The Woman Destroyed

  Perhaps I ought to stuff up these sleeping things and go to bed. But I’m still too wide awake I’d only writhe about. If I had got him on the phone if we’d talked pleasantly I should have calmed down. He doesn’t give a fuck. Here I am torn to pieces by heartbreaking memories I call him and he doesn’t answer. Don’t bawl him out don’t begin by bawling him out that would muck up everything. I dread tomorrow. I shall have to be ready before four o’clock I shan’t have had a wink of sleep I’ll go out and buy petits fours that Francis will tread into the carpet he’ll break one of my little ornaments he’s not been properly brought up that child as clumsy as his father who’ll drop ash all over the place and if I say anything at all Tristan will blow right up he never let me keep my house as it ought to be yet after all it’s enormously important. Just now it’s perfect the drawing room polished shining like the moon used to be. By seven tomorrow evening it’ll be utterly filthy I’ll have to spring-clean it even though I’ll be all washed out. Explaining everything to him from a to z will wash me right out. He’s tough. What a clot I was to drop Florent for him! Florent and I we understood one another he coughed up I lay on my back it was cleaner than those capers where you hand out tender words to one another. I’m too softhearted I thought it was a terrific proof of love when he offered to marry me and there was Sylvie the ungrateful little thing I wanted her to have a real home and a mother no one could say a thing against a married woman a banker’s wife. For my part it gave me a pain in the ass to play the lady to be friends with crashing bores. Not so surprising that I burst out now and then. “You’re setting about it the wrong way with Tristan” Dédé used to tell me. Then later on “I told you so!” It’s true I’m headstrong I take the bit between my teeth I don’t calculate. Maybe I should have learned to compromise if it hadn’t been for all those disappointments. Tristan made me utterly sick I let him know it. People can’t bear being told what you really think of them. They want you to believe their fine words or at least to pretend to. As for me I’m clear-sighted I’m frank I tear masks off. The dear kind lady simpering “So we love our little brother do we?” and my collected little voice: “I hate him.” I’m still that proper little woman who says what she thinks and doesn’t cheat. It made my guts grind to hear him holding forth and all those bloody fools on their knees before him. I came clumping along in my big boots I cut their fine words down to size for them—progress prosperity the future of mankind happiness peace aid for the underdeveloped countries peace upon earth. I’m not a racist but don’t give a fuck for Algerians Jews Negroes in just the same way I don’t give a fuck for Chinks Russians Yanks Frenchmen. I don’t give a fuck for humanity what has it ever done for me I ask you. If they are such bleeding fools as to murder one another bomb one another plaster one another with napalm wipe one another out I’m not going to weep my eyes out. A million children have been massacred so what? Children are never anything but the seed of bastards it unclutters the planet a little they all admit it’s overpopulated don’t they? If I were the earth it would disgust me, all this vermin on my back, I’d shake it off. I’m quite willing to die if they all die too. I’m not going to go all soft-centered about kids that mean nothing to me. My own daughter’s dead and they’ve stolen my son from me.

  I should have won her back. I’d have made her into a worthwhile person. But it would have taken me time. Tristan did not help me the selfish bastard our quarrels bored him he used to say to me “Leave her in peace.” You ought not to have children in a way Dédé is right they only give you one bloody headache after another. But if you do have them you ought to bring them up properly. Tristan always took Sylvie’s side: now even if I had been wrong—let’s say I might have been sometimes for the sake of argument—from an educational point of view it’s disastrous for one parent to run out on the other. He was on her side even when I was right. Over that little Jeanne for example. It quite touches my heart to think of her again her moist adoring gaze: they can be very sweet little girls she reminded me of my own childhood badly dressed neglected slapped scolded by that concierge of a mother of hers always on the edge of tears: she thought I was lovely she stroked my furs she did little things for me and I slipped her pennies when no one was looking I gave her sweeties poor pet. She was the same age as Sylvie I should have liked them to be friends Sylvie disappointed me bitterly. She whined “Being with Jeanne bores me.” I told her she was a heartless thing I scolded her I punished her. Tristan stood up for her on the grounds that you can’t force liking that battle lasted for ages I wanted Sylvie to learn generosity in the end it was little Jeanne who backed out.

  It’s quietened down a bit up there. Footsteps voices in the staircase car doors slamming there’s still their bloody fool dance music but they aren’t dancing anymore. I know what they’re at. This is the moment they make love on beds on sofas on the ground in cars the time for being sick sick sick when they bring up the turkey and the caviar it’s filthy I have a feeling there’s a smell of vomit I’m going to burn a joss stick. If only I could sleep I’m wide awake dawn is far away still this is a ghastly hour of the night and Sylvie died without understanding me I’ll never get over it. This smell of incense is the same as at the funeral service: the candles the flowers the catafalque. My despair. Dead: It was impossible! For hours and hours I sat there by her body thinking no of course not she’ll wake up I’ll wake up. All that effort all those struggles scenes sacrifices—all in vain. My life’s work gone up in smoke. I left nothing to chance; and chance at its cruelest reached out and hit me. Sylvie is dead. Five years already. She is dead. Forever. I can’t bear it. Help it hurts it hurts too much get me out of here I can’t bear the breakdown to start again no help me I can’t bear it any longer don’t leave me alone.…

  Who to call? Albert Bernard would hang up like a flash: he blubbered in front of everybody but tonight he’s gorged and had fun and I’m the one that remembers and weeps. My mother: after all a mother is a mother I never did her any harm she was the one who mucked up my childhood she insulted me she presumed to tell me.… I want her to take back what she said I won’t go on living with those words in my ears a daughter can’t bear being cursed by her mother even if she’s the ultimate word in tarts.

  “Was it you who called me?… It surprised me too but after all on a night like this it could happen you might think of my grief and say to yourself that a mother and daughter can’t be on bad terms all their lives long; above all since I really can’t see what you can possibly blame me for.… Don’t shout like that.…”

  She has hung up. She wants peace. She poisons my life the bitch I’ll have to settle her hash. What hatred! She’s always hated me: she killed two birds with one stone in marrying me to Albert. She made sure of her fun and my unhappiness. I didn’t want to admit it I’m too clean too pure but it’s staringly obvious. It was she who hooked him at the physical culture class and she treated herself to him slut that she was it can’t have been very inviting to stuff her but what with all the men who’d been there before she must have known a whole bagful of tricks like getting astride over the guy I can just imagine it it’s perfectly revolting the way respectable women make love. She was too long in the tooth to keep him she made use of me they cackled behind my back and went to work again: one day when I came back unexpectedly she was all red. How old was she when she stopped? Maybe she treats herself to gigolos she’s not so poor as she says she’s no doubt kept jewels that she sells off on the sly. I think that after you’re fifty you ought to have the decency to give it up: I gave it up well before ever since I went into mourning. It doesn’t interest me anymore I’m blocked I never think of those things anymore even in dreams. That old bag it makes you shudder to think of between her legs she drips with scent but underneath she smells she used to make up she titivated she didn’t wash not what I call wash when she pretended to use a douche it was only to show Nanard her backside. Her son her son-in-law: it makes you feel like throwing up. They would say, “You’ve got a filthy mind.” They kn
ow how to cope. If you point out that they’re walking in shit they scream it’s you that have dirty feet. My dear little girlfriends would have liked to have a go with my husband women they’re all filthy bitches and there he was shouting at me, “You are contemptible.” Jealousy is not contemptible real love has a beak and claws. I was not one of those women who will put up with sharing or whorehouse parties like Christine I wanted us to be a clean proper couple a decent couple. I can control myself but I’m not a complete drip I’ve never been afraid of making a scene. I did not allow anyone to make fun of me I can look back over my past—nothing unwholesome nothing dubious. I’m the white blackbird.

  Poor white blackbird: it’s the only one in the world. That’s what maddens them: I’m something too far above them. They’d like to do away with me they’ve shut me up in a cage. Shut in locked in I’ll end by dying of boredom really dying. It seems that that happens to babies even, when no one looks after them. The perfect crime that leaves no trace. Five years of this torture already. That ass Tristan who says travel you’ve plenty of money. Plenty to travel on the cheap like with Albert in the old days: you don’t catch me doing that again. Being poor is revolting at any time but when you travel!…I’m not a snob I showed Tristan I wasn’t impressed by deluxe palace hotels and women dripping with pearls the fancy doormen. But second-rate boardinghouses and cheap restaurants, no sir. Dubious sheets filthy tablecloths sleep in other people’s sweat in other people’s filth eat with badly washed knives and forks you might catch lice or the pox and the smells make me sick: quite apart from the fact that I get deadly constipated because those johns where everybody goes turn me off like a tap: the brotherhood of shit only a very little for me please. Then what earthly point is there in traveling alone? We had fun Dédé and I it’s terrific two pretty girls in a convertible their hair streaming in the wind: we made a terrific impression in Rome at night on the Piazza del Popolo. I’ve had fun with other friends too. But alone? What sort of impression do you make on beaches in casinos if you haven’t got a man with you? Ruins museums I had my bellyful of them with Tristan. I’m not an hysterical enthusiast I don’t swoon at the sight of broken columns or tumbledown old shacks. The people of former times my foot they’re dead that’s the only thing they have over the living but in their own day they were just as sickening. Picturesqueness: I don’t fall for that not for one minute. Stinking filth dirty washing cabbage stalks what a pretentious fool you have to be to go into ecstasies over that! And it’s the same thing everywhere all the time whether they’re stuffing themselves with chips paella or pizza it’s the same crew a filthy crew the rich who trample over you the poor who hate you for your money the old who dodder the young who sneer the men who show off the women who open their legs. I’d rather stay at home reading a thriller although they’ve become so dreary nowadays. The TV too what a clapped-out set of fools! I was made for another planet altogether I mistook the way.

  Why do they have to make all that din right under my windows? They’re standing there by their cars they can’t make up their minds to put their stinking feet into them. What can they be going on and on about? Snotty little beasts snotty little beastesses grotesque in their miniskirts and their tights I hope they catch their deaths haven’t they any mothers then? And the boys with their hair down their necks. From a distance those ones seem more or less clean. But all those louse-breeding beatniks if the chief of police had any sort of drive he’d toss them all into the brig. The youth of today! They drug they stuff one another they respect nothing. I’m going to pour a bucket of water on their heads. They might break open the door and beat me up I’m defenseless I’d better shut the window again. Rose’s daughter is one of that sort it seems and Rose plays the elder sister they’re always together in one another’s pockets. Yet she used to hold her in so she even boxed her ears she didn’t bother to bring her to reason she was impulsive arbitrary: I loathe capriciousness. Oh, Rose will pay for it all right as Dédé says she’ll have Danielle on her hands pregnant.… I should have made a lovely person of Sylvie. I’d have given her dresses jewels I’d have been proud of her we should have gone out together. There’s no justice in the world. That’s what makes me so mad—the injustice. When I think of the sort of mother I was! Tristan acknowledges it: I’ve forced him to acknowledge it. And then after that he tells me he’s ready for anything rather than let me have Francis: they don’t give a damn for logic they say absolutely anything at all and then escape at the run. He races down the stairs four at a time while I shout down the well after him. I won’t be had like that. I’ll force him to do me justice: cross my heart. He’ll give me back my place in the home my place on earth. I’ll make a splendid child of Francis they’ll see what kind of a mother I am.

  They are killing me the bastards. The idea of the party tomorrow destroys me. I must win. I must I must I must I must I must. I’ll tell my fortune with the cards. No. If it went wrong I’d throw myself out of the window no I mustn’t it would suit them too well. Think of something else. Cheerful things. The boy from Bordeaux. We expected nothing from one another we asked one another no questions we made one another no promises we bedded down and made love. It lasted three weeks and he left for Africa I wept wept. It’s a memory that does me good. Things like that only happen once in a lifetime. What a pity! When I think back over it it seems to me that if anyone had loved me properly I should have been affection itself. Turds they bored me to death they trample everyone down right left and center everyone can die in his hole for all they care husbands deceive their wives mothers toss off their sons not a word about it sealed lips that carefulness disgusts me and the way they don’t have the courage of their convictions. “But come really your brother is too closefisted” it was Albert who pointed it out to me I’m too noble-minded to bother with trifles like that but it’s true they had stuffed down three times as much as us and the bill was divided fifty-fifty thousands of little things like that. And afterward he blamed me—“You shouldn’t have repeated it to him.” On the beach we went at it hammer and tongs. Etiennette cried you would have said the tears on her cheeks were melting suet. “Now that he knows he’ll turn over a new leaf” I told her. I was simpleminded—I thought they were capable of turning over new leaves I thought you could bring them up by making them see reason. “Come Sylvie let’s think it over. You know how much that frock costs? And how many times will you ever put it on? We’ll send it back.” It always had to be begun again at the beginning I wore myself out. Nanard will go on being closefisted to the end of his days. Albert more deceitful lying secretive than ever. Tristan always just as self-satisfied just as pompous. I was knocking myself out for nothing. When I tried to teach Etiennette how to dress Nanard bawled me out—she was twenty-two and I was dressing her up as an elderly schoolteacher! She went on cramming herself into little gaudy dresses. And Rose who shouted out “Oh you are cruel!” I had spoken to her out of loyalty women have to stand by one another. Who has ever shown me any gratitude? I’ve lent them money without asking for interest not one has been grateful to me for it indeed some have whined when I asked to be paid back. Girlfriends I overwhelmed with presents accused me of showing off. And you ought to see how briskly they slipped away all those people I had done good turns to yet God knows I asked for nothing much in return. I’m not one of those people who thinks they have a right to everything. Aunt Marguerite: “Would you lend us your apartment while you’re on your cruise this summer?” Lend it hell hotels aren’t built just for dogs and if they can’t afford to put up in Paris they can stay in their own rotten hole. An apartment’s holy I should have felt raped.… It’s like Dédé. “You mustn’t let yourself be eaten up” she tells me. But she’d be delighted to swallow me whole. “Have you an evening coat you can lend me? You never go out.” No I never go out but I did go out: they’re my dresses my coats they remind me of masses of things I don’t want a strumpet to take my place in them. And afterward they’d smell. If I were to die Mama and Nanard would share my leavings. N
o no I want to live until the moths have eaten the lot or else if I have cancer I’ll destroy them all. I’ve had enough of people making a good thing out of me—Dédé worst of all. She drank my whiskey she showed off in my convertible. Now she’s playing the greathearted friend. But she never bothered to ring me from Courchevel tonight of all nights. When her cuckold of a husband is traveling and she’s bored why yes then she brings her fat backside here even when I don’t want to see her at all. But it’s New Year’s Day I’m alone I’m eating my heart out. She’s dancing she’s having fun she doesn’t think of me for a single minute. Nobody ever thinks of me. As if I were wiped off the face of the earth. As if I had never existed. Do I exist? Oh! I pinched myself so hard I shall have a bruise.

