Chapter One
I read yesterday that violin strings are
made from sheep intestines. I thought
for a long time about that: how can
music be made from such a brutal, evil
act?
The new secretary’s only been here two
days and already I’m talking about evil-a
word that’s too excessive, that’s just
ridiculous here-and am already arming
myself for battle.
My mind is definitely made up: I shall
not relinquish the spot next to the
window, the place where I do all my day-dreaming,
which is no mere poetic image-I
loathe poetry. When the workday is
over, fantasy is my sole indulgence.
All labor deserves its reward, Father
often said. And I couldn’t agree more.
If she makes a mistake, I’ll order
her, in a superior tone, to retype the
whole page. I’ll see that she types it a
third time, if necessary. I will insist
on that.
I’m inflexible about deadlines.
I’ll only use harsh words.
Hurry up and finish those charts,
I’ll order. No, it can’t wait, I’ll
insist while keeping my composure.
I’ll correct her in a stern voice. The
word éܳé has accents over the e’s,
I’ll snap, emphasizing é.
Should she venture to ask a question,
I’ll refrain from responding right away.
I’ll wait until she asks again. Nicely.
Meekly. Sweetly servile. How I’d love
to attain that quality of disdainful
authority over my inferiors that Father
was forever trying to instill in me …
My coldness will prevent any friendly
impulse on her part. I despise
familiarity. In word or in deed.
Informality should be reserved for
addressing dogs, not one’s fellow man.
I’ll occasionally smile at her
mistakes. She’ll be at a complete loss,
the idiot.
I’ll keep her guessing. My tactic will
be simple: each objection on her part
will be met with unyielding silence.
Keeping silent comes easily to me.
Keeping silent is my job. Which I
accomplish with zeal. Keep silent. And
then strike. Ah, to have the audacity of
real leaders! I’ve been inwardly
training myself for that. After
nightfall, when my thoughts emerge from
their depths, I go back over what was
said that day, her words and mine. I
refine my tactics, reappraise my plans.
I must be ruthless. It will be a hard
fight, this I know. And in the end, our
every utterance will be judged.
Chapter Two
Whatever her intentions (which I assume
to be malicious), I won’t let myself be
caught off-guard. I’m methodical in all
things (as soon as a thought crosses my
mind, I’m in thorough control of its
ramifications) and have a special gift
when it comes to organization. I
foresee. I classify. I pinpoint. I
delete. I like things to be orderly.
Monsieur Meyer often compliments me on
this. And until now, my life has been-I
dare say-as neat as my desk. Nothing
ever used to go wrong.
But these days I’m filled with doubt
and unsettled; I waver and
procrastinate. When I walk past an old
wall, I’m suddenly aware that it could
come crashing down, crushing me. I won’t
risk walking under a ladder for fear of
some new catastrophe. Time seems to
shorten, then lengthen. Slippery as an
eel. My soul is as sensitive as an
exposed nerve. There are days when I
long for my former peace of mind. And
other days when the war I wage against
her-and that’s what it is: a war-excites
and invigorates me, creating the sense
that there’s some magnificent destiny
awaiting me.
The new secretary has only been
sharing my space for a week, but
already life doesn’t move forward in a
fine linear manner anymore, but
sideways, tortuously, like a crab. Her
presence is strangely disconcerting. I
say disconcerting deliberately. I simply
can’t get her out of my mind. She’s
putting down roots within me, spreading,
living, aching inside me, sending shoots
into the tiniest cracks. (Isn’t it odd
that I find myself using the vocabulary
of love to evoke her, even though she
has a way of getting on my nerves, and
I’ve come to detest every fiber of her
being?) And she’s the one I think of,
time and time again, when with my cheek
up against the windowpane, I look out at
the street. Her enormous breasts. Her
big moon-face. Her beady little eyes,
stuck in her face as if in lard, looking
frantically around every corner as if
something might jump out at her. I watch
the cars go by, honking their horns. I
count twelve of them. A bride flashes
by, smothered in armfuls of white
flowers. My heart sinks as I imagine her
nuptial night. On the sidewalk across
the way, two children squat playing a
game of marbles. I hear one of them say
the old lady’s watching us. Yes, it’s
true, I am old.
