Stan is late, he had an emergency keratitis. He has not been to a reading for a long time, but the children are with their grandparents for the night, Anna has gone to the rue de Verneuil for her psychoanalysis seminar, and curiosity got the better of him. He locked his bike close to the Picasso Museum and ran all the way to the Heisberg. The young blonde in glasses sitting at the small book table replies almost in a whisper: “Yes, sir, it’s started. Yes, there are a few seats left. No, Yves Janvier hasn’t done his reading yet, he’s the last. You can slip in quietly through the upstairs door.”
The audience is applauding. Stan opens the door and sits down quickly, right at the back of the auditorium. There is a man standing onstage, it is Janvier, he reads:
1. Hello. This text is called Foreign News, although the concept of news may be completely foreign to it. 2. Foreign News comprises seventy-eight entries, which is a reasonable and well-reasoned number, and is written to respect the constraint that every sentence will include the word foreign or foreigner. 3. In some cases the word could refer to a female foreigner. 4. It could also be in the plural, in which case it will be “foreigners” with an s. 5. Anyone who fails to put an s at the end of a plural word has a good chance of being one of these foreigners. 6. We will, therefore, see “foreign” the adjective and “foreigner” the noun, but there is absolutely no related verb. 7. If there were a verb “to foreign,” it would be conjugated thus: I foreign, you foreign, he foreigns, etc. 8. What could you foreign? I have no idea. 9. Besides, why should the verb be transitive? But to foreign oneself sounds embarrassingly like to fondle oneself. 10. In Exodus (23:9) it says: “Also thou shalt not oppress a foreigner: for ye know the heart of a foreigner, seeing ye were foreigners in the land of Egypt.” 11. One last quote: “I am man, and nothing human is foreign to me.” This is from Terence (185–159 BC); I copied it out into a little yellow notebook when I was thirteen years old. 12. The thirteen-year-old boy I was then would probably listen to what I am saying now and think I was speaking a foreign language. 13. I’m sure he would be terrified if you told him that in thirty-seven years’ time he would be the one speaking that foreign language. 14. Perhaps I would think he spoke a foreign language too (sorry, another quote, this time from L. P. Hartley’s Go Between: “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there”). 26. The word “Mobutu” means foreigner in Lingala. 27. Marshall Joseph-Désiré Mobutu, dictator of Congo-Kinshasa (and then Zaire) from 1965 to 1997, is therefore General Foreigner. 28. There is also the notion of a Foreign Body. 29. In a poem that refers to “two straight-edged red holes,” one is likely to find two foreign bodies inside the individual concerned (a young soldier without a helmet). 30. Similarly, the glasses I am wearing are a foreign body. 31. But the world would feel far more foreign to me without them. 32. Our bodies harbor a great many foreign bodies: bacteria, viruses, and intestinal flora. They constitute the same volume as a tennis ball. 33. These foreign bodies are our best friends, unlike cancer, which is a little bit of ourselves with a distorted growth rate. 34. A foreigner can be our friend while an intimate acquaintance may be our enemy. 35. If redder means more red then why doesn’t foreigner mean more foreign? 36. Try explaining that to a foreigner. 37. Well, to a foreigner who speaks a foreign language, because some foreigners don’t speak a foreign language. 38. We can feel closer to some foreigners who speak a foreign language than to certain people who speak our language and are not foreigners. 39. It is sometimes said that speaking foreign languages means you can never be a foreigner. 40. Nothing could be further from the truth: I speak English and feel like a foreigner in London, but don’t speak Italian and feel completely at home in Milan. 41. I’ve always been amazed by the idea that, by taking one step on a mountain peak in the Alps, I can be in a foreign country. 42. But I’m even more astonished that when you cross a border, in the space of a few feet, children start talking a foreign language. 43. I sometimes even feel like a foreigner in my own country. 44. I should probably get used to thinking of the French as foreigners. 45. Who can claim to have an ounce of patriotism left when they come across badly behaved compatriots in a foreign country, and feel ashamed of them? 46. Whichever country you come from, the world still has many more foreigners. 47. I will go one stage further: for some people, the whole world is made up of foreigners. It is if you live in Luxembourg: if you get two people from Luxembourg on the same flight from Los Angeles to Chicago, they will be from the same family. 