Vinvin in America

The bookmark

I rushed home, last Friday, on the first flight to Paris from San Francisco. It was a helpless rush, contingent on the time difference and the distance. Thirty-six hours had already elapsed since my father passed away...

Thirty-six hours on the other side of the world, worthless, to think of Maman torn apart by the brutality of this disappearance. Thirty-six hours to take control of my dizziness and confusion. A visceral pain, my heart has ascended into emptiness, a feverish heat is overcoming me and I don’t understand anymore. Everything resonates bizarrely, the weather is so beautiful in San Francisco, vacation went well and the beginning of fall seemed promisingly joyful.

My father stood up after dinner, in this Normandy house that he loved so much. People were laughing, even singing. Suddenly feeling lightheaded, he sat himself back down quietly behind the group, then he died. In a matter of seconds, struck by who knows what.

64 years old, that’s young for an old man.
...

On his bedside table in my childhood home, there lies this book. Maman told me that he had been reading it for weeks, slowly, stopping himself on each page to think for hours, his gaze overcome with a profound melancholy. The book is there, just as he left it... I am surrounded by his scent, the things that he saw while climbing into bed, the objects that he had placed there. And this novel in which a bookmark stopped time on page 186. He began reading it weeks ago, but he didn’t reach the end of its 242 pages. He read plenty of books in his time, but this one was the last, this one right here and not another.

I haven’t read a real book in months. In the silence of my first night, I can’t sleep. Worn down by jet lag and the absurdity of it all, my eyes are wide open. It is two o’clock in the morning. I take the book. The bookmark is made of white tissue, with an embroidered bird in its center and a small bobble on its end. He undoubtedly held onto it from his mother, or something like that. If you were to remove the bookmark, the book would open to this place on its own.
I want to understand. Why had he taken so long to read this book, why did he love it so much, why hadn’t he finished it and why did I need to read it... I left the bookmark where it was, deciding I wouldn’t sleep so long as I hadn’t caught up with him. Catch up with my father, find him between the lines, follow his path and embrace him upon my arrival, page 186, perhaps go further, we’ll see.

“Les années” (Annie Ernaux) is a marvelous novel, an impersonal autobiography of the writer, spanning the time period from 1940 to the present day, providing countless details on the events which marked each phase of her life. The heroin is Norman. Vacations spent on the Costa Brava, the Beatles, the pill, religious disillusionment... My father read each of these pages just as one peruses the photo albums of his own existence. The book reads like a Voulzy song tinted by Camus or Proust, with a backdrop of 20th century Larousse.

I read swiftly, searching for time spent by my father, placing my hands there where he had placed them, feeling the pages at times and the rediscovering the warmth of his skin, his hands had always radiated heat and that impressed me... Tired, with heavy eyes, I’m approaching page 186 and it scares me. I know that once this threshold crossed, the book will revert to a book like the others, his last book, and that the bird from the bookmark will have nothing left to do.

Page 186. I’m there. Nothing special on these pages. Nothing striking, it’s just there that my father, after having read thousands of books, stopped reading... I decide to continue, to read until the end, even if I enjoy these last pages less, as they correspond to years I have known. They don’t tell me about my father, they tell me about myself without my father, from the Mitterand years to today...
I left the bookmark on page 186, I don’t want to touch anything. This reading that I draw out is a sort of formality I must accomplish, just as one dresses a body or reserves a tomb.

Last line, the most beautiful: “salvage something from a time where we will never be again”.

I close the book and place it back on the night table, just as it was.

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Thanks to Alicia for the translation

My wife is a Mormon...

It is approaching 5:30 this Friday in August. We’re happily on our way home from SeaWorld in San Diego, where we’ve had the chance to admire killer whales, dolphins, bears, belugas, and tourists in shorts running after their 5th-degree sunburned offspring under the atrociously torrid sun of Southern California. 

On the highway coming back to Encinatas, we come across yet again this magnificent church, white as a dove, captivating, so perfect that it appears to be a mock-up. As is her habit each time she sees a religious monument, "La mère Lachaise" (my wife's nickname (1)) wants to experience the joy of lighting a candle with the dwarves (that's how I call my kids) and thinking of those we cherish, living or dead. Religiously speaking I’m about as zealous as an otter, yet I can’t refuse a nice gesture. So off we go, exit La Jolla, to see the Virgin... 

- “You see, it’s classy! There’s even a designated parking lot...” she tells me enthusiastically.
- “Uh huh...” 

We park the car in front of the main entrance. The dwarves can barely take it anymore. They imagined themselves home already, watching Scooby-Doo. Now we’re asking them to quiet down, stand up straight, and put their hats on. A group of Asians in their Sunday best are chatting in a flowery hallway leading to a magnificent glass door... We push it open, expecting to encounter the fresh air characteristic of any church, the silent obscurity, the respectful echo, the carefully aligned chairs, and the visitors kneeling in the distance. Perhaps a priest who disappears discretely after opening or closing a small mysterious door, behind which there undoubtedly exists some religious relic or a sacred book... Nope! 

- “This isn’t a church, it’s a hotel!” asserts the first dwarf as he fiddles with his swimsuit.
- “Mommy, it’s a hotel, we’re going home” concurs the second, with tired eyes.
- “Look there’s a concierge!” I say to La mère Lachaise... 

You’d think you were in the lobby of the Four Seasons. The man at the front desk is busy helping a Chinese couple, who seems to be preparing a joint venture (marriage? baptism?). Around us everything is new, clean and frivolous, with curtains, wood, marble, and velvet... The silence stems not from meditation but rather from their impeccably white carpeting. Slightly taken aback, we search for a door that might lead to a more saintly place. Nothing. Standing in our blatant tourist attire, complete with Crocs shoes and sunburns, we stick out like a sore thumb. Just as I'm getting ready to leave, a man appears from out of nowhere. He comes up behind us, lancing a startling “May I help you?”. I had noticed him from a distance in the parking lot but hadn’t paid him much attention. La mère Lachaise begins to speak: 

- “Hello, we were simply hoping to visit and light a candle, we’re French and that’s what we do in France, we’re Catholic...”
- “Ooooh I see, very well...” he says... 

By now I almost want to cry a little. The dwarves are starting to run all over the place, which doesn’t really bother me; it sets the mood. The guy is suspicious, dressed in a cheap, somber winter suit. In the entry exam for Men in Black (Remember? When Will Smith kicks the little girl into the hord of monsters?), I would have shot him without hesitating. It’s 100 degrees outside and he’s not sweating a drop. 

He’s Karl Malden's lost twin, only fatter. His smile is forced, a benevolent smirk which suddenly reminds me of my Jesuit youth. He continues... 
- “I am truly sorry but you may not visit. This is a Temple, which is reserved for members of the community...”

On the wall to the left, there is an inscription I had missed: “Church of the Latter Day Saints.” This reminds me of something, but what? Who are these Latter Day Saints? In any case, they certainly aren't Early adopters (I’m laughing inside, though my wife seems deeply disappointed...)

- “We’ve come a long way and as Christians, we thought that maybe you would have the kindness to let us...”
- “Yes I understand, I can show you some pictures if you’d like.”

The guy has a binder with him, complete with plastic-protected pages in multiple languages, just like the multi-lingual menu for Gogos Pizzeria in Place Saint-Marc, Venice. He shows us to the exit with a smile, assuring that he means well. "Are you coming dwarves? This gentleman is going to show us pictures of Jesus," I say to my kids to make my wife laugh. Maybe he speaks French? I risk it ... 

We are seated on a white bench, surrounded by flowers, facing the Temple. The scene is awe-inspiring and silent, ideal for a conversation about God. La mère Lachaise is playing the game all the way; she’s loving it. I'm reticent, hidden behind my sunglasses, putting on my unfriendliest face, the one that keeps people from talking. I choose to babysit, leaving the spiritual lead to my wife. 

“So tell us, what is this Temple?...” la mère Lachaise asks excitedly.
“We are Mormons. The Church of the Latter Day Saints was built here to welcome all those who share the love and vision of our prophet Joseph Smith...”

Joseph Smith? That’s the name of their prophet? That’s when I really start to go crazy. A prophet is named Mohamed or Ezequiel, but certainly not Smith. Why not Joe Jackson or Ferris Bueller... La Mère Lachaise seems delighted.
- “Ahhh Mormons. But you’re Christians as well?”
- “Absolutely, despite the critics you hear every now and then, we’re Christian and believe in Jesus Christ. Mormons simply believe in a different history which was revealed to us by the Prophet. In 600 BC, a small group of men traveled across Palenstine to America (better than Alain Bombard but without the canned snacks) and one of them hid the revelation plaques in a hill in Vermont. At the beginning of the 19th century, the young Joseph Smith discovered them and translated the plaques with the help of magical stones before they disappeared once again. He wrote the book of Mormon and created a new Church. We believe in Smith.” 

