1 Maria Thereza Alves and Jimmie Durham, Inadequate Response. Strasbourg: La Chaufferie, 2005 She left the village of Corubime for the first time in her life the day after her eighteenth birthday. A thirty-seven hour bus-ride took her to São Paulo where she got a plane to Paris after spending one day and night in the airport of São Paulo. Then a second plane to Strasbourg. There was no one to meet her, but she found a hotel and the next morning found the solicitor’s office with the help of a map given by the hotel. The solicitor was, she guessed, at most, thirty-one or two, but self-important in the false-friendly manner she had seen with some anthropologists and missionaries. He acted as though he were ready to be an old man. “Welcome to Strasbourg, Miss de Questembert, I hope your visit will be pleasant as well as profitable. The city is quite beautiful.” Iracema shook his hand and smiled. “Thank you, but I intend to stay here.” “Please sit down, Miss de Questembert, may I offer you some refreshment, coffee or tea?” “No thank you”, as she took her chair. “You are now quite fortunately rich, Miss de Questembert, your grandfather’s estate was quite large.” “Yes, so I understood, but please remember that it was my father’s estate. I intend that it is now my estate.” “Ah—well, there could be many complications there, I’m afraid. Your grandfather was a considerable political leader here in Alsace, as his family has been for many generations.” “Yes, of course, but it is also my family, you know.” After a pause the solicitor responded, “Your French is quite good, Miss de Questembert, what tribe are you from?” “Thank you, I am Taipirapé and Alsacienne.” “Ha, ha, ha, ‘Taipirapé and Alsacienne!’ A remarkable combination! But perhaps not so easy to navigate, ha, ha!” “I have lived eighteen years in Corubime and now I will live eighteen years in Strasbourg.” “Miss de Questembert, there is a group of civic leaders who are prepared to make a generous offer to you for your grandfather’s estate. You will be very rich, indeed. They invite you to a small dinner tomorrow evening; I think you will be pleasantly surprised.” Question: Why do you take photos of dead birds? Response: Senhor Pedro was a union leader and used to have a good job. Soldiers came for him and he had to flee his home during the military dictatorship in Brazil. He came to the town of Ubatuba where no one knew him. He earns minimum wage working as a stone breaker. The stones are used to decorate the sidewalks with star fish, seahorses and seagulls. Minimum monthly wage before the dictatorship was based on the quantity of money needed for a family of four to live during one month. After the dictatorship that quantity diminished so that it covered the needs of one person. Senhor Pedro and

2 his wife have eight children living at home, one other is married another drowned trying to save his wife who also drowned, and now they also take care of the orphaned grandchild. The oldest married daughter, Delores, who would have liked to study biology in college if that had been possible instead makes quindims (a sweet made from egg yolks, sugar and coconut) saving some of the money to buy birds from the rainforest who are caged up in the market for sale. Each week she takes a cage to the forest and lets a bird fly out. The children, sell hotdogs and candy, run errands, clean houses, babysit, operate a fruit stall and have tried to start up a small business—raising specialty animals for the expensive resort restaurants. One of the younger boys started to raise rabbits. He was quite successful in breeding them but when it came to taking them to the restaurant a discussion began about what would happen to them there. The children took all the rabbits to the forest and freed them. Another idea was to catch wild guinea pigs in the local rainforest and make a corner barbecue stand. The guinea pigs were caught and later freed. Two young turkeys were bought. Turkey meat is a delicacy in Brazil. The idea was to raise them, breed them and then keep the chicks and sell the adult ones to a rich family for Christmas. There is no real fence around the house and the children were constantly sent to find the wandering birds. The female was finally stolen. The male was never sold. It sits on the sofa in the living room, usually next to someone for warmth or else in front of the TV. It thinks it is a fire and tries to get warm, Rodrigo, the grandchild explained to me. Plans for the eventual sale of a female goat were changed after she was named Raisa (in honor of Gorbachov’s wife) and became Rodrigo’s friend, never leaving his side. The mother, Senhora Benedita, makes delicious balas de coco, (coconut