My French Novel

Every Friday I have my French lesson with my teacher, Claude. For the first half hour we talk in French randomly, but sincerely and intimately, since over the years we have become friends. Then, for the second half hour, I read to Claude a written French text that I have prepared. The setup is this: for each week, Claude gives me a subject — it is always just a word, a noun, but it can be anything — clouds, butterflies, pepper, couch — anything. The rule is I have to include that word in my writing for that week. Other than that, I can write anything. I read what I have written paragraph by paragraph, then Claude reads it back to me and makes the corrections — there are always a lot of them — and we discuss what I meant to say if it’s unclear.

When we started I just wrote a serious essay on whatever the subject was, but I quickly realized that that wasn’t very satisfying. So I thought, why not write a murder mystery, and make every week a new chapter? So that’s what I did, for 60 chapters or so. But then, as the mystery came to an end, and as I realized I didn’t like to plan much in detail, and that I wasn’t very good at plot, I transformed the story to a more modern novel. In fact, it became a post-modern rather existential novel, that I am still working on. As you can see below, I now have around 200 chapters! I skipped some numbers, so maybe it’s really more like 180. But whatever. I have my characters, whom I more or less love, and Claude has her favorites — mostly Juliette, and maybe Jules, I’m not sure. I think I now have about 12 characters, some very constant presences, others more like walk ons. Besides not having much of a plot line, I also discovered that I don’t like my characters to be unhappy, and I don’t like them to fight much, but in their own way, I think my characters are striving toward happiness. Instead of there being difficult problems to be faced, the problems kind of sneak up on them.

As for the post-modern element, I don’t want to give it away quite yet, but let me just say that I become impatient with the fourth wall, and I think that characters ought to be able to speak back to and push back against the author.

So each week as I write another chapter, there are these requirements: I have to include the topic of the week, I have to advance the story, and, importantly, to have to make Claude laugh — every week without fail.

Usually, my chapters are full of dialogue - I think and Claude thinks that this is what I do best. But for some reason, when I wrote a chapter that didn’t have a lot of dialogue, I thought that this chapter - or just half of it, actually, - is something that readers of this blog might like to read best. For some reason I felt touched by it. I won’t describe it more; it’s short, so you can easily read it and decide for yourself.

One other interesting thing is this: my French is improving but I still don’t think in French, and I’m not sure, but I think that as I’m writing, I think in English but then write in French. But then when it’s on the page in French, it just becomes a French chapter, and then when I translate it back into English, it seems a bit stiff and even stilted. Does this mean I actually do think in French? Or more likely, does it mean that translation is hard, and I can’t even do a good job of translating my own writing? I don’t know, it’s a mystery.

So anyway, here is my little extraction of a chapter. First is the French, then my English translation. The word (le sujet) that Claude gave me for this chapter is, obviously, Les Insultes. And you’ll also notice that I have gotten into the habit of sometimes inserting a picture, either one I myself took, or an image from the internet — which is where I got this picture to start off this chapter.

216 Les Insultes - un extrait avec traduction

— Juliette m’a appelé hier, dit Mercedes.

C’était l’automne à Paris, les journées encore ensoleillées, mais le temps plus frais, avec plus de vent, moins de vacances, plus de travail dans les bureaux, et moins de touristes dans les rues et les restaurants. Mercedes aimait beaucoup l’automne, et le changement des saisons en France. Quand elle rendait visites à ses parents à Tunis, d’abord elle aimait la chaleur, mais [] une ou deux semaines après/plus tard elle découvrait que l’air frais du matin lui manquait, et les arbres et les chants des oiseaux parisiens, et puis elle soupirait à son Paris. Maintenant, en automne, elle savait encore mieux qu’elle se sentait chez elle à Paris.

Elle se demandait si c’était sa jeunesse à Tunis qui l’avait poussée à apprécier les saisons en France. Au printemps c’était le temps pour émerger du nid de l’hiver, pour se promener partout dans une veste et un chapeau, et pour prévoir les vacances d’été. Bien sûr, l’été était le temps pour voyager ou pour passer du temps quelque part loin de Paris. Mais l’automne était le temps pour s’installer dans son appartement, pour acheter des nouveaux ustensiles de cuisine et des vêtements pour l’hiver. Et cette année, uniquement pour elle, c’était la saison pour commencer sa vie en tant que l’unique femme dans la vie de Jules. Pour Jules, de son côté, il est possible qu’il ait acheté sa bague sur un coup de tête. Mais dans l’esprit de Mercedes, bien qu’elle reconnaissait cette possibilité, ça [] signifiait la même que pour tout le monde — cette femme et prise ! Et elle pensait à se conduire de manière appropriée pour une femme avec une bague.

— Oui ? dit Jules.

Jules, bien sûr, avait un peu remarqué quelque chose de nouveau. Avec son histoire de mariage, il n’avait pas pu être conscient d’un tel changement. Mais, c’était sans aucun doute qu’il avait un nouveau sens de la stabilité, cependant clairement il s’en méfiait. Ce n’est pas sa coutume d’être confortable dans sa vie. Il aimait bien que Mercedes soit toujours là, mais il se méfiait de ça aussi. Il se demandait pourquoi elle ne faisait pas de voyages [] on ne savait pas où, en disant comme avant, << à tout à l’heure, je reviens dans une semaine >>. Elle n’avait pas même dîné avec ses amies. << C’est un peu bizarre,>> il se dit, mais il trouvait que c’était très agréable d’être avec elle toutes les nuits, et pendant que les crépuscules commençaient [] de plus en plus tôt, Jules se trouvait de plus en plus détendu. Quand il réfléchissait à ça, il avait [] tendance à devenir un peu méfiant, mais il ne pouvait pas résister à la femme douce et à ses yeux bruns foncés et ses embrasses. Une fois, il suggéra même qu’ils fassent des achats ensemble pour une lampe pour le fauteuil qu’elle préférait. Mercedes l’avait bien remarqué, mais sagement, elle n’avait rien dit

Il trouvait même qu’ils pouvaient cuisiner ensemble, ce qu’il n’avait jamais fait avant avec personne. Il trouvait même qu’il ne restait pas au bureau comme avant ; en revanche, il s’assurait l’après-midi qu’il pourrait partir à l’heure afin de rentrer à l’heure.

