I am back in Dampierre for a big party. I’m confident and optimistic but, in the immense kitchen and the many dining rooms, a crowd of people who are all more or less familiar, but neither Z. nor her children. I look for her in the park.
Shouts are heard: Niki! Niki! Niki arrives with her seventeen dogs, who jump on me and nearly knock me over, but then they prove affectionate and frisky. Though she’s met me only once, Niki shakes my hand enthusiastically and suggests that I call H., one of our mutual friends, to invite him to join us on Wednesday. Alas, I tell her, on Wednesday I won’t be there anymore.
I walk through kitchens and dining rooms again. There are more and more people and there’s not enough food for everyone. The crowd is getting restless. New arrivals are announced (Z.? food?). People watch the road with binoculars; it’s a straight road that goes on forever, but no sign of any arrivals.
Did I see C.? Did I see S.? Did they tell me their mother was waiting for me? Her room is dark, but at one point I saw a hand wiping a window (the glass of a small square window) with a red-checkered handkerchief (Vichy).
A bit later.
Maybe Z. is in the children’s building. It’s a cardboard house. To enter the ground floor, you have to first cross an extremely narrow but apparently extensible hallway. I go in head first, wondering whether—or rather almost not being surprised that—my shoulders will fit. I’ve already made it half of the way, but inside I see a worker appear (without knowing why, I call him a plasterer): he is coming from the staircase to Z.’s quarters and going toward another staircase. He is holding an electric drill with a heavy-duty sander on it.
I pull myself out of the duct, which almost seems to come with me, nearly collapsing the whole structure.
At my feet there is someone whom I take at first for a small child, a thin and puny being with an elongated head and skinny little limbs.
The children’s building is now a two-story caravan with a wood and copper double door (like the door of a sleeper car). I want to go in through this door, and so does the small child, but I take him by the scruff of the neck and throw him back out. I realize then that it’s a small animal, a bit like a cartoon skunk. It scratches and bites me. It looks mean.
I make it into the caravan. It’s my room. Z.’s might be upstairs, but it seems less and less certain that Z. is even there.
The animal has managed to enter partway between the first and second doors. Suddenly I am so frightened that it will make it into my room, then scare me by hiding in the nooks and crannies, that I decide to kill it. I lay it across my lap; I squeeze its neck, it fights back, but weakly. It looks harmless (frightened, resigned, big sad eyes); its slender paws twitch in furtive little jolts. I squeeze harder. I realize I’m killing it, and soon it’s a small, motionless child. The pressure in his neck veins has increased, grown stronger and stronger, and suddenly stopped.
(I wake up, fingers all numb, soaked in sweat)
A bit later (waking dream)
I am in a dark room. In front of me is a door open onto a dimly lit room. A woman with grey hair and wearing a long dress comes and goes.
But what had been innocuous thus far, not even upsetting, is all at once horrifying: it’s the same woman as that character in Psycho (a young madman dressed like his elderly mother), the sight of whom (in Sfax, ten years earlier) had disturbed me so much that the whole of the night after I was kept awake just remembering my panic and hearing, under the bed and other furniture, noises made by an imaginary animal.
THREE DREAMS FROM J. L.
No. 38
1966
The Palais de la Défense, I
I am in the Palais de la Défense. It is crumbling.
I rush down a staircase with my wife.
No. 39
1968
The stone bridge
A stone bridge, at the crossing of a road and a river.
A signal sign indicates the name of the place:
(YOU)
In parentheses.
No. 40
1972
The Palais de la Défense, II
I am in the Palais de la Défense. Its enormous vault seems to be opening, then closing.
Later: I am still in the Palais de la Défense. There is no longer a vault, or, rather, the vault, the palace, are everywhere.
No. 41
January 1971
The chase in Dublin
An action movie in color; the color is very flat, a fawn-toned monochrome, very “Hollywood” (like Douglas Sirk’s Captain Lightfoot or Raoul Walsh’s The World in His Arms).
It takes place in Dublin, in the XIXth century.
The single central character, whom I am shadowing, is a revolutionary chief who has either been handed over to the police or, rather, been sentenced to death by his former comrades.
He knows it.
He is walking with a small dog and he knows that as soon as two dogs come to track him it will be the signal for the assassins to show themselves.
He does not try to escape what is clearly inevitable; on the contrary, he keeps walking, shows his face all over town, goes into pubs, etc. People turn away from him, or look at him with hatred, spite or pity. But no dog will even come close to his dog.
But suddenly, at one point, the dog escapes her master and runs off.
Hasty run to catch her. For he is willing to die, but he does not want to know when and by whose hand.