sweets) for the children to sell. She must pull out this sugary candy while it is still very hot. She burns her hands every time. She shrugged and said, “They are smooth like a rich lady’s. No calluses.” Senhora Benedita showed me her favorite bird, the saira, the rainbow bird. The saira like to fly over the sea. She said it likes its freedom. The young solicitor enters the club wherein five older men are already seated. “Good day, Gentlemen. To get straight to the point, the little savage is proving more complicated than we imagined. I must admit I am somewhat un-nerved by having her in my office as though she were French. One moment she is silent and scowling, so that I feared for my scalp, and the next she had a big friendly grin like some black beggar in Bombay. She claims to be ‘Alsacienne’.” “Poor Gaspard! But at least he did not live to endure these insults—left it to us, instead, clever old bastard, emmh!” “She says, as I told Etienne on the phone, that she will not sell the estate. The little bitch thinks she can live there!” A second man, “Maybe she could become the secretary of our party.” Everyone laughed. “Well, I have told her that you all invite her to supper tomorrow night, so it is necessary to swallow your disgust before dinner so that you can charm her back to her stinking jungle by dessert.”

3 Question: Who was John Spencer, and who are the Spencer Family in English History? Response: Paraguay had no beggars, no slaves and no foreign debt. In the 1860s Paraguay was rich and its society had an egalitarian social structure. Brazil had a large foreign debt and slaves and was feudal. Paraguay set a bad example. British and U.S. banks also thought Paraguay was a bad example. They gave out loans to Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay to destroy Paraguay. They did. One half of the population was killed (including two-thirds of all males). The rest of the population became slaves for the victors, who of course took lots of land too. Until today, Paraguay has no economy and Brazil’s is an obscenity in its unequal distribution of wealth. Paulo Herkenhoff said that to understand Brazil culturally one first had to analyze Brazil’s participation in this war. He forgot to say, of course, also the continued genocide of Brazilian Indians. And perhaps briefly reflect on why is it that the first Black Brazilian to have a position in the Federal Government was Pelé who was made Secretary of Sports, a post created especially for him. And the second Black Brazilian to have a position in the federal government is Gilberto Gil as Minister of Culture. Leaving the solicitor’s office Iracema found a taxi and showed him the address of the de Questembert estate. After about a thirty-minute drive out of the city the car turned into a large gate and proceeded slowly along the private road. There were very large, stately trees on both sides, yet a feeling of open-ness and peace prevailed. It was like the most beautiful park, she thought. Some, she thought she could name from looking at pictures her father had shown her. She decided that the full bounteous ones must be oak and beech, but could not tell which was which until they passed a resplendent copper beech. Then she understood, “Copper beech!” she said to herself with both happiness and sadness. The oak trees of different kinds immediately ordered themselves into their true identities. The various kinds of conifers were still a mystery to be solved. Some were incredibly tall and majestic, almost as tall as trees back home she thought. Others looked only thin and sad. One, as the taxi approached the mansion, looked like a giant Christmas tree from the pictures. Whether it was called fir or spruce or larch would depend on further investigation. The mansion was large and impossibly strange, even though she had seen photos of it. Entirely too big, too formal in structure to be a place where people actually lived. The door bell was answered by a thin woman with iron-grey hair. “Good day, I am Iracema de Questsembert, the daughter of Pascal. I have come just to look around, if it is not too much trouble.” The woman took a strange expression of incomprehension. “What do you say? I do not understand?” “I am Iracema de Questembert, the daughter of Pascal, I have some to visit the mansion.” “No, miss, it is not possible. Please excuse me.” She shut the door. After a few moments Iracema walked away, but not away from the grounds. Instead she walked around to one side of the edifice where there was a garden and a pond. As she walked by the pond two very large mastiffs came running and barking from the back of an outbuilding. Iracema knelt on the ground, smiling.

