Madame

by Antoni Libera

  So, jeune homme, you say you’re in love? With Madame le professeur? And you long for a ‘victory’? What form do you imagine it would take, if I may ask? What is it you’re hoping for? A glance? A kind word? A friendly atmosphere for your elegant dialogues, oops, sorry, I mean conversations? Well, let me tell you, my high-minded young fellow, that’s pure delusion, Nature’s way of tempting you to do what she wants you to do. The real, the only, point of it all is for you to couple with her and give her your seed. And that looks just like what you see here on these walls. Look at it: this is the true object of your longing, whatever you may think, however you may imagine it. This is the real purpose of your sweet wanderings. And remember, little one, these are only pictures: art, representation, irony. In real life it’s all much more powerful and far less civilised. Violent, savage, uncontrolled. Delirious, abandoned.

  I stared in a paralysed sort of daze at the lasciviously writhing, copulating bodies, finally asking myself the question I had for so long suppressed: was this what I wanted with her? In the hypothetical, extremely unlikely event that such a thing were possible, of course, and assuming on her part a measure of desire, initiative and boldness.

  But the magnetic needle of the compass that was my ‘I’ – what I thought of as myself, what I identified with – behaved strangely. It didn’t point unequivocally to no (‘north’, in the blue field), but neither did it point to yes (‘south’, in the red field). It oscillated wildly between the two and then came to rest in the middle, at the dead point, as if I were standing at one of the poles.

  Why, I insisted, backing myself against the wall with the last of my strength, why don’t you answer? And why not yes?

  Because it can’t bring the satisfaction you seek, said a voice from somewhere within me, a voice that was chilly and strange. It can only soothe. It can deaden the delusion, but it can’t satisfy.

  It can’t?

  No. In the realm of sweet delusion there can be no fulfilment.

  Why not?

  Because there is no form in which it can be realised.

  I lowered my eyes and bent my head. Then I moved on, to the next room. But its entrance was roped off: a red velvet cord, attached on either side to two low metal posts, hung across it, forming a sort of smile. And indeed the interior thus guarded seemed far from sad. It wasn’t empty or dark. It was bathed in bright light, full of haute société and buzzing with animated talk.

  Tables draped in white cloths that fell nearly to the floor held batteries of glasses, silver-plated buckets with champagne bottles and crystal dishes with pretzels, crackers and olives. In the middle, on a round plateau of golden wood, was a circle of cheeses with little knives stuck into them.

  People stood around in small groups, talking animatedly, drinking and smoking. From time to time they idly sauntered over to a table to refill their glasses with champagne, nibble on an olive or a cracker or both, and take a bite of cheese; then they returned to their group and chattered on. Here, in contrast to the vestibule before the opening, where the sound of Polish did occasionally break through, the language spoken was exclusively French.

  Pretending to be absorbed in the catalogue, I scanned the room with my eyes.

  The silver-haired Marianne . . . the Green-Eyed One . . . the director . . . Professor Levittoux (whom I recognised from photographs). They were all there. And – yes! There she was. Madame.

  She wore a tight black polo-neck sweater and black, sharply creased trousers. Her shoes were elegant and narrow, with high, gracefully shaped heels; at her neck a single pearl on a silver chain gleamed against the blackness. She held herself very straight, her head slightly tilted, her left hand on a small bag (quite different from the one I’d seen at school) hanging from her shoulder, her right holding a glass of champagne. She was talking to a dignified-looking elderly couple, a tall, grey-haired man with a bow tie (like Constant) and a woman in a hat and a georgette dress. This, it shortly turned out, was the French ambassador and his wife.

