[Excerpt from Chantal Akerman's autobiography, translated into Spanish by Tatiana Lipkes and published in Mexico by Axe Handles.]
I wrote all this and now I no longer like what I wrote. It was before, before the broken shoulder, before the heart surgery, before the pulmonary embolism, before my sister or my brother-in-law called me to say goodbye (see you never). Before he returned to his home in Brussels for good.
Before I laughed.
Before I understood that maybe I had it all backwards.
Before I understood that I had a truncated and imaginary vision. And that I was only capable of that. Neither of the truth nor even of my truth.
Now my mother is alive and in good health. That's what everybody says and everybody also says that she is strong and nobody understands how she survived.
It hurts all over but her hair has grown back. It's a miracle.
She gained weight. She manages almost on her own with everything and her broken shoulder. Anyway she has to be helped to dress, undress, cut her meat and butter her bread. She can't go out for walks by herself and it's a real shame. Fortunately there is Clara who lives with her in the back of the apartment, so each one has her privacy. Clara comes from Mexico. She is Patricia's sister who cleans her house.
At Christmas and New Year's they have parties and they invite my mother. My mother says she doesn't care about Christmas or New Year's but she is happy to be invited to a Mexican home because there is a lot of atmosphere and she loves that. She comes back from the parties with pink cheeks and bright eyes.
He laughs a lot in the midst of his complaints. He enjoys.
I hear her laugh. She laughs for nothing. That nothing is a lot.
Also sometimes in the morning, he laughs.
She wakes up tired but gets up and starts the day.
I came back from New York to spend a few days with her. She doesn't know why or how but she lets me exist as I am.
My disorder no longer seems to bother her. She doesn't seem to notice it anymore. She accepts it. She accepts me as I am. She wasn't like that before but since she felt death and is still alive she has changed. She knows what is important and what is not important and she accepts me.
She still sometimes talks about my birth and the fact that she couldn't stand her milk and that she watched her daughter get weaker and that it was terrible. They ended up finding a milk that I liked. What would have happened otherwise.
She laughs.
I like to hear her laugh.
He sleeps a lot, but he laughs. He enjoys. Then sleep.
She finally accepted her age. She knows she has to lie down in the middle of her bed so she doesn't fall out during the night. She knows she has to leave some light in the hallway leading to the bathroom. She knows that someone sleeps at the back of the apartment near her in case of. She knows everything and agrees. She likes it. She likes it when Clara shows up. She likes to chat and laugh with her. They seem like two friends who have known each other forever.
It was my sister's idea. She thought that my mother could no longer live alone and Clara came to Belgium with her and so far everything is working well.
She likes the Mexicans, that is, Clara's sister and her children when they come to greet and eat with her. They are affectionate and laugh with her. It feels good. It feels so good that she can't not do it anymore. In fact she likes it when there are people in her house. Even the plumber who came urgently with his granddaughter. All night long I was taking out the water that was coming from the neighbors and it didn't stop. It was really an event, he even liked it, even though he wondered why it was happening and said that his building was getting old and that he hoped he would not be charged because he lived with little and that if he also had to pay for the repairs, he would not know what to do.
He knows he can count on his daughters but he doesn't like it. He doesn't like to ask. He likes to get by with what he has. That is to say not so much. However he worked a lot during his life with my father but he didn't declare it. So he has to get by on the pension from the Germans and his POW pension. And also with an apartment my father bought me so that I would have something.
That apartment is rented so it gives him something more but not much because the apartment is not very good and he rents it for very little.
When the plumber arrived with his granddaughter, he couldn't get over the excitement of seeing the little girl and her braided hair. They were so beautiful and the little girl was so calm and smiling. My mother gave her orange juice.
The plumber was making a creepy noise with a special plunger machine but everything was fixed and I didn't have to collect water all night.
The plumber told her that this could happen again because the pipe was old. My mother said we'll see. All in good time. She thought that if it happened in ten years I wouldn't be here anymore and it would be my sister's turn because I don't have a practical spirit. Although it was me who talked to the plumber at Christmas and the plumber came. He laughed.
It's hard for him to leave his apartment. She hardly goes out anymore and yet that's all she talks about, going out, but it's dark and damp, it's winter. She knows that the humidity is terrible for her who was so sick. But even when it's a little less humid, even in Brussels in December, she doesn't go out. Only to the terrace and even there. She looks at the desolate garden on the first floor, looks at the cat, looks at the dog. Look at the bunk bed that was turned over by the wind that blows everything away as it passes. But apart from that there is no one in the garden. The children are no longer there. No doubt they are inside. From spring on, she will see them again and it will bring her joy. He waits for spring and he knows it will come and he will hear the birds passing by. She likes that.
I don't make it. I can't wait for spring. I'm in winter with dark, heavy clouds that seem to be here forever.
I have the impression that it is the end but it is not the end.
I don't know what I'm going to do or where I'm going to live and if I'm still going to go anywhere. But I'm going to go to my apartment in Paris. I have an apartment. It's my home. It's what they say, my home.
But I don't feel like I have a home or somewhere else. A place to feel at home or somewhere else.
Sometimes I say I'm going to go to a hotel, there is a home somewhere else, there I could write.
I went back and reread everything I wrote and was deeply disgusted.
But what to do, I wrote it down. There it is.
I tell myself that if I work on it again, maybe I would dislike it less. However, during the months when I did nothing, I thought I would soon write again, or go on and be fine.
My mother sleeps in her electric armchair like on airplanes. It is an extraordinary chair like the business class seats on airplanes. She loves that chair and falls asleep there very often, so she doesn't feel like she stayed in bed.
The bed is terrible. Better to go only at night.
During the day he sleeps in his armchair in the dining room and still has the impression that he still exists. They knock, she listens for once, she doesn't always listen, she goes to open up, she smiles. She is so happy to have listened and she is so happy that someone is coming. In fact it's Andrée and she adores Andrée. She is a very big blonde woman who loves to talk. My mother also loves to talk so everything works well between them.
It's Friday and he's going to eat fish and he already delights.
Yes, small soles. The lenguaditos are small soles. He likes little soles. So do I, but I don't delight in them and wonder why.
She delights, delights so much that I end up delighting myself as well.
He says that the skin of the sole is much more delicate than that of the sole.
Andrée comes to help her on Fridays and on Thursdays she already enjoys it.
Think of the little soles and think of Andrée, so well-behaved.
He loves Andrée, he likes the way Andrée prepares the little soles with a butter and parsley sauce.