— You’re not worried that the spiral could degenerate into a banal circle that would end up distancing you from reality?
— Raynand, allow me to speak to you frankly. The world we live in is full of problems. My work must bear witness to this era. If blood is the price to pay, I’ll be careful, yes. But I’ll never give in. I’m disgusted by lame heroes. That being said, art mustn’t be confused with exhibitionism. It’s got to be entirely distinct from the croaking of frogs and the yapping of jackals.
— Paulin, would you permit me to ask a slightly indiscreet question?
— No objection. Go ahead.
— How many pages will this novel end up being?
— I don’t know exactly yet. But what I’m sure about is that it won’t be more than three hundred pages long. And I’m going to stick to that.
— Why is that?
— Because in our time, I find that those novels that go on and on are irritating and are only ever read superficially, and by a limited public. Literature is already dying. Supplanted by the sonorous and visual universe of cinema, which has stolen the strongest part of its voice. Moreover, its audience shouldn’t be hobbled; that would only accelerate its horrifying and tragic death throes. Filmic images and sound waves achieve the miracle of not boring the public by transmitting the message within a limited time and in a relaxed atmosphere. Of gregarious communion. And tomorrow, when man will have put in place numerous relay stations on the routes of rocket ships, like it or not, nothing will escape the magic of telecommunication. Our age doesn’t lend itself to reading literary works, boring in their too often useless length. We no longer live in the century of the wig-wearing, stay-at-home salonists who wall themselves up at a remove from the swirl of humanity. Between the fatigue of the night before and that of the day after, the worker, the technician, artisans, the laboring classes only have limited time — if they have any at all — to read printed characters. And even the unemployed are preoccupied with the more urgent problem of dinner. And so, it’s a question of stating things quickly. Without uselessly dragging out the dialogue. Without encroaching on the schedule. In this world of speed, where events unfold at a dizzying pace, faster is better. Otherwise, the book’s days are numbered and its adventure hurtles toward the point of collapse and dissolution. In this world so fabulously turned upside down by first-rate technology, where any sense of balance has become fleeting, the writer risks becoming outmoded, lacking the ability to adapt. All this explains why Spiralism is the most appropriate vision for this cosmic whirlpool.
— When will you be able to finish your novel?
— I’d like to be able to finish within the next six months. Unfortunately, I only write at night … when the interior demon of creativity roars. Aside from this handicap, I don’t write in a single stroke. I can’t produce cold. Whirlwinds. Vertigos. Storms. My life beats to the rhythm of turbulences. I am a Spiralist. And voluntarily I flee tranquillity, sterile and frigid. It brings with it the sign of death, the insignia of a mediocre life. I flee the monotony of repose and anything that resembles the straight and narrow. It’s not that I’m looking to be scandalous. But because life itself emerges from the cry of blood. Wayward child of pain. Of violence. And that, too, is Spiralism. And the entire universe has embarked on the infinite movement of the spiral.
— Paulin, mind if I make a slightly harsh comment?
— I’m listening.
— Your theories are riddled with contradictions.
— Raynand, my friend, we live in a world in the middle of a metamorphosis. A universe of uncertainties. Life itself appears to be a cinema of illusions. Truth, always fleeting, often takes refuge in the opposite of what we call reality. Me, I’ve chosen to practice the paradox and the aesthetic of the aleatory.
Paulin is quiet for a moment. Gets up. Takes his pipe from a formica shelf. Fills it with tobacco. And carefully sparks the purple flame of a lovely little yellow lighter. Agitated, he inhales two successive puffs. The suave aroma of the tobacco invades the room in the silent escalation of the gray smoke as it rises to the cardboard roof. Raynand looks at his watch. Stands up. Stretches his arms up above his head. Moves toward the door.
— Okay, then. Paulin, I’m leaving. I’m going to the Rex to see this week’s film. I need a break. In any case, I thank you for this afternoon. I’ll be back. I’m intrigued by everything you’ve said.
— I’m at your disposal, Raynand. I’ll be waiting. Let’s stay in touch. I’m always here in the afternoon.
Passing by the bookcase, Raynand stops for a moment. Looks at a large photo of a smiling woman, positioned on the upper shelf. At the bottom and next to the woman’s heart, Raynand calmly reads the dedication written in pen: “To my beloved Paulin, with my unchanging love. Sincerely, Marina.”
— Hey, Paulin. Seems like you really love this one. If this picture is any indication, she’s quite beautiful.”
— Yes … very beautiful.
— All right, I’m going to head out now. I’ll be back to see you some afternoon. Next week.
Raynand rubs his head with the flat of his hand. Takes off. And then disappears around the corner of a little street that somehow recalls the irregular arc of a half-bent elbow.
Paulin returns to his room. Pensive. He stands up next to the bookcase. Chin leaning against the edge of the shelf where the smiling photo of Marina is posed. He looks at it for a while. Backs up a bit. Looks at it again. More intently. A large medal pulls on the necklace hanging from Marina’s neck. Her cheeks are rosy, flush with freshness and good health. A pair of triangular earrings. Two beauty marks. A little dot of brown flesh on the right nostril. Her delicate lips, made to measure, slightly parted to reveal a brilliant row of white teeth. Her hair like a flower crowning her wide forehead. Island Marina with her slanted eyes! Paulin looks at her. Even more deeply. Desperately. Passionately. His eyelids raise. His eyes widen with sudden illumination. The frame of the photo grows disproportionately larger. The cardboard rectangle bends into a curve. Pushes against the glass. And Marina comes alive, stepping gently out of the photo. Standing in the middle of Paulin’s room. Smiling. Her back against the wall.
— Marina, do you love me?
— I cannot love. Because of men, my mother suffered her entire life. She is a slave to my father. And I don’t want to be a slave to anyone. I lived up close with the cynicism and nastiness of men. They all behave like despots when it comes to women. Me, I … don’t want to love anymore. I want no part of such a prison.
— You live curled up like a snail. In the end, you’re the one who’s built a prison for yourself. To protect yourself from a world you find too aggressive. You cultivate your mother’s disappointments in yourself. You’ve made a shell for yourself and closed yourself up within it. Avoiding all contact with the world, which, in your eyes, has your father’s face.
— Is it my fault if I feel like I’m made of ice?