In one of Sophie Calle’s first artistic experiments, she invited twenty-seven friends, acquaintances, and strangers to sleep in her bed. She photographed them awake and asleep, secretly recording any private conversation once the door closed. She served each a meal and, if they agreed, subjected them to a questionnaire that probed their personal predilections, habits, and dreams. The following text is Calle’s narrative report of her fifth guest’s stay, and is the third in a series of four excerpts from the project to be published this week on the Daily. Earlier installments: “Third Sleeper” and “Fourth Sleeper.”
I barely know him. We saw each other, one time, several years ago now, at the home of a mutual friend. That friend told him about my idea. Gérard Maillet calls me to offer his services. He wants to be paid—a symbolic sum. He says he’s unemployed, that any time works for him. He’ll sleep Monday, April 2, from 5 P.M. to midnight.
He arrives Monday, April 2, at 5 P.M. He waits until Rachel Sindler has left the bedroom to get settled. I show him the set of clean sheets. I leave.
At five fifteen, I return. He’s in the bed. He hasn’t changed the sheets. His shoulders are bare. His head rests on the pillow. He asks about my use of the formal “vous.” I explain the necessity of keeping my distance from the sleepers. He tells me about his complicated relationship to work. He has a hard time accepting the idea that intellectual labor is labor. So he finds it especially interesting to be encouraged to consider sleep as a form of work. That’s why he asked to be paid. But the people he spoke to about it, who don’t share the same hangup … He doesn’t finish his sentence. He tells me about one of his friends, a Mobylette courier, who said, “If that girl has time and money to waste, there are better things to do.” He, the friend, would have organized a soup kitchen for drug addicts. Apparently that’s his obsession—soup kitchens for drug addicts. Gérard Maillet continues. Throughout his monologue, these words often recur: perversion, forbidden, superfluous, eroticism.
He comments on the bed, which is warm. On the smell of perfume.
At eighteen, he met a superb woman, a model. She lived two hundred meters from his high school. And one day he found himself in her home, in her bed. It earned him a prestigious reputation among his friends. They said, “Gérard, what a stud!”
“What actually happened is that we slept like brother and sister. I don’t know why exactly.”
I propose that Gérard Maillet answer my questionnaire.
What is his name? What is his age? Can he give me a brief description of his past?
“Gérard Maillet, twenty-six years old. I have two brothers. Until the age of eighteen, I lived in Paris, with my parents. What else can I say? Still in school. A series of odd jobs. For the last three years, contracts for sociological research.”
Gérard Maillet adds that now he has a two-bedroom apartment in the twelfth arrondissement. He calls it an upgrade.
Is sleep a source of pleasure or a waste of time for him?
“It’s a refuge, a way to regulate internal tensions. I’m a hedonist. Sleep is important to restore our health, turn the page, and—” I interrupt him.
How would he describe his sleep?
“I would say, ecological. As soon as I decide to go to bed, it happens.”
Does he need absolute darkness to fall asleep?
“It’s not a necessity, more of a habit and a form of security. The dark is—” I interrupt him.
Does he talk in his sleep?
“No, but I grind my teeth.” He tries to continue, but I cut him off once again. I want everything to move faster. It’s not information or a conversation that I’m looking for. He seems to understand. His responses become more brief.
I obtain the following information: He sleeps in the fetal position. He doesn’t have a difficult time waking up. He doesn’t like to sleep in a bed situated in the middle of a room. He can fall asleep despite noise as long as it’s regular. My presence does not risk disturbing his sleep. He does not disguise himself for sleep. The used sheets do not disgust him. He likes to sleep alone. He can’t stand sleeping with clothes on. He can undress in front of strangers. He does not pee the bed. He bathes often. He wears cologne. He doesn’t masturbate in the morning upon waking, or at night before going to sleep. He likes animals. He thinks that the same smells can be either erotic or unpleasant. His fondest nocturnal memories are not of nights sleeping. He doesn’t have noteworthy dreams to recount. For him, sleep is priceless. He wants me to wait in the room until he falls asleep.
