The Death of Marlon Brando Page 3

  Already in July, my father once said: “The spring is dried up.” I asked: “What does that mean, dried up.”[4] Father said: “It’s when you don’t have any more. It’s when it’s finished” and, for us, that was a bad thing, really.

  Sure that in my Petit Illustré dictionary, there’s no picture to accompany this word. But it’s there, you can be sure of that. And I think that this alone is all the proof we need so as to keep an eye out.

  During those hottest of times in summer, I think that it’s the spring which makes our fields worth something and I know that our father admires it. It’s necessary, and he once said to me, while squinting his eyes: “It’s precious and, for that reason, it’s hidden at the bottom of the ravine.”

  He thought that he got me with his little stories for children between four and eight years old, but I said to him: “That’s a sentence taken right out of a fairy tale” and he laughed. After, he said: “You talk like in your books.” Then he turned away, shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands. And sometimes, because of nothing, or because of little things like that, like the shoulders, the words, the hands, I’ve got the distinct impression that my father hasn’t noticed that I’ve grown up.

  When I was at the bottom of the ravine and had hollowed out a cavity that was big enough in order to fill my pitcher, I could sense that he was behind me. I have to say that the more things seem to be alright, the more I think that he’s always behind me. I also have to say that the more things are fine, the more I have trouble finding the words capable of expressing the panic I feel when faced with the threat.

  The first thing that I heard were the branches rustling. After that, his shadow emerged over the short stretch of black and freezing water. I turned around and he said, while laughing a little and being a little embarrassed, too, and covering his mouth with his hand like he always does, “As for me, I’m with thirst.” Then he added, “Them snow gooses, ain’t interestin’.” He didn’t need anything else to believe that he’d been invited.

  He got down on all fours and set about lapping up the liquid like an animal would have done. We weren’t at the table, that’s true, but that suction noise and the drooling seemed intolerable. You could easily see that as far as quenching his thirst was concerned, there was as much water falling out as was going in. So much so that, after a certain amount of time, he was drinking the water that had just fallen into the small dugout I’d made. It was nothing less than horrible to see all this. I pushed through the branches and went back up the steep path in order to wait for the others. Without knowing why, for no reason whatsoever no doubt, my heart was pounding. Like a little while ago, with the sun on the dry earth of the trail.

  And to say that my father’s land is beautiful regardless of the season, and this even during the winter when it’s all covered in snow, I’m not so sure now, and sometimes I even forget this. It’s undulating, with no rocks, moist and rich. They say that it’s one of those plots of land, maybe they should say soils, that are the most fertile in the region. My father says this and, personally, I believe him.

  And I enjoy thinking about things like that when I walk with my hands in my pockets, alone, without any friends. I like imagining that our land is a domain, which arouses admiration and fear everywhere around here. I wanted to say this, but my father says that when you’re walking in the fields, out of respect for the land itself, you shouldn’t speak. I found that funny at the beginning, but now I stay silent in order to act properly.

  In this way, when I end up walking with him, we don’t speak. When I end up walking with my father, we never walk side by side. He goes in front, and me, I follow him. Once, I even imagined that if I stopped walking, he’d continue on his way.

  They can’t prevent me, however, from seeing what’s around me. The others, I know them. I know that they’re older than me and that they don’t really exist. In my story, they’re the Shadows and, in order to fight back, they call me the Cake Eater. Our relationship, for me and them, is limited to these quality-control labels.

  Him, I observe more closely than the others. Sometimes, even, I examine him – his head, round; his hands, webbed – and in front of the Shadows, I know that he’s elusive; he hides and doesn’t say anything. You never see his eyes. As for his hands, when I let myself go and describe them in my composition where I invent scenes from things that I know, they’re paws with fingers stuck to one another …like those of a duck. In June, when making up my plan, I had to describe the Ornithorhynchus in my story and he’s the one I saw right away. It’s bizarre, and when the teacher asked me jokingly if I had already seen a platypus, I said yes. After, I changed my mind, but it was too late and my teacher, who has eagle eyes under her horn-rimmed glasses, said:

  “So you’ve already seen a platypus, have you?” Our teacher from last year used to speak to say nothing. She asks me this type of question even though she knows full well that I’ve never seen one. A caricature of a schoolteacher if you want to know; hair in a bun, white blouse, a cameo…

  I know that I could have continued to answer yes, but I also know that my cause would have been difficult to defend. So, I asked to go wash my hands.

  I said: “I stained my hands with oil from my bicycle chain. Can I go to the bathroom?”

  She accepted. This is what she does when she doesn’t refuse. You’ll understand: never is she going to say yes or no. She refuses or she accepts. She teaches. A caricature, I told you. Her only initiative has been to give us an assignment for the month of June that lasts the whole summer. A revolutionary! I have to say that I enjoy applying myself to compositions and that I like words. I also have to say that as the revolution would have it, she gave us a trick. She said:

  “Take a subject that’s close to you…something that you know. In order to help you, think about the structure of a story that you’ve already read or seen somewhere. On T.V., at the movies or elsewhere. She added: “It always works…”

  I chose a film on Vietnam. Because knowing that it was Washington that abandoned the American colonel, that really struck me.

