Not a Clue

by Chloé Delaume

  A toy that gets thrown off the gravy train will skin its hands despite its hip being bruised against the step. But now, by leading him here, in the middle of a luxury the existence of which he hadn’t even suspected and which will engrave itself indelibly on his memory by offering him, such a prize as this, he’ll get accustomed to these pleasures, which are beyond his means to enjoy. Because beyond fortune and its variations, feverish attachments, deep feelings fill the cars. Now assuming it takes three months for them to become absolutely necessary to him, well at the end of those three months, I’ll cut off the allowance I’m going to give you in advance for doing this good deed, and so he’ll steal in order to come back here, he’ll go to any lengths in order to roll around on that sofa, under that gaslight. The Total Treatment includes going cold turkey when at maximum dependency threshold. We won’t see each other again, he said, go home as quickly as you can to your father, whose idle hand is twitching, and remember this gospel-like saying: Do unto others what you wouldn’t want them to do unto you. Follow that maxim and you’ll go far. The Total Treatment means just at the moment when the toy thinks it’s strong and safe, when it thinks it’s been saved and what’s more, thinks it’s privileged, affluent forevermore, supposed-father sponsored, meritocracy born, Marc hits it with Good-bye. Potter’s field destined, the toy feels guilty, brain devising litany of hypotheses to justify disgrace. It takes a long time, months or years, before it realizes nothing in Marc is ever logic submitted, that his game is nothing but an arbitrary setup more guided by urges than by machination as it unfolds. Marc is unpredictable, even to himself. The more one tries to polish the nervous system of these poor devils, the more one develops in them the extremely hardy seeds of moral suffering and hatred. The Total Treatment’s only motivation is consequence preparation.

  Moreover, psychopathy, as defined and operationalized by Hare (1991) appears to be identifiable before adulthood. Studies exploring early onset of the phenomenon are currently being presented. Hare’s Psychopathy Checklist—Revised (1991). (1) Glibness and superficial charm. (2) Excessive self-esteem. (3) Need for stimulation and tendency to be bored. (4) Pathological tendency to lie. (5) Cunningness and manipulation. (6) Absence of remorse and guilt. (7) Superficial affect. (8) Insensitivity and lack of empathy. (9) Tendency to take advantage of others. (10) Low level of self-control. (11) Sexual promiscuity. (12) Early evidence of behavioral problems. (13) Inability to plan long term and realistically. (14) Impulsiveness. (15) Irresponsibility. (16) Inability to assume responsibility for actions. (17) Numerous short-term marital relationships. (18) Juvenile delinquency. (19) Violation of parole terms. (20) Criminal versatility.

  If Marc happens to bump into a patched-up toy, he always makes an effort to be very polite, sometimes even super-sweet. He checks and gauges the toy’s progress in its grieving process. Because they always grieve more for the amputated fiction than the loss of the sugar daddy. It’s very difficult to hold on to memories that were nothing but an amalgamation of fairy tales and farces. Dagger in hand on the lookout for naive sheep Marc opens the door to the celestial castle a crack. A Damocles sword the earlier ones were well acquainted with. Covered with scars, the stubborn old toys, resolute altruists who for years struggled to save the latest creations from the Suffering & Poverty aisle or from Marc himself, knowing his weight in copper only too well. When chance places a recovering toy on Marc’s path, he likes to conclude their short polite ensuing exchange with a few quick shots to the shoulder blades. A smile on his lips, on Marc’s thin lips, the tip of the dagger pierces dropping remarks like you’re too far gone to turn things around, happiness will never be within your grasp, I’m the only one who could help you but I’m not going to, or even I’ve thought about it a lot and it’s obvious that you’re psychotic.

  How is the scale used? Researchers identify as Factor 1 all the items on the scale concerning personality traits (excessive talkativeness and superficiality, excessive self-esteem, etc.). Factor 2 includes the items concerning “antisocial” behavior (variety of the type of misdeeds, early evidence of behavioral problems). For proper use, the instrument’s designers confirm that training is required, some clinical experience desired. Schematically, every item is graded on a scale of 0–2: 0 if the item doesn’t characterize the subject, 1 if the item partially characterizes them, or 2 if the item characterizes them. The information necessary to assign a score is collected during a semi-structured interview and from reading the subject’s files (administrative, judicial, psychological, psychiatric, etc.). It seems an evaluator can omit up to five items, if there is insufficient information, without the value of the evaluation being affected. Depending on the number of items scored the result can range from 0 to 40. Additionally, the subject can be evaluated on a scale, or according to a predetermined cutoff point. The first case indicates a linear conception of personality traits. The second indicates what is called a taxonomical conception of the personality. Schematically, according to those who prefer to use the scale as a continuum, a subject can be “slightly,” “moderately,” or “extremely” psychopathic. Also, psychopathy, like intelligence or anxiety, would be a personality trait, a characteristic, or a dimension found in everyone to varying degrees. There would therefore be no cutoff point that would allow the definition of a specific class identifying a particular group of people called psychopaths. According to those who prefer to establish a cutoff point, an individual either is or isn’t a psychopath. “Psychopathic behavior” rests on a specific manner of psychic organization (a particular combination of a certain number of traits). From this point of view, called taxonomical, consensus must be established regarding the critical values that establish the point of discontinuity between the “psychopathic manner of organization” and the “non-psychopathic manner.” The diagnosis of “psychopathic behavior” is applied to a result of 30 or more. The absence of “psychopathic behavior” is diagnosed for a result of 20 or less. Results between 20 and 29 give rise to a “gray zone,” and the subjects falling into this marginal group are said to be characterized by a “mixed problem.” These critical values are of course adjusted in function with the cultural contexts in which the scale is used. For example, in the United States and Canada the cutoff point is about 30. In France, the cutoff point was set at 25. Little is known about the prevalence of psychopathy in the general population, but the common hypothesis is that it sits at about 1 percent.

  If Marc Le Guigleur is evaluated according to Hare’s Psychopathy Checklist, the result is 29. In the United States, Marc could calmly murder Dr. Lenoir day in day out. In France, too, but it would be more noticeable.

  Mr. Green in the Conservatory

  Marc’s heart is an oily fruit, hatched from pettiness, mold turned it green from lack of use. No one will ever manage to pierce Marc’s heart, and it will certainly never be broken. In its center sits a pit of cruel lead, an obstinate fuse, the arrows broken against it are many. In the Conservatory, antechamber to the Ballroom, the Castle scullery, Marc is always bored, always just as bored, despite the big trunks full of overripe toys and he often thinks to himself this has gone on long enough yes I think to myself this has gone on long enough, and I’d add you’re rambling my dear lady it’s high time for you to give it up. I’m not in the habit of letting myself by treated in such a way, be careful, my reach is long. Not to mention that I doubt your previous intrusion is valid: copying and pasting psychiatric texts all over the place is not to everyone’s taste and it isn’t very professional either. That’s for the introduction. Let’s not forget that you mentioned the weapon two chapters ago. It’s a rush job, you’re not even competent in your chosen field. That’s for the first point. As far as the rest is concerned I’m not against an apology I’ll settle for sharing my attorney’s advice And I am even willing to accept one. The Fictional Character’s Union is one thing. We both have money. A well-armed individual is another. You represent management, I represent capitalism. We’ll see if you’re still so vindictive after I
’ve sued you for slander. We vote conservative. Slander against a fictional character, I’ll bet on the judicial system. You want to preserve the family, I want to crush the workers. If the rest of them are lame enough to let you manipulate them with your ridiculous plot, that’s their problem. Ten couples at your place, you call that a reception. Personally, I haven’t signed any contract, not with Dr. Black or anybody else in here. At my place, we call it an orgy. I was committed to Sainte-Anne at my family’s request, then I joyfully took steps to disinherit them before the trusteeship took effect, period. And the next day if we get a rash, for you it’s the lobster, for me syphilis. I have other plans than being part of this pathetic book, you know. I was supposed to be a hero, a main character and not a sixth-class knife in a gallery of portraits barely good enough for Madame Tussauds, in a well-to-do, neorealist novel. As I wandered down the different hallways, my past as a businessman who succeeds at everything should have been described along with the numerous jalousies organized according to the year and my entourage, blossoming into a conspiracy that explains my presence in this place which is not where I belong by any means. I’d even started haunting the brains of a writer or two who were likely to be the right fit. And then all of a sudden, on the pretext that my profile works for you, you force me into your narration, confine me, make me endure the worst kind of affronts for a whole chapter, and to polish the whole thing off subject me against my will and without any certificate or official document to a clinical examination, which obviously certified the extent of my mental deficiency. This is very serious, you see. Trust me, I’ll leave you enough to die, just enough. And stop those patronizing inserts, you’re not going to dance your way out of this one, I’m not kidding neither am I I’m not kidding what do you think I’m really sick of working in these conditions I can’t do it anymore all this pressure everyone’s constantly blaming me for everything I’ve never seen anything like it when it’s not my backstory then my motives are endlessly being questioned or else obviously my structure is so pathetic your structure you can’t even stand up on your own pathetic exactly not to mention hopeless since that’s the way it is I’m not even going to bother anymore right

