Incest

I was so happy to know him. Meeting him the first time was so much more than I’d hoped. And then, eight days later, not more than that, I swear, not more, I was so disillusioned, I couldn’t have imagined. Way beyond my expectations and eight days later, a disappointment I could never have dreamed of, never. I met him in Strasbourg with my mother at the Buffet de la Gare, he seemed so extraordinary to me. I, who had never had a father to introduce to my friends, all of a sudden I’d be able to tell them how extraordinary he was. I was charmed. I felt no desire for him, it wasn’t that at all. Charmed. Like you can be by someone you love. I found him intelligent, interesting, so much more cultured than your average person, so exceptional. My friends’ fathers could pack it in (this isn’t a quip, it’s not mischievous and impertinent, as I’ve said). Him, he spoke thirty languages, he was elegant. I don’t want to go into details, in short, he exceeded my expectations. By far. I told my mother, who was happy, she said to me “you see, I didn’t choose just anyone to be your father.” I agreed and then some, I said “no, you didn’t, you certainly didn’t.” And then eight days later, my mother and I were spending eight days at Gérardmer in a hotel, he came to see us. Dinner, a walk around the lake, bedtime. He came to say goodnight in my room, and there, he kissed me on the mouth. Already just the discovery of a kiss on the mouth, and that he kissed me like that. I didn’t understand, I understood very well, I didn’t believe it. I really did ask myself. He loved me, he said he loved me. I’m very sorry to tell you about this, I’d so much rather be able to talk about something else. But how I became insane, that’s it. I’m sure of it, it’s because of this that I became insane. This was the cause. In eight days I went from the ideal father, even more than ideal, unhoped for, a father I could never have imagined possible, and he was my father, and he loved me, and we looked like each other, and he was happy, and he found me extraordinary, me too, he was dazzled. There were so many promises. No, I repeat, I never felt any desire for him, no, I say it again. Never. I do know what desire is, after all. Pleasure, there may have been some, I don’t deny it. But never desire. I wanted to please him, of course. I am very sorry this has to be discussed. Very sorry. Why am I talking about it? Well, because I talked about it with Marie-Christine and she thinks it’s a good idea. I hope it’s not because it excites her, she says it doesn’t, that instead it makes her feel bad. It tears me up to talk about it. When I talk to her about it, it tears me up, fortunately I’m in her arms, otherwise I probably couldn’t. I shouldn’t write this. And I shouldn’t talk to her about it. What it will evoke, in her, and in you, will be the same thing, pity, you won’t be able to love me anymore, neither she nor you. She won’t love me anymore. We will no longer be able to make love. You won’t want to read me anymore. I think, well too bad, it’s a risk I have to take. We don’t like people who have suffered, we feel sorry for them, we don’t like the insane, we feel sorry for them. No one wants to live next door to an insane asylum. It’s normal, I understand. I’m the same. I’m a poor girl, no one falls in love with a poor girl. No one wants to make love to a poor girl, unless you’re a pervert. What else?

I didn’t talk about it to anyone. Not anyone. No one knew. Do you understand? From fourteen to sixteen. I talked about my father at school. All the things about him I could be proud about, the intellectual things, his knowledge, his culture, I was appropriating it, sometimes I shared it with others. I mostly talked about it to my friend Véronique. I would tell her what I’d learned over the weekend. She was interested, fascinated. All the things about him I was proud of. All the more since I hadn’t talked about my father at all for fourteen years, not to anyone. There were things I hid, things I was ashamed of, but there was plenty I could talk about.

And now, I tell myself the same thing, keep silent. If I talk it will be worse than before: it helps to talk, they’ll tell me. I hate having to write this. I hate you. I despise you. I don’t want to know what you’re thinking. I know what you’re thinking. Always the same thing and you’re all the same. Calf, cow, pig and I hate you. It’s that or the clinic. I have to. It’s the clinic or talking to you. To you. Writing is a kind of rampart against insanity, I’m already very lucky that I’m a writer, that at least I have this possibility. That’s already something. This book will be seen as a shit piece of testimony. What else could I do? What else? Orange Kréma candy, but also: