What’s disgusting, you see, Jérôme, is promiscuity. In touching me I, no, I mean when you touch me, I have the most curious, oh so curious sensation of a moral taint. As if there were someone else in this room with us, do you see what I’m saying? You see, my dear Jérôme, Solange sometimes makes me think of that knife without a blade or a handle that Lichtenberg talked about, but unfortunately, Solange can cause quite a bit of damage, which is hardly the case for the German writer’s harmless conceit. I asked Monsieur Cloret if he knew that mohair wool was made from the hair of goats. Did he know the difference between a goat and a sheep? I knew the difference, oh yes I did: goats live in the mountains, sheep in the ravines, close to the underground springs. Goats feed on acorns and truffles, sheep on roots and pebbles. Goats are born in wintertime, sheep in springtime, a little after the equinox. It was Solange who had taught me about all that. Yes, Solange, SHE, and nobody else. In saying that, I watched him defiantly, and it seemed to me that slowly, slowly, I was regaining my normal size. There was no doubt, Monsieur Cloret was dazzled by my knowledge, I think it even made him a little afraid, but I remained suspicious because Solange had taught me to never trust anyone, especially in the springtime, that dirty season when one is led in spite of oneself to indulgence. I had a desire to jump up and down on that horrible pink tie, a mad desire, my discomfort was growing, I felt like I was suffocating, but I didn’t dare make the least movement: under his do-gooder’s appearance, this benefactor of humanity must have been a violent man, with no pity for losers. Therefore one had to be careful. Because it’s not always the wind that makes the black flowers, under the privets, begin to quiver, did he realize that? He began to scratch his foot conscientiously. All his intelligence was concentrated in that action, all his nastiness too, and I said to myself, not without sadness, that never, never would he know what Solange had taught me: he would die ignorant, forgotten by everyone, in a little filthy room, and after his death, he would no doubt go on stupidly scratching his foot, because of that awful smell of warm cookies that always followed him around, which he would never be able to get used to. Crepe paper flowers, do you see, Jérôme? It’ll be fun—life as one great carnival. Childhood regained, and a good salary too. He was trying to prove to me that paper flowers, not decaying, are not subject to the disgusting alternation of the seasons, and so grant to those who fabricated them a strange sensation of power. To be an ape of God, doesn’t that tempt you, my good fellow? To give lessons to nature itself? To rival the Creator in inventions and beauties? Imagine! Monsieur Cloret was wiggling in his seat, turning pleading glances on me. Then I told him no. Softly at first, then louder and louder. All those paper flowers—no way. No crepe paper, no work, none of it. No overtime on Saturdays, fuck no, not on holidays, no night shifts. No fun, no carnival, nothing. Go away, Monsieur Cloret, forget about me, I’ve never asked you for anything, scram and begone. I’ve seen enough of you. I would not very much like to have to get angry. My torturer didn’t react, he was content to play the martyr, like he had sacrificed his whole life in vain for me. I almost felt guilty, little by little, seeing him so noble, so generous, and myself so petty, so egotistical, crawling like a worm, incapable of reaching that fabulous region where he now moved, turning slowly between the pale pink clouds, with gestures of love full of infinite grace. How had I let myself be so aggressive with such a kind-hearted man? I tried in vain to remove my gaze from his horrible pink tie, while repeating to myself softly, as the blood beat against my temples sounding like the ocean: no doubt because of the wind, no doubt because of the wind. Yes, it was indeed the wind that had brought this holy man through the open window at the same time as the smell of the warm cookies. I should have been on my guard, Solange was right: springtime is indeed the season of evil spells. I began to cry again, and, as I sobbed I tried to tell Monsieur Cloret that I was okay with working in his factory for artificial flowers, but I only managed to burble a few barely comprehensible words. Because the flowers were not in bloom. No longer, or not yet, the hawthorns, how to know, it was totally the season yet there was nothing, yet their smell was so strong, so penetrating, almost sexual, I breathed it in until I fainted and yet nothing had flowered, except those black flowers, rubbery as mushrooms, bent by the wind under the