memories of an amnesiac

8/11/2019 Memories of an Amnesiac

1/8

Memories of an Amnesiac

Author(s): Jan J. Dominique and Marie-Agns SourieauSource: Callaloo, Vol. 15, No. 2, Haitian Literature and Culture, Part 1 (Spring, 1992), pp. 445-451Published by: The Johns Hopkins University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/2931252.

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2/8

from MEMORIES OF AN AMNESIAC*

By Jan

J.

Dominique

I

havejust

madeup my mind. Coming

backfrom

work,

I

did notfeel likecooking,or reading,

or

going out again, and

I

know

what

this lackofdesiremeans.

I

have thought or a while about my escapeof these last threedays, my conversationwith

Martine

elling

her how

ed up

I

am,

the

letters

to

Steve,

and

especially

Paul's visit.

I

was

not

satisfied

with the text. I

feel

that

I

need

to write

it,

to

finish it,

but

my

mind

is

totally

blank.

I

need o write this text. I remember

xplaining o Eli the two centersof interest

n

my life, and

he teased

me: the Country

n

abscissa, n axis the

Text. I am a

curve

which

sometimesmoves

up, sometimesmovesdown;

I

have not

thoughtof

an order

of importance,

othare

linked;

t

cannot

be

any otherway.

Bothare

so intimately

inked hatI am

beginning

o wonderabout he

meaningof this emptiness.

I

feel

like

destroying

he

pagesalreadywritten,

I am not

satisfied

with them, theydo not conveywhat Ifeel, think, ive. When write, there s betweenmy head

and my handa distance hat distorts

everything,

hat masks

my

real

being.

Paul

has readthe

text and talked f a gag. YesI am

gagged,

I

gag myself;

would

ike,

I want to remove

his

gag

but

it

is holdingon tightly, I am aware

that

it

is trappingmy fingers

the same

way

it

often

closes

my mouth.

I

find

it

so difficult o

tell

others

what

I

really eel, maybe

because

fear

to

revealmyself, to open up, or because

have

not learned. do not believe o.

I

do

not

want to.

I

am

fleeing.

For

weeks

have

beendreading o

muchthe

momentsof solitude

with

the text

that

I

make hem mpossible.And when

thedesire s

too

strong,

I reread

omepages,correcting

a

word,

a

sentence,while

I

persist

n

not

likingmy writing.

I

have

dragged

hetext

everywhere,

along

with

a

few blankpages

which

have remained

hat

way.

I

was comfortable

ith

them, my

friends,my new loves, but

in the

backgroundhis impression ffleeing

that

spoiled verything,

even

my tendernessor

Eli. I

felt

like I

was

giving

him

moments

hat

I

was

stealing rom

the

text.

Ifeel this

moreand more

oftenand

I

amgoing

to end

up

not

being

ableto stand us. I will

reach he

point when

I

will hate theseotherswhom, usually,

I

let overrunme

with

pleasure,or

I

will

destroy he text and my need to write. Tearingup thesepages will be mucheasierthan

stopping

o tell in

my

headall the

stories

that I do not

succeed

n

rendering

s

I

hear

them,

as

I

see them, because see them

and

hearthem

n

my

head.

They

are

here, somewhere, eady

o

be

transcribed. have noted

n a

letterto Steve that

I had the

feeling of

not

being

able

to

write

because

did not knowhow,

and

I

was leeing, inding

excuses

n

order o conceal his

incapacity.

Nothingforces ou to,

he

answered, f you

want to

write,you may

do

so, asfar

as

Iam

concerned,

it

is

a

matter o

refuse

o

be

the reader

f your

nonsense.His

light

tonehaddoneme some

good.

I

have the

right to do it,

I

am

not

gaggedby

deedor word.

Despite my

doubt

and

anguish,

I

write now

withoutany constraint,

alking

o

myself:

write now the

stories

that I hear n

my

*This ranslation rom the novel Memoire 'une

amnesiques printed

here

with

permission

from the

author.

Callaloo5.2

(1992)

445-451

http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp


3/8

__________

CALLALOO

head,

without

restraint. have

no

fear,

I

can

tell it all.

Thegag, it is my fear, what the words

can

reveal,

what

they

can

say

without

my permission.

want

so

muchto control

hem,

to

sift

them,thattheyarelosing the lifeI would iketobreathento them:uninspired, terilized, hey

become

arren, mpty,as emptyas thesedays of fleeing.