48. Other nations are barely aware foreigners exist. That is certainly the case for Americans, those foreigners who don’t even have real names, as Godard would say. 49. The only foreign words that Americans (at least the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant population) know seem to be related to food or clichéd expressions like la vie en rose. 50. We should be grateful that foreign words dominate some areas: we are happy to talk about Microsoft in French, it just feels like a name to us, but if you put the word into French, it sounds very limp and unattractive. 51. In the United States, foreign films get their own category. Billy Wilder was cruel enough to say, “Let’s shoot a few scenes that are completely beside the point. I want to win the Oscar for the best foreign film.” 52. Hearing a French word used in a foreign language does not make the language feel any less foreign to me, but makes the word feel more foreign in French: déjà vu in English or fauteuil in German. 53. A foreign language may have a completely different concept of foreignness. 54. The French word for foreigner, étranger, is related to the English word “stranger,” with the accent on that first e representing the long-lost s of the original French word, estranger. 55. But when Sinatra sang about “Strangers in the Night” we all know he was not talking about foreigners. 56. An English stranger is therefore less foreign than a French étranger. 57. In English, you need the word “foreigner” to mean someone from another country. 58. For the one French word, you get two English ones to express degrees of foreignness: the stranger being someone you don’t know and the foreigner being someone from a foreign country. 59. There is also the word “outsider,” which was used to translate Camus’s title L’étranger, because the words “stranger” and “foreigner” did not quite fit the bill. 60. Then there is the word “alien,” which does not necessarily mean flesh-eating extraterrestrials with antennae; it actually simply means a foreigner: “I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien, I’m an alien in New York,” Sting sings. 61. Four English words for the one French one: that gives you some idea how different foreign languages can be. 62. To a man, women can feel completely foreign. 63. As you get to know a woman, she becomes familiar, less foreign. 64. I sometimes wish the women in my life had stayed a bit more foreign. 65 …
so this is the guy then, this is the guy, anna, you said “I found him unsettling,” you even said “more than I’ve ever found any other man, well, since you, since we met, our marriage, I found him unsettling,” but just look at him, anna, he’s not that great, this yves janvier, not that young, anna, and balding, he’s tall, yes, true but no more than I am, and older too, with wrinkles and bags under his eyes, a bit of a gut maybe even, I can’t see properly, greasy hair, his forehead’s shining, anyway, he’s not at all your type, anna, it’s weird, the more I look at him the more I think he’s just not your type, a good voice, he has a good voice and some presence, I’ll give you that, I’m going to listen to what he’s saying, concentrate, it’s only twenty minutes, after all, twenty minutes to understand, no, you really can’t find this guy attractive, I can’t see anything about him, and then there’s this ridiculous piece which never gets going, doesn’t have anything to say, it’s just there, how complacent, how pretentious, the audience is listening, though, what kind of constraint is that as a writer, just integrating a particular word into each entry, it’s pretty simple really, and that little trick earlier with the verb to foreign, to fondle, that really was pathetic, yes, of course I don’t like writers, there’s something so fatuous about some creative people, some artists, who have so much self-belief, how would paul valéry have behaved on that stage
, or aragon, or villon, there are three of them in this place with all of us, how many of us are there, let’s say fifteen rows and, say, eighteen seats per row, that’s two hundred and fifty seats, only half of them are taken, that’s a hundred and twenty of us, tops, okay, a hundred and thirty, that’s thirty per author, basically a high school classroom full, and all to listen to some guy inventing the verb to foreign oneself, well, mr. yves janvier, you can fuck off and the more I listen to you, to what you have to say, the more you can fuck off, you’re just a failed writer, I’d never heard of you before anna mentioned your name, oh, anna, I don’t understand you, my anna, my sweetheart, love of my life, what are you looking for, my darling, what sort of myth or fantasy, what sort of dream, all this guy’s doing is lining up words and listening to himself talking, he thinks he’s so big because he’s climbed onto other people’s shoulders, giants like camus and terence and who was that other one, and what’s this costing per person, this little bit of intellectual masturbation, let’s see, each author gets paid what, how much does an author earn, let’s say two hundred euros for the evening, I don’t have a clue, is that a lot, not a lot, no idea, let’s