For Sure (11 page)

“Oh sure, dey expects you to be doin' every little ting perfect, don't dey, but where are dey, I'd like to know, when de time come to pay?”

“Don't I knows it. I knows dat bunch.”

The two young men who'd just come in had a lot to get off their minds.

“I says to 'im: you wants me to do dat, it's gonna cost you five hundred dollars more in labour. Well, all of a sudden he's got a face on 'im like a hen's arsehole in the norwest wind. Mine's an Alpine.”

“Sleeman Cream.”

“I only hopes dey doesn't call me. I got plenty udder work aside from dem. What's up, ol' man? Are ya laughin' at us again?”

The old man enjoyed a bit of attention from the young ones.

“I bin der meself. 'Twas a whole lot better den bein' old, I can tell ya dat much.”

“Come along wid us to work one of dese days, I can promise you'll be rid of dem blues terrible quick. An' wot is it yer drinkin' in dat cup anyways?”

The young man leaned over and pretended to smell the contents of the cup.

“Yer not gonna try 'n tell us dat's jus' coffee in der!”

“Well, dat's betwixt me and the waitress, init.”

There are five types of stitches in embroidery: cross-stitches, amongst which are included the catch stitch and the chevron stitch; flat stitches, including the long and short stitches and the fishbone; line stitches, including the Romanian couching and Oriental stitches; knotted stitches, such as the bullion stitch and the French knot; and finally, daisy stitches, among which the chain and the feather stitch. The Holbein or double running stitch, for its part, is the basis of blackwork or single-colour embroidery, which uses a single colour of thread. In the beginning, that colour was black. Contrasts in tone are produced by using threads and patterns of different densities.

In his preface to the album
La lettre et l'image
(
Letter and Image
) by Massin, at least in the new and modified edition published by Gallimard in 1993, Raymond Queneau reminds us that there are 52 playing cards in a deck, not counting the jokers. This number, he goes on, is double 26, which is the number of letters in the French (and English, among others) alphabet. If we count the lower and upper case of each letter, there are 52 in total, the same number as there are playing cards in a deck, which is composed of four suits, each made up of 13 cards. The number 52 is therefore divisible by 13, as is 26. Here ends Queneau's observations which, unbeknownst to him, have tipped over this story of the number 12 — the dynamic of which leads eventually to plenitude — into the number 13, generally regarded in European and North American cultures as bad luck: a limit, ultimately death, or the beginning of a new cycle. And yet, 13 was the fundamental sacred number of the ancient Mexicans, equal to the number of days in the Aztec week. Hence:

13 × 13 × 13 = 2,197

12 × 12 × 12 = 1,728

2,197 – 1,728 = 469 = 4 + 6 + 9 = (4 + 6) + 9 =

(10) + 9 =

(1 + 0) + 9 =

(1) + 9 = 10 = (1 + 0) = 1

We arrive at the same result when we multiply the number 13 by the 52 cards in a deck or the number of weeks in the average tropical year.

13 × 52 = 676 =

6 + 7 + 6 =

(6 + 7) + 6 =

(13) + 6 =

(1 + 3) + 6 =

(4) + 6 = 10 = (1 + 0) = 1

In French Canada, Germaine Guèvremont's
Le Survenant
(book one of
The Outlander
in the English translation) is the number-one bestseller with approximately 10,000 copies sold every year. This is followed by Louis Hémon's
Maria Chapdelaine
and Émile Nelligan's
Complete Poems,
which sell between 3,000 and 4,000 copies annually.
Bousille et les justes
(
Bousille and the Just Ones
) by Gratien Gélinas,
L'Homme rapaillé
(translated in part as
The March to Love
) by Gaston Miron and
Le Souffle de l'Harmattan
(remains untranslated into English) by Sylvain Trudel are also bestsellers. As I write this, of all the above authors, only Sylvain Trudel is still alive.

When it came to the letter
e
, Le Grand Étienne stopped himself just as he was about to say the word
sévère
, thinking it might perhaps lead Le Petit Étienne too easily to the colour black. Black? Because until now, the colours his pupil had named were the same ones Zablonski himself would have chosen.

“Your grandmothers are nice, no?”

Le Petit Étienne felt like laughing. Of course they were nice.

“Aha! I bet they spoil you . . .”

Étienne replied in the affirmative with a big smile.

“And what's your granny's name, the one who lives in Grande-Digue?”

“Granny Després!”

“And what colour is the word
Després
?”

The boy's expression turned serious, even somewhat troubled. Le Grand Étienne guessed what was happening:

“It's not a very cheerful colour for your granny is it?”

Étienne shook his head no.

“You're right.”

And the painter wrote
black
beside the
e
on his
sheet.

The need, therefore, for a degree of disorder, for imperfections, capricious forces, blurrings, that we might try to tame. The need to be human, need for events, for desires that collide and collude, even as they maintain a course toward perfection. One must forget the cube, and never forget the cube. To imagine a cube that's not a cube, to reimagine a form of perfection, without forgetting that perfection, by definition, is that which does not change.

It was several days after her visit to Didot Books that Élizabeth got around to leafing through
La Bibliothèque idéale
. Opening the volume at random — she always begins this way with a book of which she knows little — she landed on the “Arts through the Ages” section. And it was as though the book knew her intimately.

Numbers are not merely numbers, that is, arithmetical expressions. According to certain ancient traditions, numbers express qualities rather than quantities. Some even claim that numbers are superior to words when it comes to understanding the universe. To those who think that numbers are the product of our intelligence, the ancients argue quite the opposite, suggesting that our intelligence comes from numbers. After all don't we say “it all adds up” to mean we have reached a new understanding or knowledge through the addition of a certain number of observations?

“Mathieu might've got de folks at Scrabble Inc. to sponsor 'im, if ee'd tawt of it.”

