where those dreams and agonies have passed on to, what's become of the ferment that was within. When we went to Versaillesand Chambord, which you loved—he loves castles, especially Chambord, he loved Chambord on account of the staircases—I tell him, you went into the bedrooms and corridors and great halls and all these rooms were empty, and it could have been boring for a little boy, that succession of empty spaces, without any human trace, but you said to yourself that's where the king slept, that's where he looked out the window and saw that forest, how many times did he walk up these steps, and likewise the courtiers and the soldiers, and you respect these spaces, Andreas, because they've seen what you'll never see, because they housed worlds you'll never know. A real skull, I tell him, is the same, it's not a tool, my dear, it's an abandoned room, it's an enigma.”
Why me, thinks Adam, why does she tell me all this? The wretched child has plunged into dentistry prior to embarking on full-scale perversion, it's perfectly plain that sooner or later that boy will end up first dismembering his victims and then freezing them, a boy who wants to be an orthodontist at the age of eleven, who wants a skeleton for his birthday and on top of all this, he tells himself, has to endure this flood of moralizing (which is enough to drive anyone insane).
“Marie-Paule,” he hears, picking up the thread of theargument God knows where (who is Marie-Paule?), “considers the whole thing is between him and me, she has no qualms about a real skull, for her death is death, she couldn't care less about it, she wants to be cremated, if people dig up bones, even to sell them, it doesn't shock her, it's a trade like any other, she says. What is it they're selling, a carcass that would have disintegrated over time, there's no longer any human element in it. You do as you like, she tells me, you're the one Andreas asked for a skull, you gave him a plastic skull that's already cost you a lot, if you have scruples there's no need for you to go any further, Marie-Paule, I tell her, I want to do what's best for him. All the same I find it a bit odd for a mother not to have any scruples about such a delicate matter.
No?”
“Yes.”
“So what is what's best for a child, do we know what's best for a child?”
“No.”
“No! But, even so, you do have a slight idea I hope!” she says in consternation.
“Yes, of course,” Adam laughs stupidly, for he no longer knows what it is he's just said no to. I should have jumped out of the car on the Boulevard Kellermann, he thinks, even at Sceaux or Antony, takenadvantage of buying the Veinamitol and escaped before being trapped on the throughway. A succession of mistakes, thoughtless moments of inertia, he thinks, all contributing to predestination. It was written that I should go to Viry-Châtillon, Alexander to Persia, me to Viry. There's not a single person in the world, he tells himself, who knows I'm in this car at this spot. And there's not a single person it would interest, who might say, where's Adam, what's he doing right now, is he happy, sad, alone? Irene has lost interest in me, the children are busy, my friends … have I any? There's no one in the world, he thinks, who might feel a pang at my absence. Irene wants to be cremated, too. So does Goncharki. When the undertakers were laying out his father in the coffin, he'd remained glued to the door. He'd heard a series of alarming and gruesome noises and had found his father in the casket reduced by a good quarter. Being claustrophobic, Goncharki wanted none of that for himself. Compression, imprisonment, vermin to boot. Such was the prospect, so: cremation. Meyer Lansky had ended his days in a tiny apartment with no view. A man who'd prided himself on being more powerful than U.S. Steel. What good had being Meyer Lansky done him? Only to end up wandering through the torrid streets, lonely and sick. Whetherhe was buried in Miami or in
Why me, thinks Adam, why does she tell me all this? The wretched child has plunged into dentistry prior to embarking on full-scale perversion, it's perfectly plain that sooner or later that boy will end up first dismembering his victims and then freezing them, a boy who wants to be an orthodontist at the age of eleven, who wants a skeleton for his birthday and on top of all this, he tells himself, has to endure this flood of moralizing (which is enough to drive anyone insane).
“Marie-Paule,” he hears, picking up the thread of theargument God knows where (who is Marie-Paule?), “considers the whole thing is between him and me, she has no qualms about a real skull, for her death is death, she couldn't care less about it, she wants to be cremated, if people dig up bones, even to sell them, it doesn't shock her, it's a trade like any other, she says. What is it they're selling, a carcass that would have disintegrated over time, there's no longer any human element in it. You do as you like, she tells me, you're the one Andreas asked for a skull, you gave him a plastic skull that's already cost you a lot, if you have scruples there's no need for you to go any further, Marie-Paule, I tell her, I want to do what's best for him. All the same I find it a bit odd for a mother not to have any scruples about such a delicate matter.
No?”
“Yes.”
“So what is what's best for a child, do we know what's best for a child?”
“No.”
“No! But, even so, you do have a slight idea I hope!” she says in consternation.
“Yes, of course,” Adam laughs stupidly, for he no longer knows what it is he's just said no to. I should have jumped out of the car on the Boulevard Kellermann, he thinks, even at Sceaux or Antony, takenadvantage of buying the Veinamitol and escaped before being trapped on the throughway. A succession of mistakes, thoughtless moments of inertia, he thinks, all contributing to predestination. It was written that I should go to Viry-Châtillon, Alexander to Persia, me to Viry. There's not a single person in the world, he tells himself, who knows I'm in this car at this spot. And there's not a single person it would interest, who might say, where's Adam, what's he doing right now, is he happy, sad, alone? Irene has lost interest in me, the children are busy, my friends … have I any? There's no one in the world, he thinks, who might feel a pang at my absence. Irene wants to be cremated, too. So does Goncharki. When the undertakers were laying out his father in the coffin, he'd remained glued to the door. He'd heard a series of alarming and gruesome noises and had found his father in the casket reduced by a good quarter. Being claustrophobic, Goncharki wanted none of that for himself. Compression, imprisonment, vermin to boot. Such was the prospect, so: cremation. Meyer Lansky had ended his days in a tiny apartment with no view. A man who'd prided himself on being more powerful than U.S. Steel. What good had being Meyer Lansky done him? Only to end up wandering through the torrid streets, lonely and sick. Whetherhe was buried in Miami or in
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