An Experience in Four Movements

PROLOGUE

Having left Jean-François is the deepest regret of my life. And yet our liaison was anything but a romance. It was a love-hate all along. There were moments when he was more than I could bear. There were others when he made me deliriously happy.

Here I stand alone at the mercy of a foreign city. A foreign city that I mistrust. Nevertheless I have ended up in Paris by my own free will.

Free will!

Do I really mean FREE?

Why not - if freedom is a necessity avowed. If being free means to go where one is driven because escape is the only reasonable way out.

Reasonable -another word whose true meaning Jean-François made me understand.

There are not many things that Jean-François left as they were. A small part of myself remained truly mine. The rest attached itself to him with the untamed tenacity of a Siamese cat ready to prove his neurotic affection in a fit of rage.

I did not intend to encounter Jean-François. He was imposed upon me like all the other hard, meaningful things of my life. Maybe he did me a power of good. If I could do exactly as I please, I would live in style, surrounded by cats and exquisite works of art. I would wallow in the balmy climate of an elegant drawing room like a fastidious orchid, sweetly decomposing in a crystal vase.

The real me thrives on warmth and smoothness, feeds on honeyed titbits, goes into raptures over the thrilling loveliness of cats. The real me believes in life running like a clockwork; in life as a love-story come true. Which is not exactly my case. Neither that of most others, actually.

As for the others, I am not so very concerned. I am interested in the others only as far as they touch me. In fact I do not wish to be touched at all. I prefer to watch the world from a panoramic blockhouse of reinforced glass. Let the others outside, fighting and hurting each other, if this is what they want, but let the atrocities happen far from me! Let the others take me in only when and if I ask for it.

1

The opening scene

This is the script of a poet’s death. My poet! Jean-François Sarasin. Bright and handsome. Graceful and smart. A poet as smooth as a cat.

Rain whips the wintry landscape. Putrid air oozes out of a seedy tavern into a dismal garret. A ragged curtain billows over a filthy window. The flame of a candle, melting in a crooked candelabra, flickers in and out like a viper's tongue. The poet's brow is covered with sweat. His eyes fix the void. His fingers, scouring the blanket, get enmeshed in the tattered cloth.

From the edge of the bed, death watches him with a gnawing greed. Her bony arms stretch out to take him.

We are in the month of December, Anno Domini 1654. Time flows torrentially forward in a search for me.

2

Interlude

I owe Jean-François to the Soviet Invasion of 1968. Had this border incident not occurred, I would have never left Prague, given up a highly interesting work and a happy life..

Actually, Jean-François represented my only way out. Instead of following the crowds routing westwards at the sight of the Russian tanks, I stayed in Prague until a sordid truth dawned upon me: the majority of my fellow-countrymen prefer to chew their daily collaborationist bread rather than resist and get short of it, consequently. This means of sustenance was too much for my fussy stomach and not enough to keep my body and soul together. Nothing doing. Don't throw the blame on me.

I didn't feel either like affiliating with the dissidents. Many of them were the former builders and pillars of the communist regime and, since the Communist Putsch in 1948, the headsmen of my fellow creatures and of my most treasured values.

Thus I did not hesitate to use the password scholarship to force my passage through the border in February 1970 virtually closed. Going away was the only way of retaining my human dignity without giving up a decent way of life and my place in the sun. To keep my work would have meant signing a statement approving the entry of the Russian occupying forces and their allies. Otherwise I would have been sacked and forced to resume my former job of an unskilled factory hand, far from Prague and my other ties.

That my deus ex machina was Jean-François is both chosen and destined.

One rainy day of my childhood, I discovered in my grandfather's library, that I was free to explore to my heart's content, the novels of Madeleine de Scudéry. I struck up a lifelong friendship with her and her lot, an affinity that proved to be fatal. Mademoiselle de Scudéry made me understand that I can escape the real world by way of my imagination and thus turned me into a writer.

Jean-François Sarasin, the tender and unofficial friend of Madeleine de Scudéry, was fated to enter into this scheme as the catalyst of my two escapes, spiritual as well as concrete.

3

The event

This is the script of an event. The birth of a story founded on facts. A work of fiction, hemmed in by facts.

Date: 1970

Scene: A University town in the north of France.

Dramatis personae: Professor. Flawlessly courteous, impeccable in spirit as in manners.

I: In two minds about all, mostly about myself.

Professor: Have you in mind a particular subject concerning your PhD thesis, Miss?

I:I do, Sir. Mademoiselle de Scudéry.

Professor: "I would not advise you to get involved in such an ambitious project, Miss. I’d suggest you take as the subject of your PhD a minor poet of the 17th century, Jean-François Sarasin, nowadays practically forgotten. He was a regular visitor of Madeleine de Scudéry's literary salon. He will suit you perfectly. Let me give you some data about his life and literary merits.

Jean-François Sarasin was born in 1614 in Normandy considered in those days as the land of poets. According to his contemporaries, and confirmed by the archives of the city of Caen, he came from a highly respectable aristocratic family. His father, Roger Sarasin, was squire, counsellor to the King and paymaster of France in the city of Caen.

Jean-François got his basic education from his father, a reputable scholar, who generously shared his erudition with his son. Having completed his studies with distinction at the prestigious University of Caen, Jean-François Sarasin came to Paris in 1633. He brought with him a letter of recommendation from Le Fauconnier, a close friend of the family.

Some gossip even hinted that Le Fauconnier was his biological father. Let's say no more about it. Anyway, the recommendation for the poet Vauquelin des Yvetaux proved useless. That was not the end of the world for our young man, smart and exceedingly handsome with it. No wonder that he soon became intimate friend of the attractive Angélique Paulet, King's former mistress, woman notorious. It is most probable that it was she who arranged Sarasin's entry into the salon of Madeleine de Scudéry where he soon became a sort of a poet-in-residence.

If you wish to tackle in your thesis Mademoiselle de Scudéry without drowning in the vast quantities of her prolific work, take this opportunity to do so.

Jean-François Sarasin died in 1654 at the age of forty. He left behind him only a few works. Another reason why I suggest him. Besides, you may rely on the excellent critical edition of Sarasin's works by Paul Festugière.

Well, what do you think of my proposal?"

I: (Still very subdued by my recent adversities and for all that ready to take gladly a piece of advice}

Thank you, Sir. I'll gladly accept your suggestion.

Professor:

A very wise decision. I leave you now. My students are waiting. I hope that your choice will give you satisfaction. So long, Miss. Good luck.

I:

Many thanks for your advice, Sir. Good bye.

4

Encounter

Date: 1633 AD

Scène: Paris

Dramatis personae: Jean-François Sarasin