My devotion, p.1
My Devotion, page 1
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © Rouergue, 2018
First publication 2020 by Europa Editions
Translation by Alison Anderson
Original Title: Ma dévotion
Translation copyright © 2020 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Cover image: Pixabay
ISBN 9781609456269
Julia Kerninon
MY DEVOTION
Translated from the French
by Alison Anderson
MY DEVOTION
For A., once again,
who arranged things so that I could finish
this book in the weeks and months
that followed the birth of our baby.
And now at last
I got a good look at you
—TED HUGHES, Birthday Letters
LONDON
When I was twenty-five, I wrote a slim essay devoted to Hans Christian Andersen. I was young at the time, and thought I’d offered convincing proof of the close ties between the Danish author’s life and work, but I was kidding myself. Years later, when I actually read it—in other words, read it like a book someone else might have written, which is what it had indeed become—I was stunned by what I found. Instead of the pertinent analyses I seemed to recall, I encountered page after page of an almost lyrical defense of isolation, and I heard the muted voice of the young woman I had been—an introverted girl, hiding behind her books, as terrified as she was proud, and fiercely attempting to impose order upon the world. Evoking in succession the poverty that had marked Andersen’s youth, his inexplicably poor reputation in his native country, the spare language of his fairytales, and his talent for paper-cuts, I was unwittingly telling a tale of resistance, of an entire life lived in spite of others, and magnified through fiction. But there was something else in my text that I’d completely forgotten about: I devoted a great deal of space (a disproportionate amount, in fact, since the topic took up forty pages out of a hundred) to the falling-out between Andersen and Charles Dickens. The two writers had met in the month of June, 1847, during a visit Andersen made to London with a view to halting piracy of his works in England. He was just beginning to be known outside Denmark, and when he met Dickens in a London drawing room, it seemed he instantly fell in love, and while his love may have remained Platonic, the force of it was still devastating. His letters are overflowing with childish testimonies to his love, but Charles Dickens had a very different personality. When the English novelist wrote back and perfunctorily extended his hospitality, he’d clearly never imagined that Andersen would take him at his word. In March, 1857, however, a delighted Andersen showed up at Dickens’s family home in Kent. He stayed for five weeks—sufficient time for the entire family, including the children, to end up detesting him. After his departure, Andersen never heard from his friend again. This was the real story nesting inside the first book I wrote: a severed friendship, an unrequited love. I wrote the book in 1963, in Amsterdam, in the house where I’d been living with you for seven years, and where we would live for another decade or more before parting a first time, then getting back together and going off to share another house together for fourteen years until our brutal separation. When I left my house just now I had no idea I would run into you on this pavement in Primrose Hill, coming straight towards me as if by magic, holding a crumpled brown paper bag in your hand which, you would inform me after a moment, contained two little cinnamon rolls. No doubt you would like to ask me how I am and give me your news, but I have been thinking about you for twenty-three years, every day of your absence, so this time you won’t be doing the talking, Frank. I will, and I alone. I’m going to tell you everything, here and now, standing in the street, I’m going to tell you our entire story right from the start, because I have to hear it, too. I can’t stop looking at you—Frank, lost and then found. Let me begin.
Despite my surprise at finding you here in London, of all places, walking straight at me down Adelaide Road, I recognized you at once. And yet, after I called out to you and hugged you, once I began really looking at you, I wondered how I could have known so instinctively that it was you beneath that weathered face of an old man. While you were talking, smiling your impossible smile, I somehow managed to work out that in the autumn you would turn eighty. I could scarcely believe it. It only took a few seconds for my eyes to grow accustomed to your new appearance, to overcome it even, like a horse facing a jump, and I managed to see you, you, beyond the wrinkles and the white hair. You hadn’t changed a bit; in fact, you were almost painfully familiar. Frank Appledore. For twenty-three years I have never stopped hoping I would see you again before we die—how could I have known that we lived only a few streets from one another? There you stand before me, in the cool April air, you are wearing a bulky woolen coat that makes you look like a colonel, your face is tanned, and I can still see the scar on your ear lobe from the hole you pierced in it years ago. As you talk, Frank, I can see your teeth, and it looks as if you fixed the right canine you broke in an accident, which year was that, a year I wasn’t around. I remember that’s what you used to say, I don’t have accidents when you’re around, Helen, with you I’m safe, you said, often, as if regretfully. In your eyes my finest quality, caution, was worthless. And yet that was why your father had agreed to entrust you to me, even though you were a few months older than I was. Remember? When we went to live in Amsterdam, I was the one, I alone, who pleaded our cause with our parents, because I had that authority. I didn’t always keep you safe, but I tried my best. I promise you. It’s you, you haven’t changed, at the age of eighty you still look like the young man I knew—but you are also like the home town one returns to only to find that in one’s absence a favorite building has been destroyed and replaced by a Starbucks. You’re an old man, now, Frank. With me around, you didn’t have accidents. There was always my caution, and forever your scorn. If I hadn’t spent more than half of your life with you, you’d be dead by now, and that’s a fact. No man, Frank, is a hero in the eyes of the woman who knows him best.