I do not know

how

to write

this

story

that

I

am telling myself

all

the time, each

day;

I

do not

find

the

way

to

break,

o

destroy

he

fear. Paul has told me that the text was not

important,

hat

I

shouldwrite

t

because

f

all

those

who will

comeafterwards.Will there

be

any afterwards?

Once the

evil

spirit

is chased

away,

will

I

hear

otherstoriesagain? If

I

do

not write that

text,

I do not write

anymore,

ilence

will

have

won, this silence

hat

rritates

Eli. Too

often

he believes

hatI do not want to

speakwhen,

in fact, I cannot.

Before, thought hatI couldwrite.

Maybe

he

chosenmedium s inadequate,

ncomfortable?

But

it

is partof thescheme uledby this

ear.

I

havebegun

o

write

the text in

the thirdperson,

to hidemyself,and I am aware hatthiscamouflages ridiculous,myfingerstell "she,""him,"

while

my

head

s thinking,"I,"

"Paul.""Paul."

n

between,

he

blockage

ut it

is not

enough

to write

"I"

n

orderfor

he

multiple ags

to

fall

down,

thesuccessive

ayersof

maskswithwhich

I

rig my

characters.

And I

think

of

the curve

with

fondness

I

feel, for

the

first time,

the need

to

tell,

to tell it

all, absolutely

all

my stories

narrated n

my

head.

I

react

as if

I

were

still

conditioned

y

a

long experience f silence Not

to

say anythingtoanybody,one

never

knows

with whomone

sdealing.

Paranoia

ultivated

by

nstinct

ofself-preservation,

hisattitude ived

for ever;

I

thought

t had

disappeared,

t

comesback

n

another

orm.

I do

not

want

to hide

anything

I

do not need to hide

anymore,

I

must not be

afraid

but

find

a

way

to

remove he

masks.

Always

the

masks.

It

is

not a

questionof being careful,

not to

say

too

much,

on

the

contrary, needto say toomuch,I need tofind theway to conveythis order o my fingers, it

is

a

questionof survival,

I

cannot

stand

to remain

ilent

anymore.

know that

I

talk,alone,

sometimes

n a

loud

voice,

most

often

nside

myself,

but I need to

write this

text;

never

mind

cautiousness,

herewill

always

be

someone

o

prevent

me

from making

he

unforgivablemis-

takes, if

I

reallysucceed

n

giving up

my self-censorship

abits.

I am

going

to

start

all

over

again, including

he

ew

pages

written

n

the

irst

person,

a timid

attempt

o

begin

he

exorcism.

I

am

going

to write

and

thenI will

havePaul read he

text:

f

it

is necessary

o

suppress,

delete,

erase,correct,

will

do it then.

I

am

going

to

tell

my

stories

o

Paul,

as

if

he

were

here.I know

that

it

will be

different:

n

his presence

will

put

backon the

mask,

I

will become ilent

again.

In

fact, if

I

was able to show him thefirst pages, it was becauseof the camouflage.He

has

removed t, it was useless I am going to writeas if I were writingfor a child to whomI will

give birth,

nevermind f the

non-issues

eappear,f

the

hang-ups

omeback

when

I

expect

hem

the

least,

never

mind

if everything s

distorted

ight

at

the

beginning,

I

have no choice.

I

will

write

or

the

same

one,

always

thesame

one,

still

for

thesameones.I must write

so

the

readings

will not run out.

Afterall,

I

will write the

story or Paul,

and

my stories or Maya, my

unborn

daughter.

The

Beheaded Statue

A

little

girl

was named

Paul,

but

everybody

called

her Lili.

Why?

It

is

a

long story.

When she was

born,

her

parents

wanted

a

baby boy (they

have

always

denied

it,

446



4/8

_

CALLALOO

but she knows

the truth), so they named her Paul. The mother, who

claims respon-

sibility for the choice of this name, says that it

just happened by

mistake

of the illiterate

clerk who filled out the form, that the little girl should have been named Paule (the

"e"

might have changed many things).

In

any case,

mistake or

not,

does it matter

since

everybody called her

Lili.

Someone has

even dared to

assert that she has nick-

named

herself

in

this

manner,

that it is the

reason for the change,

as if adults

were

concerned

about

what

little girls may devise

One might believe

that it

suited them

that the little girl

changed her name. Much later, when the little girl, as an

adult, has

decided to recover her real identity, they all

opposed it. Some saying that habits are

tenacious,

others that the name is not important (so why was it

changed?). It was

important to her but that is another story. I

only want to tell of the little girl.

