One Hundred Twenty-One Days
Page 1
Winner of a French Voices Award
“What holds the special magic of this text? From its clever construction, and the juxtaposition of its narrative modes…from which emerge the most vibrant, intimate, and passionate voices that tell of sufferings, loves, and pains. A beautiful mosaic work which the reader comes away from moved as if from a dream.” —France TV, Culturebox
Author & Translator Biographies
MICHÈLE AUDIN is a mathematician and a professor at l’Institut de recherche mathématique avancée (IRMA) in Strasbourg, where she does research notably in the area of symplectic geometry. Audin is a member of the Oulipo, and is the author of many works of mathematics and the history of mathematics, She has also published a work of creative nonfiction on the disappearance of her father, Une vie brève (Gallimard, 2013)—Audin is the daughter of mathematician Maurice Audin, who died under torture in 1957 in Algeria, after having been arrested by parachutists of General Jacques Massu. On January 1, 2009, she refused to receive the Legion of Honor, on the grounds that the President of France, Nicolas Sarkozy, had refused to respond to a letter asking for information on her father, the possible whereabouts of his body, and recognition of the French government’s role in his disappearance. For the Oulipo, Audin has contributed to a collection of short stories, Georges Perec and the Oulipo: Winter Journeys (Atlas Press, 2013), and edited and annotated an abecedary of Oulipo works, OULIPO L’Abécédaire provisoirement définitif (Larousse, 2014). One Hundred Twenty-One Days is her first novel and was published to universal acclaim in 2014 by the prestigious Gallimard publishing house in France.
CHRISTIANA HILLS is a literary translator who graduated from NYU’s MA program in Literary Translation (French–English) and who received a French Voices Award from the Cultural Services of the French Embassy in the United States for her translation of One Hundred Twenty-One Days. Hills is currently a doctoral candidate in Translation Studies at Binghamton University in New York.
Deep Vellum Publishing
3000 Commerce St., Dallas, Texas 75226
deepvellum.org · @deepvellum
Deep Vellum Publishing is a 501C3
nonprofit literary arts organization founded in 2013.
Copyright © 2014 by Éditions Gallimard, Paris
Originally published in French as Cent vingt et un jours in 2014
English translation copyright © 2016 by Christiana Hills
First edition, 2016
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-941920-33-6 (ebook)
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2015960719
—
Cet ouvrage a bénéficié du soutien des Programmes d’aide à la publication de l’Institut Français.
This work, published as part of a program of aid for publication, received support from the Institut Français.
French Voices Logo designed by Serge Bloch
This work, published as part of a program providing publication assistance, received financial support from the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Cultural Services of the French Embassy in the United States and FACE (French American Cultural Exchange).
—
Cover design & typesetting by Anna Zylicz · annazylicz.com
Text set in Bembo, a typeface modeled on typefaces cut by Francesco Griffo for Aldo Manuzio’s printing of De Aetna in 1495 in Venice.
Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution.
Table of Contents
—
I A Childhood (1900s)
II Diary of Marguerite Janvier (1916-1917)
III One Polytechnician, Three Murders, Twenty-Two Articles (1917-1939)
IV Strasbourg 1939 (transcription of an interview with Pierre Meyer, November 2006)
V Journal of Heinrich Kürz (Paris, 1942)
VI The Form of a City… (N., 1943-2005)
VII Trip to N. (notes from the gray notebook, 2005)
VIII One Hundred Twenty-One Days
IX The Numbers
X The Binder (notes 2006-2010)
XI The Form of a City… (Paris, April 25, 2013)
Supernumerary Chapter (Paris-Strasbourg, 2009-2013)
Index of Proper Names
Translator’s Note
KALLE:
I like the way it moves towards the war.
ZIFFEL:
You think I should arrange it in chapters after all?
KALLE:
What for?
B. BRECHT,
Conversations in Exile
[…] (the form of a city
Changes more quickly, alas, than the human heart)
C. BAUDELAIRE,
“The Swan,” Parisian Scenes
CHAPTER I
A Childhood
(1900S)
I start to write:
Once upon a time, in a remote region of a faraway land, there lived a little boy. And this little boy was full of an insatiable curiosity and he was always asking ever so many questions. The faraway land where he lived was in Africa, in a country that encompassed a big river called the Saloum River, and the little boy filled the land around this river with his questions.
He asked his father why the Blacks on the plantation were beaten with a stick, and his father spanked him with his leather belt. He asked his mother why she didn’t read her Bible by herself, and his mother spanked him with her two white hands. He asked the village priest why he drank the communion wine during Catechism class, and the priest spanked him with his cane. He asked the schoolteacher why the same number, π, was used to measure all circles, both big ones and little ones, and the schoolteacher didn’t spank him.
I must tell you, O Best Beloved, that some good fairies were watching over this little boy’s cradle. If there were a few evil fairies as well, no one noticed. So there will be no discussion of evil fairies at this point in the tale.
