Authors: Raymond Queneau
The various images that were interfering with his will to write began to fade away; the faces of his little friends who used to spit in each other’s mouths at school, for fun, then the silhouette of the teacher who’d fallen downstairs—these faded away, then the last echo of the laughter provoked by this incident faded away, then some vague obscene pictures faded away, the image of a warship, that of a naked, tattooed arm, more slowly, that of a bottom, and once again a few vague obscene pictures. Then a bouquet of roses he’d seen going by that morning, carried by a uniformed delivery boy.
He drew a vertical line, and nothing was left but coenesthetic impressions: his stomach hollowing, his temples hollowing, his fontanel hollowing, and then turning into a sort of well, of well, of well without bottom or rim, into which stones fall indefinitely, without ever coming into contact with the surface of the black water entirely and forever bereft of light and movement, the surface of this perfectly carbonic, arachnoid water, the skin of a brain. His chest became constricted and his heart started beating wildly; his breath became jerky. Saturnin fell into his own well belonging to his own brain, where there was now nothing; no more well, no more brain, no more Saturnin, no more concierge, no more camels, no more sunshades, no more laundry boats.
Saturnin, with his mouth open.
After—after—what? he picked up his pen again and, carefully tearing up the crossed-out, scribbled-over page, he wrote on the opposite page:
There isn’t anything.
And reshut the little exercise book, recorked the little bottle, and put down the little pen. Then he got on with his work, while there was still time.
T
HEY
arrived at noon; aperitifs were in full swing. Pierre’s sports car received the warm approval of the public. Alberte shut herself up in her room. Etienne started searching for Théo. This vacation was starting in an original fashion. One night in the car had advantageously replaced the ten or fifteen usual hours in the sardine can, and Pierre’s company was becoming a necessity to Etienne. Forgetting the little ducks and the hard-boiled-egg-cutter, he saw in this meeting the cause of the change whose reality he perceived daily. He didn’t even think of reproaching Pierre for the conjuring trick he had been responsible for in relation to Narcense. And in any case, he considered it preferable not to let him know of his acquaintance with the facts of this matter. At least for the moment. As he was very thirsty, he went into a local American bar and asked for a lemonade. The bartender was amazed that anyone should ask for such a strange beverage, and replaced it on his own initiative with a djinn-phiz. Etienne drank, and thought it not bad. He paid, without looking startled at the price, and left, delighted with his new experience. He loitered outside the bookstore-cum-newsstand; he felt like buying a book, not a novel, a serious book, but the display offered nothing he wanted; he contented himself with a few post cards. A little farther on, he asked the price of a souvenir; just so as to know. Then he made a detour in order to look at a few old houses, very local color, built the year before by the tourist bureau. He retraced his steps, again examined the books and papers, bought some cigarettes, and found himself back at the hotel. Pierre was waiting for him, drinking an aperitif, like everyone else. Then Etienne remembered Théo, turned around again and went to look for him.
He asked in the hotels whether they didn’t know a young man of about fifteen, with greasy, badly cut black hair, his face covered with spots, his eyes ever so slightly rheumy, and with permanently dirty hands; but no one had seen a young man answering this description. Then he wandered through the little town, and came to the beach. Of the few bottoms still roasting there, none belonged to his stepson, the future holder of the baccalaureate.
At 1:30 he went back to the hotel, very tired. Pierre was still waiting for him. He sat down, discouraged.
“It’s not funny—no Théo. Alberte waiting for him in her room
...
What’s in a djinn-phiz?”
“It’s a squeezed lemon with gin,” replied Pierre.
Etienne rubs his forehead. Where on earth can he be? The moment you look at things disinterestedly, everything changes. That’s quite obvious, and that is what makes it difficult to accept the obviousness of what you see at first. Not to take the destination of an object into account, what a strange activity! You start by not seeing anything because you’re living in a whirl, then you look because you want to do something different, and after that you contemplate because you’re tired of working.
“And what do you intend to do?” asked Pierre.
