The best-written recent literary fiction: Name by Constance Debré
Read the opening pages below
1
She dips the washcloth in the bowl of warm water, she passes it over his face, she lowers the sheet, she lowers his pajama trousers, she passes the washcloth over my father’s inert penis, she raises the sheet above his waist, she asks me for a shirt, I turn to the wardrobe, I lay one on the bed, she takes my father by the shoulders, she tries to remove his pajama top, his arms don’t bend, she tries harder, I see she’s trying harder, I lean forward, Go on, lean forward, I catch hold of his cold shoulder, I slip my arm behind his cold back, I put my hand in his cold hand, I pull on the arm that is stuck, I think of rigor mortis, I remove his pajama top, I put on the new shirt, I lay my father back against the pillow, she puts away the two pumps, she takes out the tubes, she cleans up the packets of morphine and sedatives, she puts them in a special briefcase with a code, she came to collect the morphine, that’s why she’s here, It’s part of the procedure, she says, the washcloth the shirt was her idea, We can’t leave him like that, she says, she leaves, it’s still dark out, I go back to the kitchen, I make some more coffee, it’s almost morning, the light is beautiful, I inhale the dry odor of the garden, at eight thirty I take my father’s bank card from the chimney, I take the Peugeot, the 206 three-door hatchback diesel with 197,000 kilometers on it bought at Touraine Used Cars a few days ago, I go to the ATM at the Super U, I hesitate, How much, I take out €200.
*
It is already warm out when I get back, I close the shutters in the bedroom, I look at him, he already looks different, more drawn, more waxy, the undertakers will come when the doctor gives us the death certificate, they really shouldn’t wait with this heat, I stay in the house as it gets hotter, I am alone with him, like last night, like all the nights these past few weeks, it’s calm, it’s new this calm, it’s the quiet of the oxygen machine that’s no longer going, sometimes I go to his room, I go in, I look at him.
*
The doctor knocks at the door, I let him in, he goes in the bedroom, he records the death, we go to the living room, he fills out the certificate, he says that he liked my father, that he was a bit challenging as a patient but he liked him a lot, I think he must say that every time, about every dead patient, that he must think people like that, he takes me in his arms, it’s awkward, I’m stiff, it doesn’t last, he gives me the certificate, Get out, get out do you hear me, he gets out. My sister arrives with her husband, she’s wearing sunglasses like at a celebrity funeral, she’s crying, she doesn’t dare go in to see him, I go with her, they have lunch, I don’t, I want to go swimming, usually I go earlier, the undertakers arrive, they park their truck in front of the house, there’s two or three of them I’m not sure, only men, maybe it’s a man’s job, I give them the certificate, I sign some papers, my sister goes back into my father’s bedroom, I hear them talking to her, she’s crying hard, she says through her tears that she doesn’t want them to take him away, I go in or her husband does I don’t remember, we talk to her, she calms down, I tell them to go, to go home, they live nearby, on the other side of the Loire, they left Paris, I tell them I’ll look after the undertakers, you guys should get out of here, they go, the undertaker guys take the metal stretcher out of their truck, I wonder if it’s refrigerated, they go to the bedroom, I give them some clothes for the coffin, I give them a pair of jeans, another blue shirt, a pair of Clarks, some underpants, some socks, I go outside, into the street in front of the house, they go through the door with my father in the opaque plastic body bag, it’s transparent, I see my father’s white hair, they slide my father into the back of the truck, they leave, him too, I go back into the house, I’m alone, the house is empty, it’s sunny, I go into his bedroom, I look, I move into the living room, I take my pool bag, I go back out, I take the Peugeot, Touraine Used Cars is just down a bit, on the levee, in the industrial zone by the river, I drive, it’s a beautiful day, I cross the Cher, I make the turn toward Tours Nord, I park in the lot of the Centre aquatique du Lac, a fifty-meter pool, I swim every day, I swim.
LITERARY FICTION TITLES CONSIDERED THIS MONTH
Name by Constance Debré
Eden’s Shore by Oisín Fagan
The Rest of Our Lives by Ben Markovits
Parallel Lines by Edward St Aubyn
Sister Europe by Nell Zink
Open, Heaven by Seán Hewitt
Paradise Logic by Sophie Kemp
The Homemade God by Rachel Joyce
Audition by Katie Kitamura
A/S/L by Jeanne Thornton
A Hole in the Story by Ken Kalfus
Big Chief by Jon Hickey
Plum by Andy Anderegg
Sky Daddy by Kate Folk
Atavists by Lydia Millet
The Road to Tender Hearts by Annie Hartnett
Submitting work to Auraist
We offer writers a fast-growing audience of tens of thousands of discerning readers, including many world-class writers, major publishers and literary agencies, and journalists at the highest-profile publications.
If we publish your work, we’ll invite you to answer our questions on prose style. Your answers will be considered for inclusion in the print publication of these pieces by many of the world’s best writers.
The following submissions are welcome:
Books published in the last year
Works serialised on Substack
Short stories
Start the process by signing up for a paid subscription below. Then email your work to auraist@substack.com.
We look forward to reading it.