Memories of an Amnesiac

Author(s): Jan J. Dominique and Marie-Agns Sourieau

Source: Callaloo, Vol. 15, No. 2, Haitian Literature and Culture, Part 1 (Spring, 1992), pp. 445-
451
Published by: The Johns Hopkins University Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/2931252 .
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from MEMORIES OF AN AMNESIAC*
By Jan
J.
Dominique
I
havejust
made up my mind. Coming
backfrom
work, I did notfeel like cooking, or reading,
or going out again, and I know what this lack of desire means.
I have thought for a while about my escape of these last three days, my conversation with
Martine telling her how fed up I am, the letters to Steve, and especially Paul's visit. I was not
satisfied with the text. I feel that I need to write it, to finish it, but my mind is totally blank.
I need to write this text. I remember explaining to Eli the two centers of interest in my life, and
he teased me: the Country in abscissa, in axis the Text. I am a curve which sometimes moves
up, sometimes moves down; I have not thought of an order of importance, both are linked; it
cannot be any other way. Both are so intimately linked that I am beginning to wonder about the
meaning of this emptiness. I feel like destroying the pages already written, I am not satisfied
with them, they do not convey what Ifeel, think, live. When I write, there is between my head
and my hand a distance that distorts everything, that masks my real being. Paul has read the
text and talked of a gag. Yes I am gagged, I gag myself; I would like, I want to remove this gag
but it is holding on tightly, I am aware that it is trapping my fingers the same way it often
closes my mouth. I find it so difficult to tell others what I really feel, maybe because I fear to
reveal myself, to open up, or because I have not learned. I do not believe so. I do not want to.
I am fleeing. For weeks I have been dreading so much the moments of solitude with the text
that I make them impossible. And when the desire is too strong, I reread some pages, correcting
a word, a sentence, while I persist in not liking my writing. I have dragged the text everywhere,
along with a few blank pages which have remained that way. I was comfortable with them, my
friends, my new loves, but in the background this impression of fleeing that spoiled everything,
even my tenderness for Eli. I felt like I was giving him moments that I was stealing from the
text. Ifeel this more and more often and I am going to end up not being able to stand us. I will
reach the point when I will hate these others whom, usually, I let overrun me with pleasure, or
I will destroy the text and my need to write. Tearing up these pages will be much easier than
stopping to tell in my head all the stories that I do not succeed in rendering as I hear them, as
I see them, because I see them and hear them in my head. They are here, somewhere, ready to
be transcribed. I have noted in a letter to Steve that I had the feeling of not being able to write
because I did not know how, and I was fleeing, finding excuses in order to conceal this incapacity.
Nothingforces you to, he answered, if you want to write, you may do so, asfar as Iam concerned,
it is a matter to refuse to be the reader of your nonsense. His light tone had done me some good.
I have the right to do it, I am not gagged by deed or word. Despite my doubt and anguish, I
write now without any constraint, talking to myself: I write now the stories that I hear in my
*This translation from the novel Memoire d'une amnesique is printed here with permission from the
author.
Callaloo 15.2 (1992) 445-451
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__________ CALLALOO
head, without restraint. I have no fear, I can tell it all. The gag, it is my fear, what the words
can reveal, what they can say without my permission. I want so much to control them, to sift
them, that they are losing the life I would like to breathe into them: uninspired, sterilized, they
become barren, empty, as empty as these days of fleeing. I do not know how to write this story
that I am telling myself all the time, each day; I do not find the way to break, to destroy the
fear. Paul has told me that the text was not important, that I should write it because of all those
who will come afterwards. Will there be any afterwards? Once the evil spirit is chased away,
will I hear other stories again? If I do not write that text, I do not write anymore, silence will
have won, this silence that irritates Eli. Too often he believes that I do not want to speak when,
in fact, I cannot.
Before, I thought that I could write. Maybe the chosen medium is inadequate, uncomfortable?
But it is part of the scheme ruled by this fear. I have begun to write the text in the third person,
to hide myself, and I am aware that this camouflage is ridiculous, my fingers tell "she," "him,"
while my head is thinking, "I," "Paul." "Paul." In between, the blockage! But it is not enough
to write "I" in
orderfor
the
multiple gags
to
fall down, the successive
layers of
masks with which
I rig my characters. And I think of the curve with fondness! I feel, for the first time, the need
to tell, to tell it all, absolutely all my stories narrated in my head. I react as if I were still
conditioned by a long experience of silence! Not to say anything to anybody, one never knows
with whom one is dealing. Paranoia cultivated by instinct of self-preservation, this attitude lived
for ever; I thought it had disappeared, it comes back in another form. I do not want to hide
anything! I do not need to hide anymore, I must not be afraid but find a way to remove the
masks. Always the masks. It is not a question of being careful, not to say too much, on the
contrary, I need to say too much, I need to find the way to convey this order to my fingers, it
is a question of survival, I cannot stand to remain silent anymore. I know that I talk, alone,
sometimes in a loud voice, most often inside myself, but I need to write this text; never mind
cautiousness, there will always be someone to prevent me from making the unforgivable mis-
takes, if I really succeed in giving up my self-censorship habits. I am going to start all over
again, including
the
few pages
written in the
first person,
a timid
attempt
to
begin
the exorcism.
I am going to write and then I will have Paul read the text: if it is necessary to suppress, delete,
erase, correct, I will do it then. I am going to tell my stories to Paul, as if he were here. I know
that it will be different: in his presence I will put back on the mask, I will become silent again.
In fact, if I was able to show him the first pages, it was because of the camouflage. He has
removed it, it was useless! I am going to write as if I were writing for a child to whom I will
give birth, never mind if the non-issues reappear, if the hang-ups come back when I expect them
the least, never mind if everything is distorted right at the beginning, I have no choice. I will
write
for
the same one, always
the same one, still
for
the same ones. I must write so the
readings
will not run out. After all, I will write the story for Paul, and my stories for Maya, my unborn
daughter.
The Beheaded Statue
A little girl was named Paul, but everybody called her Lili. Why? It is a long story.
When she was born, her parents wanted a baby boy (they have always denied it,
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_ CALLALOO
but she knows the truth), so they named her Paul. The mother, who claims respon-
sibility for the choice of this name, says that it just happened by mistake of the illiterate
clerk who filled out the form, that the little girl should have been named Paule (the
"e" might have changed many things). In any case, mistake or not, does it matter
since everybody called her Lili. Someone has even dared to assert that she has nick-
named herself in this manner, that it is the reason for the change, as if adults were
concerned about what little girls may devise! One might believe that it suited them
that the little girl changed her name. Much later, when the little girl, as an adult, has
decided to recover her real identity, they all opposed it. Some saying that habits are
tenacious, others that the name is not important (so why was it changed?). It was
important to her but that is another story. I only want to tell of the little girl.
When she was born, her father lived in a large cold city in a big misty and rainy
country. Her mother, who had stayed back home, was expecting the baby. Mothers
are always expecting! A few months after this birth, long months for her, ten too short
months for such a small baby, the mother left to be with the father. This is why on
top of a father and a mother, she was given substitutes. Jacques was her godfather,
her substitute father, by chronological order. (As for her godmother, she has never
known her, nor has she ever known her name. For her, she was the sister of the painter
whose picture adorned the dining room. She did not feel any loss; godmothers are of
no use especially when one has two mothers.) The little girl, then, lived with Jacques
and Marie. (Some episodes of this childhood have been told, but little girls never
remember their childhood. The ones I want to remember, Lili has recovered them in
the drawers of her memory, by herself.) A violent scene of tears while her parents
were out. Marie and Jacques had accustomed her to their constant presence, and be-
cause little girls become selfish quickly, she demanded this presence. There were also
those outings she was part of, those evenings at the open air movie theater when, on
the way back, she slept in the car and woke up in Jacques' arms. He carried her to the
bedroom, their bedroom to the three of them, and she agreed to go back to sleep only
after their promise to tell her, in the morning, the story of the movie they had just
seen together. And then, they stayed at Le Cap, and here memories mingle with the
stories told by Marie: the house with the balcony overhanging above the narrow street
from where she used to throw her brand new toys to the children passing by. Tears
again, the jeep taking away the adults while she felt excluded. She stayed alone in
front of a small house surrounded by flowers and fruit trees. But above all the walk
in the square.
She had gone out that day with someone who must have been her nanny. They had
left for a walk in the square. It was the end of the afternoon, the square was situated
near the sea or a river. It was the sea! The little girl was happy to stroll, she looked at
the water, the flowers, the trees. She was telling the nanny what the birds were telling
her. Both of them were having great fun; birds tell such amusing stories, they see lots
of things that happen in town and they are very nosy, the birds. When, during stroll-
ing time, they meet a little girl in the square, they start repeating what they have seen
or heard. Since this little girl listened to them, they kept on talking. She liked their
babbling and stayed hours on a bench near the sea, very still, so she would not disturb
the birds. Lili knew that birds dislike people who move around, people who stir the
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air and force them to fly away. She used to go in the middle of the square, sit on a
bench, like a stone statue, tell those around her not to move and keep quiet; then, the
birds would come close: the first one perched on her lap, the second one on a shoulder,
the third one, who liked to feel nested, set himself up on her hair, and the others, in
small groups, stood around the bench. It was a ritual which they repeated every walk-
ing day.
The first time, the nanny wanted to chat with a friend, so she had settled the little
girl on a wooden bench, telling her to be good and to wait for her. Knowing that she
could be good only being asleep, the little girl had leaned against the back of the bench
and had closed her eyes to keep her promise. It is then, that she felt the arrival of the
birds. But a promise is sacred, she had not budged. When they were all there, she
merely opened her eyes and smiled at them.
-Hello little girl sitting on a park bench near the sea! What are you doing here?
-Hello bird, I am sitting quietly and waiting.
-All right! What is your name?
-Paul, without an "e," but grown-ups call me Lili. It comes from Poli that they
have changed into Lili, you understand?
-It is complicated. We will name you little girl. Each time you will come for a walk,
provided you do not frighten us, we will tell you stories. If you want, we are going
to start right now.
That day, they had not had the time. Many people came. They had entered the
park, running in every direction. They shouted loudly. The birds left. Lili was looking
at the people and was wondering what could make them run that way. The nanny
came back, grabbed her by one hand and started to run also, dragging along the little
girl. She did not want to, the nanny had to take her into her arms to hurry. It is then,
that the little girl saw what all these noisy people were doing: they were heading
toward the statue near the sea. A very tall man took a very long rope, coiled it up
around the neck of the statue; a woman, behind, tied a knot and the others started to
pull until the statue, beheaded, fell into the sea. And they shouted with joy when the
head dove with great splashes of water and circles. The nanny left the square, still
running and carrying the little girl in her arms; she stopped only at the sight of the
house with the balcony. Afterward, the walks were much more peaceful and the little
girl was able to talk quietly to the birds. This story might have happened in 1957, but
the little girl did not know the dates.
It was in 1957, she was then six years old, a very little girl carefree and unaware of
what was going on. Her life went on peacefully, without any change. However, for
brief moments, two events disturbed Lili's calm life. First, the return of this man whom
she did not know, it was Paul. She had not heard about his leaving, but one day he
came back. The grown-ups were whispering, keeping silent when the little girl came
in (as if she were interested in their secrets!). Once more, Paul was asked to be well-
behaved, and the man took her in his arms. He held her very tightly, he kissed her,
but she wanted so much to be put down. Nevertheless, she remained good. He kissed
her and the kisses pricked her. Paul had his face covered with beard: the beard of a
father pricks a lot when the beard is short and when the father kisses strongly. Also,
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____ ___ ___CALLALOO
it tickles! The little girl did not dare to scratch her neck; she had been asked to be well-
behaved.
The other event that disrupted Paul's habits was that story with Jacques. She did
not understand anything; to her, adults were playing. She did not know why she was
not allowed to enter the bedroom. Yet, she liked the new bedrooms at new grown-
ups'. Jacques was lying on a small bed, too small for him, with a handcherchief around
his head. She thought he was funny. Since little girls are curious, Paul had immedi-
ately noticed the hole in the wall. Or was it the keyhole? No, she was not patient
enough to discover the keyhole, it was just a hole in the wall. Thus, she watched
everything. There were other children with her and they also found Jacques amusing.
But afterward, Marie cried and the little girl understood nothing. Seeing the woman
crying all the time, Lili was becoming sad, also crying, without knowing why. For-
tunately, Marie's friends were saying: "look, you make Lili cry (her friends called her
Lili also), stop, you are influencing this child. Be courageous, at least for her sake."
One day, Marie stopped crying so she would not hurt the little girl. Maybe she was
still doing it, but she was hiding it carefully; at times, when Lili observed her closely,
she could see that the white of her eyes was red.
The beard and the eyes have remained in the drawers. The other, she has not filed,
though it is the only one that she still keeps, detested scar that nothing can erase. He
had come, with other men, because of a long story that the little girl did not know.
