perfectly logical and we’ve been expecting it for a few years, I won’t be that sad. Well that’s what I think. My father was a doctor and my mother a nurse, which explains why my bronchitis was always raging and treated with aspirin. I went to college. And I stayed. For a long time. I didn’t have much else to do besides study and since I already didn’t have an opinion on anything I tried a little of everything while I waited to find out. In the end I didn’t find out anything. I’m not even sure there is anything to find out anyway.
I went into the civil service. It seemed like a good thing to me, going into civil service because civil service doesn’t mean anything. My work didn’t mean anything either. I still haven’t figured out what it was. I was asked to do calculations, compare different columns of numbers, integrate data, and fill in files that didn’t have names just numbers. And letters too. Often in front of the numbers. XK004-02, for example. I was calm, I did what I was asked, I never had anything to say to people or about anything, that’s what I was paid for, so it worked out well.
I’ve only known one woman. Her name was Marie-Laure. She stayed for a year or something like that. Maybe a little less. We didn’t do much, but that suited me just fine. And then she ended up with these completely ridiculous ideas, she wanted to talk, go to restaurants, talk at restaurants, take me to see movies so we could discuss them afterward. I was interested in
making love, but after a while I didn’t feel like it anymore because of Marie-Laure. She’d try things just to get me to put what I liked in order, number what I liked best from one to ten. Before every date I’d take two Tranxene tablets to be sure she’d leave me alone. She left me thinking I was narcoleptic.
I live on the Île Saint-Louis in Paris because it’s convenient. I need a central location because I get transferred a lot, well I used to, for the past year and half I haven’t been going to work but I’m still really proud that I chose a neutral address, between the Left Bank and the Right Bank, no need to decide anything. Sometimes I go back home, soon it’ll be three months since I’ve gone out but when I see the doctor at the hospital I find it very comfortable to be in the center in the morning, in the south in the afternoon, and to wander around in the evening in any direction and then wind up back where I started, which is just as central as when I got up. Living in the middle gives me the feeling that I haven’t moved at all. It’s too bad Paris is some kind of whore and not a Big Apple. Every new day I would’ve really liked to say I live in a seed, apple seeds are tiny, smooth, and charming. New Yorkers are lucky, they don’t even know it. It’s really easy for them to figure out what the center of their city is like, but for a Parisian it’s a lot more complicated. The center of a kind of a whore, except for the belly button I don’t get it. Actually, I live on a hernia.
With different elections I was transferred to different departments, nothing really changed for me except how long it took me to get there. As for my work, it remained unchanging, calculation registration confirmation. I confirmed things but I wasn’t really the one who did it. The results did it. The results confirmed. The results I got allowed me to confirm or not. It’s not very interesting, and I’m not explaining it very well, I’m not used to doing that, I never had to explain anything, I don’t really know how to, that must be a different profession. Instead I’ll answer Proust’s questionnaire. Yeah, I’ll do that. Proust’s questionnaire lets you get the best idea of a character’s profile, it’s a least as good as the Omniscient Narratrix’s dime store psychology, after all.
Not a Clue Page 20