Crossing courtyards
Scaling walls
Climbing stairs
Very upsetting: everything and everyone become threatening.
There are at least two shots of the same circular path (actually, the scene always goes in a circle and we end up where we began—like in an engraving by that Swiss artist whose name escapes me (Escher) or, rather, like being on a gigantic Mōbius strip.
There could be scenes with a bit of a “Pepe le Moko” feel to them.
At one point, a bit distressed, I try to “make the image go faster” (to watch myself run up the stairs faster) but I can’t.
No. 42
January 1971
Making the meal
Z. is throwing a party for a friend. On the other side of a small partition, we—i.e., me supervising a crowd of kitchen hands—are making dinner. We’re in high spirits, we’re singing. I’m making some kind of cream, mayonnaise or flan, using lots of ingredients out of boxes: how easy this is! How appetizing!
But—maybe later, at the end—a small animal comes and eats from the plate.
I’m very cheerful. I am the fool, the favored entertainer.
No. 43
January 1971
Apartment
Henri G.’s apartment. Interconnected rooms in “quincunx formation.”
In each room, stereo equipment: tape recorders, radios, stereos, and more, and more, ever more perfect.
No. 44
January 1971
High fidelity
I am walking with P. across the “high fidelity” section of a department store. Maybe one of the appliances has a particularly remarkable shape?
No. 45
January 1971
The tank
P. and one of her friends and I have moved into an abandoned house. Though I recall having recently drunk water from the tap, we are told to use only mineral water, even to cook our food. But the bottle of water we find doesn’t even have a cap.
We sit down to eat. Under the table we find (a bit like a chewed and abandoned piece of gum) a bit of pâté. Though it is likely several days old, it doesn’t seem rotten in the slightest, but P. throws it out in disgust.
Out of the high, narrow window, I notice an immense tank. It’s actually a cliff, but it has the unmistakable look of a tank: large metallic plates covered with layers of varnish or paint that are chipping off in patches or coming loose from their base, like huge blisters. The whole thing looks muddy, dirty and slippery.
Soon I make out, moving from left to right, a small boy running on the upper tr
acks of the tank, which is really the length of a path carved into the face of the cliff. A man is chasing him. Another man pops up and blocks his passage. The child’s only chance of escape is to jump, but it’s truly a jump into the wide open and his life is at stake. It seems clear that he’s hesitant to dive, but at the last minute he loses his balance and jumps, like a child who is pushed into a pool and decides to make a dive of it once he realizes he’s going to fall into the water anyway.
At the very bottom of the cliff-tank is a lake that I can see from the window. P. and her friend are now on the opposite shore.
The child falls into the lake, feet first, but it’s as though he had jumped from only a few centimeters. There is very little water. The child keeps running toward the center of the lake, then, losing his footing, begins to swim. The two men swim after him. They are obviously cops and a police boat sets off from the bank and blocks the child’s path. He dives down and emerges a bit farther off, but this time he’s completely surrounded. Then a new person pops up: a man with a beard and maybe a pistol. He is threatening the police, not to kill them but to kill himself if they don’t let the child go. They do.
I catch up with P. on the bank. We recount indignantly what we have just seen, like a scandalous and revealing news story.
No. 46
January 1971
Concentration camp in the snow
or
Winter sports in the camp
Only a single image remains: that of someone with shoes made of very hard snow, or ice, irresistibly suggesting the idea of a hockey puck.
No. 47
February 1971
The Chinese restaurant
I am with Henri G. at a very expensive Chinese restaurant.
We’ve been discussing something in the news, no doubt a scuffle between some kids.
Now we see them, the kids, on television. They’re up on a pedestal, in military dress and performing various mass gymnastics.
No. 48
February 1971
The battery-operated alarm clock
1
I am at a bar with a fairly famous Italian actress. Though she is over fifty, she is a remarkably pretty woman, still in excellent shape. She is imagining without rejecting—on the contrary, with satisfaction—the notion of becoming my mistress. But the clock strikes six and she abruptly gets up and leaves.
2
P. has given me a battery-operated alarm clock; it is spherical and transparent, and has several little suction pads and two oblong pieces attached laterally on each side whose function is unclear. But Abdelkader Z. is playing with the pieces, losing them. The alarm clock is unusable. I am very angry.
3
Major railway strike. Red flags on the tracks block the trains. I walk along the rails, suitcase in hand. I enter a city, perhaps Grenoble. I cross an intersection where cops (all in plainclothes, looking almost friendly) are gathered. Before, I had pulled out of the ground one of the innumerable red flags that were planted there and covered my hand with it to carry my suitcase (a gesture I felt was in solidarity with the strikers).