privets, what are those called again, brindusias, tarnations, brindagios, rowers of the night, I couldn’t remember anymore, I should have asked Solange to write down the name for me, then I would have been able to learn it by heart and I surely would have been less afraid. Useless to ask Monsieur Cloret that question, he would have laughed in my face. Because they were no longer in bloom. Could he understand that? He was watching my face for a vague sign of sympathy, but saw nothing there. He watched me coldly, I’m sure that you’re still thinking about Paulina Semilionova. I know all about that, stop acting so innocent. I know very well that you’ve been hanging out with her for some time now. I still have some friends at Semivolsky High School. Don’t forget that I used to teach there four or five years ago, before I began taking care of the handicapped, although I don’t like that word very much. I’m speaking to you as a friend: forget that kid, forget her, you’ve got a world of trouble ahead of you, Jérôme. Think of the future, of the exciting job I’m offering you. You’re not a child anymore, for heaven’s sake! Accept it, Jérôme, accept that you don’t have anything to lose, you can finally reach the dignity of adulthood, all while living in dream and fantasy, like a kid. After a certain time, you’ll be as free as a god. I’m asking you, take this opportunity I’m giving you, because it won’t come again soon. This time, I found the strength to tell Monsieur Cloret that never, never would I work in his shithouse of a paper flower factory. He seemed horribly upset. But you’ve understood absolutely nothing, my dear Jérôme, it’s absolutely not a factory, but a creative center, where every human can bloom to their full potential, you see? Freedom, not slavery. As he uttered the word “freedom,” he held back a sob, then, seeing that I wasn’t reacting, he began to stare at me with a severe expression, like Solange when she suspected me of having done something stupid. No doubt because of the wind. But, while waiting, the kids were spreading out in the city and, among them, Paulina, probably skipping like she did whenever school let out: it made me shake with rage to imagine her free in the streets, subject to the indecent glances of the passersby, ready to let herself be fondled by the first hoodlum who knows how to get her into bed with pretty words. I saw her, behind the bushes, overcome with happiness, eyes half-closed, smiling at boys whose names were not Jérôme Bauche, but maybe, I don’t know, Alain Flandret, Georges Michalon, Étienne Garaindou, Jean Boulagre, or maybe René Flanoche, Sébastien Vendrage, François Léric-Machoul, Yves Barbotte-Cassaindre, Didier Mernulle, I watched them out the corner of my eye, in my mind I spelled the names of these boys who held her in their arms, I made them up constantly and I was madly jealous of them, Ledrut, Farlot, Majar, Tamplouse, all those names that came to me and burst in my mind like bubbles on the surface of a pond, Dolfage, Renoc, Tarino, every one of them a slender and seductive high-schooler, whom the girls let do with them as they liked without asking for anything in return, the Pasqualins, the Tortu-Floridès, the Machevilles, oh yes I know them well, they all came to scoff at me, they gathered outside my window and I couldn’t even move, paralyzed on my chair by the severe look of Monsieur Cloret like the rabbit before the serpent about to scarf it down whole. I even repeated, stammering, in a voice that grew weaker and weaker: no, Monsieur Cloret, it’s out of the question. Crepe paper flowers, Jérôme. All day long? Yes, and in the evening you can go back home, watch television or do crosswords. Would Polly let me go under her skirt, if I gave here mauve crepe paper flowers, mauve being her favorite color? Of course not, come on. I had to drive such stupid thoughts out of my mind, and moreover, why did I give Paulina that ridiculous nickname? Just to seem interesting, like the teens? Anyways, he wasn’t fooled, he knew very well that I was acting and that deep down, I was intelligent. I made an expression of astonishment: oh yeah?