He had made a long journey. They had not even fired, they were not many, not strong,
not ready, especially alone, and when they were fired at, they stayed alone and died
alone. They had not understood that they would be alone, it was their mistake because
they had understood nothing. This illusion is difficult to destroy; like him, others
imagine they can do it all alone, for the others (they said, they say, they will keep
saying for a long time), instead of others, without wanting to understand that the
others know also. Contempt? No, too long a habit.
It is since that time that the little girl does not talk to the birds anymore, their stories
do not amuse her.
A different city. Another house. All the houses do not look alike. And yet, they end
up becoming confused. The balcony overlooking a narrow street. From this transient
house, only the balcony and this child standing up will remain. She looks down to
the street and watches others. First glances. She threw her presents from the balcony.
She will be told that they were toys. Does it matter? The first gesture of discomfort.
The first expression of the difference that will never stop screaming in her head. Sole
memory of the Northern city where it all began. With another, more blurred and per-
sistent. This place at the seaside, this quay, this pier, and a popular demonstration,
a brewing crowd throwing into the sea a statue tied up with an enormous rope. Had
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the woman dragged on the little girl to shelter her? Of this woman, nothing. A sil-
houette in black and blue. A silhouette of which nothing remains?
Death. Death? She laughed. Through the hole in the wall she looked at this man.
Later she will dream of him. He will be handsome with a round face and blue eyes.
Why blue? She will never understand. Blue like the bedroom of the woman crying.
Death is a word. Death did not mean anything. She had not yet met death in everyday
life. Maybe in books; but at the time it was not important. Furthermore, the little girl
could not read. Later, they will explain to her the death of a man whose body will
never be found; the face on this photograph that she saw from her chair when sitting
at the table. An unknown death? Or the dead through the wall of the bedroom? She
knew this man without knowing him, she lived with him. At the age when death is
ignored, do we already know the living? She would have met him later, in her mem-
ories: but at the time of her recollection, he was not there anymore. She learned about
this man through the memory of a woman. Death. His face strangely calm, his head
surrounded with a white cloth that filled the entire width of the hole; she sees nothing
else and she laughs. Tears will come later. Tears will be shed. Not for this dead, nor
for the pain. Tears for the woman, because of the woman. She discovered an unhappy
woman and she cried. Oblivion came. Oblivion dries tears, and in front of her eyes
will go by faces. She will know later that it was the beginning of the great madness.
Strangers arriving at night. Strangers hidden away in a dark room of the house. The
yellow bathroom. Why does she think of it as dark? In daylight, this room gets plenty
of sun. A peculiar bathroom with a small bed and a large desk. The strangers were
hiding during the day. The room stayed dark or closed. Those strangers who jumped
at the slightest noise, who spoke in a whisper. Of those who had succeeded in fleeing.
Of those who, like them, were hiding away. Those of whom we knew nothing about.
Those who we know too well will never come back. And she shouted, she stamped
her feet in the big house. The strangers and their single room upstairs. She ran from
top to bottom of the big house. Then, one day, she became part of the strangers. Then,
one night, she followed the woman in the dark room. She understood nothing. She
was accompanying the woman. Going out at night, with furtive gestures, living shut
up during the day, and she laughed. She played during her vacations. She was still
playing when the man with his cheeks covered with beard arrived. The beard that
pricked. She will know, long after, the reasons of this thin and bearded man. She will
know later the number of days he spent in a dark room, but without going out at
night. She will know later, but at that time she was carefree, nothing could affect her
laughter in the days of non-memory. It will all come with a slap that hurt her in her
body and in her heart; a lesson of survival for her who had just come out of the alleys
of childhood. A slap for her who was discovering the softness of her body on a man's
lap, a slap teaching her that there were words she should not utter, glances to be
veiled. And then, everything came back in one block: consciousness of the death of
those she had not had the time to know, the beard of this man absent for forty days.
Forty days, she repeated for a long time, without noticing anything. And all of a sud-
den, the memory comes back: "he stayed forty days and forty nights... ." The absent
man was not the messiah, but forty days won him complete forgiveness. Except for
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_ CALLALOO
the anger at this man talking to her of heritage. This man saying that she was his son.
The anger forgotten when the time of understanding will come. This slap gives life to
the legitimate daughter. And when the knowledge of horror will come back, the child
will have had the time to harden herself.
-Translated by Marie-Agnes Sourieau
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