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to keep a small factory running: to change tampons every month, to swallow pills, snap the brassiere in place, get ready for production. Agnes looked upon old men with envy: it seemed to her that they aged differently: her father's body slowly changed into its shadow, it de-materialized, it remained in the world merely as a carelessly incarnated soul. In contrast, the more useless a woman's body becomes, the more it is a body, heavy and burdensome; it resembles an old factory destined for demolition, which the woman's self must watch to the very end, like
a caretaker.
What was capable of changing Agnes's relation to the body? Only a moment of excitement. Excitement: fleeting redemption of the
body.
But even in this Laura would not agree. A moment of redemption? Why only a moment? For Laura the body was sexual from the beginning, a priori, constantly and completely, by its very essence. To love someone meant, for her: to bring him one's body, to give him one's body, just as it was, with everything, inside and out, even with its own time, which is slowly, sweetly, corroding it.
For Agnes the body was not sexual. It only became so in exceptional moments, when an instant of excitement illuminated it with an unreal, artificial light and made it desirable and beautiful. And perhaps it was precisely because of that, though nobody knew this about Agnes, that she was obsessed by physical love and clung to it, for without it there would be no emergency exit from the misery of the body and everything would be lost. When she made love, she always kept her eyes open, and if she was near a mirror she would watch herself: at that moment her body seemed to be bathed in light.
But watching one's own body bathed in light is a treacherous game. Once, when Agnes was with her lover, she detected in the course of lovemaking certain defects of her body that she hadn't noticed at the time of their last meeting (she would meet her lover only once or twice a year, in a big, anonymous Paris hotel), and she was unable to tear her eyes away: she didn't see her lover, she didn't see the intertwined bodies, she only saw old age, which was beginning to gnaw at her. Excitement quickly vanished from the room, and she closed her eyes
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and quickened the movements of lovemaking as if trying to prevent her partner from reading her mind: she decided then and there that this would be their last meeting. She felt weak and longed for her marital bed, where the bedside lamp always remained off; she longed for her marital bed as a refuge, as a quiet haven of darkness.
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Addition and subtraction
In our world, where there are more and more faces, more and more alike, it is difficult for an individual to reinforce the originality of the self and to become convinced of its inimitable uniqueness. There are two methods for cultivating the uniqueness of the self: the method of addition and the method of subtraction. Agnes subtracts from her self everything that is exterior and borrowed, in order to come closer to her sheer essence (even with the risk that zero lurks at the bottom of the subtraction). Laura's method is precisely the opposite: in order to make her self ever more visible, perceivable, seizable, sizable, she keeps adding to it more and more attributes and she attempts to identify herself with them (with the risk that the essence of the self may be buried by the additional attributes).
Let's take her cat as an example. After her divorce, Laura remained alone in a large apartment and felt lonely. She longed for a pet to share her solitude. First she thought of a dog but soon realized that a dog needed the kind of care she would be unable to provide. And so she got a cat. It was a big Siamese cat, beautiful and wicked. As she lived with the cat and regaled her friends with stories about it, the animal that she had picked more or less by accident, without any special conviction (after all, her first choice was a dog!), took on an ever growing significance: she began to lavish praise on her pet and forced everyone to admire it. She saw in the cat a superb independence, pride, freedom of action, and constancy of charm (so different from human charm, which is always spoiled by moments of clumsiness and unattractiveness); in the cat, she saw her paradigm; in the cat, she saw herself.
It is not at all important whether Laura's nature resembled that of a cat or not; the important thing is that she made the cat part of her coat
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of arms and that the cat (love for the cat, apologias for the cat) became one of the attributes of her self. From the beginning, many of her lovers were irritated by this egocentric and evil animal, which would spit and scratch for no apparent reason, and so the cat became an acid test of Laura's power; as if she wanted to tell everyone: you can have me, but the way I really am, and that includes the cat. The cat became the image of her soul, and a lover had to accept her soul if he wished to have her body.
The method of addition is quite charming if it involves adding to the self such things as a cat, a dog, roast pork, love of the sea or of cold showers. But the matter becomes less idyllic if a person decides to add love for communism, for the homeland, for Mussolini, for Catholicism or atheism, for fascism or antifascism. In both cases the method remains exactly the same: a person stubbornly defending the superiority of cats over other animals is doing basically the same thing as one who maintains that Mussolini was the sole savior of Italy: he is proud of this attribute of the self and he tries to make this attribute (a cat or Mus-solini) acknowledged and loved by everyone.
Here is that strange paradox to which all people cultivating the self by way of the addition method are subject: they use addition in order to create a unique, inimitable self, yet because they automatically become propagandists for the added attributes, they are actually doing everything in their power to make as many others as possible similar to themselves; as a result, their uniqueness (so painfully gained) quickly begins to disappear.
