A Leopard-Skin Hat E-Book

Anne Serre

• Herausgeber: Lolli Editions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 143

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Longlisted for the International Booker Prize A Leopard-Skin Hat may be Anne Serre's most moving novel yet. Hailed in Le Point as a 'masterpiece of simplicity, emotion and elegance,' it is the story of an intense friendship between the Narrator and his close childhood friend, Fanny, who suffers from profound psychological disorders. A series of short scenes paints the portrait of a strong-willed and tormented young woman battling many demons, and of the narrator's loving and anguished attachment to her. Serre poignantly depicts the bewildering back and forth between hope and despair involved in such a relationship, while playfully calling into question the very form of the novel. Written in the aftermath of the death of the author's little sister, A Leopard-Skin Hat is both the celebration of a tragically foreshortened life and a valedictory farewell, written in Anne Serre's signature style.

Leseprobe

Praise for A Leopard-Skin Hat

‘I love Anne Serre, translated by Mark Hutchinson, for the rippling unreality of her prose. Reading her is like watching a mirage flicker in and out of focus.’

– Merve Emre

‘Readers will be moved by this probing story about the unknowability of others.’

– Publishers Weekly

‘The story of Fanny and the Narrator is a story about our impulse to understand one another and about the way in which unknowability is what makes someone interesting; it is about, in fact, the relationship between unknowability and the desire to know, neither existing without the other, as a narrator does not exist without a story nor a story without a narrator… Exuberantly anti-realist and avowedly fictional.’

– The Brooklyn Rail

‘In her ability to dip down, over and over, into her secret life, and emerge with a small, sparkling patch of that whole cloth, Serre strikes me as extraordinarily lucky… Serre’s primary subject, as always, is narration, and it’s thanks to this obsession that A Leopard-Skin Hat sidesteps memoir, not only by replacing siblings with friends and adopting a male Narrator but by plunging into the volatile spacetime of writing.’

– The Baffler

Praise for The Beginners

‘Genuinely original – and, often, very quietly so. Seriously weird and seriously excellent… call it the anglerfish of literature.’

– The New York Times

‘Serre’s language is tight and fabulist, a slim and sensuous fairy tale that reads like something born from an orgy between Charles Perrault, Shirley Jackson, and Angela Carter.’

– Full Stop

Praise for The Governessess

‘Brutal and effervescent, The Governesses is a systems novel, in the guise of a postmodern fairy tale, a twisted take on the battle of the sexes, a Dionysian mystery in sheep’s clothing. This haunting and compulsive read, imbued with an uncanny intensity, in an unforgettable introduction to Anne Serre’s work.’

– Alexandra Kleeman

‘Prim and racy, seriously weird and seriously excellent... The Governesses is not a treatise but an aria, and one delivered with perfect pitch.’

– New York Times Book Review

‘A cruel and exhilarating book.’

– Marie Claire

‘A feminist fantasy, where women satisfy their sexual needs free from society’s opprobrium.’

– The Arts Fuse

‘Each sentence evokes a dream logic both languid and circuitous as the governesses move through a fever of domesticity and sexual abandon. A sensualist, surrealist romp.’

– Kirkus Reviews

‘Serre’s wistful ode to pleasure is as enchanting as its three nymph-like protagonists.’

– Publishers Weekly

‘A delightful sabbath.’

– Le Monde

I

OH! HOW PRETTY she was, Fanny, back in the days of her childhood, with her shiny black boots and her long blue eyes with their golden-brown lashes, climbing onto walls and the branches of trees, the top of her wardrobe, calling herself Felix which means happy, powerful as a wrestler and clenching her teeth when she played the piano. One summer, a child from next door asked her if he could use her piano and Fanny refused, saying quite simply, ‘No’. There was nothing gracious about it, no attempt was made to comfort him or soften the blow. It was No. The child was taken aback and hurt, and went off looking distinctly sad. Even when Fanny was a full-grown adult and well into her thirties, her forties even, she could look at children in a most unpleasant way. One time, for example, it was little E, two or three years old, who caught her eye and recoiled in horror, curling up like a dry leaf. Then there was L, seven, struck dumb with astonishment in the middle of the swimming pool. At other times Fanny would dote upon these children, making a show of charm and affection that was again disproportionate and in response to which they would shrink back slightly, keeping their distance.

Much of the time Fanny’s body was lost in thought, like the rest of her being. Quizzical even. She had a way of standing in her swimsuit in a mountain lake, up to her knees in water, like a question. She wasn’t gazing off into the distance, nor was she contemplating the shimmering veil of the lake’s surface exactly; no, she was simply standing there, waiting for something manifestly impossible to happen, some unearthly apparition or reckoning; and were you then to gently recall her to her ‘senses’, she would emerge from a grim, dreamlike state beneath the dome of which no bird flew.