When she

was

born,

her

father lived

in a

large

cold

city

in

a

big misty

and

rainy

country. Her mother, who had stayed back home, was expecting the baby. Mothers

are always

expecting

A

few months after this

birth, long months for her, ten too short

months for such

a

small

baby,

the mother left to be with the father. This is

why

on

top of a father and

a mother, she was given substitutes. Jacques was her

godfather,

her substitute father, by chronological order.

(As for her godmother, she has never

known her, nor

has she ever known her name. Forher, she was the sister of the

painter

whose picture adorned the dining room. She did

not feel any loss; godmothers are of

no use

especially

when

one

has

two mothers.) The little

girl, then,

lived

with

Jacques

and

Marie. (Some

episodes of

this

childhood have been told, but little girls never

remember their childhood. The ones I want

to remember,

Lili has

recovered

them in

the drawers of her memory, by herself.) A violent scene of tears while her parents

were out. Marie

and Jacques had accustomed her

to their constant presence,

and be-

cause little

girlsbecome

selfish

quickly, she

demanded this

presence.

There

were also

those outings she was

part of, those evenings at the open

air

movie theater

when,

on

the

way back,

she

slept

in

the

car and

woke

up

in

Jacques'

arms. He

carried her to

the

bedroom, their

bedroom

to the three

of them,

and

she agreed to go back to

sleep only

after their

promise to tell

her,

in

the

morning,

the

story

of the movie

they

had

just

seen

together.

And

then, they stayed at Le

Cap,

and here

memories mingle

with the

stories told

by

Marie:the

house

with

the

balcony overhanging

above

the

narrow street

from where she used

to throw her brand

new

toys to

the

children passing by. Tears

again, the jeep taking away the adults while she felt excluded. She stayed alone in

front of

a

small

house surrounded by flowers

and fruit

trees. But above all the walk

in

the square.

She

had

gone

out

that

day

with

someone

who must

have

been

her

nanny. They

had

left

for

a walk in

the square. It was the end of the

afternoon,

the

square

was situated

near

the sea or

a

river.

It

was the sea The little

girl

was

happy

to

stroll,

she looked

at

the

water,

the

flowers, the trees. She was

telling

the

nanny

what the birds

were

telling

her. Both of them

were having great fun;

birds

tell such

amusing stories, they

see

lots

of

things

that

happen

in

town

and

they

are

very nosy,

the

birds.

When,

during

stroll-

ing time, they

meet a little girl in the square, they start repeating what they have

seen

or heard. Since this little girl listened to them, they kept on talking. She liked their

babbling

and

stayed hours

on a

bench

near the

sea, very still,

so

she

would

not disturb

the

birds.

Lili

knew that

birds dislike people who move around, people who

stir the

447



5/8

_________ _

CALLALOO

air and

force them to fly away. She used to go in the

middle of the square, sit on

a

bench, like a stone statue, tell those around her not to move and keep quiet; then, the

birds

would come close: the firstone perched on her lap, the

second

one on a

shoulder,

the third

one, who liked to feel nested, set himself up on her

hair,

and the

others,

in

small

groups, stood around the bench.

It

was

a ritual

which

they repeated every

walk-

ing day.

The first

time,

the

nanny

wanted to chat with

a

friend,

so she

had

settled

the

little

girl on a wooden bench, telling

her to

be

good

and

to

wait for her.

Knowing

that

she

could be

good only being asleep, the

little

girl

had

leaned

against

the back

of

the

bench

and had

closed her eyes to keep her promise. It is then, that

she felt

the arrival

of the

birds. But a

promise is sacred, she

had

not budged.

When

they

were all

there,

she

merely opened her eyes and smiled at them.

-Hello little girl sitting on a

park

bench

near

the

sea What are you doing

here?

-Hello

bird,

I am

sitting quietly

and

waiting.

-All

right

What

is your name?

-Paul, without

an

"e,"

but

grown-ups call

me Lili. It

comes from Poli

that

they

have

changed into Lili, you understand?

-It

is

complicated.

We

will

name

you

little

girl.

Each time

you

will

come for

a

walk,

provided

you do not frighten

us, we

will

tell you stories.

If

you want, we are

going

to start right now.

That

day, they

had

not

had

the

time.

Many people

came.

