{"id":161348,"date":"2022-09-06T12:15:00","date_gmt":"2022-09-06T16:15:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=161348"},"modified":"2022-09-07T08:33:11","modified_gmt":"2022-09-07T12:33:11","slug":"custody","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/09\/06\/custody\/","title":{"rendered":"Custody"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div>\n
\"\"<\/a>

Constance Debr\u00e9. Photograph by Adam Peter Johnson. Courtesy of Flammarion.<\/p><\/div>\n

Three years ago. We\u2019re at the Flore, sitting outside, rue Saint-Beno\u00eet. It\u2019s summer. I\u2019m dipping my black-pepper potato chips in some ketchup. I\u2019ve ordered a club sandwich, he\u2019s having a croque monsieur. He\u2019s my ex. The first man I was with, and until further notice, the last. We\u2019re actually still married because we never got a divorce. We lasted twenty years, he and I. It\u2019s been three years since I left him. His name is Laurent. With our eight-year-old son, with Paul, we do alternate weeks, all civil, we\u2019ve never had any problems. A few months ago I switched to girls. That\u2019s what I want to tell him. That\u2019s the point of this dinner. I picked the Flore out of habit. We met here when we were twenty, it became one of our haunts. I grew up here, I\u2019ve never really lived anywhere else. But I don\u2019t go to the Flore anymore. I quit my job as a lawyer, I\u2019m writing a book, I\u2019ve got the tax people on my\u00a0back and no cash to my name. It\u2019s a pain, obviously, but it\u2019s not important. So I spit it out, I say, I\u2019ve started seeing girls. Just in case there was any doubt in his mind, with the new short hair, the new tattoos, the look in general. It\u2019s basically the same as before, obviously just a bit more distinct. It\u2019s not as if he never had his doubts. We had a little chat about it, a good ten years ago. I said, Nope, no idea what you\u2019re talking about. I mean I\u2019m dating girls, I say to him now. Fucking girls would be more accurate. He says, All I want is for you to be happy. This,\u00a0I don\u2019t reply, sounds like a lie but it suits me fine. He\u2019s barely touched his croque monsieur, he lights a cigarette, calls the waiter over, orders more champagne. That\u2019s what he\u2019s drinking these days, he says it agrees with him, that it makes him feel less shitty in the morning. The check comes, he pays, we leave. Instead of going his own way on le boulevard Saint-Germain, he walks me towards the Seine. When we get to my door, he goes to follow me upstairs, as if we hadn\u2019t been separated for three years, as if I hadn\u2019t just told him what I’d just told him. I say no. He says, Have it your way.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The next day he messages me, Yesterday was nice what are you doing tonight? I thought we\u2019d settled things but maybe he\u2019s thought about it and wants to talk some more. We\u2019ve hardly seen each other in three years, I liked it just fine that way. But I agree to meet him, I tell myself I probably owe him that much. He comes to pick me up outside my house in a taxi, it looks like he\u2019s made an\u00a0effort, he\u2019s made reservations at a restaurant in another district, a fairly chic place in the courtyard of an h\u00f4tel particulier. He talks to the waiters like a regular, he orders a good wine like a connoisseur, he acts like some guy trying to impress his girlfriend. Maybe this is what he does now with girls, maybe he wants to show me, try out his techniques. He wanted to meet but he\u2019s not saying anything, he\u2019s not asking any questions, not a word about yesterday, nothing about him or me, we talk about holidays, foreign countries, books we\u2019ve read, as though we\u2019re politely humoring each other on a date that\u2019s not going anywhere. He wants us to walk home together, I make sure there\u2019s enough space between our bodies, not too close, not too far, as if everything were normal. The Marais, the Seine, the Notre Dame, we\u2019re like a couple on honeymoon. Once again he walks me right to my door, once again he wants to come up with me, to kiss me, once again he seems surprised when I say no.<\/p>\n

In October, I bring up the subject of divorce. There\u2019s a girl I\u2019ve been seeing since summer. She\u2019s young, she doesn\u2019t like the fact that I\u2019m married. She\u2019s been on my case, she keeps making scenes, in the end I give in. And she\u2019s right, it isn\u2019t healthy, I call him my ex, he still calls me his wife. I invite Laurent for coffee, one day, then another day, he says he doesn\u2019t have time, he\u2019s avoiding me. In the end I send him an email. I want to get divorced, it\u2019d make things clearer for everyone, come over for dinner one night and\u00a0we can talk, take care. Stop you\u2019re turning me on. That\u2019s his reply, which he sends in an email. In the moment, I find it funny. A little crazy, but funny.<\/p>\n

Fifteen days later, around Halloween, he tells me something\u2019s up with Paul. He says he\u2019s keeping him, that there\u2019s no need for me to pick him up. He says Paul can\u2019t stand me, that he\u2019s rolling around on the floor, that he hates me. I go over. My son is rolling around on the floor. He hates me.\u00a0At this point, I don\u2019t make any connection between the facts, between the father and the son. Maybe Laurent\u2019s right, maybe Paul does hate me, maybe it is my fault, maybe I have done something wrong. I try to understand what I\u2019ve done, what I\u2019ve failed to do. I haven\u2019t been giving him as much attention recently, I have to admit. I\u2019ve been there the whole time but I\u2019ve been a little distracted. I\u2019ve been writing my book. You don\u2019t have space for anyone when you\u2019re writing. And then there were the girls. At first, I didn\u2019t say anything to Paul. But in the end, we had a chat. Not right away, not about the first girl, nor the second, but the third girl he met in passing, he liked her. He said, Why don\u2019t we go on holiday with her, that would be nice. But I told him we couldn\u2019t, we\u2019d just broken up, I explained. I asked him whether he’d already suspected something, whether it bothered him. He’d already suspected something, it didn\u2019t bother him. We went out, he took my\u00a0hand, we went to get a soda at La Palette downstairs, we were both in a good mood, we often were, come to think of it. We carried on as before. There were the weeks where he stayed with me and I took care of him, then there were the weeks where he stayed with his dad and I took care of the girls. I was always careful. Everything was going well. I know it was. Some things you just know.<\/p>\n

Since November, Paul\u2019s been staying with his dad, I don\u2019t see him anymore, I don\u2019t speak to him anymore. Every time I propose something, Laurent either refuses or doesn\u2019t reply. Nothing, no news, not a word. The weeks go by, then the weeks turn into months. I don\u2019t threaten to take him to court, I don\u2019t want to make things worse. One day, when I\u2019m feeling fed up, more so than usual, I go over to his, to theirs. Laurent opens up, doesn\u2019t say a word, goes to the living room. Paul\u2019s in his bed, duvet pulled over his head, head on the pillow. Laurent\u2019s in the next room, smoking. I speak to Paul but he doesn\u2019t move, doesn\u2019t look at me, doesn\u2019t answer me. I try different tones of voice, I ask him how he is, I try to make him laugh, I talk about something else, I ask him what this is all about, I say, Come on, come and get a Coke downstairs with me, he doesn\u2019t open his eyes, he doesn\u2019t move a muscle, he\u2019s tense, stubborn, heavy as lead. Finally I lose my temper, I yell at him, That\u2019s enough now, get up, get dressed, come with me just for five minutes. He gets out of bed, he goes to his dad in the living room, he hides behind him, he\u2019s shaking\u00a0and yelling, he tells me to go to hell, he gives me the finger. Laurent points at the door and yells, Now get out. I look at him and realize he\u2019s stronger, physically stronger than me, the fact that we\u2019re the same height, that we wear the same clothes, that we occupy space in the same way, that we speak at the same volume, none of that makes any difference. That\u2019s when I realize that the difference between a man and a woman is just a question of weight and muscles. I look at Laurent and see he\u2019s thinking the same thing, I look at Paul standing behind his dad and see there\u2019s nothing I can do, I tell myself this is between them, their little guy thing, I shrug my shoulders, I leave.<\/p>\n

At the local dive bar run by a Chinese family, I tell my friends from the swimming pool what happened. Dominique and Ming say, That\u2019s crazy, you have to do something, speak to Laurent\u2019s parents, go to the police. Andr\u00e9 says, Leave it, it\u2019ll be all right, your son will come round sooner or later. He says something similar happened with his daughter after his own separation. It all worked out in the end.<\/p>\n

Fall comes and goes, then winter, then spring. The whole time I wait for things to settle, I figure they\u2019ll get tired eventually, I try to speak to Laurent, try to see Paul. There\u2019s no getting through, it\u2019s the Berlin Wall. I haven\u2019t seen Paul for six months. A friend of mine, a family lawyer, offers to help me. For free, seeing as I\u2019m broke. When summer comes around, he files for divorce on my\u00a0behalf with a request for urgent measures to be granted so I can see Paul every other week, just as before. I say to myself, worst-case scenario, I\u2019ll have him for half the school vacation and on weekends, just like any dad who walks out on his family.<\/p>\n

The hearing is set for the end of July. One year after the episode at the Flore. Two days before the hearing, I receive Laurent\u2019s written submissions, signed by his lawyer. He\u2019s applying for sole custody with termination of my parental rights. He\u2019s accusing me of incest and pedophilia committed against my eight-year-old son, directly or through involvement of a third party. He\u2019s written about my homosexual friends \u201cwho may or may not be pedophiles.\u201d He\u2019s included a picture of my son sitting outside on a terrace with one of my fag friends the day we went to get a soda together, a photo of a sign that reads DANGER! HUNTING that I found in a field and kept on my desk, near Paul\u2019s bedroom door. He\u2019s quoted passages from books selected from my bookshelves, Bataille, Duvert, Guibert. He\u2019s putting everything together, making his case, sowing doubt. My nine-year-old son has written a letter to the court saying that living with me is inhumane, that his dad says I\u2019m insane, and he agrees. He says he doesn\u2019t want to see me anymore.<\/p>\n

The hearing lasts fifteen minutes, Laurent\u2019s lawyer reads passages from Crazy for Vincent<\/em>, as if I were Herv\u00e9 Guibert\u2019s\u00a0narrator, as if Paul were the young boy he sleeps with in the book, the judge stares at the tattoo poking out from beneath my sleeve, she asks me why I\u2019m writing a book and what it\u2019s about, she wants to know why I speak to my son about my homosexuality, she says that these subjects are not appropriate for children, that it\u2019s not a question of legality, it\u2019s a question of morals, she\u2019s sure I can understand, I am, after all, an intelligent woman.<\/p>\n

The judge\u2019s ruling is issued a few days later. She\u2019s appointed a psychiatrist to examine all three of us. She\u2019s giving him six months to hand in his report. As always when it comes to legal matters, the time frame is just a guideline. It could take a year, two years, three years. In the meantime, Laurent has been granted sole custody. I have only limited, supervised visitation rights, according to the ruling. One hour every fifteen days at an association, a \u201cmeeting space\u201d near R\u00e9publique, where pedagogical experts will monitor meetings between me and Paul, just like they do for some (but not all) moms on crack or dads who beat their kids. \u201cUnless the parties agree otherwise,\u201d it says. \u201cUntil we have a clearer understanding of the situation,\u201d explains Madame C., family judge at the Judicial Court of Paris. I appeal, but it doesn\u2019t halt the proceedings. The decision and its provisional enforcement still apply. There won\u2019t be a hearing for two years. Two years might as well be a thousand years. Two years might as well be never.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Holly James.<\/em><\/p>\n

Constance Debr\u00e9 is a writer and former lawyer whose books include<\/em>\u00a0Nom and<\/em>\u00a0Play Boy.\u00a0This previously unpublished piece is adapted from<\/em>\u00a0Love Me Tender<\/a>,<\/em> which will be published in late September 2022 by Semiotext(e) (U.S.) and Tuskar Rock\u00a0Press (UK).<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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