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Authors: Georges Perec
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make love to her.
No. 80
July 1971 (Lans)
The rehearsal
Rehearsals for my next play have begun. We’re already on set. I am explaining to the director, Marcel Cuvelier, the importance of the 6th character, who is mute but who appears to be spared the fate to which the 5 others are bound.
I am a soldier in Grenoble. I take 8 days of vacation, to go to Lans or Villard. I call to explain that I’m sick: spots on my skin, pityriasis, or, rather, to make the case more extreme, psoriasis. A woman answers, kindly but neutral. She doesn’t seem to think this is possible, but she agrees to “prepare my file” anyway.
After a long time pondering, I try to remember the tune and the words of a song I wrote in 1941.
No. 81
July 1971 (Lans)
The man with a dog
1
I am visiting one of my nieces and her boyfriend. I am concerned to learn that they only got an average of 80 on their exams, when they would have needed 100. My niece suddenly seems swollen, almost ugly. I tell myself the life she is leading with her boyfriend isn’t working out.
2
I return home. I live in a large single room in the same house as my niece. Above me, in a third apartment, live either P. or F. and an Algerian friend. I go to see P.; I find F., accompanied by another Algerian and Henri C. The three men seem each as unfriendly as the next, even almost hostile.
3
Out of some unknown necessity, I move a meeting scheduled for that night to the following day (which will be July 30 th ) at 11 a.m.
4
Now I remember with a sort of panic that I made an appointment for July 29th with a psychoanalyst, Mr. Bezu, at 34 rue Daru. I call Mr. Bezu to cancel the appointment. I have a very complicated conversation with his secretary, because she doesn’t want to give me another appointment, though I insist on asking for the appointment that would normally have followed this one anyway. After much hesitation, the secretary finally concedes and gives me an appointment for July 30 th at 2 p.m. This seems surprising to me, since at first it seems to me that the 30th is a Sunday. But in fact it’s a Saturday.
I call from a phone booth and by the end of the conversation I have stepped halfway out. When I go back in to hang up, I find an old, kindly-looking man who shows me how I could have made the call without paying: just strip the wires and place them on the contacts, squeezing them between thumb and forefinger.
5
I go to rue Daru: it’s in a neighborhood that’s being torn down. In fact, it’s a large esplanade where all the remains of the quarter are on display. It’s very white. Some details look like paintings by Niki de Saint Phalle, as though they were made of celluloid baby parts.
I look around the exhibit, followed a few paces behind by Henri C., who is carrying a dog in his arms. Henri seems more interested in what I’m doing than in the exhibit itself, but he doesn’t say anything to me. While going down the stairs toward the exit, I steal something of minor importance (like a newel post): maybe I’m caught by Henri C., who begins to smile.
6
Sudden change of scenery. I’m home again and I’m invisible. A Jerry Lewis-type gag: a man disguised as a dog (only by looking in his eyes—shining, almost red—can you tell that it’s not a dog) exits, pulling on his leash, forcing the man leading him to break into a trot. The real dog, sitting in an armchair, watches him leave, then gets up on his hind legs (like a cartoon animal) and begins miming a boxing match.
7
Another scene from another film; this time it’s
Designing Woman
by Vincent Minnelli. Two gangsters are terrorizing—or rather intimidating—a man (no doubt F.) who owes them 4,000 francs. As they leave, one of the gangsters tries to knock over a pedestal with several fragile objects on it. I end up opening the door and chasing them away (they leave without a fight).
8
Now I live in an immense, sumptuous apartment. I walk through the
No. 80
July 1971 (Lans)
The rehearsal
Rehearsals for my next play have begun. We’re already on set. I am explaining to the director, Marcel Cuvelier, the importance of the 6th character, who is mute but who appears to be spared the fate to which the 5 others are bound.
I am a soldier in Grenoble. I take 8 days of vacation, to go to Lans or Villard. I call to explain that I’m sick: spots on my skin, pityriasis, or, rather, to make the case more extreme, psoriasis. A woman answers, kindly but neutral. She doesn’t seem to think this is possible, but she agrees to “prepare my file” anyway.
After a long time pondering, I try to remember the tune and the words of a song I wrote in 1941.
No. 81
July 1971 (Lans)
The man with a dog
1
I am visiting one of my nieces and her boyfriend. I am concerned to learn that they only got an average of 80 on their exams, when they would have needed 100. My niece suddenly seems swollen, almost ugly. I tell myself the life she is leading with her boyfriend isn’t working out.
2
I return home. I live in a large single room in the same house as my niece. Above me, in a third apartment, live either P. or F. and an Algerian friend. I go to see P.; I find F., accompanied by another Algerian and Henri C. The three men seem each as unfriendly as the next, even almost hostile.
3
Out of some unknown necessity, I move a meeting scheduled for that night to the following day (which will be July 30 th ) at 11 a.m.
4
Now I remember with a sort of panic that I made an appointment for July 29th with a psychoanalyst, Mr. Bezu, at 34 rue Daru. I call Mr. Bezu to cancel the appointment. I have a very complicated conversation with his secretary, because she doesn’t want to give me another appointment, though I insist on asking for the appointment that would normally have followed this one anyway. After much hesitation, the secretary finally concedes and gives me an appointment for July 30 th at 2 p.m. This seems surprising to me, since at first it seems to me that the 30th is a Sunday. But in fact it’s a Saturday.
I call from a phone booth and by the end of the conversation I have stepped halfway out. When I go back in to hang up, I find an old, kindly-looking man who shows me how I could have made the call without paying: just strip the wires and place them on the contacts, squeezing them between thumb and forefinger.
5
I go to rue Daru: it’s in a neighborhood that’s being torn down. In fact, it’s a large esplanade where all the remains of the quarter are on display. It’s very white. Some details look like paintings by Niki de Saint Phalle, as though they were made of celluloid baby parts.
I look around the exhibit, followed a few paces behind by Henri C., who is carrying a dog in his arms. Henri seems more interested in what I’m doing than in the exhibit itself, but he doesn’t say anything to me. While going down the stairs toward the exit, I steal something of minor importance (like a newel post): maybe I’m caught by Henri C., who begins to smile.
6
Sudden change of scenery. I’m home again and I’m invisible. A Jerry Lewis-type gag: a man disguised as a dog (only by looking in his eyes—shining, almost red—can you tell that it’s not a dog) exits, pulling on his leash, forcing the man leading him to break into a trot. The real dog, sitting in an armchair, watches him leave, then gets up on his hind legs (like a cartoon animal) and begins miming a boxing match.
7
Another scene from another film; this time it’s
Designing Woman
by Vincent Minnelli. Two gangsters are terrorizing—or rather intimidating—a man (no doubt F.) who owes them 4,000 francs. As they leave, one of the gangsters tries to knock over a pedestal with several fragile objects on it. I end up opening the door and chasing them away (they leave without a fight).
8
Now I live in an immense, sumptuous apartment. I walk through the
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