The Elementary Particles (15 page)

Generally, the initial reaction of a thwarted animal is to try harder to attain its goal. A starving chicken (
Gallus domesticus
) prevented from reaching its food by a wire fence will make increasingly frantic efforts to get through it. Gradually, however, this behavior is replaced by another which has no obvious purpose. When unable to find food, for example, pigeons (
Columba livia
) will frequently peck the ground even if nothing there is edible. Not only will they peck indiscriminately, but they start to preen their feathers; such inappropriate behavior, frequently observed in situations of frustration or conflict, is known as
displacement activity
. Early in 1986, just after he turned thirty, Bruno began to write.

13

“No metaphysical mutation takes place,” Djerzinski would write many years later, “without first being announced. The radical change is preceded by many minor mutations—facilitators whose historic appearance often goes unnoticed at the time. I consider myself to have been one such mutation.”

Drifting among the mass of European humanity, Djerzinski was little understood in his lifetime. In the introduction to Djerzinski’s posthumously published
Clifden Notes,
Hubczejak writes: “An idea which evolves in a single mind, without the counterbalance of debate, can nonetheless avoid the pitfalls of idiosyncrasy and folly. It is significant, however, that Djerzinski presents his idea in the form of a quasi-Socratic dialogue. It should be added that, until the end, Djerzinski considered himself primarily a scientist. He believed that his principal contribution to human evolution was his work in biophysics, which he had developed within the classical scientific constraints of consistency and refutability. As far as he was concerned, the more philosophical elements of his later works were never more than rash, even crazy conjectures, which he recorded less for their intrinsic claims to truth than out of personal considerations.”

. . .

He felt a little tired; the moon glided over the sleeping city. He knew that he only had to say the word and Bruno would get up, put on his jacket and disappear into the elevator. He could easily hail a cab at La Motte-Picquet.

When we think about the present, we veer wildly between the belief in chance and the evidence in favor of determinism. When we think about the past, however, there is no more doubt: it seems obvious that everything happened in the way it was intended. Djerzinski had long since seen through this perceptual illusion, based as it was on an ontology of objects and intrinsic properties and dependent on a strong notion of external reality. It was this realization, rather than any feeling of compassion or respect, which prevented him from uttering the simple, established phrase that would have cut short this broken, tearful creature’s confession. This evening, sprawled on the sofa, this animal with whom he shared one half of his genetic code had overstepped the unspoken boundaries of decent human conversation. This evening, Djerzinski had a faint but definite feeling that Bruno’s tortuous, pathetic tale was tending toward some conclusion; words would be spoken and—for the first time—these words would have meaning and finality. He stood up and went to the bathroom, where discreetly, without a sound, he vomited. He splashed water on his face and went back to the living room.

“You’re not human,” Bruno said quietly, looking up at Michel. “I knew it from the start, from the way you behaved with Annabelle. But you’re the audience life has given me. At the time, I suppose you weren’t surprised when you got my article on John Paul II.”

“Every civilization has had to find some way to justify the sacrifices parents make,” said Michel sadly. “Under the historical circumstances, you didn’t have much choice.”

“But I really did admire John Paul II,” Bruno protested. “I remember it was in 1986—Canal+ and M6 had just started broadcasting, the
Globe
had just been launched and the Restos du Coeur soup kitchens started up. John Paul II was the only person—the only person—who really understood what was happening in the West. I was stunned when my paper was badly received by my ‘Living with Faith’ group in Dijon; they criticized the Pope’s position on abortion, condoms—all that rubbish. I have to admit I didn’t make much of an effort to see their point of view, either. We used to take turns holding the meeting in our houses; everyone would bring something to eat, a salad, a dip, a cake. I used to spend the evenings smiling like a half-wit, nodding my head and knocking back the wine; I wasn’t really listening. Anne was really into it, though. She signed up to help with a literacy program. The evenings she was out, I’d put a sedative into Victor’s bottle, log on to the Minitel and jerk off, but I never actually met anyone in person.