say three hundred euros, so that’s a thousand euros for three authors, oh yes, and they’ve also published a little book, three hundred of them, all numbered, they mention that in the program, let’s say two thousand euros for the book, and there’s the auditorium rental and marketing, in all it’s at least four thousand euros, so every seat that’s occupied comes to thirty euros for the state, for the taxpayer, that’s outrageous, it really is, but wait, this is corporate sponsorship, this is tax-deductible for the company, and then it makes some great moron in pharmaceuticals feel like, no wait a minute, this is a water treatment company, anyway, the moron feels he’s cultured because he’s rubbing shoulders with writers, maybe even meeting film actresses, the director from the mining company had a whole load of dancers here, it was postmodern but there was absolutely nothing new about it, we’re only on thirty-four and there are seventy-eight of them, we’re more than a third of the way through, that’s the advantage with numbered texts, you know how much more you’ve got to listen to, am I being unfair about this, could I actually get into this piece, can I realistically be anything other than angry and jealous, anna, anna, you’re intelligent, anna, so beautiful, so attractive, I think you’re so gorgeous, more and more with each passing year, surely someone like you who meets hundreds of men, hey, what about weiszbrot last time, that dick weiszbrot danced with you and he really liked you, that was so damn obvious, but you really couldn’t give a damn, so why this one, then, why does it have to be this one, what is it about him, okay, he’s kind of elegant, his voice is quite playful and friendly, his piece is a bit convoluted, it jumps around and it’s lighthearted, it’s not that bad really, it takes the listener by the hand and it makes you think, but not too much, and it’s not trying too hard, I mean it’s quite a difficult exercise writing to order like that, and it’s easy to listen to, yes, it’s pretty okay, not all that literary, not even all that pretentious, either, I was a bit nasty, well, prejudiced, let’s say prejudiced, for example I didn’t know about mobutu, that’s quite a good touch, maybe I could have written this piece if I sat myself down at my keyboard and took the time or maybe that’s the writer’s secret, making everyone believe they could have written it so that everyone can feel part of it, take it on, and what about me, why have I stopped writing, yes, stopped writing stories, stopped writing poems, writing poems for you, my love, that wasn’t bad, was it, do you remember, I wrote a song, a very run-of-the-mill little song, all a bit naive, I’ll admit, I should take that up again, I promised myself I’d do it for karl and then for lea, but I didn’t do anything, nope, not a thing, time just ate everything up, gobbled it all up but it’s not over yet, it’s not impossible, I could say to karl, okay, karl, we’re going to write down all the stories I used to tell you when you were little, the wonderful adventures of mademoiselle zylliboom the mouse, we’re going to make a book, we’ll ask lea for some help with the drawings and we’ll get help from mommy too, she’s really good at writing, your mommy, and maybe mommy and me can make a little sister or a little brother, yes, anna, yes, I know I let the magic slip away, it’s my fault, all the laziness and routine got in the way, it’s no excuse, we all need surprises in our lives, I’ll leave envelopes on the table, in your pockets, in the refrigerator, with poems in them like in the old days, we’ll go back to those walks, to eating crepes on a bench at midnight, we’ll do other stuff, I’ll think of something, I’ll find new things, anna, anna, anna, it can’t be, in the second row, I can see the back of your neck, your hair, your dress, you’re here, it’s you, my head’s spinning, my throat feels tight, this hurts, I can’t see your face, but I can just imagine your smile, because I know you’re smiling, you’re smiling at him, really attentive, straining toward him, admiring, no, not admiring, no, but proud, almost worried, I know you, all about you, the way you’re looking at him, and there he is talking, reading, to everyone, and to you, I have to go, I can’t be seen leaving like a thief, like a cheated husband, like a prick, but I really am a prick, what a prick, I can’t breathe, I have to get out, I trip, I get through the door it creaks—leaving already, sir?—yes, I’m leaving, I’m sorry, I, yes, I’m going, the exit is over there, isn’t it, thank you, yes, I can’t believe this, I’m all out of breath, I’m out in the courtyard at last, lean against a wall, sit down, that’s it, get some air, breathe, breathe, why are you doing this to me, anna, why are you doing this to me, oh, I’m so stupid, this hurts, my heart’s exploding, why did I come here, how could I not know, why didn’t I get it, why didn’t I get it, anna, why are you doing this to me, anna, my anna
Yves pauses, has a drink of water.
