My Body in Nine Parts (9 page)

Like everybody else's my eyes have seen a lot. A lot of beautiful things, and a lot of ugly ones. But as Proust said so well:

Par l'art seulement nous pouvons sortir de nous, savoir ce que voit un autre de cet univers qui n'est pas le même que le notre, et dont les paysages nous seraient restés aussi inconnus que ceux qu'il peut y avoir dans la lune
.

It is certainly with my fictions that I was able to see that other universe in which I also exist.

For me sight does not suffice. I must also touch what I see. At least, that's always true for me. I am a being who not only enjoys looking at things but needs to touch them, to caress them, to feel their substance.

If I see an object. Any object. Anywhere. Immediately I have to touch it. Instinctively, unconsciously, my hand reaches for that object.

There is certainly a harmonious rapport between the sense of sight and the sense of touch. Between the eyes and the hands.

For instance, if I see a table. A wooden table, or made of glass or marble, I slide my hand on the surface of the table. I must stroke it to sense its smoothness and texture. I have to do it.

And I like to touch the back of the chairs around the table. It's instinctive. I cannot prevent myself. It is as if my eyes were guiding my hand toward the object I contemplate.

And if the table is set for an elegant dinner, I cannot resist, I pick up one of the fine china plates, or a silver fork, or one of the crystal wine goblets, and I bring it close to my face so that my eyes can better enjoy it while my fingers appreciate its delicate quality.

My eyes and my hands like to feel together. To feel visually and manually at the same time, as though the one was an extension of the other.

That is why, for instance, if I see a beautiful flower, immediately I want to touch its petals. And in the case of a flower, my nose also wants to enjoy its fragrance. In this way, not only are my eyes and hand involved with this flower, but also my nose. I might even say that my ears listen to that flower quiver when I touch it. I would like to taste it. To eat it. To lick it's petals. In other words, I would like all my senses to profit from the delight of the flower. But it's my hand especially that profits the most.

In another situation, let's say in a clothing store. Not only do I look at the piece of clothing I would like to acquire, but I touch it. I feel the fabric. I rub it against my face to see if it itches. I put it against my body to see if it fits me.

Of course, if I see a beautiful woman, let's say seated in an armchair at some festive
soirée
. She does not see me looking at her. She's sipping a glass of champagne while watching the couples dance. She's very beautiful. Superb well-rounded breasts tucked in a low-necked blouse. Splendid thighs. Well the one I admire crossed over the other outside the mini skirt. I look. I appreciate. And unconsciously I feel the urge to touch. To caress. To fondle …

Well, you see the importance of touching in social and private situations.

Let's take for instance a private moment. I am shaving. I am naked in front the large mirror in my bathroom. I am looking at my nose while shaving. Immediately my hand reaches for the tip of my nose, twists it slightly to one side so that the razor can shave closely underneath.

Or else, if in the large mirror I see my phallus and I say to myself, oh how insignificant and pathetic it looks today. And so, instinctively I take in my free hand, and …

Or if on the contrary, that day, my phallus is fully developed and vibrant, without thinking of the consequences, I grab it with my free hand, and …

Or if in a darkened room, my eyes cannot assist, then it is my hands that grope and caress the wondrous body lying beneath me. My hands take over the functions of my eyes in these intimate explorations.

One could give many such examples of the association between eyes and hands. Free association. But I shall let your imagination and your own personal experiences determine the close rapport of your eyes with your hands as I end this little meditation on the sense of touch.

As for me, let's just say that I like to touch. I am a
toucheur
, if I may coin a word, as well as a voyeur. Voyeur, in the positive sense of the term. I like to touch what I see, and see what I touch. Often I am not even responsible for what my hands are grasping. They seem to act independently.

To give you an example. The other day on my way to the library I saw something shining on the other side of the street. Something small and shiny on the ground. The street was crowded but no one stopped to look at it, to pick it up and find out what it may be. So I crossed the street, even though it was out of my way. Doesn't matter. What matters is that the moment I saw this shining thing I had to touch it. Well, you want to know what it was? The wrapper of a piece of chewing gum that someone had rolled into a ball. A shiny little ball of silver paper. I picked it up. Examined it. Rolled it in my fingers, and then threw it back on the ground. It was a useless object, but I had to touch it. That illustrates how sometimes my eyes lead my hands to ridiculous actions.

Do you know why people are afraid to look at their scars, and even more so to touch them? Because it is the place on the body where the soul struggled to escape but was forced back in and the flesh tightly sewn.

I know this is so because I have many scars on my body. My soul often tried to desert me. To go elsewhere. But I am not afraid to look at my scars, and sometimes in the dark I furtively pass my fingers over them. Especially at night when I cannot sleep. Each scar tells me her story, and that lulls me to sleep.

All my scars have a story to tell. I have nine of them, but there are four that I favor especially. These four scars mark a traumatic moment of my life. And I often remember how they happened.

Everybody has scars. Most scars happen when you are young. Young, foolish & clumsy. Imprudent with your body and bursting with conceit, you imagine that it will last forever.

