A Life on Paper: Stories Read online

  She spoke to him of Paris, of the Bastille Opera and the Louvre. She was wearing a kind of royal blue bubu and sandals, but he had no trouble picturing her in an evening dress and shiny heels at a gala or premiere. They sipped tea and chatted. An old servant brought a cup to Claveton, who smelled some native ruse and refused it.

  Nothing else happened that day. Francois took his leave when it seemed polite to do so. Lalena invited him back when he felt like it. He promised to seize the first opportunity. In the mess, there were rumors about heading south, where trouble still brewed. He walked back to the jeep. The sun was setting, and the shade beneath the tree less dense.

  "So, 'dja jump her?" Claveton inquired.

  "Not yet. She's a respectable woman. I'll have to come back a few 11 times.

  Claveton's normally dull face lit up in a huge grin. A respectable woman… a few times… He understood at once: target and maneuver.

  "You'll come with me?"

  "Uh-huh!"

  "OK, then."

  They made it back to the safe zone without incident.

  The possibility Claveton had alluded to didn't happen on their second or even third visit to Lalena. That is, Francois never did jump her, as Claveton had so delicately put it. On his fourth visit, Lalena led Francois upstairs. He followed her into a room that opened on a broad view of the sea. It was cool and combined the charms and comforts of a bedroom, a balcony, and a grotto: he felt good there. A vast bed occupied the far end. It was flanked by several shelves, one of which bore a tea set, another a game of petits chevaux, and the last paraphernalia for smoking.

  "They'll sell anything around your bases," she told him. "I've got something much nicer here… something like a special reserve wine, if you're interested…"

  Some men in his company would've sold their souls for a taste of such local specialties. Francois wasn't as fond of them, but accepted so as not to put his hostess out. He let her ready the pipes, which she did quite matter-of-factly, no island mumbo-jumbo. Then, while smoking and drinking tea, they played petits chevaux, which he hadn't done since childhood. He found it infinitely more pleasurable than he'd expected. Was it the hashish? The die struck the wooden board with a thunderous sound, and he seemed to hear the hurrahs of an invisible crowd mingling with horses' galloping hooves. It lasted awhile, then the cavalcade and the ovations faded into some unknown distance. He became aware that he and Lalena had tumbled onto the bed, that they were naked. Her lips at his ear, Lalena twittered sweet, unintelligible words.

  Claveton's voice tore Francois from the happy haze where he'd retreated after disentangling himself from Lalena.

  "Francois! Francois! It's late! Where the hell are you?" Claveton had gotten over his initial vision of Francois lying with his throat slit in a ditch, but he was still afraid of missing roll call.

  "Your friend's barking," Lalena said.

  Francois nodded. True enough, but Claveton wasn't the only one. Everyone in the company did their share of barking. Francois rose and began getting dressed.

  "Francois! You there? What the hell are you up to?"

  "Coming!"

  "Christ, get your ass in gear! It's getting dark!"

  "Coming!" Francois smiled apologetically at Lalena, who smiled back.

  "He's right. The road's not safe at night. You'll come back?"

  "First chance I get. If not tomorrow, the day after."

  She blew him a kiss with her fingertips. "Go on…"

  He grabbed his shirt and hurried downstairs. Night was falling in earnest now. Even if they got back safe and sound, they'd still have to get past the guard on duty. Francois didn't know what Claveton feared more, guerillas or Sergeant Colombani, but the big fellow was hopping up and down impatiently.

  "C'mon, c'mon now! Let's beat it!"

  "You going to let me put my shirt on?"

  "If you're lucky. Hey, what's that? You get a tattoo?"

  "Tattoo?"

  Claveton's finger, lightly gleaming with gun lube, pointed at Francois' chest. Francois dropped his gaze. Under his left pec, almost right over his heart, was something written in blue. He was puzzled for a moment, annoyed, then figured Lalena was playing a prank.

  "What does it say? I can't read it."

  "That bitch is a regular comedian! It says `Mortal:"

  "Huh? `Mortal'? What the fuck? What's that mean?"

  "No idea. Get in, we're outta here!"

  "Wait a minute, dammit!" Francois pressed his fingers together like a brush or a palette knife, spat on them, and rubbed the letters vigorously. "Is it coming off?"