On the rue de Turenne, Stan walks past his wife’s car without noticing it, and hails a taxi.
Yves looks briefly at Anna, and continues.
65. I have thirteen entries left to talk about you under the heading Foreignness: you as a foreigner. 66. But, you see, what I like about you is not that you feel foreign. 67. And I don’t think you ever did feel entirely foreign. 68. But I like the fact that something about you still resists, refuses to become familiar, remains invincibly foreign. 69. And it means that when I’m with you, I’m always rubbing up against a foreign element, something mysterious, irreducible, ever present, and full of happiness. 70. Something that might be love’s equivalent of the color of a foreign language in your mother tongue. 71. A little je ne sais quoi, those French words that have passed into so many foreign languages. 72. It makes the way you walk and some of the things you do feel foreign to me for a moment. 73. The curve of your breast, your shoulder, foreign for a moment. 74. Your voice, on the end of the phone, from time to time: foreign. 75. Your perfume, its vetiver fragrance, your own delicate smell: both foreign. 76. Your subtly sinuous thought processes are so foreign to my own meanderings, and yet clearer and sharper. 77. Of course you are not a foreigner, but how I value this foreignness in you. 78. Perhaps keeping that foreign element is the secret.
Yves artfully drops his voice, slows its rhythm, to signal the closing sentence. The reading comes to an end. He gives a wave, the audience applauds, the lights come on and the director of the Heisberg says a few words. When the audience stands up, Anna goes over to Yves, almost running past the rows of seats, she smiles and takes his hand.
“My foreigner,” Yves says.
On the rue Érasme, Stan pays for his taxi. He then realizes he has forgotten his bicycle which is still locked up outside the Picasso Museum.
STAN AND ANNA
• • •
WHEN ANN ARRIVES HOME, it is very late. She has just left Yves and is worried she may have his smell all over her. Even though he has bought her brand of soap for that obligatory shower so a familiar fragrance can protect her from Stan’s curiosity. Although she suggested the idea, she still found its realization as crass as it was diplomatic. She has soaped herself scrupulously.
/> Stan is at his computer.
“Haven’t you gone to bed?” Anna asks, amazed.
“No, I was reading Archives of Ophthalmology. I was seeing what there was about Fuch’s spots. I was waiting for you.”
“You shouldn’t have. I stayed and had supper with Sarah, from the seminar.”
Stan says nothing. Anna’s lie is pointless. He would not have asked any questions. He keeps looking at the screen, to avoid looking his wife in the eye.
Anna strokes his hair, affectionately. She still remembers the exact moment she was introduced to Stan, ten years ago now. The mutual friend had joked: “Mr. Stanislas Lubliner, you’re looking for a wife, may I introduce Ms. Anna Stein, who’s looking for a husband.”
Anna laughed as she protested, but when Stan looked at her, shook her hand powerfully yet gently and held her gaze, she immediately thought, Yes, this man could be my husband, the father of my children. That day, she thought she had her future before her, as if she had opened a door onto it.
Stan has been an essential transition, a fording place. She used him to escape the cocoon of her family, and her mother—who finds Stan so irritating—instinctively knows this. Her son-in-law is first and foremost her rival, because Anna used him to break away from her. This evening, at nearly forty, Anna feels that she is still in the middle of that ford.
She takes off her shoes, puts her clothes away in the wardrobe, on automatic. She finds it extraordinary that, having felt such happiness in Yves’s arms, she so easily returns to the peaceful family comforts of the rue Érasme. She feels a sense of balance, that’s it, a sense of balance.
Enough About Love Page 9