“Damned if I know. If I went to the police—what a business! What a bore! What a bore!
“What sort of boy is he, your stepson?”
“He’s a young man of fifteen; he goes to the lycée, he has brown eyes, his nose—how should I know? I don’t think he likes me very much, I even think he detests me. It often happens, doesn’t it, that a child detests his stepfather? I think he takes me for an imbecile, I didn’t go to a lycée, and until recently I didn’t know much about the world. About existence. Whereas he’s one of the first in his class; he’ll get his baccalaureate. So, you understand, he thinks he’s someone. I’m not cut out to be a father
...
Not Théo’s father, at any rate.”
“You ought to go and tell Mme. Marcel.”
Etienne stood up. That was when he saw Théo. The latter, his hands in his pockets and his hat on the back of his head, had just sat down in the next café. He looked contemptuous and bored; he opened a book and started pretending to read. A few seconds later, Etienne was sitting down in front of him.
“So this is where you are,” he said.
Théo, prodigiously astonished:
“Yes, this is where I am.”
“What got into you?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Is my mother here?”
“Why did you go away?”
“I wonder how you managed to find me.”
The conversation continued on this note for some time. Théo took advantage of it to make up a tale, for his parents’ benefit, about his new escapade.
Pierre, who was beginning to get bored, went and joined them.
“Are you coming to lunch?”
“Le Grand, this is my son Théo. Monsieur Le Grand.”
“Pleaseder meecher, M’sieu,” said Théo, who had some notion of Politeness.
“I’ll go and tell Alberte right away,” exclaimed Etienne.
Pierre and Théo were left tête-à-tête. They didn’t exchange any interesting remarks.
—oooooo—oooooo—
“If I ignore the practical side of a manufactured article,” said Etienne.
“Then you’re involved in aesthetics,” interrupted Pierre. “Or magic.”
“But I don’t want to have anything to do with aesthetics, or magic,” Etienne protested. “Men think they’re making one thing, and then they make another. They think they’re making a pair of scissors, but what they actually make is something else. Of course, it
is
a pair of scissors, it’s made to cut and it does cut, but it’s something quite different as well.”
“Why scissors?”
“Or any other manufactured article, any manufactured article. Even a table. A house. It’s a house, because people live in it, but it’s something else as well. That isn’t aesthetics, because it isn’t a question of beautiful or ugly. And as for magic, I don’t understand it.”
“What
would
be interesting, would be to say what that ‘something else’ is.”
“No doubt. But it’s not possible. It all depends on the circumstances, or else you can’t put it into words. Words are manufactured articles, too. You can think of them independently of their meaning.”
Etienne had just discovered that, as he was saying it. He repeated it to himself, and was pleased with himself. Now
that
was an idea.
“Apart from their meaning, they can say something quite different. For example, the word ‘teapot’ indicates
that article,
but I can consider it apart from that meaning, in the same way as the teapot itself, I can consider it apart from its practical sense, which is—to be used for making tea, or even as a simple receptacle.”
“Have you been thinking about these questions for long?” asked Pierre.
“Oh no,” replied Etienne, “I’m inventing them as I go along. I talk, and it means something. For me, at least; I suppose so, at least. Does what I say mean anything to you?”
Pierre nodded his head several times; he meant by this: yes.
“And things that are natural, and consequently don’t have any meaning, would you attribute one to them?”
“I haven’t thought about that yet. But why
consequently?”
“No doubt. Do you think that birds and stones and stars and shellfish and clouds have a meaning? That they were manufactured for some purpose?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Etienne, “though I haven’t studied the question in any detail. In any case, natural things can acquire a meaning; when men give them one.”
During the ensuing silence, both men moved a few steps forward, for they were walking.
“That’s what so odd,” murmured Etienne: “you think you’re doing this, and then you do that. You think you’re seeing this, and you see that. Someone says something to you, you hear something different, and it’s a third thing you should have understood, All the time, everywhere, it’s like that.”