Is he aware that he is performing a job by coming to sleep?
“I am convinced.”
Does he have the impression that he is making art?
“No. I am participating in a job. It’s not for me to say whether it’s art. The purpose is none of my business.”
What would be appropriate remuneration for his presence in this bed?
“A certificate to the effect that I performed sleep labor. Written proof that I was employed. A signature.”
Payment?
“Yes, symbolic.”
What does he think of the person who preceded him in this bed?
“It was a pleasant meeting. A positive start.”
How does he imagine the person who will replace him?
“I have very little imagination.”
6 P.M. The questionnaire is over. I thank him for responding so conscientiously. I wish him a pleasant sleep. I leave the bedroom.
Soon after, I return. He’s sleeping. I sit in an armchair that I leave only for brief moments. I remain by his side. He turns his back to me. I watch him. His presence in my bed seems in no way implausible. I hardly dare move. I watch over him. I’m not tired; it’s relaxing to watch him sleep. I photograph him every hour. At 11 P.M., I wake him up.
I place a tray of food on the floor: ham, eggs, macaroni. I return to my armchair. I call him softly. He doesn’t move. I repeat his name. He lets out a sigh, turns around. He sits up.
Me: Did you have a good night?
Him: Yes, I did my best.
Me: I was here the whole time.
Him: Good.
We speak more and more softly. Meanwhile, his meal gets cold. He asks for water and I go fetch it. I sing in the stairwell. When I return, he yawns languorously. I tell him that I listened to his breathing. He asks if he snored.
“No, you were breathing softly. I could have fallen asleep.”
He asks me not to record the rest of our conversation. I obey. He confides.
At midnight, the arrival of Graziella Rampacci, who will take the next shift, and Françoise Jourdan-Gassin, who accompanies her. Graziella goes immediately, at my request, to the bedroom occupied by Gérard Maillet. Françoise and I wait a few moments before joining her.
Listening to the tape:
Gérard yawns, stretches, coughs.
Graziella knocks three times on the door. She enters.
Her: Hello, I’m here to take your place.
Him: Very good.
He says he didn’t really have time to sleep. She pities him for having to come during the day. She wouldn’t have been able to. She adds, “Well, I was told to come in here, so that there would be contact. I’d like to know what we’re supposed to talk about, you, a stranger who’s just woken up, and me, tired from a long and difficult day.”
He thinks that the obvious common ground is the bed. Graziella admires the paintings hung on the wall. He finds the bedroom intimate enough for …
Accompanied by Françoise, I enter, after knocking. I ask whether they’ve met.
Him: I didn’t even introduce myself—Gérard.
Her: And I’m Graziella Ram-pa-cci.
I want to take a photo of Graziella and Gérard together. She asks if she should lie down. We leave the bedroom, let him get dressed.
My father’s robe has been left on an armchair. He puts it on. He goes to take a bath. Meanwhile, the two young women settle into the bed after changing the sheets.
A half-hour later, Gérard Maillet returns to say his goodbyes. He wants to stay in the bedroom while I interview them. They agree.
At two in the morning, he leaves. I walk him to the door. I don’t pay him. (I will rectify this oversight.) I thank him for granting me a few hours of his sleep.
From The Sleepers, to be published Siglio Press in December. Translated from the French by Emma Ramadan.
Sophie Calle is an artist, writer, photographer, filmmaker, and performer whose work often makes use of Oulipian constraints. A retrospective of her work, Overshare, is currently on view at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
Emma Ramadan is an educator and literary translator from French. She was awarded the PEN Translation Prize for her translation of Abdellah Taïa’s A Country for Dying, and has received the Albertine Prize, two NEA Fellowships, and a Fulbright. Her translations include Anne Garréta’s Sphinx, Barbara Molinard’s Panics, and Marguerite Duras’s Me & Other Writing.
