From the window of Duvignaud’s office, I notice a group of men on the street; they’re hiding among parked cars. I smell a rat and go down to investigate. Except for one or two individuals, the group is made up of Englishmen who seem very irritated to see me. I ask to see what they’re hiding. Two are hiding photos in their watch casings. But these photos—whose title had something seductive about it—are just thin slices of leather folded in two and show only vague gray stripes. The third is holding something in his hand: a map or a puzzle, but, though I’m very excited by what he shows me, I don’t see anything of interest in it. Nonetheless, I’m sure the presence of these three Englishmen was what set off the whole affair.
I have a date with Monique A. to discuss just that. We’re supposed to meet in a deserted snack bar in a covered passage (surely Passage Choiseul). Next door there is an Algerian café and, in front, three Algerian women holding each other by the waists. Next to them, the boss, their older brother, scolds them for their behavior, invoking the Ancestor. I remember that, in some sort of alternate story, Monique A. was not fired and the whole affair ended in catastrophe. It’s in order to avoid such things happening again that she has quit this time, and we’re meeting to talk about it.
Monique A. arrives. She stands behind the bar, I in front of it. She is genuinely dismayed. Why, we wonder, did she have to leave? She wasn’t fired, but she had to leave. Why does this always happen at that damn company? Always bickering, people leaving, others staying, etc.
This seems related not so much to any particular newspaper stories as to life, in a much more general sense.
A gigantic snake creeps out from behind the counter and begins to swing above my head. First I tell myself I shouldn’t pay it any mind, but it very quickly turns threatening and I am fascinated and frozen in fear. It swings closer and closer, whistling. I notice that its eyes are like projectors. The moment I feel all is totally lost, a gunshot, fired from somewhere unknown by someone unknown, blasts and wakes me up.
No. 84
August 1971
The refusal to testify
I think I’ve found a large room in my apartment, but it turns out it’s not mine, and, in fact, it’s the street.
Lots of people show up and invade my room. They tell me that F. is in trouble: he shat in front of a public monument; I’m supposed to testify that I witnessed the scene and that I didn’t see him do that, or even more precisely that I saw that he did not do it.
F. arrives, two cops flanking him. I explain or try to explain that I cannot testify to this.
I am in a play, but I’m also supposed to introduce the actor to some VIPs. Now, the mayor is senile. I manage to communicate through gestures that it’s his tablemate who should speak: the real mayor keeps mum while the fake one delivers a very well imitated speech.
Later, I explain to Z. that it’s not really important, that the fake was actually the former mayor, and, at the same time, the best friend and worst enemy of the real one.
We come to a place we’ve already seen: a high fence?
I make love to Z. Only inside her, all told, do I feel good.
No. 85
August 1971
Balls and masks
Passing by on the street, I stop to watch a tennis match and mix in with the players, who are apparently indistinguishable from the other passersby. At the end of a service, I catch a fairly difficult ball, earning the praise of one of the players (who is none other than Marcel C.). This sets off a chain of events: he thinks I know how to play; I don’t dare disabuse him; he offers me the service.
Though the ball is terribly large and my racket ridiculously small, at first it doesn’t go too badly. There is no net: the point is to send the ball over the fence in the park. I manage to send my first two balls to the other side and much farther than my opponent can reach (he doesn’t even try), which gets us to 30-love. But the ball grows, finally looking like a slightly flat leather punching bag, and I can no longer get it over the fence. I think we’ve lost only one point, but my partner (Bernard L.) tells me sternly that we’re trailing 50–40 and that if I don’t catch up we will lose the service (just the service, which isn’t so terrible: we’d be one game to one). I explain to him that I can’t send such a heavy ball over with such a small racket and he offers to lend me one of his. Sure enough, under his arm he has two rackets that he’s not using, which he has even put back in their presses (high wooden diamonds closed with four butterfly screws). These rackets are strange: they look like “old rackets” (like violas to violins, crumhorns to bassoons); one of them has an extremely large wooden frame and the racket itself (the stringed part) is a tiny round (not oval) hole that is obviously stringless. This is the one Bernard L. hands me; I tell him it has no strings and that I can’t play with it. He begins to unscrew the press of the second racket, then thinks again and, almost angrily, gives me back the first one, insisting that it’s perfectly strung. Sure enough, when I examine it closely I see that the hole is furnished with a fine network of gossamer threads.
First I try to serve by throwing the ball myself. But the ball and racket are much too heavy. My partners throw the ball while I hold the handle of the racket with two hands. I manage to hit the ball, but not hard enough: the ball falls short of the fence and the point is lost …
Another time, I played a game of chance and won an enormous amount of money (several thousands of new francs). The losers don’t seem very happy but don’t put up any particular fight to pay me. Nonetheless, just before I leave the gaming table, we begin to play again and I lose a negligible sum, say 100 francs. This seems to mean: We can make you win but we can also make you lose when we want and don’t you forget it.