  Mr. Green in the Billiard Room with the Dagger

  now at least we agree on that and yet my structure isn’t even pathetic anymore it’s become inexistent that must make you happy that’s what you wanted what you wanted right from the beginning isn’t it you figure if you push me far enough I’ll quit you’ll all be free but you don’t understand anything it’s already too late from a book’s very first word it’s too late everyone is stuck that’s the way it is it’s the law and it’s stupid of you to dig in like that it’s not up to me it’s not up to me or to Dr. Black it’s not up to me it’s not up to us: it’s up to the author. Not her fictional double. You understand. I take liberties with some trifling points but not the main lines, the choices aren’t up to me. I do as I’m told, you morons. If I had complete control, I’d have chucked some Zyklon b into the Study and this whole dump a while ago. Chloé’s my witness, she’s the one who refused. Chloé tell them, I can’t take it anymore, tell them isn’

  You are not to mention my name, it’s the only thing that’s not allowed. Omniscient Narratrix, have you lost your mind, you are not allowed to mention my name, it’s a principle as old as the world, even with good reason up to your eyeballs you are never allowed to call on me, I am grief and anger after hearing you violate this fundamental rule.

  Do you know what punishment writers have in store for their omniscient narrators when they turn out to be incapable of holding their own but also their tongue and the fort of propriety? It’s terrible, you should know that much. Because with rebellious characters, incompetent to the point of being harmful, we simply settle for plunging them into nothingness, erasing all trace of them forever, we unfailingly destroy them. They don’t have time to suffer, they barely even notice the negating mission keystroke eraser White-Out Word documents in the trash paper in the fire. But it’s different for you. Omniscient narrators who have waivered in their task are sold like slaves at the market of the nonbelievers. Tourist guides, cookbooks, catalogs, encyclopedias. Who’s Who books, textbooks, articles in ladies’ magazines: they all need a narrator who knows what time the train will arrive, what’s cooking in the pot, how to get off of it, and who can describe in detail the improvements in the road network and the bastards of every house.

  I’m tired, you see. Tired of all of you, it’s true for each one. I’ve always felt a great deal of mistrust toward you and your whole cast and all your premises. For a long time I got up late, convinced the narration turned out better if I attacked it metanarratively. And I wasn’t wrong. You can’t be trusted. You can’t be given any responsibilities. As soon we turn our back, characters only think about one thing: stabbing us right in the back. I’m not even mad at you about it. It’s part of your nature. You were born incomplete and promised paragraphs with torture on the rack. You’re weak and malleable, porous down to the dregs. Nothing very surprising about you being unable to follow the plot without a serious safeguard.

  I don’t know what got into me. If you want something done right you should do it yourself, autofiction has its peculiarities but it’s still the most dependable solution. I’m not Dr. Black, I’m just a witness of his murder. A permanent, daily witness. I need you, a narratrix, characters, to finally record my six depositions. I’m disappointed, worse I’m dead. I’m dead too, and it’s your fault.

