How would I like it? How do you think!
This evening I really mustn’t let my friends down. I shake hands with an old boy who spends all his time holed up in here but hasn’t played for two years. “My arthritis!” he says when I suggest a little warm-up. He is sixty-nine, and I am sure he would still hold his ground pretty well. And when I think how long he has been playing I reckon that, at thirty, I have another forty years ahead of me. Forty years of learning. Forty years of pleasure, of jubilation every time a point is made. Sooner or later I will put in for the Championship. All I want is to score the points, I want prizes for beautiful shots, I want to be able to do things which defy the laws of physics, I want the mahogany cue to be an extension of my index finger, I want the balls to take up impossible angles, to obey the most absurd orders, for them to be propelled by remote control by my hand and my will. Billiards is a pure universe: everything becomes possible . . . and simple. You never play the same shot twice in your whole life. Three spheres in a rectangle – and everything is contained within it.
My life is here, around this rectangle.
Forty years to go.
Angelo is playing with us. He has just positioned the balls to determine which of us will play first. He has a thick wop accent, and he always says “when it rolls on velvet, you know it’s billiards.” I take off my watch and ask for a minute to warm up, just to see how the cue is responding. My hands are fine; they know what to do all by themselves. My eyes are getting used to the light that shimmers over the baize and stays within the confines of the table. We can start.
My mind flashes back to my old uncle Basil. I would have liked him to see me this evening, he taught me to play in the first place, in Biarritz. I was eighteen, I could run fast, hit hard and see far. He was on the brink of senility, it took him ten minutes to cross the room at the café, and he wore bifocals. But he only had to pick up his billiard cue and he would show me how you could flirt with geometric perfection: those beautiful spheres knocking together, spinning, dancing balls.
I really was hooked for forty years’ worth then.
*
In the last six games I have only got to my feet eleven times. Angelo has left us together, Langloff and myself, for the last two hours. My best break earned me twenty-four points in succession. Langloff watched me with a strange look in his eye: not really worried, more intrigued. We all knew he would put us in our place, but I kept on at him with the determination of a terrier. At one point I even played a variation of a shot he played last year. I thought it was so beautiful that I spent hours practising to get it right. He remembered it, and it made him laugh. I barely heard the cues being drummed on the ground to acknowledge the shot (our form of applause); I was hypnotized. Everything has worked for me this evening, specially the “screw” shots. When I opened my eyes again, the fluorescent lights were all out except for ours, and there were a dozen or so aficionados watching us in silence. Angelo was there, chalk in hand, keeping note of my score with undisguised joy. René had lowered the blinds, as he usually does after eleven o’clock. Langloff concluded the match magnificently on a point off no less than five cushions – well, you have to end on a high.
We all cheered. René switched off the lights over No. 2, and Langloff took my arm to take me to one side.
“You had me going there, young man.”
“You must be joking! You were three sets up on me . . .”
“No, no, I know what I’m talking about. René tells me you don’t have a coach.”
“Well . . . Yes and no . . . I’ve got René, Angelo and Benoît.”
“You need to step up a gear. I’ve got my last Championship this year, and after that I want a youngster to bring on. You’ve got what it takes. Trust me.”
René comes over to join us and pats my cheek; I don’t know what to say. He agrees with Langloff: I’m their great hope in this place.
“Think about it, young man,” says the champion, putting on his mottled grey fur cloak. “We could meet up again towards the end of the year. Think about it . . .”
As soon as he leaves the room, René and Angelo thump me on the neck.
“If you say no, you’re a loser. With him as a coach you’d be ready for the Championship in a couple of years.”
I feel a bit lost: this has come from nowhere. I need to get out to think it all over, in peace, in my bed.
I put my wooden cue away in its case and said goodbye to everyone.
“See you tomorrow.”
Once outside, I took a taxi.
As I lay in bed with my eyes closed, the waltzing balls carried on spinning in my mind for some time.
*
I’m not recovering from these late nights very well at the moment; maybe it’s because of my bedding. With the pay I get today I can afford to buy a new mattress. The gallery has just opened, and Liliane is all bright and fresh. Mind you, it is eleven o’clock already.
“Jacques has dropped by already, at nine o’clock. He says hi.”
Still half-asleep, I sit down near the reception desk, which still has an empty champagne glass on it.
“Did it go on late?”
“Till midnight,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe how many people there were. How about you, what time did you go on till? Given the state you’re in, you must have had a wild time.”
The only answer I can manage is a yawn.
“I’ve drawn up your payslip, all you have to do is check the hours, and I’ll go and get Coste to sign it. And that’s Antoine off out of here with his money in his pocket, vanished from the face of the earth until we dismantle the exhibition, am I right?”
It’s true that I never set foot in this place between setting up and dismantling an exhibition. Jacques is the one who takes care of maintenance, once a week.
“Who do these works belong to?” I ask.
“To the nation. Morand gave them to the country.”
To the nation . . . to everyone, in fact. Partly mine too, then. Coste told us she had met Morand when he came back from the United States and that she had very much liked his work. She really wanted to put this retrospective together.
“The Ministry of Culture has loaned us the pieces for a month,” says Liliane. “When they’re dismantled, they’ll all go back to the depot. You’re pretty keen on the depot aren’t you, Antoine?”
Sure, I like it. It’s a huge reservoir of works of art, a stockroom for part of our heritage. I work there in the summer when the gallery is closed, in leaner times. It was Coste who pulled some strings to get me the job.
“When is the next exhibition, actually?”
“March 22, you’ll have four days to set it up. And, given the type of pieces, it’ll be quite a workout.”
“What sort of stuff is it?”
“They’re installations, objects mounted on plinths.”
Bad news . . . I fear the worst. I hate that sort of thing, weird objects, African statuettes with personal stereos, toothbrushes mounted on breezeblocks, basketballs in aquariums and all sorts of other stuff. It’s the post-Oxfam effect. For three years now, contemporary art has been competing with a bric-a-brac shop. It’s the cult of the practico-inert: you look at a tin-opener on a plinth and you ask yourself all those questions you would never ask in your own kitchen. Fine but . . . Jacques and I just can’t help laughing. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to tell visitors that the ashtray and umbrella stand were not part of the exhibition.
“Can you keep an eye on things for me for quarter of an hour? I’ll go and get your cheque.”
This is the usual procedure. I quite like playing the part of the museum attendant, and it means I can wake up slowly. But it actually involves the work of a Titan; you really need an extensive knowledge of inertia. People often find museum attendants funny, they wonder what they’re thinking about, or people say that they are in love with one particular piece of work, that they spend their days daydreaming, sitting there for thirty years with their eyes loc
ked vaguely but doggedly onto the same still-life. Usually it’s a plucked pheasant and two rather ripe apples on a willow basket. But here it’s more likely to be a willow pheasant and a rather ripe basket on two plucked apples.
Out of curiosity, I glance at the visitors’ book to read the praise, insults and graffiti left by the guests yesterday evening. By looking through this, even the very day after the private view, you can tell whether an exhibition will do well or not. And it’s not looking good for the Morand retrospective. “Rubbish, and it’s the taxpayer who’s footing the bill” or there’s “A beautiful exhibition. Congratulations” or “I can do just as well, and here’s my address” or even “Thirty years too late. Contemporary art doesn’t stop in the 1960s!”
I really like this big white book, it’s the only way the general public can express their opinion, anonymously or openly, about what they have seen. The Morand Exhibition won’t get ten visitors a day. But people do realize they are taking a risk when they go into a modern art gallery, they don’t necessarily expect to see anything beautiful or decent. Otherwise they would go to the Louvre. And those who, like me, don’t know much about it, and who manage three shy little steps over towards something impossible to approach . . . well, they deserve the right to scribble a little something in the visitors’ book.
A man comes in and smiles.
“Is it open to look round?”
“Yes.”
“Is it free?”
“Yes. Come on in.”
He doesn’t even glance at the sculpture in the foyer and goes straight into one of the other rooms. Not hanging about, then. He is wearing the complete panoply of the gentleman farmer. If I had some money I would dress like that: a herringbone suit, almost certainly Harris tweed, a beige shirt, a glossy brown tie, big English shoes and a crumpled Burberry over his shoulder. Let’s see when I get my next pay packet . . .
And if Liliane thinks of bringing back a cup of coffee . . . I could leave here on top of the world with a cheque in my hand and a long, lazy afternoon ahead of me. To relieve the boredom, I pick up a catalogue and leaf through it, trying to find the painter’s biography.
Etienne Morand was born at Paray-le-Manial (Burgundy) in 1940. After studying at the School of Fine Art he left for New York in 1964, drawn by the Abstract Expressionist movement. He took a close interest in the techniques used . . .
I stop reading abruptly.
A sound . . .
Something crackled.
Liliane still isn’t back.
It may not be very important, a spotlight that has fizzled out or the wire stretching under the weight of a painting, but I have to get up. Unless it’s that visitor who has decided, as so many of them do, to try and straighten a picture with a little nudge of his thumb. If that’s what it is, I will have to follow him up with the spirit level.
I’ll have to do a quick round of the room at the end – softly, softly – even though I hate acting suspicious. As I make my way over, the crackling gets louder. I arrive in the room and the man turns round. I scream . . .
“But . . . !! You’re . . . you’re . . .”
I’m trying to find a word, an insult perhaps, but I don’t know what people say in this sort of situation.
He gives one final jerk with the Stanley knife to free the canvas from the gaping frame. The yellow canvas.
I stammer, whispering various words that stay stuck in my throat.
He calmly finishes the job.
I want to reduce the distance between us, but I can’t take a single step forward, pacing ineffectually in front of an invisible, insurmountable wall.
Terror . . .
I lean forwards, twice, without succeeding in moving my legs. I need to break through the bricks, but the soles of my shoes stay rooted to the spot. He is getting flustered too, crumpling the canvas and only managing to screw it into a ball under his Burberry. In order to get out he has to get past me, to walk round me or plough right through me; he hesitates, the same wall is stopping him from taking any initiative, then he shakes his head and brandishes the Stanley knife.
“Get out of the way . . . this is nothing to do with you!” he shouts.
