Belle du seigneur

I finished Cohen’s Belle du seigneur last weekend. Half way through the novel, the Seigneur wins over his Belle and they flee together. The other half consists of their perfect love, a love that depends only on each other, their dual company. They are cast-aways. The deserted island the Seigneur offered his Belle was a real one. You see, this novel couldn’t be considered one of the Twentieth Century’s Great Love Stories without taking on one of the Twentieth Century’s greatest points of contention: the identity of the Jew.

We learn towards the end of the novel that it takes place in 1936. The Nazi regime has branded Jewish people, their commerce, and their homes. Anti-Semitism is mounting, or, rather, is becoming aggressively straightforward. The Seigneur has lost his job at the United Nations because of his stance on international immigration laws regarding Jews. To meddle in countries affairs is risky, but to reproach these democratic states of anti-Semitism is unacceptable. He loses his position, which means that he loses everything because as a Jew he has no other back-up than money. His family and friends don’t occupy powerful seats. He was the exception. His fire causes a free-fall. He becomes nothing more than a rich filthy Jew, the lover of a beautiful woman he lies to, deception being the only way they can continue living their fairy tale life.

To escape their charades, he goes to Paris. This trip is his last effort to regain what was lost: his French nationality and a position, any position, that could give him a place in the social realms of the world. He is refused. Rich yet spat on. He walks the streets of Paris with a wandering eye that glimpses all the “Kill Jews” painted on alley walls. He drinks in pubs with unknowing men who, in their drunkenness, swear to friendship, and then hiss their disgust of Jews. Unassuming. “It’s all the fault of the Jews.” And the Seigneur agrees, because how could he disappoint them? He questions these Jews, the Jew himself. A none-believer yet ostracized for his race, or his religion, or his lack of nationality. He becomes the Wandering Jew and drags his innocent Belle along with him. They are perfect in their beauty, and that’s all they are.

The novel’s critique would not be complete without a critique of love stories. The Seigneur, a man who loves his Belle beyond passion, a man who longs for hugs and kisses on cheeks, knows that what maintains her love is the role he plays, the Don Juan he assumes. He actually sees little interest in sex and “deep-mouth” kissing, but he knows that women do. He knows that with women, passion must be kept high in order to hold their interest. He even hits her once to disorient her. He does this because he knows that her sub-conscious is getting bored. Bored with love and passion and their desert island where no one from “good society” might tread. Bored with him.

Eventually, her sub-conscious catches up to her consciousness. She then becomes base. She plays her own games to try to keep his interests, games that he agrees to only to please her and that actually sicken and sadden him. Sex games, for the most part. Dressing up like a little girl. Inviting another woman to their bed. Soiling the purity of their love to keep things interesting and passionate, the fairy tale finally comes to an end. After a day of sniffing ether, she swallows a glass half-way filled with sleeping medication, and offers such a glass to her Seigneur. He had predicted during his raving Paris trip that their relationship could only end in suicide. Is does so a little over two years of their being together. They die lying next to each other on a bed in the Ritz.

I don’t really feel like spending too much time on the twists and turns of this novel. A thousand and one hundred pages gives ample space and time for the author and reader to get to know each other. To be honest, apart from enjoying the ride, I don’t really know what to say about it. A suicide because of perfection, which is fake and disappointing. Like a morbid look at the “ever after.” Yet 50 years removed from the writing of this novel, it gives both a good view of one person’s struggle with racism while being deceptively anti-climactic about love. He spends half the novel explaining the mediocrity of the “normal” man (the Belle’s legal husband) and the viciousness of “good society” (her mother-in-law) to then spend the latter half explaining the angst of ideal love. It then takes the lovers 20 pages to kill themselves. Did the author get bored with the subject? Did he want to hasten the end to spare the reader its negativity? Was he unable to write in detail the detriment of the relationship? Are we supposed to imagine it? It might be strange to say, but the author could have made this book longer. His novel didn’t make me disappointed in love. I just thought the two characters were disillusioned, and that I find sad. They could have worked so well together if only they had been reasonable. (Who wants reason? What does reason have to do with love? ) Fifty years removed, I come from a very different time, it seems. And I’m still looking for the love story that glorifies it not in its passion, but in its frankness. A real love story. Not a fairy tale nor a fling. Some might doubt that such a story could make for good reading, but I’m sure there’s something interesting to be made of it.