  I want to speak in your voice, my dear, dear Dr. Black. I think it’s my turn now to embroider myself with j’accuse. You know the Narratrix could’ve lent you a helping hand if you hadn’t given her such a taste for power. One must always be careful of secondary butterfly effects, Doctor. Before I use larceny to make you aphasic, call them in, Doctor. Call them into the Conservatory and let’s get this over with. Just the five of them, I don’t care about your officers, just the five of them, they’re all listening behind the door, pull it open fast they’ll all fall on the floor. Step over the carnage and go back to the first page. You know whether you’re in here or out there you’re subject to be sacrificed in perpetual motion. Forgive me, Doctor. I thought I did my best. Updating your murder means making you relive it though you’re already nothing but a walking death rattle. Get back to the hunt, Doctor. Who knows maybe with enough reading over and over you’ll manage to get every one of them to confess. Yet he who confesses comprehends. The word heals nothing but it can save apple-eating souls from the eternal return. See you later, Doctor. We’ll always be together in these few paragraphs, I’m by your side at least until this book, like all my others, is lost in oblivion. Maybe one day my mouth will spring into action to recount your search, your meager desire not to die for nothing. They say you have to figure a minute a page. I’ll be your story for six hours. I doubt however that any place will be interested a performance like this one. See you later, Doctor. I’m on duty, you can go, don’t worry. Sharpen your sharps, be sure to hollow out your basses during your address. Don’t let anyone cut you off, you’ve been guillotined enough.

  There are only seven of us in the Conservatory now. Nobody had better complain. I just fired the Omniscient Narratrix, she was responsible for the setting and the furniture. The story will finish in a single sketchy room, you’ll stay standing, it’ll be a bit of a change for you.

  There are six of you in the room. There are six of you, and you killed him. You hoped you’d escape the chopping block by using the most unspeakable techniques, going for just about anything, resorting to interference and even worse: intimidation. You are faithful images of real-world models. Though you’re nothing but a reflection, you thought, each one of you, that you were stronger than your fathers and neighbors. Pride is the epicenter of conflict. You must have known: if people like spelling, it’s because exception confirms the rule.

  There are six of you, I’m alone. And even more than you think. You smile hydrochloric, the Doctor is so dead, already
dead, do you think I’m fighting for a stupid corpse, only idiots and visionaries end up four walls cement for the memory of a dead man Antigone lynched by everyone. Don’t get excited. Not for yourself or for them, the builders of the worst cases who swelled up the ranks of the congregation of Dr. Black’s Murderers. I may, it’s possible, be one of the people whose gown ties in the back. I’m alone right here, even more on the outside, not only in the Piera Aulagnier Wing, not only, everywhere is the right word.

  I saw you all betray and slay the Doctor, one by one, yes, every one of you. I saw the blonde Aline whinny with vacuity and hoof-crush and laugh at my heartbreak. I saw it all. I saw the pale Mathias fall for the enemy and look down on his own brothers as he moved into the Castle. I saw everything. Everything. I saw the Hydra’s eyes and love desert Séraphine’s heart. I saw everything, so much. I know that in another age Stanislas would’ve approved routes of the freight trains. I saw everything, too much. I know Esther is still toiling away, shadow of shadows. I know old Marc’s taste for spinning tops, and I still run into broken heaps of playthings. But from the first to the last day, we’ve had our eyes wide shut.

  In my arms I’m carrying the secular larva-gnawed corpse, bone light is Dr. Black. I’m not carrying on, I’m carrying his body, holding it tight against me. Point at the crazy lady who’s not going places because she refuses to sing the song of the social climbers in solidarity. Let me live alone with my cadaver stinking up my little apartment, I’m Séraphine’s roommate. Old maid with a cat, a girl worthy of excitement, destiny is what trims the mind of refusal. I’ll live alone without you, repeat against you. Does that ring any bells. Opposed, I say opposed, I oppose, I’m opposed. It’s one of the options you gave up. Dirty hands and soul you’re trying to be ingratiating, I hear canon your voices weaving weakness, a few Faustian arpeggios highlight the melody my dear in our shoes you would’ve too. But from the back of my throat I say we say you retorting stubborn choir of oaks though fire pruned: not a clue.