4

“Hakantin, Cachine! Kantin, Jaguaruçu!”, she called softly to them. The dogs walked slowly to her, wagging their tails. Soon an old man came from the place the dogs had come from. He called sharply to them and they ran obediently to him. “What are you doing here, miss?” he asked. She stood and walked towards him. “My name is Iracema de Questembert, and I own this place.” Question: Do you like birds? Response: In Belgium, one must register as a resident with the police in the local town hall as a resident. St. Gilles is a neighborhood in Brussels close to the Midi train station and a famous prison. It is a poor immigrant area with cheap rents. The first girl to be go missing who was part of the investigation against the pedophile Marc Dutroux was kidnapped in front of this train station. Her body was found not so far from the local town hall. Although there was blood in the car, the police at first did not investigate. Since the young girl was a foreigner the police decided it was an instance of internal ethnic gang violence. Later Brussels parliament would issue a report that found the police in this case to be “inhuman, inept, inefficient and ill-equipped.” A business associate of Dutroux, Jean Michel Nihoul was arrested for his alleged involvement in organizing sex parties with the kidnapped children. Judges, senior politicians, lawyers, police officers and a former European Commissioner were said to have participated in these orgies. Mr. De Ridder is a police officer at the registration office in the St. Gilles town hall where new residents must enroll. He is a large man, whose extended stomach gets in the way of getting close to the table to fill out the required residency forms. Behind him and facing me is a large poster of a svelte African woman kneeling in the savannah. She is in the semi-nude. The majority of the residents in this neighbohood are Muslims. There are many women in chador and some even in full burkas who must come to this office to register with Mr. De Ridder and face his ideal of the nonBelgium woman. During that time I was also looking for a studio and went in search of one in an industrial area. I spoke to a secretary at a business office who said she would get back to me. She called me the following day. She asked where was I registered with the police. I said St. Gilles. She said that that was not possible as her daughter works at the town hall and she knows that they do not allow foreigners to stay. She then asked how I made my money. I said I was an artist and made it selling work, teaching, lecturing etc. She asked if I had a work permit. I said I did not need one as I made my money outside of Belgium. She asked why did I travel so much. I said artists do. I thanked her for her concern and hung up the phone. I went downstairs and ripped the label with my name off the front door buzzer. I was only allowed one three-month residency permit and I soon became illegal in Brussels. I have a friend in Berlin who likes the fact that everyone is required to personally register at the police station in their neighborhood. He thinks it is democratic. I am sure he has a reason to trust security forces. Question: Do you feel close to nature?

5 Response: Once in Brazil, after helping some relatives pick and then load and unload bananas from a small boat onto a local beach where we would wait for a truck to come pick them up, I sat down to rest. Sticky purple sap from the banana trees stained my shirt, jeans and hands. We had landed on a resort beach, where Brazilians, descendents of Europeans, strolled and their black or Indian servants minded children or served drinks. A white and much older Brazilian man, a successful businessman type, came up and without my permission sat down too close to me. He asked in a paternalistic voice of concern tinged with a false possible promise of help and understanding of the difficulties of life of what he thought was a ripe young peasant girl from somewhere in the nearby peninsula, “Where are you from?” I was studying art in Cooper Union in New York City and was just home for the holidays. “New York”, I said. If there ever had been any possibility of empathy, he would not have sat so close to me and would not have flashed his gold ring deliberately. He said nothing. He got up and walked away. Fragments of a Conversation between Iracema de Questembert and Olivier Messaien. (No one is sure what year this conversation took place, nor under what circumstances. It is