They

had

entered the

park, running in every direction. They shouted loudly. The birds left. Liliwas looking

at the people and was

wondering

what

could make them

run that

way.

The

nanny

came

back, grabbed

her

by

one

hand and

started

to

run

also, dragging along

the

little

girl. She did

not

want

to,

the

nanny

had

to

take her

into

her arms

to

hurry.

It is

then,

that the

little girl

saw what all

these

noisy people

were

doing: they

were

heading

toward

the

statue near the sea.

A

very

tall man

took

a

very long rope,

coiled

it

up

around

the

neck of the statue;

a

woman, behind,

tied a

knot

and the

others started to

pull

until

the

statue, beheaded, fell

into

the

sea. And

they

shouted

with

joy

when

the

head dove with great splashes

of

water and

circles. The nanny left the

square,

still

running and carrying the little

girl

in her

arms; she stopped only at the sight of

the

house with the balcony. Afterward, the walks were much more peaceful and the little

girl

was

able to

talk

quietly to

the

birds. This

story might

have

happened

in

1957, but

the little

girl

did

not know the dates.

It was in

1957,

she was then six

years old,

a

very

little

girl

carefree and unaware

of

what was

going on. Her life went on

peacefully, without

any change. However,

for

brief

moments,

two events disturbed

Lili's

calm life.

First,

the

return

of

this

man

whom

she did not

know,

it

was

Paul.

She

had

not heard about

his

leaving,

but

one

day

he

came back. The

grown-ups

were

whispering, keeping

silent when

the

little

girl

came

in

(as

if

she were

interested

in

their secrets ). Once

more,

Paul

was

asked

to be well-

behaved,

and the man

took

her in his

arms.

He held

her

very tightly,

he kissed

her,

but she

wanted so much to be

put

down.

Nevertheless,

she remained

good.

He kissed

her and

the kisses

pricked

her.

Paul

had

his face covered

with

beard: the beard of

a

father

pricks

a

lot when the beard is short and

when

the

father

kisses

strongly.

Also,

448



6/8

____ ___

___CALLALOO

it tickles The little girl did not

dare to scratch her neck; she had been asked to be well-

behaved.

The other event that disrupted Paul's habits was that story with Jacques. She did

not understand anything; to her, adults were playing. She

did

not know why she was

not allowed to enter the bedroom. Yet, she liked the new bedrooms at new grown-

ups'. Jacqueswas lying on

a

small bed, too small for him,

with a

handcherchief

around

his head. She thought he was funny. Since little girls are curious, Paul had immedi-

ately noticed the hole in the wall. Or was it the keyhole? No, she was not patient

enough to discover the keyhole,

it

was just

a

hole in the wall. Thus, she watched

everything. There were other children with her

and

they also found Jacques amusing.

But afterward, Marie cried and the little girl understood nothing. Seeing the woman

crying all the time, Lili was becoming sad, also crying, without knowing why. For-

tunately, Marie's friends were saying: "look, you make Lili cry (her friends called her

Lili

also), stop, you are influencing this child. Be courageous, at least for her sake."

One

day,

Marie

stopped crying so she would not hurt the little girl. Maybe she

was

still

doing it,

but

she was hiding

it

carefully; at times, when

Lili

observed her closely,

she

could see that the white of her eyes was red.

The beard and the eyes have remained in the drawers. The other, she has not filed,

though it is the only one that she still keeps, detested scar that nothing can erase. He

had

come,

with

other men, because of a long story that the little girl

did

not know.

He had

made

a

long journey. They

had

not even fired, they were not many, not strong,

not

ready, especially alone,

and when

they

were fired

at, they stayed

alone and died

alone. They had not understood that they would be alone, it was theirmistakebecause

they had understood nothing. This illusion is difficult to destroy; like him, others

imagine they can do it all alone, for the others (they said, they say, they

will

keep

saying for

a

long time),

instead of

others,

without

wanting

to understand

that the

others know

also.

Contempt? No,

too

long

a habit.

It is

since

that

time that the little

girl

does not

talk

to the

birds

anymore,

their

stories

do

not

amuse

her.

A

different city.

Another

house.

All

the

houses

do

not

look alike.

And

yet, they

end

up becoming confused.

The

balcony overlooking

a

narrow

street.

From

this

transient

house, only the balcony and this child standing up

will remain.

She looks down to

the

street

and

watches others. First

glances.

She

threw her

presents

from

the

balcony.

She

will

be told that

they

were

toys.

Does

it matter?