  I was stunned by the sight of her. Her presence alone had a powerful effect – there, at last, she was, and my predictions had been proved right. But I was also struck by the way she looked, the confidence with which she moved and held herself. I knew that situations like this – grand parties and other special social occasions where self-assurance, a certain smoothness of manner, a measure of wit and charm, or at least quick repartee, were called for – could diminish people. Even the normally bold, self-confident and socially adept can become suddenly awkward and gauche; their self-assurance deserts them, the right words won’t come and they flounder uncertainly, stumbling and stuttering. They come off looking pathetic. But not she. In this exclusive milieu, full of esprit and brillant, not only was she not diminished – she was spectacular. Conversing easily, doubtless with a wit and élan worthy of Simone de Beauvoir herself, she stood in her sleek black clothes, the pearl glistening at her neck, one leg a little forward and bent slightly at the knee, the other straight and firm on the ground on its high heel – she was dazzling!

  But I paid dearly for the sight of this apotheosis. It struck the final blow to my already fading hopes of engaging her in conversation (let alone leaving with her), but it also brought home, painfully, the absurdity of my ideas about her status. To have assumed that she’d be an ordinary visitor here, like me, anonymous and solitary, and that after wandering around the exhibition with the rest of the common herd she’d fall into the net I had spread for her – how ridiculously, pathetically naïve!

  And not only that. In the figure now before me, so striking in black, so proud and imposing, I saw an oddly disquieting response, a sort of challenge, to the nakedness and raw biology of Picasso’s drawings. There was a conflict, obscure and strangely hard to define, between what I had seen as ink on paper and what I was now seeing in the flesh in this brightly lit room. Art, representing illusion, was on the side of ‘truth’; Nature, embodied in the figure of Madame, representing reality, was on the side of ‘illusion’. Picasso ripped off the clothes, stripped us down to our naked, biological selves and said, ‘Ecce homo. This is what you really are.’ Mais non! the human figure in black and high heels replied, C’est moi qui suis l’Homme! This figure then picked me out of the crowd as its star witness and launched into its examination:

  Well, my lad, which do you prefer? it seemed to ask. Nakedness? The animal laid bare, shameless and uncivilised? Le corps sauvage et nu? Or dress? This is what the clothed human being can look like – voilà! You see? Of course you do. Naked, the human being is a thing without dignity; at any rate, of lesser worth than a human being dressed. The naked body can never win in an argument with a clothed one. It will always lose, however attractive it is. That old joker Picasso wants us to believe that the True Human is Naked, or that Nakedness is Truth – whatever. Very well, let’s suppose for the moment he’s right. But what sort of truth is it that everyone is so ashamed of? It can only be something disgraceful. I prefer another kind of truth, thank you. The truth of clothes, not nakedness. The true human is the clothed human; clothes are a human characteristic as essential as two-leggedness or speech. And the better the clothes, the more human the person – the closer to being divine! Now, which is it to be – would you have me as you see me now, elegantly dressed, upright, graceful, charming you with my look, my wit, my words? Or stripped naked, supine, wallowing in some obscene position, howling like an animal in heat? Choose! Would you climb with me? To the Alps? Ascend Mont Blanc, attain the human summit? Or fall into the Marianas trench? Crawl into the depths of some primeval, murky pit, some dark protozoan lair?

  With these beautifully phrased but deeply disturbing questions the figure in black abruptly fell silent: my receiver had stopped transmitting its words. This was because a change had occurred in the scene before me.

  The director of the Service Culturel, wielding a champagne bottle with a white napkin wrapped around its neck like a scarf, bore down upon the constellation of three people I had been observing. He re
filled their glasses and said something to them, presumably inviting them to follow him into another room, for that is what they did.

  They know each other, I thought. Then they disappeared from view.

  About an hour later, on my solitary way across the square in front of the Zacheta Gallery, I saw the elderly man in the bow tie and the woman in the hat again. They were getting into a limousine – a black Citroën ds21. It had a thin, silvery sort of aerial attached to its front bumper on the right-hand side and on it fluttered a small red, white and blue flag.