  While rubbing my hands under the hot water faucet using the liquid soap – at school, we have liquid soap like for kitchen dishes and I like it – I thought that I could have invented another story. Say that because of a sticky candy, speak about the mud because it’s raining outside…I could have even said: “May I go to the bathroom?” but I didn’t. No matter, now. All I needed was for it to get me out this platypus business that I’d seen, but that I couldn’t explain. I succeeded. For a while, in any case. And so here’s what I’ve become: the specialist at inventing stories. Once again you’ll understand; I could even have said: “May I go to the bathroom?”…as I know how to conjugate the verb “to be able” in this way.[5] But, I didn’t do it. In general, I keep quiet. More and more, my uneasiness makes me act like the platypus – Him – the one who wiggles his webbed feet in front of others, rolls his eyes that are difficult to describe, but doesn’t speak.

  When he does, he also uses strange words and expressions that sound funny. At first, the others used to laugh, but today, you’d say that I’m the only one who appears surprised by this. He says things like couchette and after a while you notice that he is talking about fourchette (fork), the kitchen utensil. He says: candies. And I know that for him, that means sweets. As if, and just as if, all the candies were made of sugar candy. He even manages to make up sentences like this one. He says, for example: “the chicken there…” Swear that I’m not making up a thing. He says: “The chicken there…” and I think it means “That chicken there,” or the chicken that we have right in front of us. It’s unbelievable. A three-year-old knows fewer words, but I’m sure that his sentences are better constructed than the ones that the monster would call “his to himself.” I truly believe that. I owe it to myself to also say that he doesn’t speak very much to men, that he mostly blabs away to himself or speaks to the animals.

  My mother says that he drinks and that he’s developed th
eir habits by spending so much time with them. She doesn’t say anything else about it. I also have to say that since he doesn’t speak much to others, the others don’t speak much about him. I’ve noticed that, too. In front of them, in front of my father, my mother and even in front of the people at the house, he’s obedient. In general, he listens well – too well, perhaps. And, I suspect him of hiding something, but how do you tell someone this – and try to do them a favour? Them, most often, they just ignore him as they think that this is the way it should be. And him, he takes advantage of being ignored in order to sneak about.

  Once again: to say noyer (drown), he says the word neyer. And with neyer, it’s like there’s already water flowing in his throat. That one there, he uses onomatopoeias without even knowing it. He says neyer, becomes sad and tries to make you feel for him. Without knowing it either, he’s an Ornithorhynchus who invents words – zezon, petuite, jouquer,[6] uses neyer once again because he feels guilty. And sometimes I wonder if his power doesn’t reside in something like this. Sometimes in the evening, I think about it, especially when I’m alone; after something bad has happened, often… Like this night when our dog got hit by a car. You’d say that I only think about it when I’m sore. And so it’s too late, and for the most part, all my energy is spent. In my dreams at night, I often see myself putting out a fire with my boots like we do in the fields of grass. And the fire continues, spreads and ravages everything.

  When I saw Apocalypse Now, I thought of that, too. A war movie!… The finest there is! And I decided to construct my story like this movie that I love.

  It was only later on that the others came by. They’d changed the tractor’s battery, had brought some fruit and, for me, Mom had put in a little cake. This was in August. The last days of August are short. At around six o’clock in the evening when I said that I wanted to walk home, he said that he would go back to the house on foot, too. Right away, I felt trapped. I said no; that I wanted to go down alone and that he had no business following me. My father said “Tut-tut…” I said: “Can I not get any peace around here?” My father said “Tut-tut…” I said: “This is unjust.” He looked at me, taken aback. You’ll understand: when I pronounce the word injustice, for my father, it’s as if I were saying onhuebbtr mnjssterr, or even llksiuytyyty.

  In short, it’s as if, and just as if, in his dictionary, the one he uses, this word wasn’t there.

  I set off on the dirt road which is cracked and dry. It undulates and is serpentine, and is beautiful or ugly; it depends. Him, he went the same way no doubt, but I was walking quickly and didn’t turn around.

  I had already written: “The monster’s odour puts me off…” but he was one I wanted to name.

  There was the meal and I thought that we were still there in front of a summer dinner. Because of the squash soup and salads, because of the corn on the cob too, which were reigning over the table like beautiful bright yellow marbles, and also because of the raspberries for the dessert. In summer, the salads are made up of lettuce and Mom leaves the bottles of oil on the table for us to season them ourselves.

  There were the doors that open out onto the warm evening and twilight came about at eight o’clock, I believe. There hadn’t been any mosquitoes for more than a month, but all the leaves were still on the trees. You knew that the summer was coming to an end, but never would you have dared say that autumn was near. That’s the way it is with the seasons. You feel them long before talking about them for real.

  Father sat down on the veranda as he so often does, cleared his throat, smoked his pipe, cleared his throat once again and went inside to go to bed. This was earlier than near the beginning of June, it would seem. Earlier, because the days were getting shorter, perhaps. My mom was watching the T.V.

