•
As it happens I now like Geneva and the barren Salève. After years of feeling suffocated in Geneva I’ve finally discovered it. Let’s agree that I have just now told the doctor Mount Salève is hideous. We move into the examining room, the glass cupboard filled with surgical instruments and cotton balls in a glass jar, scales, a bed. I undress. I’m wearing the black slip! I can hear my voice explaining how the problem with my foot began. Walking up the Parc des Cropettes. A sting on my ankle as if a glass had broken inside it and tiny pieces had pierced the cartilage. Impossible. It must be rheumatism and I’m just a bundle of nerves. I didn’t tell him that as I was walking up the park, all of me — all my skin, the part that can and cannot be seen — began to tremble, and the nerves settled in my left foot. I was limping by the time I got home. What’s the matter? I don’t know, must have twisted my foot. It hurts, but without noticing the hurt, like when I get a bruise sometimes and realize I’ve hit myself because I see the bruise. This was some time ago. I thought it’d go away but it hurts more and more. The address of an orthopedic doctor. My foot has a fallen arch, massages, foul-smelling white ointment and my friend had told me that the ointment had to be black, made from iodine. Makes me start thinking. I’ve gained five kilos. I want to lose them. Recently, with the bit about the foot, I haven’t taken care of myself, eaten a lot of sweets. You can’t imagine how much I enjoy a cup of tea in the afternoon, scones. He looks at me without opening his mouth. No, no. I suppose I can get rid of the extra weight in a month. I don’t know, no will power. Lie down. Close your eyes. He rubs the nail of his index finger against the sole of my sick foot. No reaction. He hammers my knee, the leg doesn’t budge. The other does, jerks right away. He makes me walk up and down, up and down. The too-tight slip gives me a complex, I feel even fatter. He has me squat down with my hands extended in front of me, heels off the floor, tells me to stand up. I can’t. A drop of blood. He pricks my finger with the needle. It’s the first time I lose controclass="underline" I grimaced, a slight contraction around my mouth. He examines my eyes, feels the glands in my neck, takes my blood pressure. I don’t ask, don’t want to know. He goes into his office while I dress and I hear him say: only fifty-five. That’s the percentage of red corpuscles. I enter his office, still zipping up my dress. He adds more liquid to the tube. Playing with my blood. Tells me my blood pressure isn’t good either. Writes a prescription. Then he suddenly looks up. We’ll start you on a rigorous treatment, clear this up quickly. A tranquilizer, lots of vitamins, infrared sessions, plenty of vitamin B. He gives me the address of an orthopedic doctor. I don’t want to wear braces inside my shoes. He arches his eyebrows, looking at me in surprise, an intense look. We stand up. He puts his arm on my shoulder. Suddenly he stops and makes me stop. I’d like to see your husband. We shake hands. On the wall at the end of the corridor hangs a map of Geneva. But the view, high up there. . The nurse opens the door for me and I’m on the street again. The light is strong, the sun high, the afternoon hot. I have to return in three weeks. I’m afraid to cross the street because the cars in this country all charge about as if everyone were late. If my foot didn’t hurt so much I’d walk home. You won’t do anything crazy now, will you? He said just that, anything crazy. None of the other nervous manifestations had caused me any pain. I’ll cross the Bastions, see the ivy-covered wall that serves as the backdrop for the leaders of the Reformation. Geneva: the eagle, the key. I catch a taxi. I’d like to scream. I breathe deeply when I enter the apartment. I lie down on the bed and think how bright it was outside. My spine hurts. The light in the study is different because it faces the east. I smoke a cigarette. I’ll have to go to the pharmacy to buy the whole arsenal. What did the doctor say? Nothing. What’s the matter with you? I don’t know. Rheumatism. I’ll fix supper. We eat on the terrace. The air is heavy and the Salève shrouded in fog. Do you know what foxgloves are? No. See those smudges of colors beyond the boxwood shrubs? That’s foxglove. How do you know? Because they’re shaped like a thimble. When he doesn’t look at me I look at him. It’s risky because the person who is observed without observing always realizes he’s being observed. Then my eyes move to the lake where a white sailboat is passing. Did you put on a record? The Kreutzer sonata while I was writing. I don’t feel like listening to music. I don’t feel like little round dots on five lines. The light fades to gray and the streetlights come on, all at the same time. I pick up a book, Plutarch’s demonology, and lie on the bed again. I’ll wash the dishes tomorrow. I get up to go look for. . I lie down again. When I came back from the doctor the first thing I saw as I entered the bathroom was the blue slip on top of the ironing. I read:
A chattering crow lives out nine generations of aged men, but a stag’s life is four times a crow’s, and a raven’s life makes three stags old, while the phoenix outlives nine ravens, but we, the rich-haired Nymphs, daughters of Zeus the aegis-holder, outlive ten phoenixes.
I slept badly. I woke up filled with anguish and this tells me what I should do. Leave. I’ll die if I don’t. My heart. . Alone in the morning, I pack two suitcases with clothes from the wardrobe. I take only half of them. I have to go to the pharmacy. The first thing I need to do is cure this sick foot, I couldn’t even board the train, not unless there’s a porter. I read the prescription calmly. I’ll go to the pharmacy after I wash my face. The pharmacy is just around the corner.
IT SEEMED LIKE SILK
One windy day toward the end of September (I can’t recall the year), I entered the grassy cemetery for the first time, not because I knew anyone buried there, but to enjoy the sense of peace that cemeteries radiate and, more especially, to escape the wind whose wings swirled my skirts, filling my eyes with dust. The man I loved had died. I can’t keep him company, but every day I saw his face on the wall. His brothers and sisters wanted to have him buried in the village because they had a niche there. It was far away. You had to take the train to reach it, and I couldn’t afford the ticket. I knew I would have less and less money because my eyesight was getting worse. As things stood, I could only work in the afternoons, and soon I wouldn’t be able to go to people’s houses and sew.