believed, however, that Iracema was in her mid-twenties at the time) IdQ: Birds do not sing. They make sounds that are pleasant for humans to hear, reminding us of human music. What is called ‘birdsong’ does not, for example, sound pleasant to birds. OM: The music of birds is closest to the music of God. IdQ: I have read in the Bible that God sees every sparrow that falls. Why do you think he likes to watch sparrows die? Because they don’t sing well? OM: It is not possible to insult God. IdQ: Please forgive me, monsieur, I am an artist scientist, I do not insult God. I am sure that only He is capable of that. At a meeting of indigenous artists from the Americas held at the Museum Quai Branly, an anthropologist asked Iracema de Questembert if she could explain the etymological history of the word “dog” in her language. “Yes, certainly”, she replied, it comes from a similar word in Sanskrit, Hittite, Persian, Greek, and then the Latin, canae. An interesting aside, in classical Greek, the word “cynic” also comes from this root. “Cynic” in Greek means “snarler.” “I did not mean the French word, Ms. De Questembert, I meant this word in your native language, Jaguaruçu. We notice that it contains the word ‘jaguar,’ which is used in Nahuatl, Tupi-Guarani and many other languages.” “In our language ‘jaguar’ is not the name of jaguars. It is more like an aspect of jaguars. We do not pretent to know their name. ‘Jaguaruçu’ for ‘dog’ is like saying ‘European’ for ‘Alsacien’. Question: The photos of the fallen tree; are there connections between that and other fallen trees in Europe or the New World? What is “Brazilwood?”

6

Response: She arrived for her first visit to a museum in a black suit. She was waiting outside the Museum of Modern Art. She had wanted to go in before and had made the trip all the way uptown. She had stood outside watching people go in and tried several times but she was afraid she would not be admitted and so did not go in. Just like the time she got a free ticket for the opera in São Paulo city. The other secretaries at work made fun of her, of course she could not go, they said, the opera would never let someone like them in. They didn’t at the museums and Biennales either. A friend of a friend found out about her predicament and offered to go with her. This friend was a highly connected call girl. She said, “I will take you but you will not open your mouth there or we won’t be able to get in.” She smoothed the front of her tight black skirt. Acoitar means “to shelter” but açoitar meant “to whip.” Sometimes she read the dictionary—systematically. Her first lover, at the age of fourteen the one she had no choice about, no, that’s not true, she did, she could go back to the streets in her nightgown which was what she was wearing when her mother threw her out of the house. Or as her boss (the only person she knew besides her mother in the city) said become his lover. Fatalist, she wasn’t, in this century in Brazil one has a choice. The Brazilian Embassy literature in New York says “In neither country (Brazil or the U.S.) is one held back because of family background or even country of birth.” And she had many nations in her: Tabajara from Ceara, Black from slavery lands in Africa, and Italian. Someone said that her grandmother had a sweet face. The grandmother had been born into slavery. When her grandchildren stayed with her they were whipped for mistakes or refusal to run errands. The whips of different sizes and thicknesses were nailed up to the wall to be used according to age. It wasn’t the errands that they so much minded, as having to run past the neighbor’s vicious dog that sometimes was not chained up. Afterwards her grandmother would say, “It’s good for you. It will make you strong and independent.” Once while on a trip with her lover to Mato Grosso do Sul where cattle are raised, she met an artist. He made paintings using cow skins. He said that his family owned lots of land. They still have a plantation up north which had been used to breed slaves. They would tie up the women to trees and then tell the men that they had to make them pregnant. He laughed. Her lover had said, when in doubt, use a black suit. Her new friend Iracema arrived wearing low rider jeans, a tee shirt, loop earrings and flip flops. Now, she wasn’t sure they would be allowed in, although Iracema had told her that she had already gone several times to the museum. As they walked into the museum lobby she became more convinced they would never be