Existentialist crisis of a writer
« It takes courage to write. It also takes a degree of arrogance. We all have the evil editor demon who sits on our shoulders and whispers, “This story sucks. This prose is horrible. That sentence sounds like lead. That dialog is ridiculous. A box of cornflakes has more personality than my narrator.” On and on and on. It never shuts up. One of the biggest jobs a writer has is to ignore that voice. Remember — it is not your job to critique your work, especially when it isn’t done yet. Your job is to put the words on the page, that’s all. You have to tell the voice to shut up, that you aren’t listening, that you won’t pay attention. That’s all. It’s terribly difficult to do, and sometimes that voice takes over and can immobilize a writer, sometimes for months or even years. 1 Know that it is the demon voice. It is not real. This is one of those times when a writers’ group is great—THEY are the critics. It is for them to make a judgment, or the editor. It is NOT YOUR JOB. Tell the demon to get lost. One way to trivialize the demon is draw a picture of it. Make it silly. Color it in some stupid color, put it in ridiculous clothes. It is not a useful critic of your work, by the way. It’s only purpose is to keep you from writing. Know it for what it is, trivialize it, and ignore it. Do NOT try drugs/alcohol to get out of this. It may appear to help, but the work suffers. (Example: F. Scott Fitzgerald). Many writers abuse substances to shut up the demon (which means they get two demons for the price of one — such a bargain!) »
On her last point, I may not follow her advice as I have a bottle of Vosne-Romanée 2022 waiting only to console me — why deny it the pleasure?
But on the rest, she’s right. That twisted little voice is wearing me down. And it whispers far worse things than the ones listed above. Get lost, demon.
July 2025

Not an article, but a little tease of what's to come in 2025...
"Élise opens her eyes, and closes them. Opens and closes again. She is not ready. Not recognizing the room where she just spent the night, after so many months on the run, is overwhelming. Her eyelids still closed, she breathes and listens. She wants to hear and smell, she takes the time to feel every sensation in anticipation of the day they will come for her, and when everything - sounds, scents and sights - will be locked away forever. She exercises each of her senses with care and diligence. It is a gentler way to enter the morning, less brutal than an image forced in front of her eyes. The mattress she's lying on slightly smells of rot. From the next room she grasps the sweet, rancid bouquet of a cold porridge mingled with the metallic scent of burnt aluminium. The breakfast pan will be washed later. The house is silent. The light curtain covering the window of her room sways gently. A whiff of air loaded with a sour stench, enters the room from the street. Urine. Then, a dull, painful sounding shock followed by the high-pitched whine of a dog. Surely the one that just pissed, punished with a kick. From there, it is like the opening of a symphony concert. One after the other the instruments announce themselves before blending in the harmony of sounds, and the early morning din of the street takes shape behind Élise's still-closed eyes : the soft impact of a half-inflated soccer ball bouncing off the tip of a schoolboy's shoe on his way to school. The thundering bang of that same ball landing on a metallic roof. The furious scream of an old woman, followed by a teenage laughter and the clacking of his shoe soles on the asphalt as he flees. From a little further up the street, Élise recognizes the song of trickling water surrounded by lively, playful female voices. The water flow sounds like it is fretting over hard plastic, a bucket probably. Then, as the bucket fills up, the noise softens. The female voices amplify, the bucket must be full. The flow stops, and among the voices calling out Élise hear empty plastic containers clattering against each other. The flow resumes, crashing to the bottom of another bucket first then gradually muffled by the rising water, followed by the chattering of voices joining the choir : exclamations, the water stops, the plastics clatter, the water runs, and the chatter resumes. Further on, a tampered exhaust pipe roars for no reason, tires screech in an idiotic skid. A hammer strikes a metal sheet. A man calls out to another. She's in Ocean View."
Someone had to do it - dec 2024
Someone had to do it - dec 2024


#notallmen and the gorgons
Yesterday I read a post from a French novelist I have been following on Instagram. He says:
"... we should, after the "me too" movement, think about lighter, easier thoughts that will allow our lives to be more pleasant. Some women have turned into hybrids, or gorgons detached from Notre Dame cathedral, crying wolf and reducing men to their bestial sexuality. [...] The real climate change lays in these women, in the genes of these moribund creatures who spit their hatred and leave men behind." He ends his rent with the inevitable: "Of course, some men are reprehensible. But not all." A French way to say #notallmen which to me is to sexism what #whitelivesmatter is to racism: endlessly stupid.