ticker

wounded here this spot inside of me lonely because alone because of lies or at least half truths that creep up suddenly and what do I have to complain about anyways I’ve never had anything to complain about really except of what I let people do to me it often comes down to that it seems as gestures of self-preservation but part of me doesn’t believe not this time not this case anyhow because it’s when you let the drama get the best of you but sometimes it gets the best of others and then they’re hard and mean and say mean things but again what right do you have to have it bother you because what do you have to complain about anyway but still wounded here and alone in this spot a weight that can be felt inside tangible and cavernous and I’m awaited to open my arms because mother love because I have nothing to complain about and inside is left unattended or expected to a dismissible side effect but I can’t open my arms because of this weight here this spot in my chest cavernous that sinks and draws me down and draws my arms down numb and unfeeling and so tired and weak they can’t hold anything the strength to smooth everything over and pretend tomorrow that nothing was said except for an after taste not in the mouth but the arms and chest where they remember the cavern where words resonate and drill the memory with time flowers falling over it in shapes of “I love you” and other such words like leaves over a pit in the ground a booby-trap where things get caught it’s so important to be careful why and when do people believe it’s OK to stop becoming daring and saying things that are wrong and daring to play that game because it seems that in such cases what’s most important is to win some game one I got to know before I became an expert at it I have too much experience and it sickens me by its stupidity and uselessness and its meanness that game which is who can better hurt the other or outwit them depending on your vocabulary who can get away with the most truths and who paralyses the other first by way of show of tears I’ve never done before not that way because I know it’s a sure way and too proud to play such a base card but sometimes they are not part of a ruse they just appear betraying you your feelings your pride because it feels so unfair but who am I to complain right I’ve always been self-centered melodramatic selfish like pennies falling down a well the words clatter down until you can’t hear them anymore or just a fait sound an echo but then other words get thrown down bigger ones because they always become bigger because the game is to see who can throw the biggest words down the other’s well who can make the loudest echoes block it maybe then cavernous feeling alone with echoes ringing but no sorry because it hurts to hurt one must feel sympathy it isn’t easy there are no real winners and the guilt is hard envelop me please but no sorry to be brushed aside swallowed tomorrow morning with the morning tea and so things go on quite well really until the next time counter on ticking maybe something will happen to change maybe something small will interfere or maybe next time it will be for a new reason like a boiling-point to be reached for steam to let out maybe it’s only that a cycle to endure and watch it coming and watch the words to avoid playing some stupid game and to avoid being hurt made to feel guilty because really what do I have to complain about anyway nothing of course just a word or two nothing really nothing

my birthday wish

My birthday is extremely inconvenient. It is on the most boring day of the year. Everything is closed, even Indigo. What more, most people are either with family or nursing a hang over — as I might be. My birthday is January first, which is, apart from Christmas day, the worst day to have a birthday.

This year I have decided not to expect anything from anybody on my birthday. No phone calls. No emails. No cards. Instead, my birthday is to be celebrated next weekend. Indeed, for my 30th I have decided to organize a weekend get-away with a few friends in the Mont-Tremblant area. I’ve rented two chalets. It’s a huge thing to organize, but I’m finally starting to be quite excited. Last night was the evening I had planned to organize the suppers: Friday evening a quick but hardy meal, Saturday night the whole kit and kaboodle birthday bash. Of course, I have helpers. I called Pedro during the day to confirm our meeting. Pedro is our sexy Portuguese jack-of-all-trades friend; he can fix your car and make a three-course meal for 20 guests. I called him at around two in the afternoon.

“Uh, Julie… didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Oh. Didn’t you hear about Maxime?”

Maxime. A friend of theirs. A guy I met at their Christmas evening supper (for all their loser friends who have no place else to go, like Ben & I). He was extremely friendly. We talked about his deceased father’s love of Japan, the Japanese girlfriend his dad had and his long lost Japanese half-brother. He had offered to Ben and me his father’s old Japanese books and dictionaries, seeing that he didn’t use them. He invited me to his buddies’ annual tourtière party, which was last Thursday and to which I didn’t go. Ben wasn’t in the mood and though I really wanted to go I decided not to without him; I’ve had a petty fight with a girl who was to be there and didn’t feel like putting myself in a vulnerable position, what with her possibly being disagreeable and my not knowing very well the other invitees. I stayed home and wrote about solitude instead. I left a message on Maxime’s voice mail excusing our absence. I was thinking of calling him on the 30th. I found him quite nice and didn’t want to be impolite or inconsiderate. But I didn’t.

“What? What happened?”

“Maxime killed himself the evening of the 31st. He hung himself. His mother found him. Didn’t anybody tell you? … Are you still there?”

I chocked a “yes,” and then a “no, nobody told me.” I wasn’t close enough to him or his close friends. The only person who would have told me is Mumu, I thought, and she must be too devastated to talk.

“Look Julie, I won’t be able to help with the supper. It’s a bit rough around here. And we don’t know when the funeral will be, so we might not be able to make your party next week-end, if his funeral is next week-end.”

“Yes, yes. I understand. Don’t worry about it. Charly and Anik also offered to help. We’ll take care of everything. And, Pedro…”

“Yes.”

“Could you please keep me informed?”

“I will. Bye Julie”

“Bye.”

Of course, I’ve heard nothing since then. I’ve checked the city’s obituaries and found nothing on Maxime. It feels so unreal. His being feels like a memory that never actually happened. Like a ghost. To think that while he was preparing his death scene, I was having a five-course meal with Maïté, her sister and a friend, Fred, Johnny, Liane and Ben. I was at a supper to which Maïté had told me to invite anybody who might have no other place to go. The friends I had invited had other places to go. Not having spoken to Maxime, I hadn’t invited him.

I do not fool myself with the thought that I could have saved him. I didn’t know him well. He might have been depressive, or suffered from some other mental illness. He might have been planning his death for a while. He might have been planning it the evening I met him. His generous offer of his father’s Japanese books might have been a way for him to ride himself of his possessions, an elaboration of his will. He left notes. Of course, I know nothing of them. I just feel I met a really nice guy, and missed something.

When Ben came home from work last night he gave me a big hug. The only thing we can do is love each other well, and do our best to love well those we care for. Which is what my birthday week-end will be: an occasion to share quality time with my closest friends. That’s all I want for my birthday.



Farewell Maxime.