A Life on Paper: Stories

by Georges-Olivier Chateaureynaud

  It was exactly what he held against Hostia: she'd died without his permission. While alive, Hostia had seemed less a woman of flesh and blood than a memory incarnate. A body like a path you'd once taken. A face you now saw only in dreams. A friend-just a friend. At first, news of her disappearance caused Dorsay only middling sorrow. Not grief, even, but annoyance. "Hostia's dead, dammit! Just my luck!" At first it had seemed a minor loss. They hadn't been lovers for a long time. Her kisses, her embraces: he wasn't going to miss them. They saw each other rarely, and never alone. Two or three times a year, Hostia would show up at one of his parties, one of those weekends that seemed fortuitously to happen when he was around, but which he'd actually planned under the table. With each new publication, one of the two hundred and eighty copies on regular paper (a handsome ragstock nonetheless) was set aside for her. She'd write him to discuss it after reading it. Had those letters perhaps kept up, in a way, their former amorous commerce? At any rate, he would no longer get letters signed Hostia. He'd understood as much before the publication of the next collection. Of the two hundred and eighty ragstock copies, one would have no owner; the fireworks would be short an echo and a gleam. The unavoidable fact made its way into him. Hostia was, if not the first, one of the first to fall; with time, others would follow, and the poet's cohort would go on thinning out. It was something successful writers never considered. They advanced at the head of an army of a hundred or three hundred thousand comrades. How could they tell, when they turned to take in this enthusiastic crowd with a glance, if it was smaller than before? Dorsay knew each one of his "happy few" by name. Hostia's death had been a sign: they were getting older, just like him. He saw himself, in twenty years, staggering through a Sahara of Letters between his last ailing readers. He imagined himself abandoned to the implacable sun of posterity, which withered his works. The winds of History would scatter the words he had so lovingly chosen. Taken individually, they weren't heavy enough to withstand such torture. He'd made a fatal mistake in not stringing them together one to the next. Now there was the secret to lasting works: the mesh, the network, the weave… Without them, words were wisps of straw. And as expected, the prettiest were the most deceiving. "0 poet! Trust not in words," he moaned. "If you don't bend them to your will, they'll impose their own…" Shortly after Hostia's funeral, he dove back into reading his own poems. He reemerged defeated. The words he'd thought to tame had toyed with him. He'd sorted them like stamps in an album, or plants in a herbarium. And what comfort would they have brought to Hostia, in her new abode, if by some miracle she could hear them? Poetry addressed itself not to the living, but the dead; it was something like their mail. Overwhelmed by this sudden intuition, he junked the precious volumes whose creation and publication had given his life meaning until now. When the garbagemen pulled up the next day at dawn, he almost went down to snatch his papers back. He was stopped only by the thought of his readers' stupefaction when they learned he hadn't bothered to keep even a single copy of each of his books. He recalled Bert Jansch, the guitarist who hadn't owned a single instrument during the most productive period of his career. In the studio as in concert, he used whatever was lent him. No doubt they took care only to give him the best… Still, the image of an offhanded Orpheus had amazed Dorsay. And what amazed him even more was that he too had dared free himself of his reverence for the sacred object. He listened to the rumble of the garbage truck grow faint down the cold, dark streets, taking away the fruit of twenty years of labor and rumination. Dirtied, dog-eared, soon to be crushed, his books jostled among potato peelings and sticky yogurt cups toward the ruin of a public dump. And he couldn't care less. Incredulous at first, then with a kind of arrogant elation, he saw that he really didn't give a damn. He was free.

  He had to put this freedom to the test right away. He pulled a jacket on. He needed a hat-but no, it was raining; he wanted the rain, the cold, black rain, to bathe his forehead. He hadn't let himself get soaked for… twenty, maybe thirty years, even! The life he led was too comfy, too neat. How could he bear witness to the strangeness of being in the world-a heart alarmed under the stars-if he no longer felt anything? The world burned and froze, bit and scratched; it was haunted by women with mad or famished gazes, roaming up and down the streets in search of someone. Wasn't that how he'd come upon Hostia, long ago? One night, in the street. It was raining, he remembered. A cold, black rain. He slammed his door shut and ran down the stairs four at a time. Somewhere, a woman with a famished look in her eye was looking for him: Hostia's replacement, her relief, sent by fate.

