Childhood memories or other memories come without an invitation. They come as a surprise with no summoning.

You are sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading a thrilling book, you are swimming in a pool, you are talking to a hundred people in a conference, you are shopping in a supermarket, or you are driving. Suddenly, it is coming. This memory which has been hiding in a remote corner of your mind is back. It is sneaking in your mind, it is here and you cannot ignore it. It takes you far away in the past.

 

Today I am giving a lecture about an American writer. I am concentrated on what I have to say, the audience is quiet. Suddenly, a scent, a perfume is getting through my nose. Where is it coming from? Is it some air moved around by the people who are listening to me? Is it a draft created by an open door or an open window? Without reason, I feel good, I feel safe, and it smells like violets. I am on stage, in front of dozens of people, and there I am, back in the past, in the sixties. My grandmother has just arrived; she is taking off her coat, and her pearl grey cardigan. She puts her clothes nicely on my parents’ bed. She takes off her hat with a veil, and her white fuzzy hair looks as if it’s escaping from a box. Granny controls it with two grey combs jammed on each side of her head, slightly at the back. Then she touches the silk scarf she is wearing around her neck. She unties it and waves it off as if a bird was going to fly. The air is immediately filled with a violet fragrance. Granny is very small but she must lean towards me to give her granddaughter her wrinkled cheek. Her face is like an old apple. Her skin is so soft, her odor is so sweet. The concentration of perfume is stronger where her scarf was.

 

I am coming back in the auditorium, the break is over, I am going back to my work.

 

After the conference, I go shopping at the supermarket. The naked light is aggressive. The carts are colliding. A blond woman is speaking in a microphone. Her voice sounds too loud, trying to cover the background music. She is handing me a plastic teaspoon:

 

“Would you like to taste this excellent jam?”

 

I come near the stand. I put the spoon into the marmalade. The taste is both very sweet and a little bitter. I close my eyes and the noise around me disappears. In my mouth, there is not only marmalade but also a bit of sponge cake soaked in rum. This is my mother’s Sunday Charlotte Cake. I needed time to appreciate it. It tasted too strangely for a little girl. But with time and custard, this pudding became one of my favourites.

Our family of four is sitting around the table. My father is on the left; my sister is sitting beside him. I am at the end like the president of the family. I can see the television perfectly. In fact, we are all sitting so as to watch TV as well as possible. My father has the best seat, he can change channels very easily –without a remote control, you have to go near the TV to press the buttons. My mother is sitting on the right; she must twist her neck to be able to watch our favourite cinema programs. She must get up all the time to serve the different dishes. She can hardly see any TV shows. Her seat has been chosen to let her go the kitchen as easily as possible. As usual, she sacrifices herself for our well-being. The good smell of mutton stew is still floating in the air; the mass chants are in my ears.

 

I open my eyes again. This memory only lasted a few micro seconds. The shop assistant did not even notice anything. I take three jars of jam and put them in my cart. I thank her and go on.

 

I am driving back home, I am on a country road, it is raining. The road is very narrow, lined with grassy banks and ditches. Little drops are hanging on ferns. Suddenly, I feel as if I am on holiday. I am not in Normandy anymore but in Brittany. I am with my aunt, we are cutting grass for the rabbits she is breeding. She knows where to stop. We are wearing Wellingtons. She is cutting the high vegetation with her little sickle, and puts it in a big basket. I am helping her as best as I can, pulling up the weeds. I cut my hands a little, but the big rabbits will be fed. They are waiting for us in their hutch. As soon as they see the green food, they fill their mouths, and cut it with their big teeth. They shake their little tails, they are happy. These poor innocents do not know they are going to end in a stew, as soon as they will be fat enough. They should starve themselves to have a small chance to stay alive longer, but they stuff their mouths and shorten their lives. The cut grass smells good; I can smell it through my open car window.

 

In the evening, I am sitting comfortably in my living-room. I am listening to the music on my MP3. Suddenly, I can hear a song - the British Band Queen, it is the Bohemian Rhapsody.

 

I am now in 1976. I am sitting on the brown sofa in the dining/living/working room. The lamp is casting a yellowish light. My father is listening to the radio on the set he has illegally brought back from Singapore. It is around 6 pm, it is already dark. After a few French songs, the music of Queen is welling up the room. We both prick up our ears. My father gets up to turn up the volume. Since he has been retired, He has spent most of his days sitting on a chair. He reads, he smokes, listens to the radio or watches TV. He stands up to turn up the volume only when there is an exceptional program or song. Sometimes he even sings with his nice Sinatra voice. This rock choir is moving us. Freddie Mercury’s voice is clear and high as a tenor’s. The piano is playing a sweet melody in complete contrast with the violence of the song’s words. It tells the story of a boy who killed a man and who knows he ruined his life. The drums are the only clue to what is really going on. There are also the guitars and Freddie singing with a rasping voice at times. Sometimes we have the impression we are listening to a play in a theatre, we can hear the crowd wanting to arrest this poor boy who is trying to defend himself.

The song has ended, I am on my brown sofa, but we are in 2013.

 

The next day, I am at the swimming-pool and I love it. The water is slipping along my body; my hands go silently into the water and push it behind me. I can hear my heart beat at the same rhythm as my feet. I need to find the right cadence to swim faster and have more efficient movements. I move faster, I fight against the elements.

My thoughts are escaping from the pool, my body is at war.

 I am in a dance class. We are in the gymnasium of our school. We are wearing acrylic tutus. They have nothing in common with the wonderful outfits of the real dancers surrounded with veils and tulle. Our feet are in vulgar “rhythmic ballet” shoes. I thought I would enter the temple of grace and beauty, but I am in a gymnastic class. The teacher is called Miss A. She is wearing a black justaucorps with matching leather ballet shoes. Her superiority is obvious, SHE is wearing real ballet dancer clothes, and we are not.

 

Today, we are studying Cabrioles. She makes a gracious demonstration, she jumps on the side, facing us and moving her arms up and down to keep her balance. We train on an imaginary diagonal in the room.  Her pets succeed immediately in repeating the movement. Surprisingly, I am rather satisfied with my performance. The teacher asks my friend Annie to show how to “caper like a goat”. She can never remember the little girl’s name. Miss A loves to ask her pupils to make a demonstration of the exercises in front of the others. Generally, she asks the best dancers to do it. Annie is not a good dancer; she has not the figure of a ballerina or of a gymnast. One could say she is clumsy. My friend makes a fool of herself, she yomps from one side of the room to the other with awkward gestures. I can hear the smothered laughs of the other girls. Strangely, Miss A does not say anything; she turns towards me with a smile:

“Could you show us your cabrioles Big Bird?”

This is my nickname; I am far bigger than the children of my age, I am 5 feet for 7 stones and I am only 9. My mother likes to give me snacks of bread and Philadelphia cheese every day. I am not a slim and graceful ballet dancer. I am surprised and proud to be an example for the others. I am concentrated and I make three Cabrioles when the others make six or seven.

“Look at that, girls! This is exactly what you are not supposed to do!”

I was expecting congratulations, and I am mortified. I am red with shame and anger.

 

I am beating out the rhythm with my arms and legs, I swim faster and faster. At the end of the pool, I turn around perfectly and I go back to the other side. Each movement leads me to evacuate the shame and anger I felt this particular day.

 

These sorts of reveries come suddenly and overwhelm us, they are memories. They surprise us; they touch us or make us angry. They put back to life persons who have been dead for a while. Thankfully they are there, somewhere. The past comes to make one with the present; the memories give us the possibility to never forget.