“For me, too,” said Pierre, “things, the world doesn’t have the meaning it attributes to itself, it isn’t what it claims to be; but I don’t think it has a different meaning. It has no meaning.”
“Is that what you think?” asked Etienne, “What
I
was saying was: you think you’re seeing one thing, and you’re seeing another.”
“And what
I
say is—you think you’re seeing something, but you aren’t seeing anything. And you know,” added Pierre, “I don’t so very much like what I’ve just been saying. I don’t often express myself in metaphysical terms.”
“What metaphysical terms? I don’t know any,” Etienne objected.
“Maybe, but that’s what it is.”
“What?”
“Metaphysics.”
“Really? Well, it’s about time,” replied Etienne.
Pierre, disconcerted, kicked at some stones. They passed (the two men, not the stones; the stones didn’t pass, they
were
passed) by a group of young gentlemen and young ladies, very young gentlemanlike and young ladylike, who were singing the latest hit.
“That stupid tune again,” sighed Pierre. “What idiots.”
“
They
don’t think they’re what they are, either,” remarked Etienne, “for,” he added, “you think you’re this, and you are something else, not counting what you appear to be.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“A man who thinks,” replied Etienne. “That’s what’s odd, because I’m certainly
something else.
As for what I appear to be, you ought to know that better than I do. Weren’t you observing me? Don’t deny it. Narcense told me. What am I like? What was I like?”
“At first,” Pierre began, “you were only a silhouette.”
“Is that all?”
“At first, you were only a silhouette; you went from the bank to the metro and from the metro to the bank; that was when I noticed you. One day, you made a detour, and you became a flat entity. But perhaps you yourself have never seen such individuals; my description is probably becoming obscure.”
“Please go on,” said Etienne, politely.
“This transformation, needless to tell you, increased the interest I already had in you. One day, I was sitting opposite you, in a train; I saw you slightly swelling. You’d just acquired a certain consistency; but personally, I was unaware of the cause. When my taxi bumped into you, you were still in the same state. But when I saw you again, in the restaurant, as you no doubt remember, you looked as you still look; like a man, and one who thinks.”
“So that’s what you saw.”
Etienne pensively examined a piece of orange peel, then, raising his eyes, saw—not without amazement, at that—someone he knew.
“Excuse me,” he said, speaking to his companion.
And, taking a few steps:
“I am surprised and pleased” (that was the formula he used) “to meet you here.”
Mme. Pigeonnier nearly fainted; Catherine, who was with her, supported her with her arm and encouraged her by pinching her energetically.
“Meussieu Marcel,” sighed the lady, “how nice to see you!”
And the polite remarks were let loose, while Etienne couldn’t manage to understand the remarkable emotion the sight of him had provoked in his neighbor from Obonne. Who, in any case, gradually recovered her composure, and it was with the greatest
sang-froid
that she asked for news of “your big son.” They arranged to meet again.
—oooooo—oooooo—
A few steps farther on, Pierre asked what Théo had said about his escapade.
“He claims he doesn’t remember what he did,” said Etienne. “I don’t believe a word of it; it’s a facile excuse, but I don’t understand what made him come here.”
“Didn’t he say anything else?”
“No. He says he woke up here. I asked him whether he remembered writing a post card; he said he didn’t. Then I mentioned the one Narcense received. He looked very astonished. I think he’s a great hypocrite. But Alberte—that’s my wife—is so happy to see him again. She’s coming back to life. He simply doesn’t care, I’m afraid. Shall we call each other
tu?
Though really, I hardly know you. All I know is your name. Nothing else. What do you do? Where do you live? I’ve no idea. You don’t seem to belong anywhere, or to anyone. Have you parents? friends? mistresses? a wife? children? Are you a poet or a financier? a journalist, an engineer?
Etienne stopped talking; but Pierre didn’t answer him.
“Look, the fishermen are going to spend the night at sea. All the boats are leaving the harbor.”
“I simply wanted to say: who are you?”
Pierre stopped for a moment, silently watching the fishing fleet putting out to sea.