I remember feminists being called "bitter" in my family. This novelist prefers the words moribund (a very judicious and sad choice of word by the way - I wonder if he knows that rapists kill a little of the women they rape?) and gorgons crying wolf. I was thinking about that wolf this morning. At the age of 51, my share of men violence includes: 1 rape, 3 sexual assaults that I would describe as violent, countless "less serious" sexual assaults in the subway, on bicycle, etc,… plus the many aggressions that I guess can’t really be qualified legally. Like the three guys chasing me down the street and stopping 100m later, laughing their heads of, just to scare me. Or the one who decided to jog by my side and because I didn't answer his proposal to get a drink afterwards ended up throwing “dirty whore!” to my face before turning back. Or like that guy in a minibus stopped at the same traffic light as me, who formed with his hands the shape of a rhombus and waved his tongue inside (I think he meant : I'm going to lick your slutty pussy, but he thought it was funnier to express it with a gesture and he was right indeed, his minibus buddies found it hilarious). Or like this old pig working for Total - he told me he was, I am not making it up - who harassed me to such an extent during a trip from Douala to Abidjan that I had to ask the receptionist at the hotel where he was also staying to take me to my room. All these assaults, so numerous that we forget them, that make us get home shaking with fear, that make us give up on running, on going out alone, or even on acknowledging the smile of a stranger, because we don’t know what it could hide.
Before you go: "Gee, you sure attract pervs !!", ask the women around you. Not from a defensive posture, not ready to throw your #notallmen every second word, not from a privileged position. With compassion, with patience, ask, and listen. And you'll see. I'm no exception. In fact, I've been luckier than most. Perhaps then you'll understand that it's not hatred the women are spitting (and yet it could be, don't you think?), it's a cry for men’s violence to stop, a cry to you. And that will already be a step towards a more “pleasant life" that novelist is seeking.
"... we should, after the "me too" movement, think about lighter, easier thoughts that will allow our lives to be more pleasant. Some women have turned into hybrids, or gorgons detached from Notre Dame cathedral, crying wolf and reducing men to their bestial sexuality. [...] The real climate change lays in these women, in the genes of these moribund creatures who spit their hatred and leave men behind." He ends his rent with the inevitable: "Of course, some men are reprehensible. But not all." A French way to say #notallmen which to me is to sexism what #whitelivesmatter is to racism: endlessly stupid.
I remember feminists being called "bitter" in my family. This novelist prefers the words moribund (a very judicious and sad choice of word by the way - I wonder if he knows that rapists kill a little of the women they rape?) and gorgons crying wolf. I was thinking about that wolf this morning. At the age of 51, my share of men violence includes: 1 rape, 3 sexual assaults that I would describe as violent, countless "less serious" sexual assaults in the subway, on bicycle, etc,… plus the many aggressions that I guess can’t really be qualified legally. Like the three guys chasing me down the street and stopping 100m later, laughing their heads of, just to scare me. Or the one who decided to jog by my side and because I didn't answer his proposal to get a drink afterwards ended up throwing “dirty whore!” to my face before turning back. Or like that guy in a minibus stopped at the same traffic light as me, who formed with his hands the shape of a rhombus and waved his tongue inside (I think he meant : I'm going to lick your slutty pussy, but he thought it was funnier to express it with a gesture and he was right indeed, his minibus buddies found it hilarious). Or like this old pig working for Total - he told me he was, I am not making it up - who harassed me to such an extent during a trip from Douala to Abidjan that I had to ask the receptionist at the hotel where he was also staying to take me to my room. All these assaults, so numerous that we forget them, that make us get home shaking with fear, that make us give up on running, on going out alone, or even on acknowledging the smile of a stranger, because we don’t know what it could hide.
Before you go: "Gee, you sure attract pervs !!", ask the women around you. Not from a defensive posture, not ready to throw your #notallmen every second word, not from a privileged position. With compassion, with patience, ask, and listen. And you'll see. I'm no exception. In fact, I've been luckier than most. Perhaps then you'll understand that it's not hatred the women are spitting (and yet it could be, don't you think?), it's a cry for men’s violence to stop, a cry to you. And that will already be a step towards a more “pleasant life" that novelist is seeking.
19th of February 2024
Image: oil painting from Judy Takács - 2018
NB 1 : every 12 minutes, someone opens a rape case in South Africa.
NB 2 : the “climate change” analogy left me ... perplex.
Image: oil painting from Judy Takács - 2018
NB 1 : every 12 minutes, someone opens a rape case in South Africa.
NB 2 : the “climate change” analogy left me ... perplex.
Steps' blues
How beautiful were they, the six steps leading up to our house on the side of the koppi. At their foot ran a lawn. Exotic creatures occasionally visited its gentle slope, like a tortoise escaped from our neighbour's garden or Cape cobras during the day. And by night, caracals and cape-eagle owls. Below the lawn, rows of Syrah and Sauvignon sloped down to the village of Klapmuts. Further down and as far as the eye could see, more vineyards, bordered to the East by the Paarl mountains, and at the very end, invisible to our eyes but very much present, the ocean. How dearly do I miss those steps where we used to sit, shoulder to shoulder, in summers like in winters. In the mornings, a cup of coffee in hand, we would watch the mist tinted of gold by the first rays of the sun rising from behind the Simonsberg dissipate and the plain come to life. In the evenings, we would cheers to the stars lighting up one by one, to the vineyards disappearing in the dark and the mountains turning pink, orange, red and then black. The steps acted like a magnet, a rallying point. Friends sat on them, children played on them. They were our refuge, hosted our lockdowns. They heard our secrets, our declarations, our reconciliations. But as much as I loved those steps and the house they belonged to, they were not ours and came the time we had to go. Outside our new house in a new country, I found a step. Jut at the edge of the terrace, all alone and very not high. It was probably put there by a very cautious architect fearing the summer floods. A peculiar idea in a land long forgotten by the rains. In winter the terrace is bathed in sunshine, and I sit on the step. The memory of my dog who never missed a meeting of the steps sits besides me. Just one little step isn't very comfortable, but it does what's expected of it, just long enough to warm us up. And to thank it, I tell it the wonderful stories of my very loved six steps from the vineyards.