I put the roll of bills in the breast pocket of my shirt. It sticks out a bit.
I live in the annex of a hotel. It serves as a prison as well. A group of prisoners (whose arrest, it seems to me now, I also witnessed) arrives. The henchmen are almost entirely shut up in these shiny metal shackles that bind them like clothes or masks. There is also a man whose neck is held in a leather and steel “platen,” which is actually an instrument of torture. Besides this man, the henchmen are a wolfhound (also wrapped in irons) and a woman. The head of the gang is dressed in a habit.
The jailor’s daughter shuts one of the prisoners in a room that’s next to mine but a bit beneath it. I run into her as she’s coming back up after double-locking the door. Our eyes meet and we smile at one another. I invite her to have a drink and she accepts eagerly.
We’re on a fairly huge esplanade. We’re looking for a bar. There is one, a very narrow one, all the way up (the next-to-last house on the plaza), but we find it ugly (or bad).
F. passes by. We shake hands. I tell him I was waiting for him to visit later. He reminds me that we were supposed to have dinner, and leaves.
The jailor’s daughter is surprised by all the money sticking out of my breast pocket. I tell her that I played, that I won several thousand francs and that I am relieved of the financial troubles that had been dogging me for some time.
We wander through various streets. We remember that there is a pub at the end of rue de Boulainvilliers. I think, “in petto,” that there should also be one on rue des Vignes, on the plaza of the “Ranelagh” cinema.
We go down the rue Raynouard. We’re in a car and I’m driving. I’m not really driving: I have stopped the motor and the car is following the slope, which is also getting steeper and steeper. Far in front of us, there’s a bicycle hurtling downhill alone and, farther still, a car that we recognize as belonging to Harry M. (but there’s nobody in it either).
The descent is increasingly dizzying, spectacular and intoxicating. There are huge bends and at some moments we fall nearly vertically. We’re prodigiously excited. We slalom past all the other cars.
Of course, at the bottom, there is an impossible traffic jam—vehicles have fallen into the river by the hundreds and sailors are struggling to fish them out. People are walking on barge trai
ns. We see our car sticking out of the water; it’s a heap of dripping scrap metal (actually, no: it’s not so much a heap; you can easily make out the form of a car, but it’s an empty form, just the skeleton of the chassis).
We look for Harry M.’s car but don’t find it. Decidedly, every time he is with me, Harry has bad luck with his cars—this is the second time this has happened to him.
We ask the sailors for insurance forms. They tell us that won’t be necessary: our car and Harry M.’s will be paid for entirely, without any trouble, even if the remains are not found.
There is a very simple explanation for the easy reimbursement. The sailors don’t give it to us but let us guess, saying: “In Grenoble and in Romans, they’re only too happy to pay X francs for a trout.”
Which means:
a) car accidents happen all the time on this river;
b) they wouldn’t happen if not for the huge rocks in the middle of the river;
c) but they intentionally leave the huge rocks in the middle of the river so that the trout (and the trout fishers) come in droves …
No. 86
August 1971
Decorated with medals
I have been designated to participate in an international conference (in Ireland or in the Netherlands) on authors’ rights. With C.B., director of the French delegation, I review the problem and talk about the other members of the commission, who are, for the most part, family members or friends of mine. Then there is a question of going, on our way back, to report on the conference to the President of the Republic. We recall, laughing, that we used to refuse to be part of the Presidential court. I ask C.B. if the President’s nickname is still “Lulu.” C.B. answers that he has no idea, but that “Lulu” is almost libelous.
With a (poorly identified) woman, J.L., and (a bit later) my aunt, I’ve been invited—or have dropped in without warning—to visit L. My aunt and J.L. have made it in, but the woman and I find ourselves on a little platform that turns out to be surrounded by a ditch filled with water. First we think there’s no water, because it’s covered in water lilies and lotuses, but there is, and lots of it. How to cross this ditch? It would be difficult to jump: in all probability we’d fall into the water before even taking off.
But here is a wooden bridge. The woman crosses it easily and lands in L.’s arms. He welcomes her, saying, “stay for dinner!” as though our impromptu visit hasn’t put him out at all and he even knew we were staying. Then he reaches his hand out to me to help me cross the bridge; and it’s good that he does, because the bridge is rotten and breaks the moment I step on it, but, thanks to his help, I do not fall into the water.
“O, precious symbolism!” I cry.
/ /
I discuss plans for the conference for a moment with J.L., and then with my aunt, who tells me she’s not going, as she feels too tired; that same day she took a walk with her granddaughter and came back exhausted.
L. does not look like himself. He has a beard. He looks more like Bernard P. would if Bernard P. grew a beard. His wife looks vaguely like Bernard P.’s wife.