allowed in. Guards were everywhere. As she gave her entry ticket to the guard her hands began to shake. She waited, “What are you doing here?” They could say that in a low voice but they usually did it very loudly, so that everyone could hear and look at you. Amaciar means “to soften” but amachucar means “to crush.” But no one yelled at her, Iracema nudged her in. She liked abstract painting. It felt like her brain. Was it going out or was it coming together? Mostly it wasn’t telling her how it should be/telling/moving her anything. When she was sixteen, a man propositioned her to be his lover. He would give her a maid, he said. No, she said. He would let her re-decorate the apartment, No, she said. He would give her a convertible Mercedes. No, she said. He saw her glancing at a painting and he said, Ah, I will give you the Portinari. No, she said. She had thought she was free to make love to him. Another man offered to give her a yacht berth at Monte Carlo, which he explained was very valuable. After she spent the

7 rest of the evening saying no, he finally drove her home and criticized her for being so poor that she did not even own a satellite dish. “Why should I?” she said, “I have no TV.” Later there was one lover who collected abstract paintings and she had decided that abstract was better than representational since it was not life and when you were around abstract art you could escape. Leonilson was an artist from Ceara she read on the panel. He was inspired, it said, by local seamstresses who work in lace, folk art and crafts and the exuberance of the northeast culture. She was happy to know that someone like her could become someone like him. Then she read his last name. She had fucked someone with the same family name. Rich, land-owning aristocrats. On the week of her fifteenth birthday, her lover had taken her along to Ceara where he had some business. There he lent her to a business associate who was in his sixties. This man liked young girls. He had the same last name as the artist. This new lover took her to parties where she met other men of this family – but she never met their wives or daughters. That’s when she met Jaçira, who sat next to her and quickly apologized for not finding another place to sit. She asked why was she apologizing, Jaçira explained, “I’m a black whore.” She thought about it and said, “So am I.” The family of the man she was fucking for the week owned lots of businesses, including a textile factory where many seamstresses were employed. In Ceara bosses don’t even bother to pay workers the minimum wage. The older man gave her a pair of silk underwear. He said, “I always know when a woman is wearing silk panties. She moves in a different way—graceful and sexy.” Leonilson, she continued to read, is considered an arte povera artist, working like those in his native environment with simple materials. So maybe the artist did not begin life out as someone like her. Iracema thought it was a good time to make a national alliance with northeastern nations/tribes to get rid of lace and lingerie factories. Amadurecer means “to ripen,” âmago means “heart or the central or innermost part of anything.” Question: When people ask you when was the last time you were home don’t you feel that if you did go back that it would mean that that ‘home’ was more real and therefore more important than where you are now? Response: Konstantin Brancusi and I arrived in Paris the same week, purely by coincidence, from practically opposite directions. But we found a studio together and became close friends. We spoke often about trees back in each of our respective home countries, for reasons I do not know. Maybe it was because we both worked in wood so much. Konstantin always said that he mostly missed the birch trees. Here is a funny phenomenon: we both liked to cook but neither of us cooked dishes of our own culture, partly because the necessary ingredients were impossible to find in Paris, mostly out of a constant celebration of the beautiful produce of the Paris markets. I never cooked ‘French food’, but I used French stuff to cook new dishes— “artist food,” I guess it was. Sure, I miss the food of my childhood, everyone does, even Parisians, don’t they? Yet I do not feel that I must have any of our regional dishes. I am eighty-seven years old, with many dead friends and comrades. Home, where is that? If home is not found in the intellectual life with friends and discussion it is only a tomb. “From womb to tomb!” Hah!