15th of August 2023


Paul's break-in
Three years ago, Paul suffered a break-in. He was thirty years old and was living by himself in a nice little flat in Paris. Two guys forced their way into his apartment late at night. Mistaking them for a Uber Eat delivery man, Paul opened the door and they let themselves in. At first, he tried to resist. He received a few blows, one of the thieves pulled out a knife, so, fearing for his life, he stayed still and silent. They stole his computer, his phone, a watch he loved dearly and even his bike. Such a terrifying experience that he, still today, struggles to fall asleep. Paul called the police as soon as the burglars left. The policemen asked him few questions, wrote down the list of stolen items, looked for fingerprints and asked Paul to come to the station and make a statement on the next day. There, he was told that two suspects had been arrested and were being questioned. One of them was wearing his watch. The policemen took Paul’s statement, asking many questions: had he locked his door properly? Didn't he brag too much in public about his beautiful watch? Didn't he tend to let just anyone into his flat? Was he certain it was indeed a burglary and not just a joke between friends that had gone wrong? Had he been drinking that night? Eventually, the policemen asked him if he really wanted to press charges. He replied that he would have to think about it. When he left the police station, Paul didn't go to work and didn't talk to anyone. He was confused, almost feeling ashamed of himself. He read again all the numbers he already knew. Just over 10% of watch burglary victims file a complaint. The others don't, because they know that the procedure will be expensive and will be dismissed by the judge in 70% of cases. And if the case goes to trial, only 1% of watch thieves will eventually be convicted. So, what was the point? Paul stayed home nursing his bruises and crying over his watch. Then he picked himself up. He didn't care if it was going to be long, expensive and if nobody will believe him. He was going to press charges. He obtained a bailiff report attesting of the break-in, he had his bruises assessed by a medical doctor, got a lawyer and filed for civil suit. Already 1,000 euro of expenses to carry. Luckily the judge didn’t choose to dismiss his case, there will be a trial. The proceedings lasted three years. Initially, Paul talked about the attack to his friends and family. But soon enough he stopped, he couldn't stand the doubt in people's eyes: "Did he not look for it ?", "And after all, we know that people who love their watches are dangerous, they lie, they destroy careers, they make false accusations to get rich or get noticed... Paul, well, maybe not, but … ". It was too painful, so he kept quiet. Throughout the proceedings, Paul had to undergo two psychological examinations. It was terribly trying. Always the same questions about the bruises (is he really sure he didn't fall in on his own?), about the lock on his apartment that had not been forced by the burglars (did the suspects really force their way in?), about his lack of reaction (why didn't he shout, the neighbors would have heard!) and about his tendency to show off his pretty watch a little bit too much. At the end of the first year, he decided to get help and see a shrink. That cost him an arm and a leg, but he could feel he was sinking. Also, he was constantly living with the fear of his assailants taking revenge on him for having dared to press charges. The trial ended today. The burglars walked free. Not enough evidence claimed the judge. The marks of blows on Paul’s body were not even considered as the judge concluded they could have been the result of a bicycle fall. The defendants' lawyer argued that Paul had opened the door himself and had never clearly told the burglars that he did not want them to take his watch. He emerged triumphant, saying: "Justice has been served". Paul, on the other hand, has lost everything. More than ten thousand euros of legal expenses, three years in waiting and of course, his watch. In the eyes of everyone, he is a liar, because the court said so. A liar, like most people who love their watches, as we all know. And that hurts him as much as the burglary. Thank goodness, Paul's story is not true. Victims of burglary, like victims of any other crime, are believed and defended. They are not accused of having provoked or invented the attack, that would of course be awful. Except when Paul is Pauline and when it's not her watch that's been stolen from her but her body. The justice system is failing victims of sexual violence and society is complicit.
12nd of September 2023
Elise will take care of everything
This text is the preface of my novel "Que quelqu'un le fasse !" (Someone has to do it!). Elise, the main character is a terrorist for some, an avenger for others. She is my sister, my warrior and my amazon, and she is born from the memory of the events told in this preface.
Gaborone, Botswana, December 2021.
