{"id":45645,"date":"2022-02-05T11:46:18","date_gmt":"2022-02-05T10:46:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/leregardlibre.com\/?p=45645"},"modified":"2022-09-25T16:02:40","modified_gmt":"2022-09-25T14:02:40","slug":"villa-royale-the-talented-first-novel-by-a-woman-from-lausanne","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/leregardlibre.com\/en\/literature\/villa-royale-the-talented-first-novel-by-a-woman-from-lausanne\/","title":{"rendered":"\u00abVilla royale\u00bb: the sparklingly talented first novel by a woman from Lausanne"},"content":{"rendered":"

Unpublished article -<\/em> Quentin Perissinotto<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Royal Villa <\/em>marks the literary debut of a young author from Lausanne. And it does so in a very beautiful way! While the title may suggest a series of lavish cocktail receptions, glittering chandeliers and red-carpet roll-outs, it's nothing of the sort. Emmanuelle Fournier-Lorentz takes us along in the wake of a sibling who capsizes from city to city, seeking to escape the memory of their father's death at all costs. Whether under the Tropic of Capricorn or in the cold of the 15thth<\/sup> arrondissement de Paris, the sun may be shining from a different angle, but it's still casting the same shadows.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

The publication of a first novel is always something special for an author. Even more so if it's published by Gallimard! Especially since, usually, to catch a glimpse of a woman from Lausanne in the \u00abBlanche\u00bb, you have to look closer to the Chauderon district. What's most striking about Royal Villa<\/em>, is the voice. A voice that imposes itself without overdoing it, that slips surreptitiously over the words and carries the story or, better still, cradles it. Almost timidly, it seems like nothing, occupying everything. And behind the rare silences, the escape. One fine evening, in the midst of a sibling squabble, mother abruptly announces to Charles, Victor and Palma their next destination: Reunion Island. All this only two or three months after the father's death. Life has to be cut short. Palma, the narrator, says: \u00abI was happy to smell an intoxicating, perverse odor, far more violent than my sadness: the smell of escape.\u00bb<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n

Right from the start, this geographical flight turns into an existential one, for although they carry this family drama in their suitcases, the children don't understand their mother's determination to steal them away from everyday life. From fugitives they have become nomads: nomads of places, nomads of their own lives. After La R\u00e9union, Paris, a brief stopover in Marseille, then Esacamdur and Montpellier; one shabby apartment follows another, as do the roads, cities go by and dreams are torn apart. As we follow the escape, we come to the crossroads of questions: what does life boil down to? How can we project ourselves into the future when everything explodes in the blink of an eye? Mother never asks their opinion, never informs them, just decides in haste what's best for everyone. In this story, maternal love is a confiscation of ideals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00abA family running after who knows what, a family on the run. And isn't that what existence is all about: redoing, in ways you can't control, what you experienced as a child? To repeat it forever, for life, unable to escape it, condemned again and again. Unquestionably, there was a gene in us, a kind of madness; perhaps it had been in my family for generations. It allowed for what to me was worth its weight in gold: the possibility of a life that few have written, and that fades from sight if you try to look at it through the prism of established society. Happy tenants of an ivory tower, owners of a sand garden, who cares?\u00bb<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n\n\n

Children, the sailors of nostalgia<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Nevertheless, no matter how far the novel's protagonists escape without a trace, they can't shake off the ghost of their father's memory. They seem to be running out of breath, losing everything so that nothing clings to them. But drowning the past in turmoil never works. \u00abAsk me who I was, and I'll tell you who I'm running from, as rapper M\u00e9dine would say<\/a>. The mother's obsession with burying the past under ever-thicker carpets inevitably leads to the children's initially docile revolt. With this, the novel takes an interesting turn, depicting the transition from childhood to adulthood. Charles, Victor and Palma have very different characters, and their rebellion naturally takes opposite forms. Palma, the narrator, is the youngest and calmest. So, to combat the oppressive and often incomprehensible reality, she tells stories. In this way, what has always been silent disappears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00abAt a glance, I verified that Victor wasn't sad to be leaving either. Despite the sound of books crashing to the bottom of bags and the fact that we were doing everything to avoid meeting my mother's furious gaze, he wore a bright, bemused look, the look of people you meet by chance in the middle of the night, drunk and disheveled, people you haven't seen for ten years and bump into on the streets of a foreign city.\u00bb<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n\n\n

One thing is surprising, however: the mother who orchestrates the whole story is never named; this muted presence is a response to the father's strident absence. Two horizons that intersect off-screen. Two evanescent lines underpinning the narrative. If this family were a photograph, it would be a silver film perforated with welts from which a light would pierce. But the light would be pallid around the edges, as madness shrouds the maternal character, who says that \u00abit's better to be mad sometimes: long stretches of absence where reality never erupts. Thus, the young family will have the heavy moral debt of constantly choosing between stalking or fleeing the undulating Fury. With great delicacy and modesty, the author constructs a story of ellipses, luminous halos and mysteries yet to be unraveled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n