I was at her place yesterday. In the morning. While I was in Paris, she felt free, to do her usual things. One of the patients, a woman, said to her secretary “what beautiful eyes the doctor has,” in front of her. On Avenue Saint-Lazare last week, Sylvie was attracted by an androgynous young woman; she realized it was me when she saw my profile. At the hotel, I needed a taxi, I was asked “are you ready, sir… oh, I beg your pardon, miss?” My face and allure are ambiguous, always have been. The mark has only deepened given the test results. Even if it’s over. I call two hundred times, but after two days of emptiness, I don’t call on the third, and I don’t call anymore. I never call again. And I don’t care. Me, I wouldn’t have called her again. She called me and said “it would have taken locking me up to keep me from coming to pick you up.” Since you’re at the airport… And yet, I’d already taken out money for the cab fare. At night, I mentally filmed the weekend. I was going home. There was no one at the airport, I’d hoped. Phew. I was calm. I would need some time, some peace and quiet, and then… I’ll meet a guy. Unless I stop everything. We’ll see. For now, I take a cab, I head home. I don’t like taking taxis, they bore me. She had called me in Paris, I was at Frédéric’s, I told him, “tell her I’m gone.” He handed me the phone anyway. “I’ll come pick you up as we agreed? —No, not necessarily.” I’d filmed my arrival. It was fine. I took a taxi. I checked if she was there, she wasn’t. It didn’t make me angry, on the contrary, phew. Finally. Three months. Phew. Next week, I’ll call Mathilde, she’s getting back on Thursday, and we’ll go to a nightclub. I take a cab. It drops me off. I go in. Maybe there’s some mail for me. I look. I unpack. Calm. It’s nice to be home. After four days. I dream. I unpack, I separate out the dirty clothes. That was my movie, it’s not the way things happened. In my movie, I took my trousers to the dry cleaners. I washed a few things by hand. My sweaters smelled of sweat. You can’t even put up with drunkenness in people you love, I thought of that line again. Your little calculations. Your little savings. Your legacy. Your family. Your cousin. NC, Nadine Casta, haine c’est, hate is, this drama, this movie, this money. Since we’d separated, she had made all her little plans, filled all her little weekends in May. And me, naïvely, because she had come to pick me up: For the Ascension Day holiday, I’d like to go to Paris with you, we could stay at Frédéric’s, he’ll be in Italy. We’ll go to the theater, and especially we’ll go see The Mother and the Whore together. And all the other Eustache films. She had planned her weekends in conjunction with her sole heirs, we are separated. For the Ascension Day holiday, Île de Ré with NC.
(I don’t have the right to use real names, the lawyer has forbidden it, not even real initials. “This manuscript repeatedly presents problems with regard to violating the privacy of individuals close to the author, notably her daughter Léonore, a minor, her former partner, Claude, her father [who was engaged in an incestuous relationship with her – see the extended description at the end of this work]. Other individuals also see intimate details of their private lives broadly exposed, notably Marie-Christine Adrey, the author’s lover and the ‘protagonist’ of this work, the actress Nadine Casta, etc. Beyond this general problem, which runs through the entire manuscript, the following passages, which contain particularly imprudent statements, must be removed. She doesn’t want me to call her X. Neither her real name, nor her initials. […] Neither X, nor MCA, nor Marie-Christine Adrey, nor Aime CA. This invasion of privacy is all the more intolerable as Marie-Christine Adrey’s refusal to be identified is emphasized by the author herself and because the revelation of her identity allows her to be connected to the work as a whole. Your cousin. NC, Nadine Casta, haine c’est, hate is, this drama, this movie, this money […] For the Ascension Day holiday, Île de Ré with NC. Invasion of privacy in addition to defamation. Then page 23, Eustache, I’m sorry, but it’s better than Nadine Casta, a defamation, which may not seem objectionable per se, but becomes so through repetition throughout the work of similar phrases that reveal a profound animosity, page 30, Your cousin. NC, Nadine Casta, haine c’est…, calumny, page 61, defamation, page 61, invasion of privacy, page 67, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 74, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 84, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 87, new defamation, page 106, invasion of privacy and defamation, page 110, invasion of privacy, page 111, libel with regard to an obvious attack on the reputation of Doctor Jean-Claude Brot, page 119 to page 123, serious invasion of the privacy of the author’s father, as she recounts their incestuous relations in precise detail. In conclusion: these passages are listed as examples, however the entire manuscript presents a comprehensive problematic of the invasion of privacy of persons mentioned, described, etc., whether they are explicitly identified, as is often the case, or identifiable. The risk of legal action is all the more evident given the pointedness and relentlessness of the attacks and the fact that they constitute attacks on the private lives of private individuals. The damages resulting from judicial action would be significant as no precautions were taken. The lack of moderation or compromise in the author’s statements is a determining element of the work to the extent that it allows the reader access – in so far as is possible – to the author’s passionate insanity.” Well, there you have it.)