I walk along the palisades. I get to a church. Actually, there are no walls, and the floor is made of macadam, like the street, but only a roof held up by pillars.
I look for the priest, who is not there, but I see him suddenly, hiding above his altar. He comes toward me and says:
“I want to be a father”
“But you cannot you are a priest”
He answers that it makes no difference.
Two herring merchants (the fat Marseillais sort) look at us.
4
The same scene but another setting.
I am at a friend’s house (maybe H.’s). I am dismayed because I have to return to the army. I haven’t finished my service yet. I calculate that I should be free again around February 15th. They could let it slide, since it’s not worth making me come back for so little time, especially since I’ll have to jump (with a parachute) the following day and all the requisite medical visits will take a long time.
My companions explain to me that they’re going to leave town and go back to Paris, and I won’t see them again.
Maybe the battery-operated alarm clock makes another appearance here.
No. 49
February 1971
M/W
In a book I’m translating, I find two phrases: the first ends with “wrecking their neck,” the second with “making their naked,” a slang expression that means “to strip naked.”
No. 50
February 1971
The intruder
Someone has managed to enter my home through the thin shower partition. He knocks and calls out to me. There’s nothing hostile in his voice, in any case. It’s a woman, I suppose; I smell her at the foot of my bed, she is whispering something in my ear; I am absolutely convinced I’m not dreaming; I wake with a start, a bit panicked, hearing myself say:
“What is it?”
(a few moments later, someone rings at the door. It’s C., who has come to have breakfast with me and has brought croissants)
No. 51
February 1971
The big courtyard
A courtyard, a huge space surrounded by houses. I run into Henri C., who tells me he’s going down to Grenoble too and can take me.
We all have dinner together. I move from table to table. There is nothing to eat except cheese, and in almost all cases the cheese looks fine but turns out to be crawling with worms. I tell P. about this, and she says she knew about it, having gone back up to her place. But she makes me a tart anyway, checking (by opening it all around) that the piece she’s giving me is wormless.
Several times I get up to leave. I kiss everyone (several girls on the mouth). Z. is there, staying a bit off to the side, but smiling. Except for a girl who is crying and refuses to let me kiss her (though she relents later) everyone is relaxed (even though I’m leaving?). The hugs and kisses goodbye restart several times. Henri C. and his wife are taking the plane from Grenoble to Paris and I the train. He reiterates his offer to drive me. I accept, asking that we leave right away, since I like to get my seat on the train fifteen minutes before it leaves. Henri C. answers that we still have time for a cup of coffee (it’s foul but it’s hot). Coffee is served in one of the buildings in the courtyard, the only one with lights on. There are three steps leading up to it. Smoke-filled room, poor people eating, a counter in back. They bring us our coffee outside (we’re crouched on the ground) on a large tray. There are only three large mugs—one black, two very white—and a teacup. I take a sip of black coffee, which was not meant for me (but nothing was meant for me).
Henri C. is very elegant, very youthful; he is wearing a soft black hat, which I tell him looks terrific on him.
No. 52
February 1971
Seaside
’Twas a story replete with twists and turns. It took place near Nice, by the sea. Maybe Menton. Alain Delon was involved, or a friend of Alain Delon. I had dinner in a restaurant whose owner knew my uncle. Later, I wanted to go back there; I called, but ultimately I didn’t make a reservation. My uncle, rather dryly as I recall, scolded me; for what I’m not sure, maybe for not telling him about it.
I returned to Paris in a magnificent machine, ultramodern and very sci-fi. I remember panoramic portholes. Dizzying speed.
No. 53
February 1971
The Renshaw
Exchanges
Pillars for 4
common word I forget
Ren-Shaw
(Shaw-Ren)
Inhibition
(I scratched these words out in the night; I find them in the morning; none of them evokes any particular memory)
(recurring Renshaw inhibition is, to put it crudely, a loop system controlling muscular contraction)
No. 54
February 1971
The masters thesis
It might have been at Jean Duvignaud’s, or maybe at Paul Virilio’s.
I notice a mimeographed work on the table and open it. It’s a masters thesis—devoted to stage design, it seems—written by A. while she was in South America. I hadn’t heard about it, but I am at once surprised and pleased that she did something during her long stay.
There is a particular detail: the title page was composed by (and here some sort of famous name) on an IBM 307 (let’s say).
I remember, on that note, that Pierre G. had once spoken to me of automatic composition.
This might take place at a cocktail party where things like this make for good conversation.
No. 55
March 1971
The support polygon