I was impatiently preparing for the Christmas holidays: two weeks in Cape Town with the kids followed by a thirty-five kilometer hike with my daughter and her friends in the Cape of Good Hope national park. I was feeling happy to have gone through the first year of an unwanted move to Botswana without too much difficulty, was overwhelmed with happiness at the prospect of my fiftieth birthday celebration scheduled three months later and was satisfied of my progress in writing my fourth novel, this very one. CNN regularly was reporting the hearings of Ghislaine Maxwell’s trial. Maxwell was the companion of Jeffrey Epstein, an American billionaire pedophile. For decades, she had groomed teenage girls for him to rape. Like everybody else, I was listening in disbelief and horror. One morning, sitting in front of the screen, a very vague thought germinated in my mind, as if something familiar that was impossible to name was waking up deep inside me. It faded away. Then it reappeared a few days later. Slowly, the thought was growing, occupying more space in my mind. It was both unpleasant and impossible to identify, like an unexplained muscle pain felt in the morning wondering what movement one could have done the day before to cause it, or an itch for which one finds no trace of a bite bug. The days passed, and while I continued to follow the court case, the thought became more oppressive. Something had happened to me, something related to Epstein. But what, that didn't make any sense. Eventually, it began to clear up. Images, more and more distinct, started to come to me. The sea, the house, the room, and eventually, you. Your filthy face, your vicious fingers, your voice. The process took about a month. In Cape Town, during the long-awaited Christmas holidays, I knew exactly. First I saw a house. At Le Francois or maybe Le Robert, one of these two coastal villages of the island of Martinique. I saw the road that led to the bay, I felt in my muscles the memory of a scuba dive. Then I remembered what had brought me there: the argument with my parents, the high school awards, a party weekend. I was seventeen years and three months old. You, maybe forty. The results of the baccalaureate, the end of high school exam in the French education system, had been released the day before. A day that one doesn’t forget. I had gone to find out about the results with my friends Alexandre and Pauline, confident but of course with my heart a little tight. Then I returned home, just when the family was about to sit down for lunch. In the kitchen my parents were getting ready to bring the dishes to the table. I announced my score, as modestly as possible – we were not the kind who brag – hoping for a hint of enthusiasm, a tiny recognition. “I passed. With honors”, I said. My father, his eyes staring at the bowl of rice salad, said: “That is the least you could do.” My mother didn’t pronounce a word. They grabbed the dishes and we sat down to eat, all nine of us. My baccalaureate was not a subject.The diving club where I used to spend every Saturdays, and often Sundays, for two years, was organizing a weekend on the East coast of the island. The club had rented, or perhaps had been lent, a villa for two days of diving and partying. The start of the long summer holidays, the exploration of new diving sites and the baccalaureate awards were all reasons to celebrate. This small associative club had a particular importance for me. Not only was my passion for the sea born there, but it also represented a place of freedom. My happy place. I was a good diver and despite my young age, was given many responsibilities there: I would check the equipment before and after the dives, clean them, initiate novice divers to the sport. The atmosphere was always joyful, I felt good there. Safe. It was a breath away from home, from the suffocating omnipresence of my brothers and sister and my parent’s severe rules. My parents had categorically refused that I participate in the diving weekend making the weeks preceding it particularly conflicting. Leveraging on my honors, I insisted one last time, and, weary of the fight, they eventually let me go.Had you taken part in the morning dive? I don't remember. I do know, however, that you were sitting at the big table where all the divers were having lunch. The memory of the meal had come back to me. Delicious. Grilled chicken, rice, lemon and chilli. You were not one of the regulars at the club, your face was unknown to me. I remember you as a little old man. But what does old mean for a seventeen year old girl? Your features appeared to me with great clarity. Small and blue eyes, like marbles. Fine hair, a little long, a little neglected. You had a big belly, not huge, but big enough to be disgusting to the teenager I was. You were ugly, ruddy, and had drooping shoulders. I remember perfectly the feeling of fatigue, this pleasant weariness of the muscles numbed by the pressure of the sea water after the dive. The meal was over and I remember saying "I'm going to take a little nap" and slipping into a room I had spotted in the morning when I arrived, looking for a place to leave my backpack. I had closed the door behind me. There was a single bed, and large dark red or brown tiles on the floor. The room was cool. A ray of light was entering through a window, or a hole in the wall rather, like a long rectangle high up closed from the outside by a mosquito net. I had taken off my pareo and was lying down on the bed in my one-piece bathing suit. Probably the one I wore in the morning for the dive, still powdered with salt from the ocean. Lying on my back, I remember hearing the voices and laughter from the lunch table just outside the room. I was feeling good, slowly falling into sleep. And the door opened ajar. Immediately, I felt scared, I can't say why, a woman's instinct. I recognized you and pretended to be asleep, hoping to hear "Oh sorry, I didn't know you were there" and for the door to close, but already knowing deep down that it wouldn't happen. I remember hearing my heart beating in my chest, very hard. The door did close, but with you inside the bedroom. You approached the bed. I kept my eyes closed, unable to move. I knew. I was a virgin, a child, but I knew. You stood up next to the bed, I was paralyzed with terror, arms along your body, legs stretched out, all straight. You didn't say a word. You put your hand forward. You touched my thighs. I couldn't scream, I was too scared, too ashamed, my whole body was paralyzed. You touched me, closer and closer to my sex. Between my legs, you pushed the fabric of my bathing suit. Your fingers pushed inside me. You raped me. It lasted a very long time. My muscles were so tense they hurt. I remember my panic: if I have a cramp, I will scream, and if I scream, what will happen? You said, "You like it, huh? ". And then you took your fingers out of me, suddenly, I felt an acute pain. And you left the room without a word. I heard your chair scrape the floor just behind the door, and your voice joining the laughter and the conversation of the group. I stayed motionless for a long time, my legs and arms stiffened to the point of pain, my eyes staring at the ceiling in the half-light of the room. I didn't even dare to touch the elastic of my bathing suit and put it back in place. When the voices died down, I managed to get up. I left the room and walked to one of the scuba diving instructor I knew and trusted. I told him what you had done to me, he got very angry. I remember him calling you, taking you to the garage. I remember hearing a fight and then a car speeding off. Yours. And it all ends there. That same day, I forgot everything. That weekend, you, the house, absolutely everything, for thirty-three years. First, I felt disbelief. Then, when faced with the precision of my memories denying had become futile, astonishment. And finally, panic.