8 When I first met Iracema de Questembert she complained that European people always expected her to return to Brazil, to “authenticate” their admiration of her, she said. And by that time the Iracema de Questembert Institute was already world famous. Iracema de Questembert attended the World Social Forum in Porto Alegre, Brazil in 2005. She was on a panel with the theatre activist Augusto Boal, an unidentified member of the Brazilian Green Party, Ksu Abdemessed and two others. Her speech was titled, “Where is France?” Excerpts follow: I might well have called my speech “Where is Brazil?”; I am of the Taipirapés people here in Brazil. We and other indigenous peoples are not legally considered human in Brazil. Yet what and where is Brazil without us? Is Brazil ever to be more than a pathetic lover and victim of European history? Not without us. But France—some say that France is the heart of Europe. What France is that? Are the people of Guadeloupe part of the heart of Europe? Because of a brave fight for freedom by the people of Algeria, France has no more colonies, and has therefore joined the community of mature, noncriminal nations. If that is the case, then, how shall we consider those islands in the Caribbean, in the South Pacific and in the Indian Ocean? They are not free, yet France says they are not colonies. Instead, according to France, they are ‘departments’. They are part of France is an integral way. If that is true is it not necessary to say that France is not at all a European nation, but instead a trans-oceanic nation? Aren’t its closest neighbors Suriname and Brazil, instead of Spain and Germany? Aren’t its closest neighbors Fiji and Pitcairn Island instead of Italy and Belgium? But let us think of it this way: if all these overseas “departments” were truly part of France, if France is really a nation, which implies a certain moral distinction so that one does not equate the functioning of a nation with the functioning of any criminal gang; why are not the indigenous peoples and the ex-slaves in the former colonies given first place, given precedence in all French agendas? For the sake of national morality, which is to say, of the needed definition of nationhood. So I ask “Where is France?” in a sense that combines geography with morality. Close to the end of the twenty-first century probably in 2090, Iracema de Questembert broke years of public silence and granted an interview for Le Monde Diplomatique, a weekly newspaper in France. Interviewer (Blaise Tobias): Madame de Questembert, what you and the institute have accomplished since almost the beginning of this most strange century can certainly be considered to have changed the world. Is there one special accomplishment of which you are most proud, or that we might say gives the most satisfaction?

9

IdQ: I was able to get to the airport in São Paulo on my own, and get on an airplane to Paris. Interviewer: What was you father really like? IdQ: I am not sure if I ever met him. Interviewer: But we have understood that he taught you French. IdQ: Oh, you mean Pascal de Questembert! He was not my father, although I suppose he thought he was. No, Taipirapé society is not patriarchal. Fathers are not much in contact with their children. Who can trust fathers? Of course I loved Pascal, like an uncle or a favorite teacher. I was quite pleased to be given his name and property. My mother and I saw it as a generous and funny gist. I returned the gift by the act of accepting it. Interviewer: Incredible! Do you really mean to say that after all the battles for y our rights you are an impostor after all? IdQ: Oh, certainly no! I accepted the name de Questembert in good faith. Why should biological factors be the most important? It’s true I never was “half-French,” as I used to be called, but I did no say I was. I said, and still say, that I am Taipirapé and French. That is quite different. Just like the founding members of the de Questembert family I am French by choice, not by accident of birth. Question: Wasn’t it someplace in Normandy? Kergehenec, maybe? Response: Anna Maria Dunleth said, “Je suis heureux ici” to her new friend, Isabelle Duselier who answered, “I am happy here.” But Isabella was not. They were both maids to the DeQuestembert family. Anna Maria had just arrived from Ireland and Isabelle was born on the estate and was ready to leave. They agreed to learn each other’s language. Isabelle began to keep a notebook for the new words. They played words games all day long while working. Anna Maria began, “Honteux.” Isabelle replied, “Ashamed.” Soigneux— Careful… Certain—Certain... Coupable—Guilty... Poli—Polite… Obéissant— Obedient… Curieux—Curious… Délicat—Dainty... Ennuyeux—Tiresome... Sale— Dirty... Défaites ceci—Undo this... Tantôt—By-and-by... Quelquefois—Sometimes... Work—Travaillez. Regardez-moi—Look at me... Appelez-le—Call him... Tenez-vous droit—Stand upright... Otez cela—Take that away. They would skip “the sun” in the grammar book but “the shutter” was a useful word. Le volet. Un ami—A friend... Un peu de pain—A little bread... Un peu de viande—A little meat... Un peu d’eau—A little water... Marchez doucement—Walk slowly... Donnez-moi du chocolat—Give me some chocolate... Une pomme de terre?