The Invention of Morel (L'invention de Morel)

11th January 1935

I arrived yesterday on this island.

This notebook will serve as my testament.

I place these lines under Leonardo de Vinci's motto:

"Ostinato rigore"

though I am struggling to follow it.

If the Sicilian of Calcutta's prediction does not take place,

if I do not die on this island,

I will attack in my work the enemies of the forests.

I will expose that the world; with its amelioration of police,

documents, radio, customs,

its irreparable errors of justice;

is a hell with no way out for the persecuted.

I must continue these works in prison.

But the library contains only novels and poetry.

None of the scientific tomes

which I need for my eulogy to Malthus.

I have to content myself with my current experiences.

Wednesday 25th January

Today, I did not shave.

My sweat burns unbearably.

Have the first symptoms

already appeared,

as described by the Sicilian of Calcutta?

Long ago...

My journey lasted 10 days.

There was an insufferable heat

and I stayed there unconscious for 2 days

in dead calm,

having exhausted my water provisions.

The island was in sight

though the conflicting current kept me hundreds of yards away.

Without oars, it was impossible to draw closer.

Finally, a gust of wind threw me to the shore

unconscious but alive.

The Sicilian had told me:

"For one so persecuted, for you..."

"there is only one place to live, though no-one does live there."

"It is an island..."

"The white people constructed there, around 1925..."

"a museum and a swimming pool."

"The buildings were finished, then abandoned."

"Neither the Chinese pirates, nor the ship painted in white..."

"from the Rockefeller Institute go near it."

"For she is the home to a mysterious illness..."

"that kills the surface from within."

"The claws, the flowing hair..."

"The dying skin and cornea die..."

"then the body, after 8 to 15 days."

"The passengers of a steamer..."

"...anchored off the island, were all skinned, bald, without fingernails..."

"...and dead when the Japanese Namura cruiser found them".

"The steamer was sunk by cannon fire."

I believe the name of this island is Villings

and that she is a part of the Ellice archipelago.

Anyone who wants more information,

for those that will one day read this diary,

need only to ask Dalmacio Ombrielli,

Hiderabad Street,

in the district of Ramkrishnapur,

Calcutta.

I do not endanger him in the mentioning of his name in my diary.

Human memory will bear in mind

that Ombrielli has been charitable to those

unfairly persecuted.

Nothing here can serve man.

And yet, I discovered in the north of the island,

a sort of miraculous oasis.

There, I came across water, and trees,

and large multicoloured birds.

Not far away stands the museum.

I refer to it by the name given to it by the Sicilian.

The stolen dinghy did not resist the breaking waves.

I am a prisoner of this setting, of this island.

Is this the final stage of a trail in abrupt geometry?

I think of my country.

I dream it differently.

So large is my helplessness.

A free land, delivered from the yoke of tyrants and cops.

The killings on the highways.

Still hunted, just until this morning.

They come in. I shoot. But there are too many.

Long months of solitary confinement.

They sentence me to death.

Helped by my friends, I escape.

Since then,

I've not had a moments peace.

Will these walls welcome me?

"What use is there in writing to you,"

"my darling,"

"...since there is no post here."

"Morel..."

"Hundreds of miles from all life,"

"...this places worries."

What was its builder's inspiration?

What plot was weaved so far from human life?

Or was it that this museum is the result of an ephemeral dream?

The exhilaration of a man too rich.

This Morel, of whom the letter speaks, maybe.

It's been exactly a fortnight

since I came here.

This is the deadline.

I can only wait.

I will see tomorrow how I feel.

Maybe it's my diet,

maybe it's the climate.

The temperature is constantly increasing.

It feels similar to what it's like

before a monsoon.

I'm sleeping badly.

Every night, I have the same nightmare,

which leaves me sweating and trembling.

Without doubt, I owe these frightening dreams to the heat.

For several days,

I lay by the pool at night.

It's a little cooler there.

Do you want milk or lemon in your tea?

Lemon. I'm on a diet.

I will take champagne.

Who are these intruders?

And more importantly, how did they get here?

I heard neither a boat, a plane, nor an airship.

Are they looking for me?

Are they going to take me back to jail?

They're the barrier between the museum and me.

I've nothing to drink, nothing to eat.

Must I once again suffer the agonies of thirst?

I had almost found happiness in this solitary museum.

Already the mighty lines of my opus were under way.

However,

banished to this bunker,

my fate is still better than what I endured

all those long months in prison.

Their clothes are similar to those we wore 10 years ago.

The years after the war, the music that made us dance.

When I was living at the museum,

there was no power.

That woman looks like she's come out of an abominable painting.

I don't want her being bitten

by the vipers swarming on the hill.

I want to keep writing.

As a safety measure.

It's a discipline.

Tonight, I will try to reclaim the museum,

and get back my knife.

The intruders sealed the stone slab in the well.

Do they want to stop me from drinking?

I ask myself a question.

Where did they find the second slab?

I remained in a trance-like state

just until dawn.

Plagued by anxiety, but also by fascination.

I both feared and hoped for the arrival of human life.

It has been a whole month since I last saw someone.

They may well be policemen.

But they lure me in.

That is probably the trap.

They play at cat and mouse.

They wait until, dying of hunger,

I turn myself in.

I ate muscles and drank a little seawater.

Why is there that second stone slab on the well?

Thursday 26th

The woman is back.

Friday 27th

She stayed for almost an hour.

She had with her a book though she did not read.

She might be beautiful.

Saturday 28th

The woman intrigues me.

At the risk of being caught, I went up to the museum.

Faustine, I wanted to tell you...

He is not well, Morel.

It will pass.

Faustine is very beautiful.

I learned his name.

Faustine.

Tomorrow, I'll try and get a closer look.

I am suffering due to hunger and thirst.

No-one is looking for me.

I'll hold on for as long as it takes.

If they are the police,

then she is the trap, the bait.

Maybe they are afraid to venture onto the island,

fearing that I know it better than they.

Faustine, you misconstrue my intentions.

I know what you're after, Morel.

You'd be surprised if you really knew.

You want to play the mystery?

Arouse my curiosity?

If you were mine, I'd offer you this island.

You would rule it.

But we're leaving soon, Morel.

It's a shame that it is so short, that's true.

Then, nothing else matters.

Come on. Let's get back.

Faustine!

Look!

I've been careless.

I wonder how they hadn't seen me.