Her father’s notebook: My balls: My parts. Europe, Asia, Africa, Oceania, America: the five parts of the world. 1937, my youth. I was born December 18, 1906 in Carcassonne. That’s where I spent the first six years of my life. I only have a few memories of that time. Léonore will remember everything. Her dog, Baya. Yassou, the turtles, the fish in the aquarium after school. Clara. Doing the thing with your lover. Mama and Marie. Maybe the house on Île de Ré. When we walked along the beach, we had a dog with us, like many homosexuals, our child had become a monster due to degenerate unions. Fortunately Léonore was with us, throwing pebbles into the sea. Her small presence alone cutting it short. I licked her, this mother, whose child is a dog. I’m crazy, really, I’m crazy. I’ll only reach a small readership of lunatics like myself if I keep this up. As Janine predicted. I stopped, I’m getting to work, my little audience of lunatics is my life preserver. When I stand up from my chair and start to stagger. Overcome with nausea again. Walking down the Rue de la Loge, supporting myself on the walls, climbing the stairs to the lawyer’s office, leaning on the banister. At first, I hugged the walls, now I lean against them. “I love women,” “I love animals.” I’m still in shock. I didn’t have any intention of calling last night, none at all. I was exhausted, I wanted to go to bed early. Very early. I had a good day. I’d spent hours with Claude. Léonore came home in a good mood. She had spent the day with Clara at her grandmother’s. I had plans for May 8th with Claude. Things were going well, everything was more relaxed. I called. But I had muscle spasms from the bottom of my abdomen to just below my chest, it hurt a lot. I pick up the phone. I ask if I’m interrupting. She says “I’ll call you back in five minutes.” Fine. Are you OK? My stomach hurts, I’ve got muscle spasms. I’m so tired. Then all happy she says “I went to the opening of the Arpac show, I decided to host an evening on the 16th with Agnès and Annie.” It went downhill from there. I was invited, I could bring anyone I wanted. Whom should I bring? She thought it would make me happy. Well, you’re wrong. We’re not seeing each other anymore, not at all, not even as friends. Always, always, always, trying to break up, to break it off, to stop. I believe, right now I’m describing without thinking. Repack my things, my bag, adios, I’m sorry we ever met. I regret going to that dinner on September 9th. Where I met you. Always, always. I saw Alain, I’m going to work with him. That’s good. You must be happy? Stop pretending you care. I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted. Yes, that’s better, you’re right, go to bed. Get some rest. Kisses. Yes, that’s it. Goodbye. See you one of these days. But still we keep going. We talk. But it’s not working. And there are problems with the connection. She says “I’ll call you back.” I call Frédéric so the line will be busy. I stay on for a good half hour. Then I call her back. I say “sorry, Frédéric called me, you must have gotten a busy signal.” The project with Alain sounds good. Stop it, please. Little by little, it becomes unbearable. I hang up, I say I’m sick of it. I call back, I say I’m sick of it. We have to stop completely and not see each other anymore at all. I can’t stand it any longer. I go to bed, I brushed my teeth and am ready to go to sleep. I even unplugged the phone. I go to bed, but I call her again, I plug the telephone back in and call again. To tell her: I’m fed up, fed up, fed up. We spend hours like this every night. She says to me that we could spend the time reading instead, or watching movies, or with friends, or resting, instead of this, hours wasted, for nothing. Unplugging the telephone, then calling back. I go to bed, I call her again. I went to bed, telling myself, now it’s finally over. I couldn’t take it anymore. The only good thing about it is that tomorrow I can write this scene down. Rita told Claude “in Les Autres, Christine went too far,” and then, “is she still together with that woman?” And Herman “we’ll find out everything in her next book.” I wasn’t seeing my father anymore, I’d met Claude, I’d married him. I decided to see my father again. With him, I’d only had inconclusive sexual relations. Like an ephebe, as if by chance… I needed a complete overview, for my writing to strike hard. Yes, strike hard. Like blows and blood. Anal penetration wasn’t so bad at the start, but after. I’d read in the media “press coverage has to be earned.” Shaming the journalists, little jabs, the way you shoot small arrows at the carnival, it’s ethical and it’s relaxing. Using the muscles of the sphincter and perineum to write certain pages. Marie. What are you doing right now, Marie? Are you seeing patients? You’re at the hospital this morning. This afternoon, you’ll play tennis. Tomorrow is your day off. You won’t do anything, you don’t want to do anything. Saturday you’re driving Léonore and me to the theater. You don’t give us much choice as to dates. But it’s nice of you. Over the phone I read her the passage “this mother, whose child is a dog.” She didn’t react, it didn’t get her worked up, their dogs are children, often Labradors, everyone must know.
The good thing is she’s a doctor. She prescribed respiratory rehabilitation and spinal physical therapy. After three months of homosexual torsion, it was necessary. (I’m not kidding.) The physiotherapist asked me what kind of work I did to put my back in such bad shape. Writer. He didn’t ask any more questions. He understood. Breasts, I didn’t dare touch them. The clitoris, I had no idea where it was. I didn’t like going out with her and having people think I was trying to get my bearings. She came to make up Léonore’s eyes to look Japanese for the carnival. My little daughter, Midi Libre wrote about her. Slanted eyes fill with tears when they burn, Mister Carnival. For the little Japanese girl, the parade took a different turn. The school children didn’t stop singing or doing their folk dance. Except for the little Japanese girl, whose kohl was running. Giraffes when I’ve got starving children right next to me. A lesbian, when I’ve got my daughter crying next to me, burns Mister Carnival. But, Mister Carnival, forty years ago it could have been her in a camp of deported homosexuals. I dream! I dream: I loved seeing her, seeing her walk in the door. And with Léonore. Pitou my heart watched over her. That was her dog Baya’s nickname. She was very homosexual, she had everything, a female cat, a female dog. I was fascinated. Clara always wanted to be the mother. She’s always quick to say it, she says it fast. All that’s left for her, Léonore tells me between sobs, is to be the second mother. But she’s not allowed to have children, a little cat, or a little dog, that’s it. It has made me sick. I’d caught it. For three months I was truly beside myself. I wanted to keep on. I felt strong enough. But that’s it, I drank the dregs. Léonore cares less and less for playing the boy in their games, since Clara absolutely insists on being the girl. With a wave of his hand he cut short any discussion: How much time? Muzil told me “the doctor doesn’t give the truth straight out, but gives the patient the means to figure it for himself, by talking in a roundabout way.” The lack of a cock, I was conscious of it and regretted it. A game of mirrors, I fell victim to it and regretted it. After a certain time I had no pretensions to perfection. I tried. I rebelled now and again. I wore skirts. The head doctor prescribed Muzil massive doses of antibiotics. I love women, I love animals, I love men, I love Italy, I love the color red, I love Léonore, I love life, and dogs too.