  He walked for a long time. He hadn't buttoned his raincoat. The rain wasn't that cold. Or that black. Actually, it fell black on the empty streets and red, green, blue, and yellow on the busy boulevards. Dorsay walked unhurriedly, searching for a face. How to know? How to tell some instinctive complicity tied you to a stranger? You'd feel it, right? Was it really something you could feel? He made an effort to remember the first moments of his meeting with Hostia. But he had to admit that if she hadn't agreed to follow him, he probably wouldn't have any memory of the encounter. Even so, he could recall little of what had preceded their embrace… and precious little of the embrace itself! It was like a story someone had told, leaving out all the details. They'd touched-there was that-and then they'd coupled: nothing unforgettable, nothing everlasting about it. But then how was it that Hostia belonged to his life forevermore, like a cast member in a show with but a single performance?

  That night, at any rate, he met no one. Many people crossed his path. They had no faces. He probably didn't have one to them, either. Around midnight, he came to a halt in a deserted square. Before an imposing edifice stood what seemed to be the bronze statue of a child. Not an idealized child-an allegory of childhood-but, he thought to make out in the dark, a simple schoolboy in a cap and duffle coat, satchel in hand. He was idly surprised. You rarely saw statues of children, except perhaps on graves. He looked around in vain for a plaque with some information about the unusual sculpture. He vowed to find someone who'd shed some light on it… when it was light out, perhaps. He felt weary, with no idea of where he was, nor how far from home. What with his great idea of going out without a hat, his hair drooped in dripping strands down his forehead. He'd walked right through puddles, his leather shoes waterlogged; he was cold, tired, willing to bet he'd pay for his childish behavior with a raging cold. He looked around for a taxi. No taxis. The sign for a hotel drew his eye.

  The Museum Hotel was on the other side of the street, across from the statue. Its name stood out in bluish neon letters over a glass door, through which could be glimpsed the usual faux marble lobby decked with potted plants, and one of those sofas too soft and squashy to be comfortable. The iron plaque set beside the door boasted three stars. Dorsav thought that if he could take a hot bath in the next five minutes, he had a chance of avoiding a cold. Then, for the same price, he'd stay the night. Of course he clung, like anyone else, to his little habits. He wouldn't have his mouthwash at hand, or his bedtime reading (Milosz one night, and the next Baudelaire). But hadn't he just tossed his entire body of work overboard? Surely it wasn't to batten himself down in routine again so soon! After all, perhaps life began anew with every step only for those with the courage to strike out from marked trails. If he went home tonight, either by cab or by walking an hour in the rain, he could be sure of one thing: nothing would happen. But if he pushed open this glass door and slept at the Museum Hotel like a traveler without any bags, maybe… Maybe he didn't know what, but that was exactly what he wanted: knowing nothing in advance. The principle of uncertainty that seemed to have steered his youth hadn't been working for a long time. Likely it alone had brought him discoveries, lovers, friends, everything that had really counted. Dorsav wanted it back in his life, to enrich it once more.

  He crossed the street and pushed the door open. A middle-aged blonde welcomed him coolly at the front desk. Travelers without bags weren't well-loved in the hotel business. But he paid up front, and it
all got better. She handed him a key to Room 305, on the third floor. He hurried up to draw as hot a bath as possible, and after the first scalding minutes lazed there a long while. When at last he got out, he rubbed himself down vigorously and donned the terry robe he'd found in the bathroom. He would've like to top off his preventative treatment with some grog, but all the minibar had was whisky. He downed two minis in two gulps as a preemptive strike, then poured another into a glass that he planned to nurse before going to bed. Glass in hand, he went to the window and drew back the curtains. On the other side of the street, atop his pedestal, the bronze schoolboy turned toward him a face streaming with bluish tears. Shocked, Dorsay shrank back, letting the curtains fall shut. Was it exhaustion, or the alcohol he'd guzzled? He thought he'd glimpsed expectation, even supplication, in the statue's gaze. He shrugged, yet almost drew back the curtains to check again. He shook his head. It was pointless: bronze schoolboys weren't expecting anything from tired old poets. He took another swallow of whisky. All that whisky, straight up! But if he'd added soda, he'd have upset his stomach. He'd be a better "heart alarmed under the stars" if he didn't have to put up with a host of other organs.