  There were the boys and the girls, all brothers and sisters, and you could hear them getting ready. They were in one room that we call the addition[7] and you couldn’t see them, as they’re the Shadows. Them, they’re living, laughing, and are at an age where you only look after yourself. They dance, laugh, work, but do nothing else and, in my story, it’s as if they weren’t there. They go out. In the house, there’s only Father, Mother and Him who pay attention to me. For the Shadows, my composition is nothing other than a fantasy of the Cake Eater. Also, I wander around all alone for the most part in the courtyard, on the farm…and then on the whole property. In the clouds, on the roads and in books.

  I went to the paddock of the Grande Montée to see if the bulls had been given anything to drink. I do this in the evening even if for the most part, they’ve already had something to drink. Father wants me to check on the state of the reservoir every day. It’s always different. It isn’t very far away, and on the hill there’s always a bit of wind. Evenings are cool there and it’s comfortable.

  When I got close to the reservoir to which we’d attached a drainage valve, I saw that he was there. He was coming out from behind the trees and didn’t look at me. In fact, I think that he was pretending to be there by chance, and when he finally made up his mind to look at me he made as if he was surprised. He said: “Ha…” and me, I made as if I wasn’t duped by being surprised. It was the right thing to do. He laughed to himself and said:

  “Yer father sent me to clean the reservoir…” Then he started walking around it while covering his mouth with his hand and dragging his feet, too. He also grabbed his nose with his hand and even went so far as to pull on it in the shadow of the leaves. I thought that this was an abhorrent gesture.

  It’s still summer. I see it in the bunches of cherries, hanging heavily from the tree branches like when we used to bale the hay. We used to grab handfuls of them in order to stuff our faces.

  It’s still summer because of the wind or the air and its weather patterns, which I don’t understand. It must be a complicated system whereby the air goes from high to low and across in arches, then whirls and twirls and advances softly like a caress. This is something that in three weeks will no longer exist, for example, and that won’t come back until ten months from now with the new summer.

  In my composition, I already wrote about the summer, that we’re always waiting for it.

  It’s still daytime or evening-daytime and from above, I can see the houses camped in the valley, all surrounded by apple trees, agricultural equipment and vehicles. Behind each house, you can see a vegetable garden. In front of all the houses is a lawn, which changes from the surrounding meadows due to its colour, due to it being a bald patch, due to its odour. I can’t see them from here, so I invent them.

  He said: “Ya must be lookin’ forward to returnin’ to school, huh, thingamajig? It must be pleasant to go to school. Ya must be happy…” and I answered no.

  He said: “If yer lookin’ forward to goin’ to school, it’s gotta be because of the girls.” He said: “Ya like that, thinkin’ about the girls, huh?…” and as I didn’t answer, because he was acting like such a know-it-all, and due to my answer which couldn’t be either a yes or a no, he kept on saying: “Ya gotta do things with the girls durin’ recess.”

  I was going to say to him that we didn’t even see the girls during this time, that they’re on the other side of the playground, when he said: “Don’t pretend ya don’t understand. Ya know more than yer lettin’ on. I know what ya do durin’ recess.”

  I said: “What are you rambling on about?” and for an instant, he didn’t know what to think. I saw him clearly hesitate and then he said:

  “Yer friend from the village is the one who told me things…Huh…huh Ya surprised, huh?… Ya didn’t think that I was aware of what yer up to.”

  I certainly was surprised, but more by the fact that he knew Louis Levasseur than by what he might very well know about our recesses. What’s he going to dig up next? What business is it of his anyway? And why exactly was he talking about “recesses” while emphasizing this word and making innuendos? So much so that I already felt guilty about something just by hearing him say “recesses.” And that, even if in gen
eral, we only kicked the ball about during this time at school.

  He said:

  “Here now, yer thing, it’s not even as big as that.” And I understood, because it was easy to understand even when he mumbles and his speech is muddled. As for his images, they’re always clear. What’s more, with him, you always know beforehand what the conversation is going to be about. He was showing me the end of the barrel spout while laughing a little because it was embarrassing, even to him. He was also mixing up his words as he does when he’s excited. He then added:

  “Maybe at recess, ya show yer li’l thing to the girls. I know this now, ya know.”

  This whole episode didn’t bother me in the slightest. I’m used to it with him. He’s an Ornithorhynchus and he’s dirty. With him, you already know beforehand what the conversation is going to be about. First, the mare and chicks, Eve and the apple, and then the birds and their brood. He knows how to make connections, I’ve already said this.

  He continued: “Is it true that you’z guys had a dirty magazine last year? Huh… huh?… Ya not sayin’ anythin’ now,” was what he said. “That, that’s gotta be true. I’m informed, ya know.”

  I answered no, but it was true that we’d looked at it. I have to say that I was surprised to find out that he was aware of this. Once again, I was stunned to see that beneath his innocent exterior, there was some sort of intelligence at work. He knew about the magazine. It was true that this type of thing interested him and he knows how to be tenacious. He’s a spy too, and with respect to this type of thing, with respect to digging into things, I mean, he’s a pro. We found a magazine that was called Baby. We had hid it in our desks between our workbooks, buried it under our school manuals for weeks and he still knew about it.