We may ask ourselves why a person who loves a cat (or Mussolini) is not satisfied to keep his love to himself and wants to force it on others. Let us seek the answer by recalling the young woman in the sauna, who belligerently asserted that she loved cold showers. She thereby managed to differentiate herself at once from one-half of the human race, namely the half that prefers hot showers. Unfortunately, that other half now resembled her all the more. Alas, how sad! Many people, few ideas, so how are we to differentiate ourselves from one another? The young woman knew only one way of overcoming the disadvantage of her similarity to that enormous throng devoted to cold showers: she
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had to proclaim her credo "I adore cold showers!" as soon as she appeared in the door of the sauna and to proclaim it with such fervor as to make the millions of other women who also enjoy cold showers seem like pale imitations of herself. Let me put it another way: a mere (simple and innocent) love for showers can become an attribute of the self only on condition that we let the world know we are ready to fight for it.
The one who chooses as an attribute of the self a love for Mussolini becomes a political warrior, while the partisan of cats, music, or antique furniture bestows gifts on his surroundings.
Imagine that you have a friend who loves Schumann and hates Schubert, while you madly love Schubert and Schumann bores you to tears. What kind of record would you give your friend as a birthday gift? The Schumann he loves, or the Schubert you adore? Schubert, of course. If you gave him a record of Schumann you'd have the unpleasant feeling that such a gift would not be sincere and would be more like a bribe calculated to flatter your friend. After all, when you give someone a present, you want to do so out of love, you want to give your friend a piece of yourself, a piece of your heart! And so you give him Schubert's Unfinished, and the moment you leave he'll spit on it, put on a rubber glove, gingerly pick up the record with two fingers, and throw it in the wastebasket.
In the course of several years, Laura presented her sister and brother-in-law with a set of plates and dishes, a tea service, a fruit basket, a lamp, a rocking chair, about five ashtrays, a tab
lecloth, but above all a piano, which two husky men hauled in one day as a surprise and asked where to put it. Laura beamed: "I wanted to give you something that will force you to think of me even when I'm not with you."
After the divorce, Laura spent all her free time at her sister's. She devoted herself to Brigitte as if she were her own daughter, and when she bought her sister the piano it was mainly because she wanted to teach her niece how to play. Brigitte, however, hated the piano. Agnes was afraid that this might hurt Laura's feelings and she therefore pleaded with her daughter to use her willpower and try to display some enthusiasm for those black and white keys. Brigitte objected: "Am I supposed to learn to play just to please her?" And so the whole affair
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ended badly, and after a few months the piano was reduced to a mere show object, or rather a nuisance object; to a sad reminder of a failure; to a big white body (yes, the piano was white!) that nobody wanted. To tell the truth, Agnes liked neither the tea service nor the rocking chair nor the piano. Not that those gifts were in bad taste, but they all had something eccentric about them that wasn't in keeping with Agnes's character or her interests. She therefore responded with sincere joy but also with selfish relief (after the piano had already been standing in her apartment, untouched, for six years) when Laura became involved with Bernard, Paul's young friend. She sensed that someone happily in love would have better things to do than shower gifts on a sister or try to educate a niece.
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for his son when he chose his name. First he wanted him to have the same name as he himself, but then he realized it would be grotesque to have two Bertrand Bertrands in the world, because people would wonder whether these are two persons or four. Yet he didn't want to give up the joy of hearing in his son's name an echo of his own, and so he got the idea of calling him Bernard. The trouble is that Bernard Bertrand does not sound like an ovation or a call to fame, but like a slip of the tongue, or even more like a phonetic exercise for actors or radio announcers, to train them to speak faster and more distinctly. As I said, our names mysteriously influence us, and even in his crib Bernard was already predestined by his name to speak on the airwaves."
Paul was mouthing all this nonsense only because he didn't dare say the main thing on his mind: the fact that Laura was eight years older than Bernard thrilled him! For Paul had some wonderful memories of a woman fifteen years older than himself, whom he knew intimately when he was about twenty-five. He wanted to talk about it, he wanted to explain to Laura that every man's life ought to include a love affair with an older woman, and that this provided men with some of their most beautiful memories. "An older wornan is a jewel in the life of a man," he felt like proclaiming, lifting his glass high. But he kept himself from making this rash gesture and contented himself with quiet memories of his former lover, who used to give him the key to her apartment so that he could go there whenever he wanted and do whatever he wanted; this was very convenient at that time, for he was angry with his father and longed to be away from home as much as possible. She never claimed a right to his evenings; when he was free he spent them with her, when he was not free he didn't have to explain anything to her. She never urged him to take her out, and when they were seen together in society she behaved like a loving aunt doting on her handsome nephew When he got married she sent him a lavish wedding present, which always remained a mystery to Agnes.
But it would have hardly been possible to say to Laura: I am happy that my friend loves an older, experienced woman who will treat him as a loving aunt treats a handsome nephew. Besides, before he had a chance to say anything, Laura herself spoke up:
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'The most wonderful thing about it is that he makes me feel ten years younger. Thanks to him I crossed out ten or fifteen bad years and I feel as if I had just returned to Paris from Switzerland and met him."
This admission made it impossible for Paul to reminisce aloud about the jewel of his life, and so he reminisced silently, sipped his wine, and stopped taking in what Laura was saying. It was only a while later, in order to rejoin the conversation, that he asked, "What did Bernard tell you about his father?"