I don’t know anything about fighting, I ought to jump at his throat or maybe . . . or maybe I should run to the exit and block the doorway . . . shut him in . . .
I really should step towards him, not let him see that I’m at a complete loss, empty . . . my arms are hollow, I can’t get them over this wall of terror.
“Get out of my way . . . for God’s sake, get out of my way!”
I clenched my fists before taking off and launched myself at him. I clung to his collar with both hands and dragged down on them furiously to try and get him to the floor. He struggled, and I fell with him. Kneeling on the ground, my fist crashed into his jaw, I struck again, then turned my head, and the blade of the Stanley knife came and planted itself in my cheek. I screamed and released my grip, he drove the blade deeper into my flesh, and I could feel my cheek ripping right down to the jaw.
I stayed motionless for a second. A sheet of blood glided down over my neck.
I cried out.
Sputters of blood spurted from between my lips. Then a great gush of it meant I couldn’t utter a sound.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see him getting to his feet and picking up his raincoat.
Slow.
I forgot how much it hurt, a surge of anger heaved me to my feet. He started to run. I lurched after him with one hand on my cheek, trying to hold back goodness knows what – the blood streaming down my sleeve, scraps of flesh, I don’t know, all I could see was him, his back. I ran a little faster and threw myself forwards to bring him down. He spun round and fell to the floor in front of the sculpture in the foyer. He drummed his heels into my face, something cracked not far from the gap in my cheek, and my right eye closed of its own accord.
With the other eye I saw him regain his balance on his knees and pull himself up on the sculpture’s plinth. With one hand he gripped one of the metallic branches and pulled on it to bring the whole lump of metalwork down on its side. He gave me one last kick in the face, I howled like an animal and brought my arms up over my eyes: everything went black.
I forced myself to look up.
I could feel myself slowly receding. I felt the blackout rising in me like a hiccup. Just the one.
But before that there was a brief second in slow motion.
I registered everything at the same time: the silence, the heat, the flow of blood over my body.
And that silvery avalanche which started oscillating slowly towards me as I sank into unconsciousness.
2
Hot.
My throat is tight, here. If I lift my chin up, I might be able to get it out from under the sheet. Then my neck could breath a bit. But that’s not the only thing that’s wrong here. When I tried to open my eyes I grasped that only one was reacting and even that wasn’t doing very well, just a sliver. The other one refuses to unscrew. And then there’s also that prickly line along my forehead, a rough strip sticking to the sweat. However much I move my head from left to right, I can’t get it off.
Earlier I tried to open my mouth, but not for long. No way I was going to open my lips like that. Now I’ve got it. I’m pretty sure that there’s a bandage stuck over my nose from one ear to the other, it goes from my upper lip to the lid of my open eye. It doesn’t smell of anything, luckily.
I can hear sounds, outside. People moving about. I’d like to move too. If I stretched my neck a bit I could see the rest of my carcass.
Not a chance . . . I’ve never seen a bed tucked in so tightly. To get away from all this for a minute, I levitate a bit towards the ceiling, gently, escaping, gliding, then looking down to try and find out what I might look like.
A work of art . . . it feels strange being the subject of a Cubist painting. The profile crushed across the front of the face, with one eye hanging over a striped cheek in hot, bright colours. I would ne
ver have guessed that I would one day know what a Picasso portrait feels like. And it’s not great, from the other side of the canvas.
I must have had a lot of dreams. If I close my eyes, I can get back the final images. A viewing gallery with people standing. My throat’s too dry, it’s going to stop me getting back to sleep. They all stood up at the same time. The referee stood up too, to check that the white ball shot had actually hit the red. It’s true that if you don’t get right up close you can’t be sure it’s happened. I know it has. I made it roll along the cushion with just enough side on it to turn a fraction in the corner. With a little nudge from God. I’m having trouble peeling my tongue off the roof of my mouth, and my taste buds are screaming for water. This must be the first time in my life I’ve been so painfully thirsty. It’s pretty rare. At the academy I don’t allow myself any beer, I’m worried it will blur my vision, even a little drop.
Something is cooling the top of my forehead. A hand, which has already disappeared. I lift my head and try to open my eye as far as it will go.
A woman.
A slither of woman. She’s moving her mouth.
“. . . awake! . . . absolutely not . . . gently . . .”
I can hardly hear anything. My right ear is blocked, and the nurse is talking on the wrong side of me. And not loudly. But I really have to get this right.
“Wa . . . taaaaahhhh!”
That sound alone hurts my lips, or my cheek, but I’m not sure what stops where any more. She brings a glass over.
“Don’t move.”
I can drink by myself, but I let her do it. It’s good. I’ll go back to my dreams as soon as this girl has left.
I know exactly why I’m in this bed, it jumped into my consciousness like a scalded cat the minute I opened my eye. I’ve done the rounds of all the pains, and there’s not one missing from the register, particularly the one gnawing at my face. How long will it be before I get my sight back in all its acuity? How long? I don’t give a damn about the rest, even if I can’t talk or can’t hear a thing. None of that’s really indispensable to me.
Framed Page 2
