Читать книгу The Shadow of Memory - Bernard Comment - Страница 8

Chapter II

I’d thought this old man and the way he talked about everything would interest Mattilda, the tireless evaluation to which he subjected the world. She liked me to tell her stories or talk about my work, the time I spent away from her. Out of habit I didn’t say much, however—the same old problem as always with finding the words, putting sentences together. It was already hard enough to remember what other people had said without adding words of my own to the confusion.

But that Saturday, I was so late and full of enthusiasm that, in order to be forgiven and to share my admiration, I reported every last detail of my encounter with Robert. I only talked about what he’d said. His words echoed inside my head and poured from my mouth quite naturally, as if they were mine now. I’d forgotten the old man’s ugliness, his smell. When I reached the end, to the part where he suggested that we get together again soon, I was dripping with sweat. He must have thought I was nice. Or maybe, in his own mind, he’d exaggerated the extent of my interest in Pontormo, Mannerism, painting? Because my approach was just to skim things for the time being; nothing would ever be permanently decided until a final overview was established. He, on the other hand, was way past this stage. He operated in a special realm, one that was, no doubt, less visible, like a mystery, a secret. With his memory and the data it contained, he could allow himself to think in different ways, and take a chance with new analyses. He was able to explore things unknown, things unthought.

Mattilda had never shared my fascination for knowledge. For her, all knowledge ought to be practical, and should help fill out an application, should lead to a diploma, a job. Right from the start, therefore, she had thought my obsession with learning was slightly ridiculous—all that frantic accumulation of references. According to her, it was precisely because I wanted to know everything that I remembered nothing. She had some fine ideas on the subject. Wolfing down great quantities of words, whole sections of the library to fill one’s little head or some machine didn’t count. What was important was to run into the right sorts of things. Just pick things up, gleaning them haphazardly. Wait to be touched by the words that strike you, really hit you. Besides, just to talk you don’t need to know everything.

It must be admitted that this off-handed approach was very becoming to Mattilda. Through either forgetfulness or ignorance she’d been able to hang onto a certain amount of freshness and innocence. You had to admit she had a point from her point of view. It was a matter of observing things, sudden changes, trends, seizing every moment, living them fully, being dazzled by them, and then, when they’re done, when they’ve fled, well too bad, indeed so much the better. Why always be stockpiling? The important things would stick around on their own. Besides, developing one’s memory too much would, sooner or later, mean the atrophy of sight, any sensation at all, any feeling. Being as scrupulous as I was meant I’d end my life in basement archives, I’d become like the others, gray and conventional. Method! Exhaustiveness! Always the same old story. When would I ever understand that you can get along without them? Hadn’t the artists I so admired and studied been the first to free themselves from all that?

Mattilda and I had known each other for fifteen years, at least. Playground friends. Then in high school we discovered sex, without much understanding what was going on between our two bodies, liquid surprises, erratic breathing, but bound together even more by these first awkward moments. And I’d been fascinated ever since by her attention to the details of love—the art of carrying involvement to extremes. You could see that this was a priority. As for her, she would have far preferred to see me consumed by pleasure rather than erudition. So, obviously, with notions like that about life and the world, and despite the gratification she got from hearing me speak, for once, become animated, yes, by his ideas, Mattilda couldn’t go along with my admiration for Robert. The expression on her face was one of wariness. As if she smelled danger. As if she had a premonition of what was going to happen.

She did, however, want to go to the old man’s place with me to take a look at this fellow whom she found intriguing because of my excitement in describing him. Seeing that I felt put on the spot, she insisted. But I refused. She was the one who never wanted to go out or meet anybody! Besides, I felt it would be better for me to go alone. Just out of politeness. Robert wouldn’t necessarily enjoy an invasion, especially if he had some proposition to make to me, one that just the two of us should discuss. Anyhow, I knew Mattilda, she’d have changed her mind at the last minute. Nonetheless, my refusal made her mad. I saw it in the way her eyes glazed over.