—A potato?... Apportez-moi du fruit—Bring me some fruit... Je suis fatigue—I am tired… Voilà une grande table—Here is a large table… De la Soie blanche?— Some white silk?... Les mains sales?—Dirty hands? Regardez cette jolie fleur—Look at this pretty flower… Cette méchante fille—This naughty girl... Regardez ses bons enfants—Look at his good children... Nettoyez ce cabinet—Clean this closet… Ces fenêtres—These windows… Un petit garçon—A little boy… Il est bien bon—He is

10 very good… Un grand arbre—A tall tree. Avez-vous diné?—Have you dined? Avezvous dormi?—Have your slept?... Une tache d’encre—A spot of ink... Un suriet—A seam… Un ourlet—A hem… Attendez—Wait... Cousez cela—Sew that... Défaites ceci—Undo this.. Un petit lit—A little bed… Les doigts du pied—the toes... La ceinture—The waist.. Une belle taille—A fine shape... La cheville du pied—The ankle bone... Un jeune home—A young man... La petite paysanne—The little country girl... Des cheveux noirs—Dark hair… Lavez-vous les mains—Wash your hands... Parlez tout bas—Speak softly… Approchez-vous—Come near... Que voulez-vous?— What do you want?… Ne faites pas cela—Do not do that... Je parle—I speak... Je ne parle pas—I do not speak…Ils dansent—They dance… Je travaille—I work... Je pense—I think…Je chante—I sing… Je ne crains pas—I am not afraid... Je ne viens pas—I am not coming… Ne saura-t-il pas?—Will he not know? Nous mettons—We put... Je me léve—I arise... Je me proméne—I walk. Elle ne s’applique pas—She does not apply herself… Nous ne sommes pas reçus—We are not received... Il y avait un roi—There was a king... Venez plus près—Come nearer. Ne vous étonnez pas—Do not be astonished… Parle-t-il bien?—Does he speak well?... Cette tasse est tortuée—This cup is cracked… Essuyez votre plume—Wipe your pen... Bouclez vos cheveux—Curl your hair... Pliez votre robe—Fold up your frock. Pliez votre lettre—Fold up you letter… Ne perdez pas votre pain—Do not waste your bread… Tous les jours—Every day... Journellement—Day by day... Je parlais tout haut—I was speaking loud…Soufflez le feu—Blow the fire…Tournez vous sur le côté—Turn on your side… Qu’avez-vous choisi?—What have you chosen?... Faites-moi un plaisir?—Do me a favour?… Vous avez raison—You are right… Il fait des progres—He improves… Octavie pleure—Octavia is crying… Allez le chercher—Go and fetch it… Il ne faut pas sortir sans moi—You must not go out without me… Le voilà—Here it is… Avez-vous regard dans l’armoire?—Have you looked in the closet?... Où ètait-il?—Where was it?... J’en suis bien fâché/Je n’en puis plus—I am exhausted. Voilà la mienne faite—There, mine is done… Où estil?—Where is it?... Où sont mes bas?—Where are my stockings?... Regardez ces pauvres petites filles. Elles sont nu-pieds.—Look at those poor little girls. They have neither shoes nor stockings… Il sera bien fâché contre moi—He will be very angry with me… Moi, je n’ai plus d’argent—I have no more money… Vous savez qu’on nous a défendu de sortir. Ah, que cela est malheureux!—You know we are forbidden to go out. How unfortunate that is!... Nous allons donc sauter et gambader à notre aise—We may skip and jump at ease… Elle va être fâchée que nous l’ayons fait attendre si longtemps—She will be angry with us for having made her wait so long… Oh, qu’elle sera contente!—How pleased she will be!... La lingerie—The laundry… Le grenier—The garret… Le four—The oven… Le poêle—The frying pan… La bouilloire—The tea kettle… Le balai—The broom… Des glaces—Ice-cream… Le passe-reau—The sparrow... Le perroquet—The parrot… Le muguet—The lily of the valley… Le chèvre-feuille—The honey-suckle... Une grenadille—A passion flower… Le charbon à bois—Charcoal… Le suie—The soot… Une fleur flétrie—A withered fower…Une héritière - An heiress… Le geste - The gesture…La laideur - The ugliness… La vivacité—The liveliness… Un ananas—A pineapple… Une planète— A planet… Les rayons lunaires—The moon-beams… Un mal—A pain… La faim— Hunger… La soif—Thirst… La rage—The madness… La folie—Folly, lunacy... Une idée—A idea… Le soupçon—Suspicion. Le déplaisir—Displeasure… La vengence— Revenge... Le courroux—Wrath.