The

first

gesture

of

discomfort.

The first

expression of

the difference

that will never

stop screaming

in her head.

Sole

memory

of

the

Northern

city

where

it all

began.

With

another,

more

blurred and

per-

sistent. This

place

at the

seaside,

this

quay,

this

pier,

and

a

popular demonstration,

a

brewing

crowd

throwing

into

the sea

a

statue tied

up

with an

enormous

rope.

Had

449



7/8

_________ _

CALLALOO

the woman dragged on the little girl

to shelter her? Of this woman, nothing.

A

sil-

houette in

black and blue. A silhouette of which nothing

remains?

Death. Death? She laughed.

Through

the hole in

the

wall she looked at this man.

Later she will

dream of him. He will

be

handsome with a

round

face and

blue eyes.

Why

blue?

She

will

never

understand. Blue like the bedroom of the woman

crying.

Death is a

word. Death did not mean anything. She

had

not yet met death in

everyday

life. Maybe

in

books;

but

at

the

time

it

was

not

important.

Furthermore,

the

little

girl

could not read.

Later, they

will

explain to

her the death

of

a man

whose

body

will

never be

found; the face on this photograph that she saw from her

chair when sitting

at

the table. An unknown death? Or

the

dead

through the

wall

of the bedroom? She

knew this man

without knowing

him, she lived

with

him.

At

the age when death is

ignored, do we already know the living? She would have met him later, in her mem-

ories: but at the

time of her

recollection,

he

was

not there

anymore.

She

learned

about

this man through the memory of a

woman.

Death. His

face

strangely calm,

his

head

surrounded

with a

white cloth that filled the entire width

of

the

hole; she sees nothing

else and she

laughs.

Tears

will

come later.

Tears will

be shed. Not for this

dead,

nor

for the

pain.

Tears

for the

woman,

because of

the

woman.

She

discovered an

unhappy

woman

and

she cried. Oblivion

came. Oblivion dries tears,

and in

front

of

her

eyes

will

go by faces.

She

will

know later that it

was

the beginning of the

great

madness.

Strangers arriving

at

night. Strangers

hidden

away

in a dark room of the

house.

The

yellow

bathroom.

Why

does she think

of

it as dark? In

daylight,

this

room

gets plenty

of sun. A peculiar bathroom with a small bed and a large desk. The strangers were

hiding during the day. The room

stayed dark or closed. Those strangers who jumped

at

the

slightest

noise, who spoke

in a

whisper. Of those who

had

succeeded in

fleeing.

Of those

who,

like

them,

were

hiding away.

Those of whom

we knew

nothing

about.

Those who we

know too

well will

never come back. And she

shouted, she stamped

her feet in

the big house. The strangers and their single room

upstairs. She ran from

top to bottom

of the big house. Then, one day, she became part of

the strangers. Then,

one

night,

she followed the woman in

the

dark

room. She understood

nothing. She

was accompanying the woman.

Going out

at

night, with furtive gestures, living shut

up during the

day, and she laughed.

She played during her vacations. She was still

playing when the man with his cheeks covered with beard arrived. The beard that

pricked. She

will

know, long after, the reasons of this thin and

bearded

man.

She

will

know later the

number

of days

he

spent

in a

dark

room, but without

going

out at

night. She

will

know

later,

but at that

time she was

carefree,

nothing

could affect her

laughter

in

the

days of non-memory. It will

all

come

with a

slap

that

hurt her

in

her

body

and

in

her

heart;

a

lesson of survival for her

who

had

just

come

out of the alleys

of

childhood.

A

slap

for

her

who was

discovering

the softness of her

body on

a man's

lap,

a

slap

teaching her

that there

were

words

she should not

utter, glances

to be

veiled. And

then, everything came back in one block:

consciousness of the death of

those she had

not

had

the

time

to

know,

the beard of this man absent for

forty days.

Forty days, she repeated for a long time, without noticing anything. And all of a sud-

den,

the

memory

comes back: "he

stayed forty days

and

forty nights... ." The

absent

man was

not the

messiah,

but

forty

days

won him

complete forgiveness. Except

for

450



8/8

_

CALLALOO

the

anger

at

this man talking to her of heritage. This

man

saying

that

she was his

son.

The anger forgotten when the time of understanding will come. This slap gives life

to

the legitimate daughter. And when the knowledge of horrorwill come back, the child

will have had the time to harden herself.

-Translated byMarie-AgnesSourieau

451

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