For twenty, for fifteen years now, and ever more intently as time wore on, the Narrator had been keeping a close eye on his friend Fanny. He had examined her a million times, from behind, in profile, head-on – gently, as Fanny was a little fearful of being looked in the eye. He was sensitive to her hard, firm body, at times half-dead, like the body in ‘Petrified Man’. Something in it had congealed and wasn’t circulating properly: the blood? the lymph? With words, his own words – paltry little things – the Narrator would try to breathe new life into that body, to put back into circulation the teeming, fearless existence that lay bunched up in the hollow of Fanny’s belly like a clenched fist, a stone, a dead child, a poor stuffed animal. Even some of her fingers refused to move. Ten years earlier, Fanny had injured her hand after falling over, drunk, onto splinters of bottle glass, and ever since, her hand when playing the piano had been limp and slack, and the muscles at the base of the thumb had collapsed. That was when her stigmatisation began and she started to slip away. Hence that ‘No’ to the child who wanted to play her piano.

Besides, she had herself given up the piano, unable to play anything at all on it because of this enfeebled hand, which also kept her from sewing – not that she was a great one for sewing or darning, far from it – or doing any kind of work that was in the least bit painstaking. It was like a wounded paw caught one day in a trap; even the ring it wore had lost its shine. The other hand, however, had a powerful grip. It could clasp the straps of a very heavy bag and carry it around without difficulty, without grunting from the effort or breaking into a sweat, for miles, on trains, in streets, often as not filled with books she had read, passed judgment on, sorted and decided to sell because they quite rightly seemed to her of no interest whatever and she needed the money.

Twenty euros would get her through a day, or two days, or ten. But she was light-headed enough to pilfer things, and one day came home with an elegant leopard-skin hat which in reality she hardly ever wore but had taken a shine to. She would tell you about the theft with the amused and somewhat shamefaced air of a little girl and, were she to put on the hat, would resemble the woman she might have been had her clenched belly, her often uninhabited body, and her sluggish hand not denied her entry to the cheerful, straightforward world we all of us inhabit, regardless of our afflictions. For us, the sky can be clear, cloudless, and blue. For Fanny, it was nothing of the sort and never could be, even if it also had, of course – thank heavens! – its shining paths, though probably none of the ones you might imagine.

An old man could be a shining path for Fanny. There was a time, for example, when she was rather taken with a library attendant, and chatting and drinking coffee with him at the foot of the Paris Panthéon gave her shards of joy. She was avid for new encounters, a thousand of which would furnish her with these shards that would lodge in her for weeks on end, for months sometimes, so that, in spite of her inner turmoil and the lack of any heavenly response to her calls, she always carried within her little nuggets of joy and hope. They soon found ways of attaching themselves to her; the way was clear, the welcome wide open. So perhaps her body wasn’t quite so petrified after all: beneath the hard, firm, muscular crust, which much of the time seemed almost deserted, there must have been a liquid realm, soft and luminous, so that a thousand shards could find their way in, one after the other, allowing her to breathe.

For there was more to Fanny than the obstacles she encountered. She also had in her, popping up from time to time, and always when you least expected it, the jovial young woman in the leopard-skin hat she would have been had certain hatches not got battened down one day, by accident, abruptly, as if by a gust of wind. Whenever this woman turned up in a word or a look, the Narrator was astounded. So Fanny wasn’t just this old friend battling against great odds? She was also this perfect stranger, this person no one had ever heard of whose lineaments had yet to be set down. This fully formed individual who revealed her presence only in tiny bursts and seemed, I must say, in Fanny’s hard, taut body, to lead rather a pleasant life, given how fresh-faced and jovial and droll she was in her leopard-skin hat. Who was this woman?

She was intimidating to the Narrator because he knew nothing about her, and because her presence, which would reveal itself in a fraction of a second only to vanish on the spot, came as such a surprise each time. How was he to communicate with her? Could it even be done? It was as difficult as if you had wanted to speak to someone through a pane of glass. You could wave to her, of course, exaggerating the movements of your mouth so that she could understand the words you were miming; but of this woman in Fanny, this woman who was Fanny, this Fanny B, so little was known – her language, her habits, her tastes, her knowledge, her intentions – that you were lost for words in her presence; not to mention that her way of turning up only to vanish on the spot left little place for any attempt at a relationship.