  "No. Get in and start'er up already, or they're gonna take us hostage on this piece-of-shit road!"

  They weren't taken hostage, but they did miss roll call. Sergeant Colombani noticed they'd had no real reason for taking the jeep, and promised to stick it to them when they got back from the action. For now, though, everyone was needed: they were headed south on a peacemaking mission.

  This time, a shepherd who didn't respond to their shouted warnings in time had his peace made for him once and for all. They found a penknife on him. A rumor went around that Onfret and Bastini were getting decorated for their little exploit. From that day on, Francois had to keep a closer watch on Claveton, who was clearly ready to make just about anyone's peace to get himself a medal too. After a bloody beginning (at least for half-deaf shepherds), the campaign dwindled to road checkpoints and supply distribution. Neither Onfret nor Bastini ever wound up with a medal; unofficially, they remained mere criminals of war.

  Soldiers cannot afford to be modest. They dress, undress, and wash beneath the eyes of fellow soldiers. The entire company filed past Francois to check out his so-called tattoo. It was generally considered pretentious and pathetic at the same time. Mortal, huh? Big whup! What, you didn't know, ya dunib fuck? Francois let them ride him without protest. What good was telling them, or trying at least, that first of all, it wasn't a tattoo, and second of all, whatever it was, it hadn't been his idea? The word had appeared on his skin as simply as a butterfly alighting, sudden as a tumor. Words didn't flit about in the air looking for a fleshly page, or sprout from the body like mushrooms from a damp, dark spot; it just didn't happen! And yet it had. Try getting them to buy that: the men of his company, who fled poetry and abstraction like the plague, or even an honest army doctor faced at worst) with one bullet wound for every sixty cases of the clap… Opening his mouth would've been risky. Francois was careful to keep it shut. In the end, his "tattoo" was a sorry sight beside Bastini's, and the rest soon lost interest.

  Francois knew-his skin knew-that it wasn't a tattoo. First of all, a tattoo didn't change. You had it, you kept it. Your skin could get old, wrinkled, creased, spotted, and the tattoo ruined, but it wouldn't disappear till you did, into the eternal night of the grave. His own was constantly changing. Clearly no one else had noticed, but he'd quickly seen that its size and color depended on… Francois was reluctant to say his "mood;" but that was how it was. The six letters that made up the word "Mortal" got bigger or smaller, clearer or blurrier, went from dark to light blue, and sometimes almost green, according to his feelings at a given moment. Sometimes the letters even grew so clear as to be imperceptible. At first, Francois was tempted to show Claveton. He stopped himself just in time. Claveton would've been a troublesome witness. He'd have yelled out loud and gotten everyone else stirred up. Or he might not even have understood that the sudden absence of the word on Francois' chest was as unnatural, as "miraculous," as its presence five hours before or after. For the word always returned. The same night, or the next morning, when Francois took a moment alone to check, he found it back in its place, seemingly indelible, definitive, fateful, like a stamp on an official file.

  They wound up north again. Sergeant Colombani hadn't forgotten his promise. Francois and Claveton were confined to camp for fifteen days. While everyone else caught up with the easy beauties of the bar district, Colombani made it his job to find them more morally as well as physically
wholesome activities.

  When the fifteen days were up, the first place they headed was a brothel. Claveton was fine with stealing a jeep, dropping Francois off at Lalena's, getting busted by Colombani on the way back, and catching a month of extra chores and confinement all over again-but not before getting himself laid.

  Several days went by before an opportunity presented itself. This time they didn't have to misappropriate army equipment. Two reporters off to explore the coast gave them a ride in their Range Rover and arranged to pick them up again that night on the way back.

  The house was all locked up. Francois found a letter tacked to the door. Sun and sea wind had already weathered and discolored the paper. In violet ink on the envelope was written Francois' first and last name, misspelled. Letter in hand, he went to sit down on a concrete bench facing the strip of beach. He read the letter several times. It was polite and bland, nothing like the letter of a witch who wrote disturbing things in magic ink on her lovers' bodies. Lalena had left for Switzerland. She wanted to see him again. She'd left a phone number in Geneva, but the campaign in the south had lasted several months and the number was probably no good now. If it belonged to a hotel, or friends of hers, thought Francois, surely he could pick up her trail again? He shrugged. Even if he found her, what would he say? What is this goddamned thing you stuck me with? Don't play innocent with me! This thing on my skin? I caught it from you, and now it won't go away!