  Almost overnight the Picasso exhibition became the most exciting subject of discussion in Warsaw. Newspapers and magazines, radio and television were full of reports, debates, articles and analyses. Most of them were wildly enthusiastic, full of praise and admiration, more eulogies than reports. ‘Tremendous Vitality’ screamed the headings of the reviews, ‘Resounding Paean to Life’, ‘Ecstatic Expression of Optimism Drawn from Nature’. Reporters wrote of violent and frenzied scenes at the gallery entrance just before opening time. People came close to rioting. ‘Never in the history of the gallery have there been such crowds,’ announced the newspapers, especially the afternoon tabloids, ‘the senior members of the staff can’t recall seeing anything like it.’ ‘Three teams of goalkeepers unable to hold off charge of frenzied Picasso-worshipping crowd.’

  But there was criticism as well. Some reviewers expressed distaste, even disapproval, of Picasso’s ‘sex mania’, his ‘revolting obsession with sexual organs’, the ‘pathetic exhibitionism of a senile artist’. The critics also made fun of the public’s enthusiasm – and of the government’s policies. ‘What is it that draws these crowds?’ fulminated one guardian of morality in an accusatory tirade. ‘What is it that they’re so greedy to see? Is it painting? Is it art? Is it beauty? Hardly. The answer becomes obvious when we take a cross-section of the visitors and look at their ages: the majority of them are schoolchildren and soldiers on leave! After that come university students, and then a section of the urban populace which (as studies show) is not in the habit of frequenting museums; indeed the overwhelming majority (according to polls) was entering one for (good God!) the first time in their lives!

  ‘Since when, I wonder, are Joe Bloggs, our young people and members of our armed forces so enamoured of avant-garde art?

  ‘Dear reader, I shall tell you since when: since the main efforts of avant-garde artists turned to representing scenes that resemble illustrations from the favourite sex manual of our youth, The Ideal Marriage, and in ways that show these scenes from all possible angles at once: above, below, in profile, full-frontally and even inside.

  ‘Who benefits from this? Cui bono? Who is quietly encouraging it?

  ‘Unfortunately, to our collective shame, it is the agencies and institutions which are the heirs of the great Polish tradition of learning and education, the National Educational Commission foremost among them. Impotent for years in the face of the urgent need to prepare our youth for mature sexual life, it has received this exhibition with relief and grateful enthusiasm.’

  This and other similar articles gave me an idea. At first I intended to carry out my plan alone, but as it took shape in my mind I thought it prudent to enlist someone’s aid. As my assistant, therefore, I selected a boy from my class who was quite proficient in French and also had the unmistakable makings of an actor (he had been in school plays, and in my memorable show had played Mephistopheles).

  I showed him a few of the tastiest reviews and then tried to cajole him into bringing up the subject at the next French lesson, during the conversation period, asking Madame with a straight face whether a school trip to the exhibition might not be arranged.

  ‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’ Mephisto asked suspiciously.

  ‘You know what she’s like with me,’ I said, shrugging. ‘She doesn’t like me. In fact, she hates me! She’s so suspicious – whatever I do or say, she always thinks it’s some kind of trick, that I’m trying to make a fool of her. I’d never manage it.’

  ‘And you think I can?’ He was still sceptical.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell you what to say, if need be.’

  After some resistance he let himself be persuaded. We worked out a plan: a step-by-step script and a question-and-answer list that anticipated a number of possible exchanges. On the chosen day, when the time came for the French class, we sat at the same desk.

  ‘Depuis plus d’une semaine,’ Mephisto began boldly when Madame gave him permission to speak, ‘for more than a week Warsaw has lived and breathed Picasso. His drawings are on everyone’s lips; thousands of people have been streaming to see them. They’ve been discussed on the radio and written about in the newspapers. The exhibition is an événement; it has to be seen. Unfortunately it’s almost impossible to get a ticket. The Zacheta Gallery is under siege, and queues start forming at dawn. In effect, this means that people like us, who have school in the mornings, don’t have a chance. Not individually. But the school could organise a trip – other schools have. The whole class could go. And we’d have a very good chance of getting tickets, because the Ministry of Education has said that schools will have priority –’

  ‘Je ne suis pas au courant,’ Madame broke in. A faint smile hovered on her lips.

  ‘The papers have been full of it,’ I prompted in a whisper, bending low and putting my finger on the appropriate place in the question-and-answer list.