  The next morning, his first thought was to congratulate himself for having dodged a head cold. He'd woken up refreshed, sinuses clear, his head astonishingly light. Next, he noticed that sacrificing his own works inspired not the slightest regret. The freedom he'd felt the night before was intact. It even seemed that he hadn't gone far enough in getting rid of just those copies. He would have liked to destroy everything. Part of him rebelled at the idea. Everything? Erase it all? But all that was his life! protested the familiar voice that had whispered to him, one by one, the words enshrined on the Japan imperial and creamy ragstock of his collections. Another voice croaked that the copies in circulation weren't worth worrying about. Too thick and stiff, neither Japan imperial nor ragstock lent themselves to wrapping fish; for the same reason, they'd make catastrophic toilet paper, but they'd right tables, stuff shoes, and light pipes well. As for the copies that found no practical use, like all things in the world, they'd dissolve in the river of time, a river of acid.

  Dorsay had breakfast in his room. Before going to bed, he'd taken care to lay his clothes out by the radiator. This morning they were wrinkled but dry. He dressed and readied to leave the hotel. As he was, in truth, incorrigible, he couldn't help but secretly draft an entry on the establishment for a future history of French literature: "The Museum Hotel-that ordinary spot-became the site of a veritable satori when poet Jean-Pierre Dorsay took refuge there one November night in I9-"

  A girl with a healthy glow had replaced the wary woman of the night before at the front desk. He settled his breakfast and the three minis of whisky. As she was handing him his change, he noticed that her nails were well-manicured. Not overlong, but well-manicured. How he loved women's nails! The ones with dodgy nails appalled him. He'd never be able to bear an affair with a woman whose nails were black or even grayish. He shivered at the thought. But this girl's were flawless, from where he stood. He lifted his gaze to study her. She had pleasing features. Her pink cheeks-almost pink-contrasted with her pale throat and forehead. She was no less delightful for not quite being fashionable. She conjured up old prints, English paintingsthat kind of thing. He smiled at her. She smiled back. An innocent smile. For a few years now, he'd been able to detect innocence in others, to sniff it out like the scent of a rare herb. His expression darkened. Faced wih this young woman, he felt impure, unworthy, his soul all warty and callused. He spied sudden worry in her eyes. She'd been surprised by the change in his expression, and was wondering if she'd done something wrong. 0 innocence! He abruptly blushed. Foolishly, he set down one of the bills she'd returned on the faux marble countertop. Then, muttering a vague good-bye, he turned and left.

  He crossed the road double-quick, without looking right or left. He hadn't heard a single car since waking. When he was on the island, in the shadow of the statue, he stopped. The bronze schoolboy stood out against a pure blue sky with pure white clouds. The pale sun seemed suspended from the heavens' vault by a plastic line. High, high up, Dorsay saw the unmoving silver cross of a plane. He thought to see in the Currier-and-Ives sky an intent, a kind of crushing irony, as though someone were mocking him from the heights of heaven above. He ceased his scrutiny of the skies, and turned his gaze back on the bronze schoolboy. At once, his heart began to pound in his chest. It was him. Him, ten years old, in that hat with earflaps Aunt Marthe had given him to go with the Christmas duffel coat from grandmama. He recognized his satchel, his scarf, and his canvas hiking boots. Many hiking boots had been sold that year. They seemed to have come straight from some military surplus, which the kids had liked.

  "Sir-"

  He lowered his gaze. The girl from the hotel was standing before him, holding out the bill he'd given her a moment ago. He'd made a mistake… or she didn't want it, for innocent reasons.

