Happening

One day I took a sheet of paper and drew the Passage Cardinet the way I saw it as I was leaving the abortionist’s building: tall façades converging toward a crack in the background. The only time in my adult life when I have felt like drawing.

She made me unbutton my coat and felt my stomach with both hands over my skirt, exclaiming excitedly, “my, that’s some belly you’ve got!” When I mentioned my exertions in the snow, she shrugged her shoulders and snapped, “what do you expect, the mountain air will have done it good!” She spoke of it gleefully as of an evil creature.

I have rid myself of the only feeling of guilt in connection with this event: the fact that it had happened to me and I had done nothing about it. A sort of discarded present. Among all the social and psychological reasons that may account for my past, of one I am certain: these things happened to me so that I might recount them. Maybe the true purpose of my life is for my body, my sensations and my thoughts to become writing, in other words, something intelligible and universal, causing my existence to merge into the lives and heads of other people.

As soon as my mother was out of hearing, Doctor V began whispering excitedly, asking me who was responsible. He chuckled, “why go up to Paris? You’ve got old mother X only a few doors away (I had never heard of her), she knows a thing or two about it!” Now that I no longer needed them, suddenly, bevies of abortionists were springing up left, right and center

I realize now: I had to reveal my condition, regardless of people’s beliefs or possible disapproval. Because I was so powerless, the act of telling them was crucial, its consequences immaterial: I simply needed to confront these people with the stark vision of reality

She said stiffly, “Last night, why didn’t you tell the doctor you were like him?” After a moment’s hesitation, I realized what she meant, in other words, “from the same world.” He only discovered I was at college after the operation, probably on seeing my student union card. She mimicked the intern’s reaction, a combination of anger and surprise, “why on earth didn’t she tell me? why?” as though she too were outraged by my behavior. I guess I thought that she was right and that I was to blame for his aggressiveness: he had no idea who he was dealing with

My breasts began to swell and ache. I was told this was caused by lactation. It hadn’t occurred to me that my body would start producing milk to feed a dead, three-month-old foetus. Nature pursued its inexorable course, regardless.

In my student bathroom, I had given birth to both life and death.

I feel that the woman who is busying herself between my legs, inserting the speculum, is giving birth to me.
At that point I killed my own mother inside me.

She told me to come back the following Wednesday, the only day of the week when she could bring back a vaginal speculum from the hospital where she worked. She would insert the probe on its own—no soapy water, no bleach. She confirmed her fees, four hundred francs, to be paid in cash. She attended to her business with quiet determination. Without being overfamiliar—she didn’t address me as “tu”—or inquisitive—she asked no questions—she focused on the essentials of the job: the date of my last period, the price, the technique used. This emphasis on practicality was strangely comforting. No feelings, no morals.