  ‘La presse en a parlé,’ he repeated convincingly, deftly taking the baton I had handed him. ‘Besides, seeing the exhibition in your company, Madame, would be an additional privilege. You must be familiar with this art; you could commenter . . . expliquer . . . for us.’

  ‘Moi?’ she broke in again. ‘Why should I know anything about Picasso’s work?’

  ‘It’s part of French culture,’ said Mephisto automatically. (This was not in the script.)

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t see the relevance.’

  I hastened to Mephisto’s aid. ‘For us you are not only . . .’ I whispered in French.

  ‘Vous êtes pour nous non seulement . . .’ repeated Mephisto carefully.

  ‘. . . our French teacher . . .’

  ‘. . . la lectrice de français . . .’

  ‘. . . but also our instructor . . .’

  ‘. . . mais aussi notre maîtresse . . .’

  ‘. . . in culture and in life.’

  ‘. . . de culture et de vie.’

  She gave a brief snort of laughter. ‘J’ai grand plaisir à l’entendre,’ she declared, in elaborate (and quite graceful) late-rococo style. ‘I’m delighted to hear it. But I’d be happier if the sentiment weren’t expressed so ridiculously.’

  ‘What’s ridiculous about it?’ asked Mephisto, abashed.

  She shook her head. ‘Passons.’

  ‘Wait . . . about this exhibition,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes, well, can we count on your taking us to the exhibition?’ Mephisto persisted, translating deftly.

  ‘Allez-y dimanche,’ she advised matter-of-factly.

  ‘On Sunday?’ asked Mephisto, taken aback.

  ‘Did she get in on Sunday?’ I hissed in his ear.

  ‘Did you get in on Sunday?’

  ‘Cela n’a pas d’importance.’

  ‘Well, what day did she go?’ I whispered again.

  ‘Well, what day did you go?’ Mephisto inquired politely.

  ‘Je n’y suis pas allée,’ she replied calmly.

  She hadn’t been? I was astonished by her answer.

  ‘Pas allée?’ repeated Mephisto obediently.

  ‘Non. Pas encore.’ Then she quickly changed the subject.

  The Hand of Hippolytus

  I had no doubt Madame would reject this request; I hadn’t even expected her to take it seriously. I had no illusions on that score. But it hadn’t occurred to me that she would deny having been at the exhibition. Now that she had, I was struck by how obvious her solution was: out
right denial was much the simplest way to deal with inconvenient questions. And I derived a certain satisfaction from her lie: it gave me an advantage, and it also provided a basis for further games of the imagination.

  She had lied, lied blatantly. As if she wanted to conceal something, to cover up a betrayal; as if she had gone not to see the drawings but for some other, private purpose. To satisfy some obscure, secret passion? To meet a lover? Was the exhibition a cover for some clandestine tryst? It was like something out of Proust! Indeed, was there not something intimate in the act of looking at those drawings, however openly, however publicly? Something shameless, almost treacherous? In looking at those scenes, in admitting them into her sight, into herself, was she not betraying the Veil of Clothes? And in betraying it, betraying me as well – for was it not with the Veil of Clothes that she had tempted me? After all, wasn’t the perception of the act a substitute for the act itself? She had good reason, then, for lying!

  This game of pretending to be Marcel to her Albertine or Swann to her Odette – someone in the sway of a jealous passion and desperate to find out the truth about his deceitful lover – was so exciting and absorbing that it began to take over. Gradually, imperceptibly, what had been a fantasy became real. I was no longer seriously considering the possibility of continuing my game on neutral territory, indeed no longer cared whether or not I won. In truth, at this point I would much rather I didn’t. I was seized by an urgent, overwhelming desire to spy on her, follow her movements, observe her surreptitiously. It was an intense, consuming need, and it obsessed me like a craving for a drug.

  So it was with mounting impatience and an obscure, unhealthy excitement that I awaited the performance of the Comédie Française at the National Theatre. There was to be one on Saturday and another on Sunday. Naturally, I decided to go to the opening night; if Madame failed to turn up, I would return the following day.