People swore I’d lose my memory as I got older, but they were wrong, just as when I was seventeen they swore that one day I would find out that real life was not to be found in books. That was wrong, too. I haven’t given up all hope of understanding the lies adults tell before I die. Now, as before, my attention span is slightly superior to the norm. The fact that all through my early years I was constantly on the lookout—as a child, to make sure my brothers wouldn’t kill me; as an adolescent, in hopes of eluding their shared goal of raping me—left me extremely alert to everything going on around me. Because my father, like yours, was a diplomat, I learned very early on to detect the insinuations of adult discourse, and later, when I myself was an adult—at least as far as the rest of the world was concerned—I was never able to abandon my watchfulness. A child of embassies, I grew up in a world where the most important thing was to know the codes and respect them, to understand what someone wanted before he himself knew. In case you’re wondering, I’ve been living in London for eight years. You see? I finally returned to my father’s country, I’ve finally become what I had thought I never could be, deep down—an Englishwoman. Moving house at the age of seventy-two is a fairly strange experience, but my solitude has at least relieved me of other people’s concern. No one worries about me, apart from a handful of individuals who are also old enough not to be able to claim to protect me, so in the end all I had to do was contact a moving company who transported my furniture to my destination without asking any questions. I found a three-room flat not far from the British Library, and since then I have spent my days reading, as I have done all my life. At times I am still surprised to find myself here. I look out the window and think, London? But why London? And I immediately remember. After what happened to us in Normandy, I initially returned to live on my own in Amsterdam. Because I was in a daze—I can find no other explanation for it now. I simply went back to the place where I had a house—a house where I’d lived with you for so long that, in fact, it was the worst possible place to hope to seek refuge. And yet, inexplicably, I held on for a number of years, and went on living there. But when the city finally decided to put a plaque in your honor on the front of the building, I packed my bags as quickly as possible, trying very hard not to cry, and in spite of everything a part of me—why hide it now—was terribly proud to think that it had come to this. Have you ever been there, have you seen the plaque? A square of heavy pinkish copper: In dit gebouw begon de schilder Frank Appledore zijn carrière—it unsettles me as much for what it doesn’t say as for what it does.
Were there ever two people more different than you and I? You respected nothing; I respected everything. You had a talent for joy, as intensely as I had a talent for labor. You were glowing, indifferent, incapable of doing anything that didn’t interest you; I took a sort of immoderate pride in my ability to submit, to wear my eyes out reading line upon line of tiny characters, and always, always, my ability to anticipate the expectations of others. I was attentive, the way an animal is attentive. I perceived sounds and smells that eluded others, my hypersensiti vity made me both very empathetic and utterly tyrannical: since I knew everything, I wanted to take charge of everything. Later, my husband would ask, amused, back in the days when I could still amuse him: But why did you go into publishing, Helen, when you have the soul of a captain? The answer is simple, and always has been: Because when you were an ambassador’s daughter, born in the late 1930s, a captain wasn’t something you became. My husband should have known this, but I think that like most men in those days, he actually knew very little of substance when it came to the lives of the women he frequented, including his own wife. You, too, Frank, belonged to that era. I think you are a good person—deep down probably much better than I am—but you see only what interests you. You disregard all the rest. And that is surely the reason why in my tiny little domain I’m a specialist, and you are an artist. Like the canvases you paint, their images forming layer by layer, until all at once they become perfectly visible, what happened to us took years in the making. But I think that our temperaments, right from the start, already contained the seed that would cause our ruin and the death of an innocent person.
The year of my birth Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, terrified by the possibility of a second world war, went on a diplomatic mission to Munich to meet Hitler, which he concluded by giving his consent to the German occupation of Czechoslovakia. My father was part of the delegation. Chamberlain was sixty-nine years old at the time, and had only two years left to live. My father was about to turn forty, an ideal age for a diplomat. He had joined the Foreign Office at the end of the Great War. I think what he had done, exactly, during that conflict, can be summed up in one word: lying. I do not know what role he played in Bad Godesberg during those few days in September, 1938. (You didn’t ask your father that sort of question, back then. You handed him the sugar tongs once a day, at tea time, and that was about it.) What I do know is that it was undoubtedly due to this questionable loyalty that my father was sent to safety in Switzerland for the duration of the war, and went on to become minister of the embassy in Bern, on Thunstrasse. Then, in the confusion of the post-war years, when all of Europe was still reeling from the clash of nations, he was posted to Trieste and Athens, and finally, in 1950, appointed ambassador to the embassy of the United Kingdom in Rome. Before all this, when he was thirty-three, he had been in Amsterdam on business, where he met my mother at a dinner party hosted by her elder brother in May, 1931, married her two months later, and then conceived Fred, Maarten, and me, in the space of seven years. I was the youngest. My father was a bad father, but a good orator—a hard man, but eloquent, and every year, his Saint George’s Day speech brought tears to the eyes of the British expatriates gathered in the gardens of the Villa Wolkonsky in Rome. Do you remember? I was the only daughter of that man, but I’ve never been able to speak. I have written tens of thousands of words in my life, but to speak them aloud has always seemed painfully beyond reach. If only I’d spoken to you in time, Frank. If only, just once, I’d said something instead of simply doing, always doing, always doing everything, if only I’d known how to use those words which, in their written form, were my consummate skill; if I had known how to tame them so that they would carry my voice, none of this would have happened, would it? That is why I am speaking now, and you must listen.