Like all women, I had experienced the daily misogyny and the accepted sexism of our patriarchal societies. Of course, I had my #metoo, lots of them. All sadly trivial, some scarier than others, some more humiliating than others, but nothing too abnormal. Nothing really serious. In fact, I was one of the privileged ones. I was one of those who had been lucky and was all the more aware of it because I have been living in countries where violence against women reaches unsustainable levels and where rape is so common it hardly shocks anyone. It is surely that which, coupled with my fierce will to doubt my own memories, that fueled an immense stupefaction. Me, the lucky one, the one who, because she was so privileged, had the strength and felt the duty to take care of the more damaged ones, you had raped me. For a few days, the feeling of disbelief stuck. Then I minimized. You had not been brutal. I had not become anorexic; I have never hated my body. You did not prevent me from loving men. You had penetrated me only with your fingers, it was perhaps not so serious. I checked a thousand times the legal definition of what you had done to me: you raped me when I was seventeen. Yes, it was serious, it was very serious. And this panic that had taken me, I could not ignore it. These memories were a wave and were about to engulf me. I knew I had to react, catch my breath, but how? You had raped me when I was seventeen, it was unbelievable but it was true, and I just couldn't get past that. My heart was drowning and my brain was no longer functioning, as if cast in concrete. I was living, laughing, eating, but I was as paralyzed as on that bed thirty-three years earlier.
Finally one evening I managed to speak. Two guardian angels listenned to me, hugged me and guided me. I sat at the table of the living room of our small apartment on the nineteenth floor, in Cape Town. The night was falling and the city was lighting up. The next day I was going hiking. My backpack was ready, my daughter and her friends would pick me up at six in the morning. The first lines came out with pain. You didn't deserve my attention, my evening, my paper and my pen. Writing to you was making me nauseous. And then, like my tears, the words flowed. I wrote ten pages; I told you all. You see, I have not forgotten a thing. I read my story several times, loud. I folded the sheets, slipped them into the top pocket of my backpack and fell asleep, nested in the sky of Cape Town. The next day, I felt the weight on the ten pages in my back for the entire exhausting and glorious first day of the hike. When we reached the chalet we would occupy for the night, I let my hiking companions prepare the barbecue outside and retired to the small kitchen. There I burned the ten pages, I burned you. I collected your ashes on a small plate and went out behind the shelter, out of sight of the team. I walked two or three hundred meters. The site was breathtakingly beautiful, set on the flank of the cliff of Cape of Good Hope. On the right, False Bay and the Pacific Ocean. On my left, the Atlantic. The wind had risen, pure, powerful. The ground was rocky, covered only with small succulents with thick, juicy leaves. I found a flat spot covered in sand. The sun was setting over the ocean. The air was getting cold. I could only hear the wind and see the sky exploding in reds and yellows. I knew what I had to do. I hesitated for a moment; you didn't deserve such a beautiful grave. And then I thought that indeed, it was there and nowhere else, because so far from everything, no one would ever find you. I was going to make you die alone. No one would ever hear your cries covered by the Cape of Good Hope wind. Nature was going to take everything away, you and my pain. I dug and buried your ashes. Then I trampled on your grave, spoiled it with tears and spit. And I joined the group. They pretended not to notice my red eyes, we dined happily, slept like babies and left the next day to unroll twenty-five kilometers of dunes, plains and rocky slopes. My bag was lighter.
The next day, with my muscles still sore from the hike and my feet full of blisters, I went to this tiny bay surrounded by large flat rocks where we used to picnic in the evening with the children during holidays, watching the sun set. The sea was freezing, the sky was a little gray, cloudy. I entered the water, she hugged me, cold and soft. Like an invincible shield of my body that you tried to dominate, of this very body you never had. I took my time, bathed twice. When I got home, I felt a new strength. Physical. You see ? I burnt you, I buried you, and I drowned you. At the exact point where two oceans mingle with an incredible power and where the purest air on the planet blows. You had no chance. Six months have passed. It would be vain to hope that everything will go back to the way it was. I have crossed your path; this I cannot change. Yet the extraordinary mechanism that protected me from you for three decades was right. Right to think that, while #metoo had made us all prouder, while I was writing this novel and living very close to the most beautiful place on earth: it is time, the stars are aligned, she's ready. I was. I know now and I survived you, stronger than ever. You, who wanted to dominate me, how ironic. Of course, I am more wary of men. I try not to hate them, but I'm on alert. I feel the danger more acutely, and more than ever I feel the pain and terror of women, those things left unsaid, theirs cracks and their wounds. How many pigs, I keep wondering, how many pigs like you have I come across without knowing it?
The anger has faded. The questions remain, still feeding my disbelief. I was a child. Mature maybe for my seventeenth. I loved reading, I enjoyed debates and the company of adults. I was independent, a bit of a leader. I loved the sea and dancing on zouk music, I loved my bike and my friends. I had two months of vacation left on the island before the start of my university years in Paris. Real life was just starting. I had just graduated with honors, I had dived in the morning and I wanted to take a nap. Just a nap. And you, you watched me excuse myself from the table. For two or three minutes, surrounded by your friends who were finishing the spicy chicken, you told yourself that you were going to get up, enter the room and push your fingers inside me. You did it. Then you came out of that room and you sat down at that same table. Maybe you had a coffee, or a rum. Why? This question will always remain with me. Did I annoy you, you miserable little man in your miserable little life, did you want to silence my freedom, my youth, did you want to soil the life that was awaiting me? Or am I looking too far, did you only see in me an easy prey, without consequence, to satisfy your vice? I will never know. Did you rape other women, other girls? Do you have a wife, did you lie to her all your life long or does she know, like Ghislaine Maxwell? Do you have sons? Do they know who you really are, are they too, like daddy, pigs?
Out of duty for all women, I will write. Because, tremble with fear you and your brothers, women are no longer silent, I may speak. Even if it means saying words that have nothing to do with me, that sound so incongruous, so out of place. Even if I'm afraid of embarrassed smiles and "sorry" and worst, of being told that I shouldn't have gone to this weekend.
Don't get me wrong. I will not forget you. I will never forgive you. If by some extraordinary chance my path crosses one of your friends, or a descendant, I will speak and watch them drown in shame. If one cursed day our paths cross, I will kill you. But I won't look for you. I don’t want to know your name, or if you are dead or alive. I have better things to do. You had no place in my life for thirty-three years of oblivion, you won't have any more now. Élise is in charge; all is fine.
Gaborone, Botswana, December 2021.
I was impatiently preparing for the Christmas holidays: two weeks in Cape Town with the kids followed by a thirty-five kilometer hike with my daughter and her friends in the Cape of Good Hope national park. I was feeling happy to have gone through the first year of an unwanted move to Botswana without too much difficulty, was overwhelmed with happiness at the prospect of my fiftieth birthday celebration scheduled three months later and was satisfied of my progress in writing my fourth novel, this very one. CNN regularly was reporting the hearings of Ghislaine Maxwell’s trial. Maxwell was the companion of Jeffrey Epstein, an American billionaire pedophile. For decades, she had groomed teenage girls for him to rape. Like everybody else, I was listening in disbelief and horror. One morning, sitting in front of the screen, a very vague thought germinated in my mind, as if something familiar that was impossible to name was waking up deep inside me. It faded away. Then it reappeared a few days later. Slowly, the thought was growing, occupying more space in my mind. It was both unpleasant and impossible to identify, like an unexplained muscle pain felt in the morning wondering what movement one could have done the day before to cause it, or an itch for which one finds no trace of a bite bug. The days passed, and while I continued to follow the court case, the thought became more oppressive. Something had happened to me, something related to Epstein. But what, that didn't make any sense. Eventually, it began to clear up. Images, more and more distinct, started to come to me. The sea, the house, the room, and eventually, you. Your filthy face, your vicious fingers, your voice. The process took about a month. In Cape Town, during the long-awaited Christmas holidays, I knew exactly. First I saw a house. At Le Francois or maybe Le Robert, one of these two coastal villages of the island of Martinique. I saw the road that led to the bay, I felt in my muscles the memory of a scuba dive. Then I remembered what had brought me there: the argument with my parents, the high school awards, a party weekend. I was seventeen years and three months old. You, maybe forty. The results of the baccalaureate, the end of high school exam in the French education system, had been released the day before. A day that one doesn’t forget. I had gone to find out about the results with my friends Alexandre and Pauline, confident but of course with my heart a little tight. Then I returned home, just when the family was about to sit down for lunch. In the kitchen my parents were getting ready to bring the dishes to the table. I announced my score, as modestly as possible – we were not the kind who brag – hoping for a hint of enthusiasm, a tiny recognition. “I passed. With honors”, I said. My father, his eyes staring at the bowl of rice salad, said: “That is the least you could do.” My mother didn’t pronounce a word. They grabbed the dishes and we sat down to eat, all nine of us. My baccalaureate was not a subject.The diving club where I used to spend every Saturdays, and often Sundays, for two years, was organizing a weekend on the East coast of the island. The club had rented, or perhaps had been lent, a villa for two days of diving and partying. The start of the long summer holidays, the exploration of new diving sites and the baccalaureate awards were all reasons to celebrate. This small associative club had a particular importance for me. Not only was my passion for the sea born there, but it also represented a place of freedom. My happy place. I was a good diver and despite my young age, was given many responsibilities there: I would check the equipment before and after the dives, clean them, initiate novice divers to the sport. The atmosphere was always joyful, I felt good there. Safe. It was a breath away from home, from the suffocating omnipresence of my brothers and sister and my parent’s severe rules. My parents had categorically refused that I participate in the diving weekend making the weeks preceding it particularly conflicting. Leveraging on my honors, I insisted one last time, and, weary of the fight, they eventually let me go.Had you taken part in the morning dive? I don't remember. I do know, however, that you were sitting at the big table where all the divers were having lunch. The memory of the meal had come back to me. Delicious. Grilled chicken, rice, lemon and chilli. You were not one of the regulars at the club, your face was unknown to me. I remember you as a little old man. But what does old mean for a seventeen year old girl? Your features appeared to me with great clarity. Small and blue eyes, like marbles. Fine hair, a little long, a little neglected. You had a big belly, not huge, but big enough to be disgusting to the teenager I was. You were ugly, ruddy, and had drooping shoulders. I remember perfectly the feeling of fatigue, this pleasant weariness of the muscles numbed by the pressure of the sea water after the dive. The meal was over and I remember saying "I'm going to take a little nap" and slipping into a room I had spotted in the morning when I arrived, looking for a place to leave my backpack. I had closed the door behind me. There was a single bed, and large dark red or brown tiles on the floor. The room was cool. A ray of light was entering through a window, or a hole in the wall rather, like a long rectangle high up closed from the outside by a mosquito net. I had taken off my pareo and was lying down on the bed in my one-piece bathing suit. Probably the one I wore in the morning for the dive, still powdered with salt from the ocean. Lying on my back, I remember hearing the voices and laughter from the lunch table just outside the room. I was feeling good, slowly falling into sleep. And the door opened ajar. Immediately, I felt scared, I can't say why, a woman's instinct. I recognized you and pretended to be asleep, hoping to hear "Oh sorry, I didn't know you were there" and for the door to close, but already knowing deep down that it wouldn't happen. I remember hearing my heart beating in my chest, very hard. The door did close, but with you inside the bedroom. You approached the bed. I kept my eyes closed, unable to move. I knew. I was a virgin, a child, but I knew. You stood up next to the bed, I was paralyzed with terror, arms along your body, legs stretched out, all straight. You didn't say a word. You put your hand forward. You touched my thighs. I couldn't scream, I was too scared, too ashamed, my whole body was paralyzed. You touched me, closer and closer to my sex. Between my legs, you pushed the fabric of my bathing suit. Your fingers pushed inside me. You raped me. It lasted a very long time. My muscles were so tense they hurt. I remember my panic: if I have a cramp, I will scream, and if I scream, what will happen? You said, "You like it, huh? ". And then you took your fingers out of me, suddenly, I felt an acute pain. And you left the room without a word. I heard your chair scrape the floor just behind the door, and your voice joining the laughter and the conversation of the group. I stayed motionless for a long time, my legs and arms stiffened to the point of pain, my eyes staring at the ceiling in the half-light of the room. I didn't even dare to touch the elastic of my bathing suit and put it back in place. When the voices died down, I managed to get up. I left the room and walked to one of the scuba diving instructor I knew and trusted. I told him what you had done to me, he got very angry. I remember him calling you, taking you to the garage. I remember hearing a fight and then a car speeding off. Yours. And it all ends there. That same day, I forgot everything. That weekend, you, the house, absolutely everything, for thirty-three years. First, I felt disbelief. Then, when faced with the precision of my memories denying had become futile, astonishment. And finally, panic.
Like all women, I had experienced the daily misogyny and the accepted sexism of our patriarchal societies. Of course, I had my #metoo, lots of them. All sadly trivial, some scarier than others, some more humiliating than others, but nothing too abnormal. Nothing really serious. In fact, I was one of the privileged ones. I was one of those who had been lucky and was all the more aware of it because I have been living in countries where violence against women reaches unsustainable levels and where rape is so common it hardly shocks anyone. It is surely that which, coupled with my fierce will to doubt my own memories, that fueled an immense stupefaction. Me, the lucky one, the one who, because she was so privileged, had the strength and felt the duty to take care of the more damaged ones, you had raped me. For a few days, the feeling of disbelief stuck. Then I minimized. You had not been brutal. I had not become anorexic; I have never hated my body. You did not prevent me from loving men. You had penetrated me only with your fingers, it was perhaps not so serious. I checked a thousand times the legal definition of what you had done to me: you raped me when I was seventeen. Yes, it was serious, it was very serious. And this panic that had taken me, I could not ignore it. These memories were a wave and were about to engulf me. I knew I had to react, catch my breath, but how? You had raped me when I was seventeen, it was unbelievable but it was true, and I just couldn't get past that. My heart was drowning and my brain was no longer functioning, as if cast in concrete. I was living, laughing, eating, but I was as paralyzed as on that bed thirty-three years earlier.