And I in Wesson, of course. The guy is looking at my wife with the eyes of a man who just found fresh prey. He would love to yell at the kids, who are crushing the flower beds while yelling Scoobydoo-bydooo!! but he holds himself back. Only a nervous tic in his eye reveals his agitation. I also notice his concupiscence: he’s checking out my woman. I’m sure he’s already imagining her as Caroline Ingalls in an atrocious get-up, busy preparing apple pies for the community.  The thing is that a Mormon leads an austere life, no coffee, no alcohol, no excess... They baptize their dead, which is why they're deeply involved in genealogy, bien sûr, it's like the dead electors of Paris' Town Hall (2). 

The guy asks me what I do for a living. I respond with a 2.0 spiel to lose him on the way. He tries to act cool by feigning interest but quickly returns to Caroline Ingalls' ass. I tell the kids to get ready, we’re leaving soon. All of a sudden I realize that my wife is getting more and more interested and would like to delve even deeper. The guy has a solution. He’s going to give us the Book of Mormon, and in French; yes Sir. He gets up and runs under a tent at the edge of the parking lot. I tell my wife that she’s crazy and that the zigotto is an obnoxious VIP. She responds that it’s fascinating and that we’re getting to the heart of America for the first time. Not false... 

The guy comes back with his book, the one written by Joseph Smith. Caroline Ingalls asks him how much she owes. She’s got to be kidding me. It’s a gift, he says. The guy is too good. When you see that nothing but the carpet in the lobby is worth more than the GNP of Nicaragua, you understand that a little book isn’t going to hurt them, and plus it develops relationships. He would, however, love to take down Madame’s address so that someone from the church can contact her and find out what she thought... Ha ha ha, the trap is closing in on us. La mère Lachaise asks me what she should do. I tell her to figure it out, she’s the one who got herself into this mess. SHE GIVES OUR ADDRESS!!! Our real contact information with all the details... Madame is playing, I like that... The guy looks at his watch; he’s wrapped up his sale. But he’s visibly turned on by Madame Ingalls as he invites us to contact him (he gives us his personal business card) if by chance we would like to visit the Saint Siège in Salt Lake City. Normally we can’t really do that, but he knows people and he could introduce her... (May I introduce you?).  Finally we leave... 

La mère Lachaise is ecstatic, dying of laughter. I have mixed feelings, and the children are happy to leave this temple of white paint. With her book in hand and the illustrations of Joseph Smith, she has made the most of this visit. I must say that I admire her. Suddenly she tells me that she has always desired to belong to a community and that, why not, one day... Mmmmm... 

- “It’s crazy though, isn’t it? All these churches... the Baptists, the Methodists, the Mormons...” she says.
- “Uhh yeah, when a McDonalds is built somewhere, you can be sure that it won't be long until Burger King shows up too...” I reply.
We laugh. 

There was a time (two days ago), when we paid no attention to Mormons. She asked me if they were a sect; I told her that I didn’t know - that they were strange, these Latter Day Saints, not very courageous guys.... hehe. She called our new American friend to tell her everything and find out more. That’s when she discovered that certain Mormons are polygamous and that for them, the woman exists solely to serve the man.... That’s when I decided I was indeed Mormon, that I had always known it, that I could feel within me the ancestral power of Joseph Smith. That the guy from the temple had been so nice to me from the beginning and that it was great, this temple, even classy, that it would be a nice change from those creepy old churches and self-righteous nuns. She called me a jerk and informed me that we would also have to give 10% of our salary to the church. Oh! Well for that price I can go see prostitutes and I don’t need to wear a depressing winter suit when it’s 100 degrees out... I’m just kidding, my love. 

So, it has been jointly decided that she will not convert to Mormonism, and nor will I. We had a good laugh but the games are over. The heart of America has yet to be reached...

Thanks to @aliciamk for this so-well translation of the original post on my French blog.

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(1) "La Mere Lachaise" is a direct reference to the very well known French cimetery "Cimetière du Père Lachaise". My wife used to fix old broken chairs. Chair is said "chaise" in French. So, the chair is "La chaise" and "le père" is the father; the mother is "la mère". So "The mother the chair" is "La mère Lachaise"... you get it? No? Forget it...

(2) A few years ago in Paris, a major scandal took place about a certain amount of fake electors who had voted, but were actually dead...