“In April, for Anne’s birthday, I’d bought her a silver lamé bodice and garters. She was a little wary at first, but I persuaded her to try it on. While she was strapping herself into it, I finished the champagne. Then I heard her small trembling voice saying nervously: ‘I’m ready . . .’ The minute I walked into the bedroom I knew it had been a lousy idea. Her sagging ass was squeezed into the garters and her tits had never really recovered from breast-feeding. She needed liposuction, silicone implants, the works—though she would never have agreed to it. I closed my eyes and slipped a finger into her G-string; I was completely soft. At that moment Victor started howling from the next room—loud, shrill, unendurable screams. She put on a dressing gown and ran into his room. When she got back I just asked her for a blow-job. She wasn’t very good at it—you could feel her teeth—but I closed my eyes and imagined it was a Ghanaian girl from my
seconde
class. Thinking about her rough, pink tongue, I managed to come in my wife’s mouth. I had no intention of having another child. I wrote the piece about the family the next day—you know, the one that was published.”

“I still have a copy of it,” said Michel. He got up and took down the magazine from a bookshelf. Bruno thumbed through it, somewhat surprised, and found the page.

There are families still, more or less

(Sparks of faith among atheists,

Sparks of love in the pit of nausea),

And we do not know how

These sparks glow.

Slaves working for incomprehensible organizations,

The only way in which we can live our lives is through sex

(Though only, of course, those for whom sex is still permitted,

Those for whom sex is possible).

Now, marriage and fidelity cut us off from any possibility of existence,

We will not find—in the office or the classroom—that spirit in us which clamors for adventure, for light, for dance;

And so we try to pool our destinies through increasingly difficult loves,

We try to sell a body which is ever more exhausted, mutinous, recalcitrant

And we disappear

In the shadow of sorrow

Into true despair,

We go down the long, solitary road to the place where all is dark,

Without children, without wives,

We enter the lake

In the middle of night

(and the water on our ancient bodies is so cold).

Just after writing this, Bruno had slipped into a kind of alcoholic coma. He was woken some hours later by the screams of his son. Between the ages of two and four, human children acquire a sense of self, which manifests itself in displays of megalomaniacal histrionics. Their aim in this is to control their social environment, making slaves of those around them (specifically, their parents); slaves dedicated to satisfying their every whim. Their egotism knows no bounds—such is the nature of the individual. As Bruno picked himself up from the living room floor, the screaming grew loud and shrill with rage. He crushed two Lexomil, mashed them into a spoonful of jam and headed toward Victor’s room. The child had crapped itself. Where the fuck was Anne? These jungle-bunny literacy classes were ending later and later. He took off the soiled diaper and threw it on the floor; the stench was atrocious. The child swallowed the mixture on the spoon easily and his body stiffened as though he’d been struck. Bruno put on his jacket and went to the Madison, an all-night bar on the rue Chaudronnerie. He bought a three-thousand-franc bottle of Dom Pérignon on his credit card and shared it with a pretty blonde. In one of the upstairs rooms, the girl jacked him off slowly, pausing every now and then to heighten his pleasure. Her name was Hélène. She came from Dijon and was studying tourism; she was nineteen. As he slipped inside her, she tightened her vagina and he had three whole minutes of complete contentment. When he left, Bruno kissed her on the lips and insisted on giving her a tip—he only had three hundred francs in cash left.

The following week he decided to show a colleague—a fifty-year-old Marxist who taught literature—what he had written. He was tall and thin; rumor had it he was homosexual. Fajardie was pleasantly surprised. “You’re obviously influenced by Claudel—or perhaps Péguy, in his blank verse. But it’s very original, and that’s something you don’t come across much anymore.” He was certain as to what should happen next: “
L’Infini
—it’s the only serious literary magazine nowadays. Send it to Sollers.” A little taken aback, Bruno asked him to repeat the name—he later realized he’d confused it with a brand of mattress—and sent off his work. Three weeks later he telephoned the publisher, Denoël, and was surprised when Philippe Sollers answered and suggested that they meet. Bruno had no classes on Wednesday, so it would be possible to get to Paris and back in a day. On the train, he tried to read Sollers’s novel
A Curious Solitude
but quickly gave up, though he did manage to read some of
Women—
mostly the bits about sex. They had arranged to meet in a café on the rue de l’Université. Sollers arrived ten minutes late, brandishing the cigarette holder which would become his trademark. “You’re in the suburbs? Pity. You should move to Paris right away. You have talent.” He told Bruno that he would publish the piece on John Paul II in the next issue of
L’Infini
. Bruno was stunned; he couldn’t have known that Sollers was deep into his “Counter-Reformation” phase and was publishing a variety of impassioned tracts favorable to the Pope. “I really admire Péguy!” said Sollers enthusiastically, “and de Sade, you must read de Sade . . .”