  He spent an unsettled afternoon smoking and watching the waves, reading Lalena's letter and draining the bottle of whisky he'd brought her as a gift, thinking about life in general and that damned word in particular, about his bad luck in having to bear, inscribed and spelled out, the final word on the human condition… He'd taken off his shirt. There it was, quite legible, the same blue as the sea. He found it especially despicable that day: insolent, triumphant in the vacuity of waiting. When he was good and drunk, he scratched at the word until it bled, and asked Claveton to burn it with his lighter. All he'd have to do was get it patched up by the medic when they got back, and then they'd never have to speak of it, there'd be a pretty scar in its place; he didn't care about the pain, it was a price he was ready to pay.

  Ever cautious when beyond the base's perimeter, Claveton hadn't had so much as a drop to drink. He refused to burn Francois. Did he, Claveton, have to do the thinking for both of them? What about Colombani? If the Barge found out, he wouldn't let it rest. Self-inflicted wounds or mutilation in a zone of operations, with enemy right next door? You could get yourself court-martialed for that. Francois flew into a rage. He ordered Claveton to do it. Claveton replied that as a private second class, he didn't have to take orders from another private second class. Francois called him a dumbass and tried himself to burn the few square inches of his own skin that were poisoning his life. He moved the flame toward his chest, screamed, and dropped it. All he'd managed was a blister. He finished off the whisky to dull the pain. When the reporters honked from the road, Claveton called them over to help. They had a hell of a time hauling Francois into the Range Rover.

  Francois didn't try to find Lalena after his discharge. The letter with the phone number in Geneva had remained on the beach by the house, along with the empty bottle. Besides, when he gave it more thought, he came to the conclusion that Lalena'd had nothing, or almost nothing, to do with it. Perhaps her skin had only been a catalyst? He had but to close his eyes to remember how soft she'd felt, how sweet she'd smelled… That was it: his skin had reacted to contact with hers, and this was the result. Why not? What did anyone know? What did anyone have time to understand about this dark, embroiled world, by the wavering light of their mind and senses, in the span so meanly allotted to them? He figured he'd have to riddle it out on his own. His idea of burning it off hadn't altogether been bad, just a bit crude and brutal. After all, plastic surgery hadn't been created for dogs. When he got back to France, he made an appointment with a dermatologist. If it resembled a tattoo, it could be removed like a tattoo. The night before his visit, he was full of hope. The nightmare was about to end. He would forget this ridiculous affair, all that pathos in such poor taste, and once more be a normal, decent man who thought about death only once in a while. He took a sleeping pill, drained his nightly glass of water down to the last drop, and slept like a child.

  The next day, about to step into the shower, he found that with the exception of his face and neck, his entire body-even his prick, even the soles of his feet-was covered with writing. Scrawled in thick awkward capitals, penned in dainty cursive, even calligraphically scripted, the word "Mortal" a thousand times over bound him in a blue web, like the tangled weave of a net flung on him from above. He knew then he would never be free, and burst into tears.

  Later, when he'd calmed down, he called the dermatologist and cancelled his appointment. Slowly, in the months that followed, the flare-up receded; things went back to normal. All that remained on his skin was the one original word, where it had first appeared. As before, it flickered with the passing days-regularly and peacefully, on the whole-the pilot light of a terror now so deep-set as to be inseparable from life's own daily rounds.

  Lozere, December 1992

  The Peacocks

  still recall: we had such confidence, we'd set out to devour the world, to conquer it all, even the planets and the starry void be- vond the skies, it was all our America, a land promised and delivered, and then the quiet, stubborn things wore us down as words wear away an eraser.

