It wasn’t an illness, I’m simplifying. It was a state of weakness and abandonment that opened my cage, at least in the early days. The locked-in syndrome on the contrary, trapped inside. The afflicted person can’t move, or eat, or speak, only blink his eyelids, move his eyeballs vertically. He doesn’t feel physical pain. My ribcage is another matter. Strains, exhausting pressure. My back ached. She gave me orange oval-shaped pills, fenoprofen. I hardly have any more, just one left. I can call her right away, if it hurts, we’re going to remain friends, she’ll give me more. And prescriptions, physical therapy, with massages, for the lumbosacral region, and for my left leg because of lumbosciatica, an urgent case. To rise from the ranks of murderers, to write and heal, I tried to find. A state weakness and abandonment that opened my cage, it’s over. My blood was recovering. The pain is gone. Apropos Claude, thank you for the flowers. I got your flowers. Happy birthday, Christine, love of my life, Claude, Léonore, and three little hearts. He had called me, added “whatever you do, have a good day.” I was still with her. We had argued all week but that weekend we had dinner together at L’Escale.
“I wanted to write you, to send you a note to let you know I’m thinking of you – and love you. I read Calamity Jane in the plane, it was very beautiful and poignant. ‘Oh, how I wish I could live my life again.’ I hope you’re well, that your writing is going well. See you soon, Claude.” My phone was busy all evening yesterday, she was crying. I was listening to her. We now communicate only with our voices, she refuses to see me. She was crying, I had prepared some lines to read to her: Everything in this world is suffering, only love is a reason to live, Racine tells us it’s forbidden. And to explain my recent behavior, Dario Fo: the love of paradox, as is well known, often leads to inconsistency. I myself am a victim of it, it happens to me one day, then the next as well. I sat there with my books open on my lap. That morning she was at home, working quietly. Baya arrived with Yassou, the little cat, who looked strange. She seemed to be trying to show X something. She doesn’t want me to call her X. Neither her real name, nor her initials. The little cat’s paws were wobbling. She had been bitten on her soft underbelly, probably by a dog from the neighborhood. Yassou is not afraid of dogs, she’s used to Baya and Djinn who are “nice to her.” It’s the first time anything has happened to her, there was never anything wrong with this cat. X is fed up with pet issues. She was exhausted, but she still had to take the cat to the vet, you could see her insides. They had to give the cat anesthesia to sew her up. X went to work, suffering people all day long. Neither X, nor MCA, nor Marie-Christine Adrey, nor
Aime CA, or Love CA. My love? My dear? My dear little sweetheart, my little darling, my dear, sweetheart, my love, beloved. Beloved, beloved. (In Savannah Bay, when she puts the necklaces on the older woman.) These patients could live for years in this state. They die of complications. Secondary pulmonary infections, sepsis, bedsores… Eczema, aneurysm, I’d have liked to do it all. We didn’t have time. To start something together, not even a photo album. She’s fed up with pet problems, Baya, who almost got run over. Then had to be spayed. And now Yassou, attacked by a dog. She left the answering machine on, didn’t pick up, she was putting on a new bandage. Yassou is in a terrible state… I didn’t tell Léonore, I’m worried about traumatizing her with suffering animals. Neighborhood dogs that bite… She’s preparing a course about stinging insect allergy, it’s tedious. Then the conversation deteriorated. She doesn’t want to make love anymore. She doesn’t want to love. There’s no point. No point, no point, no point, as I always put it so well. She’s not rejecting me personally. All women, no women, not one more woman. I asked a question I thought was innocent. A man? She swore at me and started crying. “I don’t give a shit about guys.” I let her talk. I sensed she wasn’t doing well, not at all. “You, you’ve got your life ahead of you, you’re straight, you, you don’t give a shit. But me, now I understand. Having sex with a woman, you’re right, it’s incest.” So then, I did it, I’d convinced her, I was right, I was alone. In three months. She started crying, nothing could stop her, no matter how many times I told her I loved her. I was torn between satisfaction that she finally understood and sadness at seeing it was over, that’s certain. Just when I was about to accept it, fully aware of its wounding aspect, oh well, too bad, it’s not serious. Once you’ve understood. Come on. Let’s dream. I’m dreaming. We have a house. We share it. We love it, both of us. We choose things we love. We love each other. Léonore is there. In our love. (Léonore in our love!!!…) I’m delirious. I’m dreaming. No one can find anything to criticize(!). You order a sofa from Domus in Nîmes, she knew I like to read lying down. You told me on the phone “you’re the first and only one.” You like what I write. You like it a lot. You often go to Paris with me. You brought your mother’s diamonds in a waist pack to sell so we could buy a big house together. We love each other. We feel strong together. And with Léonore. Pitou my heart watches over her. But her, it’s over. One day, I remember, we were at my place. I picture myself explaining the hierarchy. A man is better than a woman. (As a lover.) A doctor is better than a blue-collar worker, a White man is better than a Black man. She was outraged. Even though I specified “in the eyes of society.” Lots of things, little by little, and another mistake on my part: I shouldn’t have had her read my drafts. I wrote about her pussy, about her hair that would turn salt-and-pepper, about the beginning when I found her ugly. My disgust, and that’s all she saw. Not the positive things. I would tell her, “I’m heterosexual,” she would answer, “I’m not going to get operated on.” I’m leaving for Paris in twenty minutes. Claude and Léonore will take me to the airport. I called the hospital, I want her to call me back before I leave. This morning, the anxiety came back. Me, I don’t care. Goodbye calf, cow, pig, men, women. “We love each other. I’m sure we love each other. Why is it we don’t know how to be together? The two of us? Peacefully, happily. What I’m certain of: I love you. I love seeing you. I love seeing you walk in the door. I love your hair, your eyes, your clothes, your nose, your mouth, your waist.” My blood continued to deteriorate, putting me on a par with those who live in ghettos. I’m not wanted anymore in any case it’s too late. They defend themselves. Last night she didn’t want to talk to me on the phone. “I don’t have time, I don’t have time to call, I’m the one who saw all the patients today, I can’t go out, kisses.” It’s over. What’s impossible fascinated me. “I miss you.” In The Mother and the Whore, she says to him: You can’t even put up with drunkenness in people you love. My poor, poor, poor shitty Alexander. I said to her.