Little Girl Blue

NOTEBOOKS

DEATH CERTIFICATE

63-YEAR-OLD FEMALE

DEATH REGISTERED

SUSPECTED SUICIDE BY HANGING

I'VE STARTED WRITING AGAIN, WHICH IS WHY... I DON'T KNOW WHERE I'M GOING.

WHO WILL READ WHAT I'VE WRITTEN IN THE DEPTHS OF THIS FOLDER

AMONG ALL THE OTHER FILES

WHY IS THERE ALWAYS THIS HOPE OF BEING UNDERSTOOD AFTER MY DEATH?

FOUND AND SAVED.

What can I say that I haven't already said, or that...

I want you to get to the end of this work and get rid of it.

Why, Dad?

Your mom never managed to get rid of it.

So, yes.

And I think that...

basically, I don't think your future is in this, it's elsewhere.

You're dragging crates that you don't need to drag.

Your mum dragged them around all her life.

That's what drove her crazy.

And I think your future, your strength, and your energy lie elsewhere.

They lie with your kids, your work, with the people around you,

and not in a desperate attempt to understand something

that's incomprehensible, because it's absurd.

Shit.

At the moment, I am mostly working on...

what I call my genesis, before me.

You were writing.

DAUGHTER OF

Your last book speaks only of your own mother, also a writer.

THE PLANE TREES

My mother is still an incredible character.

For this book, you recorded your conversations

with the surviving witnesses from your childhood.

You went through your mother's correspondence,

sorted through thousands of photos in crates.

You read her notebooks.

You copied all the notes

she had written in the small diaries kept in this suitcase.

I TELL CAROLE THAT SHE'S TOO CLOSED OFF WITH ME.

SHE'LL BE BLOCKED IN HER WRITING.

You archived everything, your writing and your mother's.

Both of your notebooks and manuscripts.

The enigma of your faces

and your voice.

BUT WHO IS CAROLE?

- Hello. - Hello.

Come in.

- Would you like a tea, some water? - No, I have what I need.

This was her desk.

So...

These are her jeans.

Her T-shirt.

I got a cardigan with her scarf.

A matching handbag.

Here you have her diary,

her passport, ID card, social security card.

I have two pairs of glasses. You can tell me which you prefer.

I bought some lenses, since your eyes are blue and hers were brown.

Her perfume.

Here is her watch and some rings.

She always wore this necklace.

A wig.

There's a mirror there if you want while changing.

Pass me your shoes, please.

- What? - Your shoes.

"My mother left me an enigma."

"The story of our relationship."

You're doing exactly what she did. You're investigating your mother.

My grandmother wrote a book about her own mother.

After her mother's death, Carole Achache kept a suitcase

with her mother's diaries haphazardly thrown in.

In them, her mother noted her schedule and quotes reflecting her mood,

as well as the photos of a life.

A life essentially dedicated to books and those who wrote them.

Monique Lange began working at Gallimard in the '50s,

climbing all the rungs of the ladder, daring to start writing herself one day.

I remember this office,

with some whispering about how I sucked, but was funny.

At that time, it was extraordinary. This was the '50s.

We ate in the canteen, all jostling to sit next to Camus.

I knew Genet, who made a great mark on my life.

I knew Marguerite Duras, Violette Leduc.

It was a great, great time.

Carole Achache, now a photographer,

began writing about her family and its secrets in 2008,

with " La plage de Trouville " through the story

of her grandmother's painting, stolen by Nazis during the Occupation.

She is now publishing with Stock " Fille de ",

a novel that tenderly and violently describes her mother

and the life she had with her.

An incredibly lucky life spent mixing with artists, intellectuals and writers.

An unfortunate life in which she could not just be a protected child,

listened to, consoled.

A life in which a strange silence settled

in the midst of the incessant, excitable chatter of brilliant adults.

At the same time, I'd like to transpose this kind of... great moment.

- Yes. - Great.

- Yes. - Of this...

Yes, there's the whole personal aspect that's fascinating and...