“What about the poem I wrote about families?”

“Excellent, also excellent—you’re a real reactionary, that’s good. All the great writers were reactionaries: Balzac, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Dostoyevsky. But you have to fuck, too, you know? You have to fuck as much as possible—that’s important.”

In five minutes Sollers was gone, leaving Bruno in a state of slightly inebriated narcissism. On the way home he calmed down a little. Philippe Sollers was obviously a famous writer, but from reading
Women
it was clear that the only women he managed to screw were cultivated old whores; real chicks preferred rock stars. In which case, what was the point of publishing some shitty poem in some shitty magazine?

“Of course that didn’t stop me from buying five copies of
L’Infini
when it was published. Thank God they didn’t run the piece on John Paul II in the end, it was terrible . . . Is there any wine left?”

“Just one bottle.” Michel went to the kitchen and brought back the final bottle from the six-pack of Vieux Papes; he was beginning to feel really tired. “You’re working tomorrow, aren’t you?” he asked. Bruno didn’t respond. He was staring at a spot on the floor, though there was nothing there, nothing specific, just some lumps of grime. He came to life when he heard the cork pop and held out his glass. He drank slowly, in small sips; his gaze had now fallen on some indistinct point on the radiator. Michel hesitated for a moment and then turned on the television: there was a documentary about rabbits. He turned down the sound. In fact, it might have been a program about hares, he always confused the two. He was surprised when Bruno began to speak again:

“I was trying to remember how long I was in Dijon. Four years? Five? When you work in something like teaching, every year seems the same. The only things that mark out your life are visits to the doctor and watching the kids grow up. Victor was growing up, he was starting to call me Daddy.”

Suddenly he started to cry. Curled up on the sofa, he sobbed, snuffling loudly. Michel looked at his watch; it was just after four a.m. On the screen a wildcat had a dead rabbit in its mouth.

Bruno took out a tissue and wiped the corners of his eyes. Tears continued to stream down his face as he thought about his son. Poor little Victor, who drew creatures from the pages of
Strange,
who loved him. He’d given the boy few moments of happiness and fewer still of love—now the boy was fourteen and the time for happiness was over.

“Anne would have liked to have had more children, she actually rather liked the idea of being a mother and a housewife. I was the one who pushed her to apply for a job in Paris so we could move back. She didn’t dare say no, of course. At the time everyone believed—or pretended to believe—that a woman’s career was essential to her self-esteem, and more than anything, Anne had a need to conform with what other people thought. I knew perfectly well that the real reason we were going back to Paris was to make the divorce easier. In the sticks people still meet and gossip, and I didn’t want people talking about our divorce, even if they thought it was a good idea. In the summer of ’89 we went away to Club Med—it was our last vacation together. I remember the stupid fucking games before dinner and spending hours checking out girls on the beach. Anne chatted with the other mothers. When she lay on her stomach you could see her cellulite, and when she turned onto her back you could see her stretch marks. This was in Morocco. The Arabs were aggressive and obnoxious and the weather was far too hot. It wasn’t really worth getting skin cancer just so I could go back to the room at night and jerk off. Victor really enjoyed himself—he had a great time at the Mini Club . . .” Bruno’s voice faltered again.

“I was a bastard; I knew I was being a bastard. Parents usually make sacrifices for their kid—that’s how it’s supposed to be. I just couldn’t cope with the fact that I wasn’t young anymore; my son was going to grow up and he would get to be young instead and he might make something of his life, while I had failed in mine. I wanted to be an individual entity again.”

“A monad,” said Michel softly.

Bruno said nothing. He drained his glass. “The bottle’s empty . . .” he remarked absently. He got up, put on his jacket, and Michel walked him to the door. “I do love my son,” Bruno said. “If he had an accident, if anything happened to him, I couldn’t bear it. I love that kid more than anything, but I’ve never even been able to accept his existence.” Michel nodded. Bruno walked toward the elevator.