A fairy tale is one way to recount history. The Saloum River, its village, its plantation, its pirogues, and its flame trees form the setting for this tale. The little boy’s parents, his little brother, the fairies, the priest, the schoolteacher, a dog, and a few of the villagers are its characters. The little boy who lived in this exotic setting at the center of this little world was named Christian. The good fairies, along with the schoolteacher who didn’t spank anyone who asked questions, were responsible for the fact that he really loved going to school, where he was taught to read books, to write fast and well, to count fast and high, and to ask questions. As for his parents, they thought that the time he spent at school was much too long. Because you see, although his mother liked that he could read the Gospels aloud to her, his parents wondered why he needed to learn any more. One day, while spanking him with his leather belt, the boy’s father said: “Well, you’re not going to become a writer, in any case!” Because, O Best Beloved, at this time on the banks of the Saloum River, there were public writers who would write letters for people and read them the letters they received. And, you see, the little boy’s father was working hard to make the Negroes sweat on the peanut plantation, and he thought that the writer, who spent all his days sitting in the shade of a kapok tree right in the middle of the village, was a lazy man.
One fine morning, at the beginning of summer, the schoolteacher came to the plantation and explained to the little boy’s parents that not only could their son read and write fast and well, but that he also knew how to do sums using very big numbers, and that it would be good to send him to secondary school, in the big city, so that he might learn all that can be done with all those big numbers and all that reading and writing. But you see, O Best Beloved, at this time and in the land around the Saloum River, no boy had ever gone to secondary school. His parents listened politely and sa
id they would think about it. Yet as soon as the schoolteacher left, they fought, his mother kicked, his father punched, then they both started spanking the little boy without wasting any more time. They even called the priest over for help. The boy’s little brother was also spanked for good measure. A little later, when that was over, the little boy came across a yellow dog that belonged to one of his friends, and said to him:
“My father has spanked me, and my mother has spanked me, and the priest has spanked me. And still I want to go to secondary school in the big city to learn how to do calculations with even bigger numbers and learn more about the number π.”
And the little yellow dog licked the little boy’s face affectionately as the little boy scratched him behind the ears.
Naturally, a few days later, the schoolteacher came back to the plantation, then the mayor, then the schoolteacher once again. Each time, they negotiated, but with no success. Until the day when the schoolteacher came back saying that he had found a scholarship, and the parents agreed to let the little boy leave. They all spanked him once more for luck. Then he went away, a little swollen. It was a fine morning, at the time of the equinox. The little boy rode down the Saloum River with his little suitcase. On the pirogue, the chickens had been pushed out of the way to clear a comfortable place for him. It was the beginning of his new life.
After the pirogue, the little boy took a steamboat that eventually brought him to the big city. The world around him had expanded. At school, he went straight into seventh grade. He was a very good student, both a quick learner and a hard worker. He was eager to learn so that he could find answers to the questions that stirred his insatiable curiosity. He even got caught up in German, because at that time, O Best Beloved, they learned German at secondary schools in the big cities of faraway lands. It was useful to learn German. The little boy learned some poems by heart that were written by a German poet named Heine. He really liked the story of the Two Grenadiers, from which he would recite a verse to himself:
Der eine sprach: “Wie weh wird mir,”
which translates as, “The one said: ‘How I suffer,’” and which could indeed be useful to know. In this way, he found answers to some of the questions he had about war. He also took Latin and Greek. He really liked poetry and would often recite another poem to himself, which said:
You’ll be a Man, my son!
You see, he thought that this poem was speaking to him, because it said “you,” just like this story is meant for you, Best Beloved.
At school, no one spanked him. The teachers loved him and pampered him, especially the German teacher. So he was happy. Yet you must know that even though he really liked German, his favorite class was mathematics. That was also where he excelled the most. In mathematics, you were allowed to ask ever so many questions. And even to come up with new ones as soon as you found the answers to the old ones. And he loved numbers, logical reasoning, and even the most complicated figures in geometry.
And then he was fifteen. So his teachers came up with the idea of having him prepare for the exam to get into the École Polytechnique, which was, they said, the greatest school in Paris and the world. This couldn’t be done at the secondary school in the big city in the faraway land. The teachers wanted him to go to Paris, which is the largest and most beautiful city in France, as you know.
So the teachers wrote to the schoolteacher at the edge of the Saloum River; the schoolteacher went to see the boy’s parents on the peanut plantation; the boy, who had taken the steamboat and the pirogue to spend the summer with his father, his mother, his brother, and his yellow dog, was spanked from all sides; his little brother was also spanked for good measure; the yellow dog licked his face affectionately; his teachers found a scholarship; the father put his belt back on; and in the end, everyone left in single file towards the banks of the Saloum. There, the boy, who was a little swollen, climbed into the pirogue, and the chickens were pushed out of the way to clear a comfortable place for him.