The Narrator tried addressing the jovial young woman in the hat, even when she failed to turn up, on the assumption that she was, after all, always there, albeit concealed much of the time, or else absent but likely to pop up suddenly if summoned. It didn’t work. Besides, it was a horribly complicated exercise to pull off: it would have meant addressing Fanny as if Fanny weren’t Fanny at all but this Fanny B with the hat, blonde-haired, jovial and relaxed. Addressing Fanny as if Fanny were to all intents and purposes someone else entirely. Perhaps there are psychiatrists who can do this, but I wouldn’t count on it. There are people who can do this, but there aren’t many of them and they’re hard to find. They’re like water diviners, I imagine, or shamans. No doubt somewhere in the world there was at least one person capable, upon meeting Fanny, of addressing head-on and straight-out the jovial, fresh-faced woman in the hat who lived inside her. But they couldn’t be found. That said, did this woman really want to live? To come out of her hidey-hole? To step into the light of day? To rub shoulders with anyone?

If she did, she certainly showed no signs of it. Not once did she give a wave of the hand, not once did she appear for more than a second or two, not once did she show any interest in communicating, or not with the Narrator at least – with others, we don’t know. If he thinks back over her ten or twenty or so appearances, something leaps out at him which he hadn’t quite picked up on, hadn’t really noticed at first, something that might have made him a little uneasy each time: a hint of irony in this woman, a barbed little irony like the tip of a very sharp dagger. Perhaps it was this that made communicating with her so impossible. Unless, of course, it was the Narrator who had simply been very foolish and very cowardly to have let such a tiny obstacle stand in his way.

But at least in the final years he had known she was there. Whenever he was talking to Fanny or hiking around with her, he would keep this Fanny B in mind, the woman with the blonde curls and the leopard-skin hat, the jovial one hiding behind the curtain with her ironic streak. She was included in the conversation, so to speak, so that even when the Narrator was talking to the real Fanny and taking all the usual precautions – any word would set off so many echoes in his friend that the weight of each had to be measured on high-precision scales – he was also talking in a way to Fanny B. And the latter he could have sworn (but we so often get things wrong) was listening.

How could he tell this? From a faint wavering, now and then, in Fanny’s gaze, or in one of her intonations. At moments like these, Fanny would be slightly off-balance for a second – and happily so. Slowly she would stare up in surprise at the Narrator puffing on his pipe like Maigret. So there were three of them now: the Narrator, Fanny the old friend with the crippling existence, and this other woman, the one in the hat, the jovial, ringleted one hiding behind her curtain, whom it would have been unthinkable to mention, to simply set down at the table – that was strictly forbidden – but whom it was neither prohibited nor authorised to throw a lifeline to. When you’re out on a limb, you have to try everything.

Fanny never said a word about her either way. Was she even aware of having inside her this unbuttoned, fresh-faced young woman who bore no resemblance to herself? You can be fairly sure she knew nothing of her existence, even though she was the one who had pilfered the leopard-skin hat Fanny hardly ever wore but was fond of all the same. For the Narrator, however, the companionship of this silent young woman, this third party who might have been a kind of Blue Angel, or a Hopper figure waiting in a room while night turns the windows blue, or again, the woman in an upcoming film, or a film from the past that due to some unforeseen turn of events had never been released and would only be discovered fifty years later after the actress had died, the companionship of this young woman, then, with its powerful emotional charge, was refreshing.

No doubt we all have someone else inside us, thought the Narrator, though, to tell the truth, I’ve never felt this with anyone but Fanny. And if I examine my conscience, the Narrator went on, I know that I myself am that character, the writer’s secret twin, the one writing this story and the stranger within. But unlike this blonde-haired woman hiding behind her curtain, I work. When my master cries out to me for a story, even if I’m accustomed to not answering him at once, playing hard to get because I’m not servile, I always respond in the end because I would get bored otherwise and because it’s my role in life. So who exactly is this blonde-haired lady? Fanny’s narrator? No, no, she’s different somehow, it would never occur to her to dabble in poetry or fiddle about disentangling this enormous web of words as we Narrators do; no, what she would like no doubt is to live, to climb over the railing, cross to the other side of the screen; but how can she possibly do this when Fanny has placed her under ‘house arrest’?

For Fanny makes no attempt, or so it would seem, to free this woman. Or maybe she simply can’t. We have to face the facts: however astonishing it might seem in light of the enormous powers we all possess, there are things we cannot do. I myself, for example, thinks the Narrator, am incapable of writing a realistic novel. There’s nothing I can do about this. I’m a good observer, I love realistic novels, yet the moment I try to write one I yawn with boredom, crumple up and vanish. It may be that Fanny is unable to free Fanny B, whom it would nevertheless be fascinating to know and see spreading her wings.