  "Sir, you forgot this."

  "I didn't forget it. It's for you."

  "For me? But-"

  "It's a tip. Don't you ever get tips at that hotel?"

  "I don't know. I'm just helping out my aunt for the first time-"

  "Ah. Well, then, this is your first tip. You'll surely get more, nice as you are!" He bit his lip. She wouldn't get tips that big often. Unless she was really nice…

  "Well… thanks!" She folded the bill and stuck it in her pocket.

  "You're welcome. Say-"

  "Yes?"

  Those fawn's eyes, that young voice, that confident tone. He hesitated. She'd think he was insane. But he didn't have to go about it so directly… He pointed at the statue. "Do you know who that kid is?"

  She glanced at the bronze schoolboy. "No idea. I don't know this neighborhood. I came from Niort to help out my aunt, so-"

  "Don't you think… don't you think he looks like me?"

  She looked up again, and this time stared at the statue longer. At last she said, "It's hard to tell, since I didn't know you then. Why? Is it you?"

  "No. I was just kidding."

  She didn't laugh. Which was worse, coming across crazy or stupid?

  "You're very sweet, he said. "What's your name?"

  "Julia."

  "Julia? Well, Julia, I hope you'll buy yourself something you like with that money." Was he ever in form today! To think he'd once considered himself a seducer.

  "Sure… Can I go back to the hotel now? Someone might be waiting to pay-

  "Of course! Off you go!"

  Before going through the glass door, she looked back again to thank him, flashing the wadded-up bill. A little girl! He shut his eyes. He reflected that he'd been left to his own devices once more. He could pretend he'd never seen the statue, and walk away quickly. If only there'd been a taxi in sight! All he'd have to do was get inside and bark his address at the driver. But a taxi wasn't the only solution. He could walk, like yesterday. Just around the bend, and everything would probably seem familiar again, fall into place… But what was he on about? What was out of place? What needed to be normal again? Everything was normal. He'd let himself be unnerved by a coincidence, that bronze whippersnapper up there, with his false airs of… Quite simply, he'd gotten in his head that it looked like him. Eyes still shut, he thrust out his hand. His fingers brushed the pedestal's rough stone. The statue was still there. It existed, of course. It existed with all the atoms of all its molecules. He couldn't pretend to ignore it. There was but one way to have it rejoin the ordinary things from whose ranks it had stepped to torment him: he had to give a name to the child it depicted. He walked around it, looking for the plaque he couldn't find last night, or a signature. After all, statues were signed! Once he knew the artist's name, he'd have the mystery all cleared up before long. Suddenly, the idea came to him that there might be a link between the statue and the museum before which it stood. He turned from one to contemplate the other. He'd barely spared the building a glance till now. It was a handsome edifice, of me
dium size and yet perfectly proportioned. Its neoclassical facade was adorned with columns and a pediment of indistinct figures that nevertheless gave off a happy impression. Without lingering to inspect them-in a place like this, they had to be the usual mythological suspects-Dorsay swiftly crossed the street. In a few bounds, he climbed the steps that led him to a great portal whose leaves were mostly open. He entered the lobby, looking around for a ticket counter, and soon saw a sort of booth or cage of glass and lacquered wood that surely served the purpose. He walked up to it. The cage was empty. There was every indication it usually housed the person whose job it was to sell visitors tickets and souvenirs: to either side of a boiled cardboard blotter lay a book of tickets and bundles of leaflets and brochures he couldn't make out the writing on, as well as envelopes that probably held postcards. He pressed his face to the glass for a better view of the inside of the cabin. He could see no personal effects that might lead him to believe whoever manned (or womanned) it was somewhere in the building and only momentarily away from the booth for one reason or another: a quick trip to the bathroom, idle chatter by the coffee machine, or a service issue to be taken up with management. Dorsay would've liked to have one of these possibilities to cling to, which the situation, in its bareness, did not allow him: there was no one to sell him admission or give him information about the statue. No one at all? The ordinary sound of a mop and bucket rekindled his hopes. A cleaning woman had just appeared at the far end of the lobby.