ROME
Our story begins at the Villa Wolkonsky, where Nikolai Gogol wrote Dead Souls, and which, when we were living there, housed the embassy of Great Britain in Rome. My father was the ambassador. Your father was Deputy Head of Mission. In the photograph that glows in my memory like a candle, we are all there. My father, John Gabriel, a full martini in his hand, staring at the camera lens without the slightest intention of smiling. Next to him, my mother, her hair a bright halo, her nose slightly wrinkled because of the light. Your father, Horatio, laughing, arms spread, leaning against a decorative palm tree, while your mother, Kate, sitting at least three feet away from him, directs her dreamy gaze at the viewer. Your brother Adrian is standing behind her, looking at the floor. The group portrait is of no interest to him. My two elder brothers are in the background talking, their hands, caught in motion, are blurred. They are extraordinarily handsome, but when I look at this part of the image, it seems to glow red with something evil. I am a bit farther off, arms crossed, knees squeezed tight, looking straight ahead. And you are right next to me, imitating my position, and smiling with your mouth wide open. It’s summer in Rome. There we are. Nowadays you’re a famous painter, maybe even that dying painter, if what I have read in the papers recently is true, but when I met you, you were only twelve years old, like me. And of course, you weren’t painting back then—in fact, you didn’t paint at all until you were twenty-eight years old, contrary to the legends your admirers have been chattering about—but perhaps I’m the last person alive to know this now, and when I suddenly realize it, I shiver at the thought that the world we knew, the world into which we were born and where we grew up, that world no longer exists, has vanished altogether. Our parents died, one after the other. Adrian is dead. My brothers, too, eventually died—Fred first, in a hunting accident, fifteen years ago, and Maarten a year or two later, from pancreatic cancer. Let them burn in hell—slowly. Only you and I are left now, the eternal youngest children, the only survivors of the many group portraits we took back then. National holidays, New Year’s, the Queen’s birthday, Remembrance Day—in my mind, relentlessly, I zoom in on these images, one after the other, I swoop like a raptor onto those two blurry faces among all the others, trying to recall that distant time when we were younger than everyone at the British embassy in Rome, where your father and mine governed hand in hand, and where our mothers languished, each in her own way, hating each other with such intensity that only a well-dosed martini could make them laugh together, an identical, strangled laugh, heads thrown back as if burdened by their lacquered chignons—our idle, sublime mothers, whom I swore never to resemble.
It all began in the autumn of 1950. Your family had arrived in Rome one week before mine, and a dinner was organized at your place to establish contact after we moved in. Our fathers had already met on numerous occasions, naturally, although the exact circumstances of their encounters had never been explained to us, but I knew from experience that the introduction of the two families who were preparing to run the embassy together was part of an inevitable ritual protocol. In every city our fathers’ ambition had taken us to, we children performed our duties as well, after a fashion. While we were moving in I had already noticed you in the corridors of the villa, drifting wordlessly by like a shadow, or watching me through a window like some character in an unnerving Brontë novel, but I ignored you the way you ignored me, preserving my strength for the coming battle: that first endless, obligatory dinner which we knew we would soon have to endure. A few days after our arrival, with all our cases finally unpacked, we went to ring one evening at the massive door to your apartment—my parents, my two brothers, and I. When your mother opened it, I saw you both behind her, you and Adrian, wearing your dress shirts and trousers, leaning against the fireplace and radiant with ill will. Our mothers—and it is hard for me to believe that they did not both know, from the first gaze, how much they would despise each other for the entire length of their cohabitation—exchanged the customary effusive pleasantries before shoving us towards each other and babbling our names and ages in passing. Adrian was already nineteen that year and had only gone with his parents to Rome because he wanted to pursue his Latin studies there, and he soon slunk off somewhere. My brothers, who were seventeen and eighteen, who had been two deplorably mindless children and were about to become two deplorably mindless men, were brutally violent adolescents in those days, utterly thick, and I realized at the very start that you had grasped this perfectly. The adults had wandered into an adjacent living room in a cloud of words, while my brothers were sniffing around like dogs, in search of an ashtray and a bottle of strong alcohol, which meant that you and I suddenly found ourselves quite alone together. And that was when you said these words, shrugging one shoulder towards the double doors that led into your dining room:
