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  I wasn’t very eager to go into the house. I stayed there, telling myself sad and completely idiotic things. That’s the way I am. I tell myself silly things completely seriously, as if they made sense. That’s how I get when I have no desire to do something I’ve got to do. Stuck in place, telling myself stories about nothing.

  I told myself, to buy time, that I could go pay a visit to Daisy. Daisy is my dog. She sleeps in the barn’s utility shed, in a nest of straw. She has a puppy right now. We haven’t given it a name because we aren’t going to keep it. I think it’s for Aunt Gina. I hate her like I hate all my aunts, she’s a hyena, but she doesn’t mistreat animals. We can give her Daisy’s puppy. He’s as funny as can be. His belly is so heavy that it drags on the ground, and to move about, the puppy paddles with his little paws at the side. He looks like a fat tadpole. He’s really very funny and I can’t keep from laughing and loving him. His mother loves him too. When she sees him move away, she runs after him. Early on, she would take his head in her jaws to carry him back to the bed. Now that he’s too fat, she pulls him by his tail and he whimpers and protests. She’s a good mother, she’s afraid he’ll hurt himself. Afterwards, she licks him, for a long time. She’s really a very good mother, Daisy.

  2

  I HEADED toward Daisy’s straw bed. I called out Daisy!

  At once, there was a great commotion in the straw and Daisy was there, leaping everywhere and whining with joy. She didn’t even bark, or hesitate. She knew at once that it was me. She knows me too well to make a mistake. I’ve spent more days of my life with her than with any other member of my family. We watch the cows together and I always take her everywhere with me. We’re very close friends. She, too, feels great sorrow that I’ve gone off to high school . . . She doesn’t show it, but I can tell from the crazy joy she displays when I come back. When I leave, she doesn’t whine or bark, or anything. She knows very well that I’m sad, too, she’s intelligent. I could tell loads of stories about her, and I tell them to Fanny because she understands everything, Fanny.

  Whenever I arrive at her side, Daisy whines and jumps with frenzied joy. I crouch down, she rests her soft head on my shoulder and her cold nose trembles against my neck. That’s her way of hugging me. We stay there a while, that way, quietly loving each other. Afterwards I get back up. At that moment, if she has a little one, she looks at me, muzzle raised, wags her fluffy tail and heads towards her bed. She wants to introduce her son or daughter to me. When I’ve properly admired and petted her marvel of a puppy, she heads toward the house, like the mistress of the manor, to invite me to enter. Me, I follow her, of course.

  Normally, after I’ve seen how much her little one has plumped up and grown, I wait for Daisy to lead me to the house. But she stayed put. At last I said to her, “Are you coming, Daisy?” But she didn’t move. I said, “What’s wrong?

  She whimpered a little but didn’t move. So, I decided she had to have reasons of her own for keeping close by her puppy. She does that when she senses that we’re about to take it away from her and give it to strangers. She refuses to leave her bed. I thought about that a little and then decided to go into the house alone. In any case, it would be a nice surprise for my mother.

  I left Daisy and walked towards the door of the house. There I was very surprised because Daisy took one leap to get to the door of the house and started barking very loudly, in a weird way, the way she does when she bares her teeth and fights with other dogs. I said, “Shut up, Daisy!”

  Normally, I never tell Daisy to shut up. If she barks, she has her reasons. But this time, I couldn’t stop myself because it really amazed me. She didn’t shut up, on the contrary. She came toward me full of joy, then made for the door of the house again, barking and whimpering.

  I began to be a little afraid she’d gone mad. That happens sometimes. When it does, it seems nothing can be done. You’ve got to put down a dog that has become a danger even to those it loves. If Daisy went mad and had to be killed, it would be terrible. Terrible. My father kills dogs by hanging them. That’s how he is, my father. It’s horrible, a hanged dog.

  I didn’t have time to think these things through. All of a sudden, the door of the kitchen opened. I wasn’t expecting that. Not at all. There was no time to run away. I should have run away.

  Obviously, it was natural that someone would come out to see what was going on, what with the noise Daisy was making and the bizarre way she was barking. Only, in my head, throughout the entire return journey, I’d pictured things differently. I was going to be the one who opened the door. This changed everything. Me, I’d imagined that, suddenly, as my father and mother waited quietly by the fire, I would come in, I’d run to my mother who would be stupefied with joy, and I’d say, as I threw myself into her arms, “It’s me, Maman! I came back to see you.”

  Then she would understand everything I meant to say, that I love her more than anything, even though I’ve gone far away from her. Failing that, she’d come out and say, “Galla! My Galla! Here you are at last. My daughter.” . . . Finally. That would completely change everything. When my mother says things like that to me, and she says them incessantly, I feel carried away with sadness and fury, I don’t know why, that’s how I am.

  Since everything had changed, I didn’t move. I waited with Daisy, who howled like mad. A true fool.

  The door remained open and for a long while, nothing appeared but a big rectangle of light. This lasted so long that I began to hope my mother would finally show up and everything would be over. And then a silhouette emerged from the light, without a word. I didn’t recognize it right away because I could tell that it wasn’t my mother. The dog whined and leapt around me. Then my father said, “Enough, Daisy!”

  Daisy whined more quietly. My father said, “What is it?”

  I said, “It’s me. Galla.”

  He said, “You?”

  How strange his voice sounded. But in the dark, everything can seem unusual. I waited for him to get out of the doorway so I could go inside. I was so cold. But he stayed there, planted, saying nothing, and it was like I was a stranger and he had to think it over before deciding whether or not to let me into the house. Maybe it was because of the whining of that blasted Daisy. I felt full of fury, all at once, and I gave her a sharp kick to calm her down, saying, “Shut up, already!”

  She yelped and ran off toward the barn. I shouldn’t have done that. But I was so sad about all of this.

  Then my father said, “Get out of here!”

  I stayed in place, numb. He wouldn’t chase me away for kicking the dog. Him, he gives her terrible kicks when she misbehaves or when he’s angry. I kept waiting without moving, thinking that his anger would soon pass. Then he said it again, “Get out of here!”

  He went back inside and locked the door.

  3

  I STAYED there a while, standing amid the mud and the puddles of the yard. I didn’t know what to do anymore. I was so tired out from everything, and the night was so dark. All at once, I was reminded of old Midsummer’s Eve festivals, nights with skies full of stars and the earth lit by bonfires. Ancient, illuminated evenings that we watched for ages, motionless, my little sisters and me.

  At our place, we don’t make a bonfire on Midsummer’s Eve. My father doesn’t want to. I don’t know why. If we ask him, he doesn’t answer. That’s how he is. Sometimes I think my parents are crazy. Sometimes I tell myself it would be better if I didn’t have parents, not anywhere in the world, and if no parent had me for a daughter. Because, when I think about it coldly, I have to admit that I wouldn’t like to be my mother. Not at all. I’m not mean-spirited at all, at least, I don’t think I am. All the same, I wouldn’t like to have me for a daughter, not at all. And I understand perfectly well that nobody wanted me when I was born. I too would have preferred not to be born. It’s so sad: my whole life, and being me. It’s so sad that I would have preferred not to be born, and for everyone to be happy. I can’t say I resent my paren
ts, or myself, no. I was born so long ago now that I’ve had time to get used to it. And besides, many people are born like that, by bad luck. I think that if there was no one on the planet but people who’d been wanted, the planet would be almost deserted. I don’t know. Often I amuse myself by thinking how that would be. I can’t picture the house deserted and the earth inhabited by a profusion of flowers, stars, and bonfires, on those long-ago Midsummer’s Eve nights. I wouldn’t have been there. All the same, how I would have loved to live on an earth like that one, with only people who’d been wanted. All the people would be beautiful, like Fanny, who is full of sunshine and so lovely to look at.

  What I would like is for it to start raining and raining, and for the rain to drown all the unwanted.

  At the high school, I read that in certain countries they get rid of people that nobody wants. I read that, once, in China, you could kill little girls if you didn’t want them. I think that’s good. It’s sad to drown a baby, or a dog, or a cat. But it’s good too. That way there aren’t more unwanted. In Brazil it’s the same thing, with beggars. If I’d been born in Brazil, maybe one day they’d have loaded me onto a boat and shipped me far out into the middle of the ocean, very far, and drowned me. Later, they would have found my body purple and swollen with water on a beach. I’ve never seen a beach. Never. What I would like to know is what the people who warm themselves in the sun of beaches would have done with me. Would they have thrown me back into the ocean or let me rot there in the sun on the beach? I don’t know. Maybe they would have taken me and put me into the ground. It would make me sad to rot in the sun, on the soft sand of beaches. But once I’m dead, perhaps it will be all the same to me. Completely the same. You can’t know in advance what you’ll think when you’re dead.

  What would really make me happy would be to die in the hot deserts of Australia, someplace where nobody could see me. They say that, after a very long time, explorers find little bits of bone, fragile, smooth, and bleached by the sun. They have no idea anymore who they belonged to when they were still living. That’s what I would like. To me this seems pretty and clean. And nobody would know anything anymore.

  But for this to happen, I would have to have been born in Australia, or to have a lot of money so I could go there. But I only have my bicycle, already so old and worn-out; and later, if I have any money, it will go to buy good land where we can make a living. It’s always like that. I can’t decide how I’m to live or how I’m to die. As for living, it doesn’t matter much to me, now that I’m grown. You get used to everything. But when it comes to dying, that’s sadder, because nobody wants to die, and when you die, you die for always. You should at least be able to choose. When it seems to me that it’s unbearable to be alive, I tell myself that tomorrow or later on, it will be different. Even if I know it’s not true, I believe it a little. But when you die, you know very well that it’s for always.

  All of that is unfair and I think about it often. I wish everything were fair and happy. And then I come home, struggling all alone in the rain and singing in the dark, and my father says to me, “Get out of here!”Me, I don’t know where to go.

  I went to the storage shed in the barn to sit by Daisy and think a little. Daisy’s always happy when you go to her. You’re always welcome, it’s not like with people. I pet Daisy, who has stretched her head across my lap, and we stay like that for a while. I was fine. I spoke to her gently, to be forgiven for the kick. But I don’t think she resented me for it at all. She’s a smart dog who understands life. I petted her for a long time, and ran my fingers through her long, coarse hair.

  I recalled some things Fanny told me one day. It was a long time ago. We weren’t friends yet. It was when I told her I was born on St. Pepin’s Day. I think it’s funny to have been born on that day. When I told Fanny about it, she laughed, she didn’t believe me. I convinced her, since it’s true. Before, I had said to her, “Did your parents want you, when you were born?”

  She looked at me. We didn’t know each other well. We didn’t know we would become friends. She said, “Yes. Of course.” Later, she said, “Why?”

  And I said, “Me, nobody wanted me. And then, to really put them out, I arrived on St. Pepin’s Day.”

  She laughed. She’s very beautiful when she laughs, Fanny. She thought I was just trying to be witty. I said, “You are beautiful because your parents wanted you. That’s why.”

  She said, “You’re beautiful, too. Only, you always have such a sad face. But when you laugh, your eyes are full of stars.”

  I said nothing. It isn’t true, of course. But now, when I think of Fanny, I remember that she said that. It makes me happy, even if it’s not true.

  Daisy had fallen asleep, her head on my lap, her puppy in the hollow of her stomach. I couldn’t even hear her breathing. Dogs and children make no noise when they sleep and are pretty to look at. I petted Daisy’s head, which moved a little. I took advantage of that to get up.

  It was terribly cold. I hate the cold even more than all those mists on the marshes around the house. Truly, I hate all of that. I wish so much I had been born in a land of sunshine.

  I asked myself what I was going to do. The light was still on in the kitchen. My father must have been finishing up some job he’d started. That’s how he is. He only likes finished work. My mother says that’s a great quality. It must be true. But there are days when qualities become flaws. Which is why I would have to go on waiting to enter the house. Luckily, I’m used to that. My father often throws me out. Every time he’s angry—and he’s often angry, because of this life we lead, this land filled with white stones, all these daughters and never any money for anything. I understand all that. Also, when he throws me out, at first I’m furious, afterwards, I think about it, and I’m not angry at all. The only thing I regret is that he never throws out that great big pest Maria. Not even once. But as long as it’s never her, I’d rather it be me instead of one of the little ones. It’s really very sad to be all alone in the dark outside, even if you understand.

  Sometimes, my father is right to throw me out. I remember one time especially. I was still little. Eight or nine. We had killed the pig. The man who kills all the pigs in the area, a kind of professional hog butcher, was at the house. They didn’t send me to school the day they slaughtered the pig. I could be useful. My father had given me the task of cutting meat into pieces. In a while, I don’t know how it happened, the knife cut my thumb, a big chunk of flesh. It was disgusting—blood flowing all over, and the chunk of flesh dangling. My father noticed it. I’d never seen him so angry. He didn’t even have to open the door, it was already open. All I remember is an enormous kick and afterwards I was on the ground, in the mud, in the middle of the courtyard. On the way, I lost the chunk that dangled from my thumb. Now I have a very ugly thumb, with a big gouge out of it.

  After that, I felt so humiliated that my father would have beaten me in front of that strange man that I decided to go a long way away from home and never come back. I thought I would live like the little girl in En Famille, cooking for myself in old tin cans and all the rest, exactly like her. I had just read the book. So I left, very determined. Along the way, I turned back several times, looking back at the house. I was happy to be going far away, to be living on my own, to never be at home anymore. I said, “Adieu, disgusting house! I will never see you again!”

  I felt sure I would leave. I walked quite a while in the dark. Arriving at the marshes, I began to feel very afraid. The fog is always so thick there, and back then, I was still little, I didn’t know the marshes well. Worst of all is that I started thinking about the old Spaniard who lives all alone with his goat, wandering these lands of wild waters and fog. Running like a fool, I retraced my steps. Afterwards, I forgot that I’d wanted to leave. Every time I wanted to leave there was always night and fog like that. So I could never leave.

  •

  The light was still burning in the kitchen. In winter, my father goes to bed late. He hasn’t been tire
d out by working in the fields. I wondered if my mother was thinking of coming to open the door for me. Ordinarily, she comes. She says nothing when my father beats me and throws me out, but then she comes and opens the door for me. I don’t hold that against her, of course. If she interfered, my father would beat her, and I don’t want that. I can’t bear it. It makes me practically crazy. When I was little and those things happened so often, I wished that one night my father would go away and never come back. Not that he would die, no. Simply, one day he would go to town on business, and then, at night we would wait for him and he wouldn’t come back. He always came back. But me, I often dreamed of a home without shouting, without fear, a quiet home.

  Whenever my father throws me out before dinner, my mother comes and brings me a little something to eat. She pretends she has something to do, the henhouses to close, a forgotten brood of chicks, anything, no matter what, and she comes out to be with me for a moment. She tells me about her life and everything. Sometimes Maria figures out what Maman has in mind. Maria is the nastiest pest on earth. She alerts my father. My father says nothing and Maria is stuck . . . My father never hears when you talk to him. Nobody knows what he’s thinking, not even my mother. What’s sure is that he never hears what we say to him and he never responds.

  When everyone has gone to bed and fallen asleep, my mother gets up softly and comes to open the door. In winter, if I’m very cold, she makes me mulled wine with cinnamon to warm me. I love the smell of cinnamon. And my mother tells me stories and tells me she loves me, that I’m her favorite, and how much I look like her.