The Shadow of Memory. Bernard Comment

wouldn’t bother you, wouldn’t seem particularly shocking considering your explosive mixture of ice cream—and your computer. Very trendy! Poor Pontormo . . .”

      He spat out his words, completely carried away with these thoughts. I couldn’t take my eyes off his contorted lips, his nose with its protuberant tip. And his predatory eyes, a surprisingly lively, glittering contrast in the midst of worn, old skin that seemed almost rotten. Why was he telling me all this stuff, about painting, ice cream, colors? And so fast? Would he never stop talking? A few more tirades against America, which, not content with its first landing, was still invading us; attacks too against the general sloppiness, the guilty tolerance, the disappearance of refinement in every shape and form. Then he was silent, a few minutes. He seemed out of breath, empty. His eyes had suddenly lost their electricity, his eyelids were suddenly heavy. And what could I say in response? That I’d never given it a thought? As for computers, I was no more a believer in them than he, and would willingly forego mine if I had the least bit of memory to rely on, even just a shred of his, for example, but for me they’re an important tool, my only hope for my automatic, chronic amnesia. He should have understood! But no, that’s precisely it. The man who knew everything could never understand, couldn’t share my anxieties. I chose to be silent, not even smile. Simply to prolong my moment of calm. I also could have left. Mattilda would be getting impatient. There I was, stealing precious time from her while the afternoon was well underway. Meanwhile, this old man, I didn’t even know him, nothing about him should have been of concern to me. I’d been accommodating with him, respectful, and he was trying to offend me. All his theories about ice cream were all well and good! But, in the end, to each his own as far as whims and tastes are concerned! We ended up having another little something, coffee for me and he had an herb tea I think, and a piece of pastry. During this long silence his face recomposed itself around its long, deep, and mostly vertical wrinkles, the marks of joy or stress.

      We started to discuss painting again. He referred to paintings in such unbelievable detail that you’d think he’d gone through museums with a magnifying glass, and done the same with texts. But his attention was being drawn more and more to the counter, until he was completely absorbed by it. “Look at the children! They’re the ones I come here to watch, how bedazzled they are, looking at all the flavors of ice cream and not knowing which one to choose and dreaming of tasting them all. A splendid treat! I’ll spare you an extensive catalogue of their different postures, the faces they make, the way their eyes sparkle. I’ve been studying them for more than forty years . . . It would, however, be unspeakably idiotic to think, or make anybody else think, that all kids are necessarily adorable and charming and touching. Not at all! Some of them are rotten. The ones who are obese and blasé, for example, nothing there but a mechanical satisfaction of appetites that doesn’t even involve desire. They need a few good spankings to teach them how to get their guts under control at last and get the glandular machinery going again. As for the others, the whiners and snifflers? The droolers and the ones who talk talk talk, the sleepy ones, the ones with bad manners? In fact, the majority of children resembles the majority of adults, faces set already in hollow grimaces, nothing to be proud of. Second-rate cruelty passed on and intensified, traces of the fathers, traces of the mothers, dreary little lives in perspective. Have you noticed how subtle our French language is? How different forms of one word can mean such different things? Gris means dreary but griser means to intoxicate, a vie grisante being an intoxicating life. Verb versus adjective! But to move from the dreary to the intoxicating, you have to take a risk, open your eyes, scare yourself, confront all sorts of things, seeing and contemplating all their possible repercussions, like old Pontormo, him again, that was a truly intoxicating life, in full color. But those people? The common run of mortals? Just look at them! Gray, lackluster. Shifty eyes. Their lips folded, closed up tight, sagging at both corners, shrouded in a lack of curiosity right down to their muscles. Dead people who’ve plainly never been alive, a dreary plain glutted with the living dead. A dreary mass, the Great Drear, a gigantic waiting room devoted to the preservation of the species. Children? Fewer and fewer! Parents grow more and more adolescent, their progeny more and more adult. Soon, what else can you expect, they’ll all meet up at the same stupid age.” And on and on he went; at that rate we could have spent the whole day on the subject. Robert gave the impression of having thought about everything, of never being caught off guard. It was hard for me to keep listening to him, because I’d long ago exceeded my maximum ability to absorb anything.

      He lowered his voice then, without warning, its tone became dreamy and sad. “The terrible thing is that today looking at children has to be clandestine, one can only admire them furtively. With all the stories going around—kidnappings, poisonings, rapes, ransoms, traumas, people are wary: parents, neighbors, everybody on the lookout. A stare that lasts a bit too long, is too tender, a wink, a friendly gesture, and instantly you’re suspected of pedophilia, armed robbery; they laugh nervously, vindictively and whisk the child away. Kids themselves become fearful, they’ve succeeded in ruining their innocence. Growing old just to reach the point at which you can’t look at children anymore! Anyhow, like I said, pretty soon there won’t be any more children. So that won’t even be a problem.”

      He sighed, shook his head, overcome. He must have been thinking about some particular event or individual. “Let’s go, it’s late. You’ve been very nice this morning, so helpful. About Pontormo, this place, the children. I haven’t let you say much . . . Nonetheless, your version of Mannerism and knowledge. Very strange. Maybe I didn’t really get it. But there’s something fascinating, about your . . . fascination! It’s hard to define. We can discuss it some more, and I may, perhaps, have a proposal to make you. Come to my place, some evening, this week. Wednesday.” Robert smiled. It was an order.

      Chapter II

      I’d thought this old man and the way he talked about everything would interest Mattilda, the tireless evaluation to which he subjected the world. She liked me to tell her stories or talk about my work, the time I spent away from her. Out of habit I didn’t say much, however—the same old problem as always with finding the words, putting sentences together. It was already hard enough to remember what other people had said without adding words of my own to the confusion.

      But that Saturday, I was so late and full of enthusiasm that, in order to be forgiven and to share my admiration, I reported every last detail of my encounter with Robert. I only talked about what he’d said. His words echoed inside my head and poured from my mouth quite naturally, as if they were mine now. I’d forgotten the old man’s ugliness, his smell. When I reached the end, to the part where he suggested that we get together again soon, I was dripping with sweat. He must have thought I was nice. Or maybe, in his own mind, he’d exaggerated the extent of my interest in Pontormo, Mannerism, painting? Because my approach was just to skim things for the time being; nothing would ever be permanently decided until a final overview was established. He, on the other hand, was way past this stage. He operated in a special realm, one that was, no doubt, less visible, like a mystery, a secret. With his memory and the data it contained, he could allow himself to think in different ways, and take a chance with new analyses. He was able to explore things unknown, things unthought.

      Mattilda had never shared my fascination for knowledge. For her, all knowledge ought to be practical, and should help fill out an application, should lead to a diploma, a job. Right from the start, therefore, she had thought my obsession with learning was slightly ridiculous—all that frantic accumulation of references. According to her, it was precisely because I wanted to know everything that I remembered nothing. She had some fine ideas on the subject. Wolfing down great quantities of words, whole sections of the library to fill one’s little head or some machine didn’t count. What was important was to run into the right sorts of things. Just pick things up, gleaning them haphazardly. Wait to be touched by the words that strike you, really hit you. Besides, just to talk you don’t need to know everything.

      It must be admitted that this off-handed approach was very becoming to Mattilda. Through either forgetfulness or ignorance she’d been able to hang onto a certain amount of freshness and innocence. You had to admit she had a point from her point of view. It was a matter of observing things, sudden changes, trends, seizing every moment, living them fully, being dazzled by them, and then, when they’re done, when they’ve fled, well too bad, indeed so much the better. Why always be stockpiling?