. . .

“Ee phoned 'em wantin' to buy a hundred sets of letters to make his art. But dose Scrabble folks — well, Hasbro actually — dey wanted to know what ee was plannin' to do wid dem.”

. . .

“So ee tells dem ee's an artist an' he puts dem letters in 'is art.”

. . .

“Well, dey comes right back and says ee could be a corporate artist, so long as der lawyers decides ee ain't infringin' on copyright.”

!

“Hasbro'd have to approve every work of art ee makes 'fore it comes out, to make sure it's fittin'. Sometin' to do wid der image, I figures.”

. . .

“So ee let on like fer sure ee's interested, an ee tells 'em ee'll write 'em all about it, and den ee ‘angs up
5
, an' he never did nuttin' about it.”

!?

“Ee wasn't takin' any chances. On account of, say dey didn't like 'is art works, den ee could be charged for copyright infringement for dose works ee'd already done. Dey'd have 'is file, now wouldn't dey.”

“Dey could still catch 'im doh . . .”

“Sure an' dat's true, I suppose, if dey comes to get 'im.
5
De udder way, ee's runnin' headlong and straight into proper trouble hisself.”

. . .

. . .

“Well den, where does ee get de Scrabble letters to make his art works, I'd like to know.”

I recognize this Folio imprint. Pages 32 and 33 of André Gide's
The Immoralist
. No overheating this time, but a sluggishness nevertheless; someone probably slipped some recycled, dogeared sheets in my paper tray again.

Zablonski was happy for the chance to really have some fun with this little exercise.

“And the word
pipi
; what colour is it for you?”

Étienne laughed for a moment, then became thoughtful, as though there was something wrong.

“It has no colour?”

Again, Le Petit Étienne wanted to laugh, twisting around on his chair before replying.

“Red! Well, would you believe that's the same colour I see?”

And Étienne Zablonski wrote
red
beside the
i
.

As for the order of appearance of particular subjects, it begins slowly then they all jam up at the entrance. Hard on the system. System? The system has practically no role to play here. The tentacles of the organic are on the prowl, alert to every opportunity to swallow up the cubic rigidity of the project. Does this mean we're in for a real novel? Absolutely? Questions are also part of the work.

Coincidences also elbow each other at the gates. (Although we cannot claim coincidence in the fact that the august publishing house of Gallimard is situated at 5 Sébastien-Bottin Street in Paris, given that the NRF, of which Gaston Gallimard was one of the three founders in 1911, was situated at this same location before the street was renamed — at the time, the address was 43, rue de Beaune — and that the building, which housed Sébastien Bottin's Business Almanac was nearby, end of digression.) And indeed, at the gates of the vast Gallimard headquarters, remarkable for its scope and labyrinthine design: hallways, incongrous passages, mezzanines, luxurious meeting rooms, cramped cells, sweeping, narrow, twisting, straight, metal, and wooden staircases, salons, gardens, pavilions, walls covered with mystery paperbacks or volumes from the Pléiade collection, cellars with high vaulted ceilings, all this in addition to the building's riotous exterior — extensions, acquisitions, annexes, upper storey add-ons — and the company's expansion, its bottom line, catalogue, corporate and literary shakeups. In short, a publishing house that grew into the tentacular, sometimes hallucinatory, shape of its story. Exactly what a novel wants to be.

“How is it dat in Chiac dey sometimes puts an apostrophe right before de
n
and udder times dey puts it right after?”

“Must be a new rule, I figures. Dat sometimes you puts it
'n
sometimes you doesn't.”

“And does you tink kids should be learning dem rules, as well?”

“Eh boy, what d'ya tink! One ting fer sure, 'twould make learnin' a whole lot easier, on account of 'twould be der real language.”

“Well, how soon afore dey gets started?”

“Dey don't know, do dey. Dat's sometin' dey've not decided.”

In her novel
1953: Chronicle of a Birth Foretold
, France Daigle does not mention the resignation that year of Jacques Lacan as president of the Société psychanalytique de Paris (Paris Psychoanalytical Society). Lacan claimed that he was opposed to the SPA's decision to create an institute that would grant degrees in psychoanalysis, but some observers believe that the break was rather motivated by the rising popularity of Professor Lacan, whose charisma, seminars, and courses were drawing more and more students. Other psychoanalysts followed suit and resigned, among them Lagache, Dolto, and Favez.

Daniel LeBlanc of the Petitcodiac Riverkeepers was getting ready to attend a conference of the Adour-Garonne Water Agency.

“An' who're dey, I'd like to know?”

“The Adour-Garonne is a river basin of almost 350 kilometres long down in de southwest of France. It begins in the Pyrénées and ends up in the Atlantic Ocean.”

…

“About half as long as the Saint-John river.”

…

…

“An' how long's de Rhone, would you say?”

“About 800 kilometres, I think.”

“Hun!”

. . .

“An' you're tellin' me dose folks is interested in de Petitcodiac?”

“The Ardour is what they call a deficient waterway, over there. Could be useful to have a look at how they do to solve their problems.”

“Hope der not as slow gettin' tings done as we is out dis way.”

Daniel was silent for a moment, then added:

“When I was a wee lad, my parents would listen to a song that went “
we ford across the Garonn . . .”
I suppose that means it's been a long while there's not been a whole lot of water in 'er.”

. . .

“And if I've some time left over, I wouldn't mind a bit of skiing in Pau.”

1953 was also the year Lacan proclaimed his return to Freud — when had he abandoned him? — with his manifesto-article
The Function and Field of Speech and Language in Psychoanalysis
, the subject of his first Rome Discourse. The second Rome Discourse, dated 1967, is entitled
Psychoanalysis. Reason for a Defeat.
The man was no stranger to paradox.