  What silence! Not a car left not a footstep in the street not a sound in the house the silence of death. The silence of a death chamber and their eyes on me their eyes that condemn me unheard and without appeal. Oh how strong they are! Everything they felt remorse for they clapped it onto my back the perfect scapegoat and at last they could invent an excuse for their hatred. My grief has not lessened it. Yet I should have thought the devil himself would have been sorry for me.

  All my life it will be two o’clock in the afternoon one Tuesday in June. “Mademoiselle is too fast asleep I can’t get her to wake up.” My heart missed a beat I rushed in calling “Sylvie are you ill?” She looked as though she were asleep she was still warm. It had been all over some hours before the doctor told me. I screamed I went up and down the room like a madwoman. Sylvie Sylvie why have you done this to me? I can see her now calm relaxed and me out of my mind and the note for her father that didn’t mean a thing I tore it up it was all part of the act it was only an act I was sure I am sure—a mother knows her own daughter—she had not meant to die but she had overdone the dose she was dead how appalling! It’s too easy with these drugs anyone can get just like that: these teen-age girls will play at suicide for a mere nothing: Sylvie went along with the fashion—she never woke up. And they all came they kissed Sylvie not one of them kissed me and my mother shouted at me “You’ve killed her!” My mother my own mother. They made her be quiet but their faces their silence the weight of their silence. Yes, if I were one of those mothers who get up at seven in the morning she would have been saved I live according to another rhythm there’s nothing criminal about that how could I have guessed? I was always there when she came back from school many mothers can’t say as much always ready to talk to question her it was she who shut herself up in her room pretending she wanted to work. I never failed her. And my mother she who neglected me left me by myself how she dared! I couldn’t manage any reply my head was spinning I no longer knew where I was. “If I’d gone to give her a kiss that night when I came in.…” But I didn’t want to wake her and during the afternoon she had seemed to me almost cheerful.… Those days, what a torment! A score of times I thought I was going to crack up. School friends teachers put flowers on the coffin without addressing a word to me: if a girl kills herself the mother is guilty: that’s the way their minds worked out of hatred for their own mothers. All in at the kill. I almost let myself be got down. After the funeral I fell ill. Over and over again I said to myself, “If I had got up at seven.… If I had gone to give her a kiss when I came in.…” It seemed to me that everybody had heard my mother’s shout I didn’t dare go out anymore I crept along by the wall the sun clamped me in the pillory I thought people were looking at me whispering pointing enough of that enough I’d rather die this minute than live through that time again. I lost more than twenty pounds, a skeleton, my sense of balance went I staggered. “Psychosomatic,” said the doctor. Tristan gave me money for the nursing home. You’d never believe the questions I asked myself it might have driven me crazy. A phony suicide she had meant to hurt someone—who? I hadn’t watched her closely enough I ought never to have left her for a moment I ought to have had her followed held an inquiry unmasked the guilty person a boy or a girl maybe that whore of a teacher. “No Madame there was no one in her life.” They wouldn’t yield an inch the two bitches and their eyes were murdering me: they all of them keep up the conspiracy of lies even beyond death itself. But they didn’t deceive me. I know. At her age and with things as they are today it’s impossible that there was no one. Perhaps she was pregnant or she’d fallen into the clutches of a lezzy or she’d got in with an immoral lot someone was blackmailing her and having her threatening to tell me everything. Oh, I must stop picturing things. You could have told me everything my Sylvie I would have got you out of that filthy mess. It must certainly have been a filthy mess for her to have written to Albert, Papa please forgive me but I can’t bear it anymore. She couldn’t talk to him or to the others: they tried to get to her, but they were strangers. I was the only one she could have confided in.