À l’heure. Il n’avait jamais été à l’heure de toute sa vie ! Il avait été allergique à << à l’heure. >> À l’heure était un thème de sa mère. Sa phrase insulte avait été ça << il n’est jamais à l’heure ! Quel garçon bête - il ne peut pas interpréter une montre ! >> Ses [] trois ex-femmes s’étaient plaintes de la même chose. Car, c’était une surprise pour lui-même d’être habituellement à l’heure maintenant, et il était surpris aussi par son nouveau sens de calme. Il se demandait pourquoi il n’était pas [] à l’heure auparavant, mais il ne pouvait pas décider pourquoi. Et la plus grande ironie était maintenant, qu’il n’y avait pas une heure déterminée de rentrer ! Mercedes savait qu’il n’aimait pas [] avoir une heure fixe de rentrer, alors elle s’assurait qu’elle avait plein de chose à faire à la fin de la journée dans l’appartement pour pouvoir patienter. Mais, quelle surprise, comme un chien prêt à dîner, tous les soir à six heures, il était là. Elle finit par l’appeler << mon chiot. >>

En bref, pauvre homme, il ne reconnaissait pas qu’il avait enfin trouvé son amour. Il ne reconnaissait pas que sa vie chez eux avait remplacé sa vie au bureau en tant que vie principale. Il ne comprenait pas que sa vie d’auparavant avait disparu, et que c’était une bonne chose. Il devait s’habituer au fait qu’il était devenu Dorothy, et que sa vie avait changé du noir et blanc au technicolor dans un nouveau monde, sans [] chaussures rouges.

En anglais:

“Juliette called me yesterday,” said Mercedes.

It was autumn in Paris, the days still sunny, but the weather fresher, with more wind, less vacation, more office work, and fewer tourists in the streets and the restaurants. Mercedes loved autumn, and the changes of the seasons in France. When she visited her parents in Tunis, at first she liked the heat, but after one or two weeks she found that she missed the morning’s fresh air, and the Parisian trees and the songs of the birds, and then she longed for Paris. Now, in autumn, she realized even more that she felt at home in Paris.

She wondered if it was her youth in Tunis that had led her to appreciate the seasons in France. In spring it was time to emerge from the nest of winter, to walk everywhere in a jacket and a hat, and to plan the summer vacations. Of course, summer was the time to travel, or to spend time somewhere away from Paris. But autumn was the time to settle down in your apartment, to buy some new kitchen utensils and some clothes for the winter. This year, uniquely for her, it was the season to start her life as the only woman in Jules’ life. As for Jules, it’s possible that he had bought her ring on an impulse. But to her mind, even though she recognized that possibility, the ring signified for her what it signifies for everybody — this woman is taken! And she intended to conduct herself in a manner appropriate for a woman with a ring.

“Yes?” said Jules.

Jules, of course, had hardly noticed something new. With his marital history, he couldn’t register such a change consciously. But, there was no doubt that he had a new sense of stability, however suspiciously he looked at it. It was not his usual experience to be comfortable in his life. He liked it a lot that Mercedes was always there, but he viewed it with suspicion nonetheless. He wondered why she wasn’t taking trips to some place she didn’t tell him about, saying as she used to, “See you soon, I’ll be back in a week.” She hadn’t even eaten out with friends. “It’s a little weird,” he told himself, but he found that he liked being with her every night, and while dusk started to come earlier and earlier, Jules found himself more and more relaxed. When he thought about that, he would become a little suspicious, but he could resist the sweet woman, and her dark brown eyes and her kisses. Once, he even suggested that they shop together for a lamp for her favorite chair. Mercedes had certainly noticed that, but wisely, she hadn’t said anything.

He even found that they could cook together, which he had never done before with anyone. He even found that he didn’t stay at the office as he used to; instead, he made sure in the afternoon that he would be able to leave on time so he could be home on time.

“On time.” He had never been “on time” in his whole life! He had been allergic to “on time.” “On time” was a theme of his mother. Her expression of insult had been this: “He is never on time! What a stupid boy - he can’t read a watch!” His three ex-wives had complained of the same thing. So, it was a surprise to himself that he was now always on time, and at the same time he was surprised at his new sense of calmness. He wondered why he didn’t used to be “on time,” but he couldn’t figure out why. And the biggest irony was now that he didn’t have a specific time to be home! Mercedes knew that he didn’t like to have a deadline to be home, so she made sure that she had plenty of things to do at the end of the day in the apartment so that she could wait patiently. But, what a surprise, like a dog ready for dinner, every night at six, there he was. She wound up calling him “my puppy.”

In short, poor man, he didn’t recognize the he had finally found his love. He didn’t realize that their life together at their place had replaced his life in the office as his main life. He didn’t realize that his previous life had disappeared, and that that was a good thing. Now he had to get used to the fact that he had become Dorothy, and that his life had changed from black and white to technicolor in a new new world, minus the red shoes.

 

Budd Shenkin