I decide to go out shopping, to shake
off the dangerous sullenness that’s
sapping my body and mind. In the foyer,
I glimpse Monsieur Longuet, a retired
widower who lives on the floor below me.
It’s too late to turn back. I pretend to
be in a rush, picking up my pace. With a
sweep of the hand, Monsieur Longuet cuts
off my escape. Who, he wonders, is the
nitwit who could have dumped a deep
fryer full of oil down the garbage
chute? This is the question that has
been tormenting Monsieur Longuet. The
apartment owners are innocent, Monsieur
Longuet would stake his life on it;
people aren’t so foolish as to undermine
their own interests. Consequently, the
obvious suspect must be some malicious
tenant, and that’s where the mystery
begins. Monsieur Longuet lowers his
voice. He’s noticed that the two
homosexuals on the fifth floor seem to
be making themselves scarce of late. Not
to draw any hasty conclusions, but
still … Monsieur Longuet catches
his breath. Some terrible disease or
other leaves him hoarse and breathless,
like someone in their death throes. With
each gulp of air, it’s as if an animal
is crying out and dying. Monsieur
Longuet must be one of those people who
live with death. Just then, Madame
Derue materializes out of nowhere. She
withholds judgment on the garbage chute
issue, since she doesn’t like talking
behind people’s backs, but that doesn’t
keep her from thinking ill of others.
So, we wanted to open up the building
to outsiders? Fine. So, we wanted to be
humanitarian and democratic? Wonderful.
And now we’re supposed to be surprised?
Well, she, for one, is not surprised,
not surprised one bit, and she’d go so
far as to say she’s been expecting
something like this for quite some time.
She tried to raise the subject at a
meeting of the co-owners, but she might
as well have been talking to the wall.
So … if the deep fryer had at least
been empty, moaned Monsieur Longuet in a
long, two-note rattle. It’s the oil that
caused all the damage, exclaims Madame
Derue. You should have seen the mess-it
was all over the walls, the floor,
everywhere. I’m telling you, it’s pure
perversion; there’s no other word for
it. When I think that they had to
unscrew the hatch to the garbage chute,
sighs Monsieur Longuet. What do you
mean, unscrew? Madame Derue draws
closer. She hasn’t heard that detail.
Monsieur Longuet assumes an air of
self-importance. The hatch was too
narrow to let the deep fryer down the
chute, so they unscrewed and removed the
hatch, though Monsieur Longuet still
wonders how. It’s downright
Machiavellian, cries Madame Derue. And
with that, she’s off.
I can’t bear this petty gossip. I
attempt another escape, but Monsieur
Longuet detains me. He lives for the few
words he manages to extract from his
neighbors in the building. It’s his only
pleasure. He clings to it. Monsieur
Longuet begs for conversation the way
others beg for change. Just to get by.
He inevitably reminds me of a dog, as
the forlorn often do. Especially when
they’re poor. And old. With their dog
smell, damp and stale. And their haggard
look. An unbearable pleading look that
makes you want to punch them in their
soft bellies. His eyes: empty bowls,
that’s how I see them. And his heart, a
gaping mouth that devours the scraps
tossed its way. I avert my eyes. His
face is fixed in an expression of
insatiable hunger that compels me to
look away. Something about him reminds
one of death. I avoid him. I resort to
the most shameful means to avoid him.
Or flee from him outright. I always make
sure, before opening my door, that he
isn’t lying in ambush in the foyer or
lurking at the end of the corridor,
ready to pounce.
I find this situation exasperating. I
am, proud to say, fanatically polite. I
believe I could subscribe to even the
most dreadful behavior as long as it
didn’t result in bad manners. Yet I find
no polite way to take leave of Monsieur
Longuet. I bid him good-bye, but he
doesn’t react. Good-bye doesn’t work
with him. Good-bye robs him of his life.
So he holds on. He waits, pleading with
his eyes. I have to wish him a nice day,
say I’ll see you soon, see you tomorrow,
see you later, and who knows what else.
He just stands there, waiting. I talk
about how time flies, how fatigue seems
to affect the legs first, how impatient
children can be, whatever silly truism
first crosses my lips. He just stands
there waiting. Finally, I turn my back
on him quite rudely and escape. This
little game has gone on long enough, I
say to myself. But I’ve hardly taken two
steps before he’s harping on about this
awful humidity that makes your feet
swell or the looming American-Muslim
war. Just rambles on.
Ordinarily, I avoid these colloquies,
taking refuge behind a polite reserve
that I know has earned me a reputation in
the building as being arrogant, self-important,
and morbidly rational. This
merits an explanation, for such a
misleading portrayal does me a
disservice. I should point out, first of
all, that by nature and habit of mind, I
am inclined to be reticent, with little
taste for verbal excess. I distrust
phrasemakers, fast-talkers, peddlers of
sentiment and drivel. They overwhelm me.
I loathe base emotions that rise from
the stomach and spill out of open
mouths. They are malodorous. I detest
wallowing in the gossip and backbiting
that bind neighbors together. Such
things sully the soul. I like people to
be discreet and to the point. People who
speak only when they have something to
say. I can count those I’ve known on one
hand. Father was one. Monsieur Meyer is
another. Monsieur Eric Meyer!
Furthermore, I don’t go out of my way
to find friendly people. Friendliness
disgusts me. Wearing the mask of a
smile, friendly people insinuate
themselves into your life. They pry and
wreak havoc. Yes, friendly people take
your slightest smile as an invitation to
start prying. Friendly people bombard
you with prurient questions about your
spouse, your child, your illnesses, and
then onto your private affairs. In the
name of friendliness, they demand you
tell them your best-kept secrets. They
rush to your aid out of friendliness,
because friendly people are helpful
types. They ingratiate themselves out of
friendliness and kiss your ass, while
inspecting you with the thoroughness of
a tax auditor. They believe that you’re
just like them. But when they stumble
across something dark in you that
doesn’t match up with their idea of who
you are, they run in terror. That’s what
friendly people are like. And the worst
among them are friendly doctors, do-gooders,
men like my son-in-law the
doctor who attract the poor and the sick
with their intimate doctorish questions,
since the poor and the sick are so
lonely and miserable that even the
doctor’s routine checklist of questions
provides relief and consolation.
I must add to the aforementioned that
I take great care to avoid any
comparison between myself and Monsieur
Longuet, whose situation could in some
people’s view seem to be the mirror-like
image of my own-a cruel,
unflattering reflection. I haven’t the
slightest intention of being compared to
a retired widower, who’s sick, to top it
all off, and who arouses a condescending
pity in everyone.
Don’t leave like that, begs Monsieur
Longuet.
His recent election as the co-owners’
representative to the building managers
has instilled a new feeling of authority
in him that’s gone to his head. I have
to talk to you about our number one
problem, he wheezes between two hacking
coughs, the fee increase due to roof
repairs. Monsieur Longuet adds a sentence
whose choking sounds take the form of a
strange syncopated whistling, after
which he pauses to take a deep breath,
exhorting me with a wave of the hand to
wait, because he fears I might get away
while he fills his lungs.
As if he’s planned our chance meeting,
Monsieur Longuet takes all the invoices
for the repairs out of his pocket. He
then makes a series of complicated
calculations at dizzying speed. Twenty-thousand
three-hundred and six francs,
and eighty centimes.
Life is hard, he says.
You’re telling me!