On a picnic table there are papers, a pair of glasses, and the book L. was reading when we arrived. It is a volume from the Pléiade, open to a story entitled “Don B.,” or “Madame B.” Which reminds me of a Stendhal story.
No. 87
September 1971
Eight fragments, maybe from an opera
It seems I have gone to see Nicholas Ray’s film Johnny Guitar.
I live in a house that I rent for 360 francs a year. The house is falling apart. The radiators are collapsing.
I send (surely to the landlord) a letter of apology, in which I pass the blame for the degradation of the house onto a second-class officer, while I myself am a reserve captain.
A colleague, M., comes to see me. G., another co-worker, also arrives; perhaps she is bothering us: in any case, our three-person scene gives me a great sense of displeasure.
We make several dates to meet; there are a great many of us. Departure for the procession: view of a big party. Wardrobe problem.
The opera (which I’m watching) looks nothing like it should. The stage is terribly far away.
The stage, this time very close: a large bald man, whose face conveys great tenderness, is smashing the skulls of the King, Queen, and Pope with a mace. Among the innumerable male and female extras is B.
I call Z. on the telephone.
No. 88
September 1971
Water town
In Philippe D.’s car. He is driving backwards; moreover, he’s in the back seat.
His parents’ accident.
(the old nanny and the matte silver chandelier)
He has just made a round trip, his hair has turned white.
This takes place in a (water) town where I am making a film with the actor Jean-Paul Belmondo. We call him on the phone. I send him a three-word message so that he understands who’s asking. Another message, maybe.
In fact, the communiqué is meant for the actor’s mistress, a very tan and callipygian woman whom I recognize, with shock, as P.L. (a man).
No. 89
September 1971
Crosswords
I’m talking to a friend about a project for the reissue of Politique-Hebdo. We meet two (or three) girls who used to work for the weekly and are preparing to go back there. In theory, there’s no question of my setting crossword puzzles for them. I think about it nonetheless, “in petto”; I have a number of grids at the ready and no shortage of ideas for new ones. The only question to work out would be that of fees. I think of an excellent clue for “GRANT”—his most famous children didn’t take his name. But no, silly, that’s not “GRANT,” that’s obviously “VERNE.” I find not a new definition for “GRANT” but another one for “VERNE”: A Jules who wasn’t.
No. 90
October 1971
My height
I’m supposed to write an item (like a Who’s Who listing) about my boss.
To make my job easier, Jean Duvignaud gives me a “window notebook,” a notebook whose hard cover has been cut out on the inside, a bit like for a passport.
The “window notebook” isn’t about my boss but about L. This is how I learn that one of his middle names is Bertrand. Flipping through the notebook, I notice that the information it contains isn’t up to date at all.
It’s a window notebook, but it’s not a current notebook.
I am at S.B.’s house. In a narrow and tortuous hall, she introduces me to her mother, mentioning my height (1.65m and a half). I correct her. I say first: 1.70m., then 1.68m. I feel desperately short.
Now there is a crowd in S.B.’s living room. Someone is telling—or maybe showing—the story of a young man who begins to levitate, earning the audience’s admiration. But he ends up falling back to the ground (regardless of how gracefully he was floating) and he rushes under a train.
Earlier, I had had a long conversation with her father, and maybe also with her uncle. Both of them were abominably drunk.
No. 91
October 1971
25 blows with a stick
1
I am giving 25 blows with a stick. It’s a performance, which Z. watches without understanding any of it.
For my part, what I understand is something like: from A to Z, where Z is the slash, the cut, the scar.
2
I am in Israel. The country has just gained independence. We wait for a long time in a hangar. Several trucks pass by.
There are two men in me. One is pro-Israel, the other anti-.
The anti- notices that it’s not all for the worst in Israel.
No. 92
October 1971
The actress, 2
An actress begins to dance and slowly takes her clothes off. She has very small breasts.
I think of my mother.
No. 93
October 1971
The snowplow
I have a date with Z. at the Deux-Magots.
> It’s snowing.
The snow turns to ice.
Someone brings a snowplow. It emerges from the snow like a submarine’s periscope emerging from the sea.
Details about how the snowplow works.
Another (is it really another?) snowplow flips over.
Z. pays seven and a half francs for our breakfast.
No. 94
October 1971
The inn
I visit J.L., who has just moved and now lives near the outskirts of Paris, across from a métro station. At first glance, the house seems to be just an ordinary building; it’s next to an inn, whose sign says in Gothic letters:
VANVES INN
The apartment is actually a real three-story house (a triplex). The third floor is absolutely amazing. It’s a living room with a grand piano; gradually you realize it’s a very large room, a very, very large room: it goes on forever, its floor is a lawn that opens onto a horizon of wooded countryside.
The view is spectacular. We rave about it:
La Boutique Obscure: 124 Dreams Page 8