11 We skipped confidence, hope and desire but not “a love,” un amour. Une haine—A hatred… La patience—Patience… La force—Fortitude… Une amitié—A friendship… Le bonheur—Happiness… Le prêt—The loan… L’orgueil—Pride… L’avarice—Covetousness… La nonchalance—Carelessness… La lacheté— Cowardice… Le mépris—Contempt… Une fourberie—A cheat…Un dépôt—A trust… Une gourmandise—A greediness… Une bassesse—A meanness… Une opiniâtreté—A stubbornness… Une obstination—An obstinacy… Une cruauté—A cruelty… Un vol—A theft. Un larcin—A robbery… Une trahison—A treachery… Une robe—A gown… La dentelle—Lace. Une pantoufle—A slipper… Un éventail— A fan… Un tablier—An apron… Un collier—A necklace… Un bijou—A jewel... Une rue—A street… Une cellule—A cell... Une papier de nouvelles—A newspaper... Un chachot—A dungeon… La boue—The mud… Le diamant—The diamond… Une améthyste—An amethyst… Une topaze—A topaz… Une agate—An agate… Le corail—Coral… Un rubis—A ruby. Le saphir—A sapphire… Une émeraude—An emerald… Une opale—An opal… Une turquoise—A turquoise. After the words, came the conversation texts. The first one was between Edouard et Henri. They crossed those names out and wrote their own over them. Anna Maria: Isabelle. Isabelle: Que voulez-vous? Anna Maria: Venez ici. Isabelle: Pourquoi faire? Anna Maria: J’ai quelque chose à vous montrer. Isabelle: Qu’est-ce que c’est? Anna Maria: Un joli livre. Isabelle: Y a-t-il des images? Anna Maria: Oui, beaucoup. Isabelle: J’aime les images. Anna Maria: Nous allons les regarder. Anna Maria: Isabelle. Isabelle: What do you want? Anna Maria: Come here. Isabelle: What for? Anna Maria: I have something to show you. Isabelle: What is it? Anna Maria: A pretty book. Isabelle: Are there any pictures in it? Anna Maria: Yes, a great many. Isabelle: I like pictures. Anna Maria: We will look at them. When no one was around they slipped into the library and took down a picture book to act out the conversation. There were pictures by Paul Cézanne, Claude Monet, and Georges Seurat among others. These painters made light explode and flood into the world. Between each bright flicker, sparkle and gleam of light, time stood still and made a place for you to walk around and then immerse yourself in it and then the world was no longer a garret and a kitchen. Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe is by the painter Edouard Manet. “Luncheon on the Grass,” these were words she knew in English. Ah, and what freedom from daily

12 anxiety these words brought to her. Not to be forbidden to go out when one wanted. To let the sun beams touch the skin. To allow young men to look at you. To sit and perhaps be not careless but sans souci (carefree). This word was not in the grammar book. Not to fetch, not to find, not to undo, not to clean, not to wait, not to carry. No stains to mind, no mud to worry about. Perhaps no anger, vengeance and displeasure. No shame, no guilt. These words were in the grammar book. There would then be no must, no cannots. As she unlatched the lock to the parrot’s cage she said to Anna Maria, “Look at me—Regardez-moi. I walk away. I go to a planet of light; of opal lakes and turquoise skies and coral suns.”