  We were living in a house in the country, Marie and I and two peacocks. Mornings I liked to let her sleep in, pale in the shadowsan eye, a cheek, a rounded shoulder, a leg sometimes surfacing from the sheets as though from quicksand. I'd step outside. In the yard, a peacock was turning toward the rising sun. I'd whistle, calling out to that handsome idiot: come, come to your master, my colored one, my brightly bedecked swaggerer, come! He'd freeze and fix an empty round eye on me. He'd been dreaming; he woke to my whistle, alarmed at being in the world. His mate soon joined him. They stared at me, waiting for God knows what, or perhaps it was simple-watching and waiting for the golden shower of grain that poured each morning from my hands. I was God. I fulfilled their expectations, reaching deep into a sack for wheat that disappeared into the cracks between the porch floorboards-eat, you dumb animals. There, just like that, then groom your feathers, and peck, or cluck, whatever it is you peacocks do, what good are words now anyway, they'll all be forgotten soon.

  I'd close up the sack and lean it against a wall in the foyer. Cross the yard and open the gate. We never forgot to close it at night. In a world now safe as a tomb, I held on to this pathetic, childish ritual. I'd take a few steps out into the road, the king stepping from the Louvre to his death. The road was empty.

  The village wasn't far away. If I'd wanted, I could've pushed on to the next bend. I would've passed, lost in the fog, a bell tower; a few chimneys without smoke; an isolated shack, once a military outpost, long loud with grunts. A neighbor had kept pigs there. We'd often stop there on the way to the market, when there'd still been a market. Marie loved little piglets, little kids, little gifts. Whenever we were walking she always found something to pet-a puppy, a kitten, a calf, a lamb to coo over, a child to coddle. I stayed a few steps behind, hands in my pockets, urging her to keep walking. The only small things she hated were her breasts, and complained about them till the very end.

  I'd go back inside.

  We'd inherited all humanity had to offer. Books, music, paintingsthey were all ours. At first, Marie put on a different dress each time she put another record on the player. To listen better, she said, to feel more. Maybe we wouldn't have made it through the early days without acting silly, going a bit crazy. Whenever we came back from a spree I'd open the crates and we'd try out canned food, alcohol, candy, test out fabrics; I was saving the books for later. Marie was bewitched by a music box. She had thirty other ones already, the prettiest… That's not all, I said, wait'll we unload the piano and the wing chair and the
desk. We set to it clumsily-her in a nightgown and me in an alpaca suit and were soon out of breath. The peacocks watched us struggle under the weight of the marquetry-excited, sweating, egging ourselves on with swigs of wine. That night, though the truck was still half full and we hadn't finished setting up-to tell the truth, we never really finished-we set the table among the furniture and crates. And ate, drank, were merry. All that crystal, porcelain, silver, and silk, for us alone. Sometimes Marie draped herself in the biggest, heaviest jewels she could find, and sometimes she wore only one, tiny and chosen with great care from among the thousands in her chest. Sometimesoften-she dined in a wedding dress that she'd throw out the next day, tossing it, sauce- or champagne-stained, into the well behind the house. We had drawers and drawers of baroque lingerie with charming, ridiculous names-Rita, Gypsy, Barcarolle, Lady Luck, Nina, Snowy Lace. I dressed up as a commodore, an admiral, anything flashy and official-gold trim, epaulettes, medals galore-and we'd dance.

  At first light we'd go out on the front steps and take a deep breath or throw up. Pale, emaciated, a stray lock falling over her eye, Marie would sit on a step in a black lace teddy cut away around her nipples and belly, her stockings mauve or apple green. She'd just sit there and weep, shaking and shivering in the bitter little wind of dawn. Curious, the peacocks would watch us from the other side of the yard, where I'd built a little hut, and the dazed male would spread his feathers. I'd sit down next to Marie. We'd cradle each other in tears and whispers. Slowly, the sun would chase away the cruelties of dawn. Bit by bit, we'd relax, spreading our legs in the growing warmth, and sleep would come for us wherever we were. One night we drank more than usual and it was death who came instead.

  I woke and saw the peacocks in the middle of the yard, pecking away between strands of Marie's strewn hair. From the porch, where it seemed she'd collapsed, to that spot-the barest, most exposed spot, where she now lay-a purple trickle ran across the brown earth, buzzing with flies. The sun beat down, hard and bright. I bent down and veiled her grey lips, her shit-smeared cheek, with a scrap of stocking before lifting her body. All the way to the steps I had to fend off the distressed birds, kicking out as they screeched and pranced around my legs.