- Sad. - Yes, sad and fascinating.

- Yes. - For a reader, it's fascinating.

My mother is an incredible character, though.

Listen, the credits, if it were a film.

Well, at times it's a film, but let's forget about cinema.

This book's credits are incredible.

In this manuscript we have, in order of appearance,

Monique Lange, Dyonis Mascolo, Jean Genet...

Of course, we should not rule out the possibility

that I have a particular soft spot for the book

due to the kind image you paint of me.

Growing up where you did, having a mother like yours,

was already somewhat lucky.

And what luck! These were the '50s in Paris.

What Monique Lange was on the right bank,

Marguerite Duras, whom she knew very well, was on the left bank.

We were 25.

This was Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

That's where everything that turned out to be decisive happened

in our youth, in our feelings,

in our beliefs, in our madness.

We had become mad about communism.

We'd say people had the right to decide what their struggle was.

As usual, we didn't write about it.

But no one writes about happiness.

That's how she was at that time, Carole Achache,

politics, literature, discussions, the night drinking and smoking.

And in the middle of that, the kids sort of had to manage.

Yes, and it was obvious that my mother and Duras,

they really wanted us to benefit

from this kind of happiness, as Duras calls it,

from this kind of passion.

And then, you also have to think that when the war was ending,

in this environment,

there was this desire for freedom that was crazy and necessary.

That is to say that many, many people violently turned their backs

on the war, and they went for it.

I think that they were far freer than we were in 1968...

This is the hardest thing I've ever done.

And... There we go. But...

Crazy and necessary. Okay. We're good.

I think that they were far freer than we were in 1968,

they were far braver.

And the kids, well, we had to benefit from all that.

But you also had to adapt, which, for a child, means

not having a childhood, having kind of an adult life at a young age.

I couldn't have known.

I didn't know what another child's life was like.

That's how it is, and it's true, I was very lucky

because it's still great nourishment.

So, we can't really consider early knowledge

to be something harmful.

But basically, there wasn't really any playing at home.

And then also, you had to face, at a very young age,

something now quite commonplace; your father leaving.

I'm full of good advice here, informed like no one else,

and embarrassed to have to write you this letter.

Please destroy it once you've read it.

Increasingly obsessed with what you know, I didn't hold back

when talking to a doctor I hold in high esteem.

Don't be mad, I'm in turmoil with all this.

Number one, why wait two months?

You know you can't hide what's inside you for long.

Number two, there are ways to avoid Switzerland.

If you were here, this could be sorted out easily.

But you, alone, so far from me, I'm feeling more and more like we're kids.

If you could see my face!

A, you come to Alsace to be near me.

I'll be reassured. We'll figure it out.

B, if you think you can do it, you'll use the technique recommended to me.

I think it's essential to avoid surgical intervention

which, even in Switzerland, scares me.

If someone can give you the injections, they're apparently highly effective.

Meanwhile, walking, running, not lying down, etc.

until the moment in which... etc.

It's called Benzoginestril Number 5.

Two vials in a syringe per day for four days

injected into the buttock muscle, four injections of two vials.

On the ninth day, it should come. If it's insufficient, start again.

If all goes well, you won't need a curettage.

That's it. Decide.

My poor darling, I am upset, disgusted, humiliated.

Forgive me, I am panicked. Reply soon.

I'd like us to have a calm month,

in which I make amends to you for this letter.

Jean-Jacques.

Destroy this letter.

C, how long have you been waiting for your latest... season?

CAROLE'S BIRTH

D, I love you.

The surrogate father was a Spaniard.

His name was Juan Goytisolo.

He was a Spanish anti-Franco refugee,

very engaged politically, a writer.

ALL THE MEN WHO MADE A MARK ON MY MOTHER'S LIFE WERE NAMED JEAN.

Want me to remind you?

It's the story of a young girl,

who's desperately in love with a man who doesn't love her.

Only at the end of the book does she discover

that the reason he doesn't love her is because he's gay.