… Oh yes, Jérôme, don’t forget that you were a very strong student before, many people have confirmed this to me. You were even promised… He stopped himself suddenly, as though he were afraid of having said too much. In any case, all that to say that it’s not too late to get a grip. Think hard about what I’m offering you: a good salary, one month of vacation, some money set aside in case of sickness, marriage, or death. Retirement? Yes, a good retirement too, one that will allow you to finish out life decently, nothing excessive, of course, but a nice and quiet little life all the same. Easy peasy, you know what I mean, Jérôme. I said to Monsieur Cloret that that was what interested me the most: couldn’t I start with retirement? No, that wasn’t possible, work first, then rest afterwards. That’s how everyone did it, and nobody complained. That’s how it’s always been. It didn’t bother me to be my mother’s dependent, with forty-two years under my belt, me, a strapping fellow, six foot two. Weighing three hundred and ten pounds? No, that didn’t bother me. And anyways, my true weight was three hundred and thirty pounds, not three hundred and ten. I pointed out to him that he smelled like rancid oil and that the color of his tie was intolerable to me. It really didn’t go with my blue mohair shirt. He replied that he didn’t give a damn about that. Then I shouted in his face that mommy had knitted it and that I had not given him permission to insult her: she was half blind and only moved with difficulty, so he should respect her. RE-SPECT, did he understand that? He quickly stood up from his armchair, pale with rage. He had lost all control, all dignity, and was sputtering and stammering. Respect her? Let’s talk about that, everyone knew very well that I had pushed my mother down the stairs on a day when she didn’t want to give me money to buy the junk food I gave to my girlfriends in exchange for a shameful grope in the corner, by the doors of the school or by the urinals, a bastard of the worst kind, that’s what I was, a big idiot manipulated by vicious little girls who would one day end up reporting me, and then, yes, then would happen to me what happened to Benjy in Fockner’s novel, they would lop mine off, and I would stand there, moaning and leering at kids, incapable of doing anything else. I answered him that I didn’t know who Benjy was, and that, moreover, I didn’t give a shit about him. The only novel by Fockner that I had read was Sanctuary, and I had learned it by heart to make Solange happy, who had loaned it to me. But in general, I didn’t like to read, it gave me a headache, I had barely read more than four or five novels in my life, but still… The only one that I liked was Sanctuary, that Fockner was really somebody, a good guy, I loved him like a brother, I didn’t understood everything, to be sure, but I could recite entire passages by heart, like this one, for example, which made Solange cry, and sent me into a sweet melancholy: “In the pavilion a band in the horizon blue of the army played Massenet and Scriabin, and Berlioz like a thin coating of tortured Tchaikovsky on a slice of stale bread, while the twilight dissolved in wet gleams from the branches, onto the pavilion and the sombre toadstools of umbrellas. Rich and resonant the brasses crashed and died in the thick green twilight, rolling over them in rich sad waves. Temple yawned behind her hand, then she took out a compact and opened it upon a face in miniature sullen and discontented and sad. Beside her…” Monsieur Cloret interrupted me. Listen, my boy, I didn’t come to hear a poetry recital. Also I should point out to you that one doesn’t say Fockner, but Faulkner. FAULK-NER. You know that perfectly, moreover, you are only pretending to butcher his name so you can remain faithful to the role that you have decided to play once and for all. Except, what you don’t realize is that you’re betraying yourself by reciting a passage that’s not especially easy to remember, especially for a so-called idiot…
Jean-Pierre Martinet was born in 1944. An aspiring filmmaker, his first novel La Somnolence appeared in 1975, followed by his masterpiece Jérôme in 1978. After publishing two more novels in 1986, L’ombre des forêts and Ceux qui n’en mènent pas large, Martinet stopped writing, retreating to his mother’s house in Libourne and further into alcoholism. He died in 1993, aged only 49. When once asked to provide a brief biographical note, Martinet replied: “Starting from nothing, Martinet has had an exemplary career: he has gone nowhere.”
Jacob Siefring is a literary translator, editor, and library professional residing in Ottawa, Canada. His translations and criticism have appeared in the Montreal Review of Books, The White Review, Music & Literature, BOMB Magazine, and a dozen other literary reviews. His translated books include Tentacular Cities by the Belgian poet Émile Verhaeren and several books by contemporary French author Pierre Senges, such as The Major Refutation, Studies of Silhouettes, Rabelais’s Doughnuts, and (as co-translator) Ahab: Sequels. He is co-editor and co-founder of the Empyrean Series, a publishing project dedicated to the rediscovery of lesser-known works from the history of world literature.
© Éditions du Sagittaire, Paris 1978. Published with the kind permission of Editions Grasset