Of course, your soul knows very well that the body will not last, and that is why it always tries to escape.

Often at night, restless in my bed, unable to sleep, in and out of bad dreams, I visit my scars. Especially the four favorites because they are so charged with souvenirs and pain.

The five others are small and insignificant, without much importance, almost invisible, their stories forgotten, no doubt because they caused me less pain than the four principal ones, as I like to call them. These four really made me suffer, but I still like to listen when they tell their stories.

Do you care to hear about the circumstances surrounding these four principal scars?

So that they are correctly situated in the span of my life, I will relate them in chronological order, even though chronology always handicaps me when I tell a story.

The first one, the most ancient, is on the back of my head. Right in the middle of the skull. Because my hair is still thick in that spot it cannot be seen. Of course, if I were to become totally bald, then it would be visible, and would probably reveal itself to be ugly. That's how I visualize her. Ugly.

Of course, my scars are all feminine.

I have never been able to see this scar, even when I hold a mirror behind my head and try to part the hair with my fingers. I can feel her, but I cannot see her.

I once asked my wife to look for that scar and describe it to me. But even though she was able to locate her with her finger, she could not see her even when she pulled my hair apart.

She said that she could feel a bump there, but couldn't see anything. That's why I cannot tell you if she's ugly or beautiful.

Some scars are beautiful. Others ugly. That depends on how the soul was sewn back in. Few surgeons have sartorial talent. Most of them perform the sewing of the wound as if they were grave diggers burying the soul back into the body.

But even if I never see this scar, I am fond of her. I call her Eurydice because she's so mysterious. So evasive. Semi-absent one might say. I know it is there. I can feel her with my finger, but I have never seen her.

Yes, I have given a name to all my scars. Mythological names.

Eurydice tells me her story every time I shampoo my hair. She never forgets. She says to me, as the water drips over me, Federman do you remember how, long ago, when you were a little clumsy boy on vacation in le Poitou [my scars always call me Federman, and when they speak French to me, some of them do speak French because they happened in France, then they use the familiar
tu
form], remember she says, as I rub the soap out of my eyes, you were 7 years old, you climbed up a tree, I think it was a cherry tree, but I cannot really say because when you climbed up this tree I did not exit yet. I became your first scar, and I am proud of that, when you fell off the tree.

It must have been a cherry tree, because when you fell
tu n'es pas tombé dans les pommes
. That much I am certain. No, you did not pass out. But did you ever scream. You see, you were so greedy, you climbed all the way to the top of the tree to pluck the biggest and most succulent. But then the branch on which you were sitting broke and you fell backward all the way down, and your head landed on top of a big rock. As you sat on the ground, whimpering dizzily, you reached for the back of your skull, and your hand came back full of blood.

OK, I'll skip the details [it's still Eurydice speaking] of how you were taken to the village doctor in a horse buggy and how he rubbed some liquid medicine that burned on the back of your head and then stitched your wound, and that's how I became your first scar.

That's what Eurydice tells me every time I wash my hair. And that's exactly how it happened.

I was 7 year old, on vacation
in les colonies de vacances dans le Poitou
, when I fell off a cherry tree and landed on a rock right on the back of my head. I could have killed myself, but I suppose it was not yet the right moment. My body was not ready for the big journey, nor was my soul.

However, one could only wonder if the shock my head took that day is not responsible for the irrationality of my actions? And the digressive incoherence of my language?

The story of my second principal scar is even more dramatic. That's the one I have on my left knee. It was caused by an enraged bull.

Because of her shape, I call her Daphné. She looks like a laurel leaf. She has a certain beauty. She's horizontal on my knee, so that when I look at her, I can really see how well-shaped she is.

Daphné will now tell you the story of how she became my second scar. She loves to tell that story.

Federman it was your first day on the farm. Not the farm in Le Poitou, but the farm in Le Lot-et-Garonne. Do you remember. You were 13 years old.

[Those who are not familiar with the story of the farm read
Aunt Rachel's Fur.
]

Briefly then. After a series of sad and traumatic misadventures that made of you an orphan, you find yourself working on a farm in Le Lot-et-Garonne. You are taken in as a laborer without any questions, even though you didn't look
très costaud
. To the contrary, you were skinny, knock-kneed, rachitic, undernourished, and lost in the great commotion of the war. But during the occupation farmers needed help. So they took in anybody who came along. You see, the Germans had the dumb idea of sending all the adult French farmers to Germany to work in the gun factories.

So here you are learning to cultivate the earth with a mean half-demented old man, and his plump daughter-in-law whose husband is a prisoner in Germany.

The first job you're assigned is to shepherd the cows in the meadow down by the river. That didn't seem like a very difficult job, though you were warned not to let the cows graze the neighbor's lucern.

So here you are watching the cows chew the grass. With a stick in your hand, you walk around the herd to keep it contained. The old dog, with only one eye, and who can barely stand on his feeble legs, stays close to you. It's a nice warm summer afternoon. You have forgotten the war.