But you’re lucky enough to still be
working, to still be good for something,
it’s important in life to be good for
something.
I smile apologetically. If you only
knew how much I envy you.
Don’t say that, for God’s sake.
Monsieur Longuet is skeptical. Everyone
in the building is constantly reminding
him how lucky he is to have so much time
for himself. Can’t wait for retirement,
when we’ll all be taking it easy like
you. But I’m not an idiot, says Monsieur
Longuet. I don’t believe it for a
minute. No one can imagine what an
ordeal retirement is. No one, repeats
Monsieur Longuet, in a kind of sad
meowish voice. It’s not exactly a laugh
a minute around here, believe me.
I would give anything to be in your
place. Everything, I confide with such
sincerity that a hopeful Monsieur
Longuet begins to believe it.
And I, who so despise those who
display their private lives in public, I
who’ve never exposed to anyone the
sickness in my soul outside the
confessional, I who feel nothing but
disdain for the person of Monsieur
Longuet, a widower with no means of
support and who’s sick, and who arouses
in everyone a condescending pity! I find
myself telling him in excruciating
detail all the little tortures inflicted
on me by the new secretary over the past
ten days-her sneers, her snares, her
wiles-her wheedling, adds Monsieur
Longuet. Precisely, I reply. Nothing can
stop the filthy, fetid flow of my
lament. I hardly recognize myself.
Unlike my daughter, who loses
patience whenever I start in with my sob
stories, Monsieur Longuet doesn’t seem
to get tired of this account of my
wretched little vendetta. He’s
developing a taste for it. Licking his
lips. Fodder for a few days. He’s
coming back for another helping. Another
ten minutes snatched from death. He
urges me on. He seems to enjoy the most
pathetic little details.
I even dream about her. Now what do
you make of that?
I understand perfectly.
She has fat thighs, which she keeps
slightly spread to avoid the itching
caused by her sweating skin. Monsieur
Longuet winces in disgust. Her skin is
nauseatingly white; she’s blonde.
Monsieur Longuet is overcome. Have you
noticed that a pale complexion is
generally the harbinger of unhappiness,
relentless grudges, gastric disorders,
and cheap poetry? Monsieur Longuet nods
furiously in assent. And if you only
knew how she treated me!
No! That’s too much, Monsieur Longuet
bursts out in a great bronchial uproar.
(Christ, I’ll never get used to that
racket.) You have to defend yourself,
for goodness’ sake, he chokes. (All of a
sudden I’m afraid that he’s going to
drop dead, right there in front of me on
the staircase.) You can’t let an insect
like her upset you. She has to be put in
her place, for goodness’ sake. If it
were me, I’d show her who’s boss, he
mutters, nearly breathless.
After this series of implosions,
Monsieur Longuet invites me into the
flat for a drink. A little plum liqueur,
something to pep you up. No thank you, I
don’t drink, I’ve never even had a drop
of alcohol, and at my age, I’m not about
to start. Well then, a little orange
soda, a little mint syrup? I hesitate.
But he looks so eager, so needy, that
I’m compelled to refuse. No thank you.
My daughter is waiting for me. Ah,
children, children.
Chapter Three
I am hardly back home for a moment when
I start wishing I had spoken about the
new secretary more accurately. I have
yet to figure out how to isolate the
essence of her being. I put too much
passion in my portrayal of her, too much
hate.
And yet my adversary must be assessed,
that’s a rule in the art of warfare.
Watch her, delve into her, scrutinize
her from every angle, calculate her
capacity to search and destroy. So that
when the time comes, I’ll be ready to
attack.
I start again. I try to define her.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Everyday Life
by Lydie Salvayre
Copyright © 1999 by Éditions du Seuil / Éditions Verticales.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Dalkey Archive Press
Copyright © 1999
Éditions du Seuil / Éditions Verticales
All right reserved.
ISBN: 1-56478-349-9