Finally one evening I managed to speak. Two guardian angels listenned to me, hugged me and guided me. I sat at the table of the living room of our small apartment on the nineteenth floor, in Cape Town. The night was falling and the city was lighting up. The next day I was going hiking. My backpack was ready, my daughter and her friends would pick me up at six in the morning. The first lines came out with pain. You didn't deserve my attention, my evening, my paper and my pen. Writing to you was making me nauseous. And then, like my tears, the words flowed. I wrote ten pages; I told you all. You see, I have not forgotten a thing. I read my story several times, loud. I folded the sheets, slipped them into the top pocket of my backpack and fell asleep, nested in the sky of Cape Town. The next day, I felt the weight on the ten pages in my back for the entire exhausting and glorious first day of the hike. When we reached the chalet we would occupy for the night, I let my hiking companions prepare the barbecue outside and retired to the small kitchen. There I burned the ten pages, I burned you. I collected your ashes on a small plate and went out behind the shelter, out of sight of the team. I walked two or three hundred meters. The site was breathtakingly beautiful, set on the flank of the cliff of Cape of Good Hope. On the right, False Bay and the Pacific Ocean. On my left, the Atlantic. The wind had risen, pure, powerful. The ground was rocky, covered only with small succulents with thick, juicy leaves. I found a flat spot covered in sand. The sun was setting over the ocean. The air was getting cold. I could only hear the wind and see the sky exploding in reds and yellows. I knew what I had to do. I hesitated for a moment; you didn't deserve such a beautiful grave. And then I thought that indeed, it was there and nowhere else, because so far from everything, no one would ever find you. I was going to make you die alone. No one would ever hear your cries covered by the Cape of Good Hope wind. Nature was going to take everything away, you and my pain. I dug and buried your ashes. Then I trampled on your grave, spoiled it with tears and spit. And I joined the group. They pretended not to notice my red eyes, we dined happily, slept like babies and left the next day to unroll twenty-five kilometers of dunes, plains and rocky slopes. My bag was lighter.
The next day, with my muscles still sore from the hike and my feet full of blisters, I went to this tiny bay surrounded by large flat rocks where we used to picnic in the evening with the children during holidays, watching the sun set. The sea was freezing, the sky was a little gray, cloudy. I entered the water, she hugged me, cold and soft. Like an invincible shield of my body that you tried to dominate, of this very body you never had. I took my time, bathed twice. When I got home, I felt a new strength. Physical. You see ? I burnt you, I buried you, and I drowned you. At the exact point where two oceans mingle with an incredible power and where the purest air on the planet blows. You had no chance. Six months have passed. It would be vain to hope that everything will go back to the way it was. I have crossed your path; this I cannot change. Yet the extraordinary mechanism that protected me from you for three decades was right. Right to think that, while #metoo had made us all prouder, while I was writing this novel and living very close to the most beautiful place on earth: it is time, the stars are aligned, she's ready. I was. I know now and I survived you, stronger than ever. You, who wanted to dominate me, how ironic. Of course, I am more wary of men. I try not to hate them, but I'm on alert. I feel the danger more acutely, and more than ever I feel the pain and terror of women, those things left unsaid, theirs cracks and their wounds. How many pigs, I keep wondering, how many pigs like you have I come across without knowing it?
The anger has faded. The questions remain, still feeding my disbelief. I was a child. Mature maybe for my seventeenth. I loved reading, I enjoyed debates and the company of adults. I was independent, a bit of a leader. I loved the sea and dancing on zouk music, I loved my bike and my friends. I had two months of vacation left on the island before the start of my university years in Paris. Real life was just starting. I had just graduated with honors, I had dived in the morning and I wanted to take a nap. Just a nap. And you, you watched me excuse myself from the table. For two or three minutes, surrounded by your friends who were finishing the spicy chicken, you told yourself that you were going to get up, enter the room and push your fingers inside me. You did it. Then you came out of that room and you sat down at that same table. Maybe you had a coffee, or a rum. Why? This question will always remain with me. Did I annoy you, you miserable little man in your miserable little life, did you want to silence my freedom, my youth, did you want to soil the life that was awaiting me? Or am I looking too far, did you only see in me an easy prey, without consequence, to satisfy your vice? I will never know. Did you rape other women, other girls? Do you have a wife, did you lie to her all your life long or does she know, like Ghislaine Maxwell? Do you have sons? Do they know who you really are, are they too, like daddy, pigs?
Out of duty for all women, I will write. Because, tremble with fear you and your brothers, women are no longer silent, I may speak. Even if it means saying words that have nothing to do with me, that sound so incongruous, so out of place. Even if I'm afraid of embarrassed smiles and "sorry" and worst, of being told that I shouldn't have gone to this weekend.
Don't get me wrong. I will not forget you. I will never forgive you. If by some extraordinary chance my path crosses one of your friends, or a descendant, I will speak and watch them drown in shame. If one cursed day our paths cross, I will kill you. But I won't look for you. I don’t want to know your name, or if you are dead or alive. I have better things to do. You had no place in my life for thirty-three years of oblivion, you won't have any more now. Élise is in charge; all is fine.
(I couldn't find a picture of me at 17. I might be 15 on that one).


I loved her
31st of March 2023