"Nothing," Laura said. "I can assure you that his father is not a subject of our conversations. I understand he comes from an important family. But you know what I think about important families."
"Aren't you curious?"
"No." Laura laughed merrily.
"You should be. Bertrand Bertrand is Bernard Bertrand's biggest problem."
"I doubt it," said Laura, convinced that Bernard's biggest problem was now Laura herself.
"Do you know that old Bertrand was planning a political career for Bernard?" asked Paul.
"No," Laura said, shrugging her shoulders.
"In that family a political career is inherited, like a mansion. Bertrand Bertrand counted on his son someday running for Parliament in his place. But Bernard was twenty years old when he heard the following sentence on a news program: 'The plane crash over the Atlantic claimed one hundred and thirty-nine lives, including seven children and four journalists.' We have long become used to the idea that in such reports children tend to be singled out as a special, exceptionally valuable type of humanity. But on this occasion the announcer in-eluded journalists among them, and Bernard suddenly saw the light: he saw that in our time politicians cut a ridiculous figure, and he decided to become a journalist. By coincidence, I happened to be teaching a seminar at the law school he attended. There the betrayal of his political career and the betrayal of his father were completed. Perhaps Bernard has already told you about it!"
"Yes," said Laura. "He worships you!"
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At that point a black man entered with a basket of flowers. Laura waved at him. The man showed his beautiful white teeth, and Laura picked a bunch of five half-faded carnations from his basket. She handed them to Paul: "All my happiness I owe to you!"
Paul reached in the basket and pulled out another bunch of carnations: "You are the one we are celebrating, not me!" and he handed the flowers to Laura.
"Yes, today we are celebrating Laura," said Agnes, and she took a third bunch of carnations from the basket.
Laura's eyes were moist. She said, "I feel so good, I feel so good with you," and rose to her feet. She pressed both bouquets to her breast, standing next to the black man, who bore himself like a king. All black men resemble kings: this one looked like Othello before he'd grown jealous of Desdemona, while Laura looked like Desdemona in love with her king. Paul knew what would happen next. When Laura was drunk she would always start singing. The yearning to sing came from deep inside her body and rose into her throat with such intensity that several men at adjoining tables turned to look at her with surprise.
"Laura," Paul whispered, "they won't appreciate your Mahler in this restaurant!"
Laura held a bouquet against each breast as if she were standing on stage. Under her fingertips she felt her breasts, whose glands seemed to be filled with musical notes. But for her, Paul's wish was always a command. She obeyed him and only sighed, "I have an enormous urge to do something..."
At that moment, the black man, led by the delicate instinct of kings, took the last two bunches of crumpled carnations from the bottom of the basket and with a noble gesture handed them to her. Laura said to Agnes, "Agnes, my dear Agnes, without you I'd never have come to Paris, without you I wouldn't have met Paul, without Paul I wouldn't have met Bernard," and she placed all four bouquets before Agnes on the table.
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The Eleventh Commandment
A
T ONE time journalistic fame was symbolized by the great name of Ernest Hemingway. His whole work, his concise, matter-of-fact style, was rooted in the dispatches he sent to the Kansas City newspapers as a young man. In those days, being a journalist meant getting closer to reality than anyone else, exploring all its hidden cranni
es, getting one's hands grimy with it. Hemingway was proud that his books were so close to the earth and yet reached so high in the heaven ofart.
But when Bernard pronounces the word "journalist" to himself (and in France nowadays that word also includes radio and TV editors and even press photographers), he is not thinking of Hemingway, and the literary form in which he longs to excel is not reportage. Rather, he dreams of publishing editorials in some influential weekly that would make his father's colleagues tremble. Or interviews. Anyway, who is the pioneer of modern journalism? Not Hemingway, who wrote of his experiences in the trenches, not Orwell, who spent a year of his life with the Parisian poor, not Egon Erwin Kisch, the expert on Prague prostitutes, but Oriana Fallaci, who in the years 1969 to 1972 published in the Italian journal Europeo a series of interviews with the most famous politicians of the time. Those interviews were more than mere conversations; they were duels. Before the powerful politicians realized that they were fighting under unequal conditions—for she was allowed to ask questions but they were not—they were already rolling on the floor of the ring, KO'ed.
Those duels were a sign of the times; the situation had changed. Journalists realized that posing questions was not merely a practical working method for the reporter modestly gathering information with
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notebook and pencil in hand; it was a means of exerting power. The journalist is not merely the one who asks questions but the one who has a sacred right to ask, to ask anyone about anything. But don't we all have that right? And is a question not a bridge of understanding reaching out from one human being to another? Perhaps. I will therefore make my statement more precise: the power of the journalist is not based on his right to ask but on his right to demand an answer.
Please note carefully that Moses did not include among God's Ten Commandments "Thou shalt not lie!" That's no accident! Because the one who says, "Don't lie!" has first to say, "Answer!" and God did not give anyone the right to demand an answer from others. "Don't lie!" "Tell the truth!" are words we must never say to another person insofar as we consider him our equal. Perhaps only God has that right, but he has no reason to resort to it, since he knows everything and does not need our answers.
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