You can’t go all the way to Paris just by taking a pirogue down the Saloum River. After the pirogue and the steamboat, the boy still had to get on an ocean liner, then a train. But this is perhaps where an evil fairy appeared and Christian fell gravely ill. It was an illness with a fever and delirium, and so he had to be taken to the big hospital in the big city. He stayed there for several weeks, while the boats he didn’t get on left for France. It looked like he was going to die, but as you know, children don’t die in fairy tales. While he was sick, there were times when he had nightmares filled with demons, like the ones the priest in the village on the banks of the Saloum used to describe in Catechism class. And there were also more peaceful times when he thought about geometry problems and also a little about his nurse. In the hospitals in big cities in faraway lands, the nurses were actually nuns. The one who was taking care of the boy wore a cornet on her head, a wooden cross, and all those other things nuns wear. You had to call her “sister,” but that didn’t prevent Christian from seeing she was just a girl, and he liked her very much. At that time, boys and girls didn’t go to the same secondary schools. And so this boy had never met any girls. White girls, of course—there were black girls on the plantation, on the banks of the Saloum, but at that time, Blacks didn’t count.
And here’s where the setting expands even more, where other characters get involved in the story, which is going to become so complex that the fairy tale, with its good and evil fairies, will not be enough to tell it. The story will have to find other forms, other methods. But know this: little Christian’s life is far from over—it will last over one hundred years. Around him, others will live and die, which we must also take into account. For the rest of the novel, when he will have become a man, Christian needs a last name—first names by themselves only work for children. So it’s time to choose one for him, Mortsauf, maybe, or Mortfaus or Morfaust…
The story isn’t over but the fairy tale ends here, at the moment when young Christian, fully recovered, climbed bravely up the gangway of the ocean liner while thinking about his yellow dog. And the ocean liner, which was called Afrique, carried him over the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, past the Canary Islands, Morocco, and Spain, to the railroad at Marseille. Then it was the Gare de Lyon and the greatest city in the world, with its coachmen, its Champs-Élysées, its Eiffel Towers, its numbers, its polytechnical schools, its theorems, and all of its pretty girls who reminded him of the pretty nun who had taken care of him at the hospital.
CHAPTER II
Diary of Marguerite Janvier
(1916-1917)
February 2, 1916
At the hospital again today, my sad contribution to the war effort. A nurse… what else can we do, we women, while all of our valiant men are at the front? To give myself courage, when I wake up and cross Paris on foot in the frosty night towards the Val-de-Grâce hospital, I only need to think of their sacrifices. What suffering!
Today, a young man came to us, almost a child, who left the hospital three weeks ago. That had already been his second injury; we gave him a few days of convalescent leave, then he left again for the Chemin des Dames and was injured once more. This time it was shrapnel—they had to amputate his right leg when he was still in the ambulance. And here, we trepanned him. As stoic as I must appear, my heart tightens when I think about him. At least they won’t send him back to the front this time. I pray that God grants courage to his poor mother, because she’s going to find him in such a state! And with only one leg, how will he be able to go back to working on a farm?
February 10, 1916
The Germans are barbarians. There is no other word to describe these bombardments, these injuries, these mutilations! Barbaric! All this suffering in order to satisfy the monstrous pan-German ambition! The most unbelievable thing is that these monsters call themselves Christians. They worship a god of terror and dedicate these sacrifices to him. Fortunately, we too have powerful weapons, thanks to which God will help us to conquer them and to defend both civ
ilization and Christian values.
I spoke about this with a history student who was leaving our unit. He had been trepanned, his head injury had been treated, but he left with an empty shirt sleeve. He was crying as he told me about his best friend, who jumped out of a trench and was killed, at age nineteen, when he would have gone on to become the greatest poet of the century. When it comes to the Krauts, he concluded, you have to give them an eye for an eye.
The house is freezing. Mama is trying in vain to get the stove repaired.
February 29, 1916
Lots of snow these past few days.
This year has one more day than usual. For me, it’s one more day of war. They’ve been bringing injured men from the front—the battle rages in Verdun.
Today one of the wounded men in the unit was telling everyone about the date, February 29. 1916 is a leap year, and according to him, there are magic numbers in it. He’s a Jew, but also a former polytechnician who is very well raised and amiable. He has only been here for a few days and probably isn’t going to stay for very long, because his injury is pretty minor: a shell blew up near him and his head collided with a large stone. The problem is, all of his comrades were killed, which is also terrible for him, the sole survivor. I know this because the major told me, but the patient himself doesn’t talk about it. It’s true that the men here hardly speak about what they’ve gone through at the front. Usually, he remains peacefully in his corner, studying. He cries from time to time while writing mathematical formulas, but today he seemed rather excited and was looking at me in a strange way. Oh, that his god would give him the strength to bear his sadness!
Tuesday, March 7
Lots of snow fell again during the night. I had a really hard time getting to the hospital. How can one not picture the shroud that must be covering the battlefields? But can the snow’s whiteness mask such horrors?