Hygiene and the Assassin (11 page)
“Everything that was available, yes. Question me, if you want to make sure.”
“Uh-huh, just like Tintin addicts: âWhat is the license plate number of the red Volvo in
The Calculus Affair
?' It's grotesque. Don't expect me to dishonor my works in such a fashion.”
“Well, how can I convince you, then?”
“You can't. You will not convince me.”
“In that case, I have nothing to lose.”
“With me, you never have
had
anything to lose. You've been doomed from the start because of your sex.”
“Incidentally, I indulged in a little survey of your female characters.”
“Here we go. God knows.”
“Earlier on, you said that according to your belief system, women do not exist. I find it astonishing that a man who professes such a creed has created so many women on paper. I won't go over all of them, but I counted roughly forty-six female characters in your work.”
“And what is that supposed to prove?”
“It proves that women do exist in your ideology: a first contradiction. And you will see, there are others.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle is on the hunt for contradictions! I would have you know, Mademoiselle Schoolmarm, that Prétextat Tach has raised contradiction to the level of a fine art. Can you imagine anything more elegant, more subtle, more disconcerting, or more acute than my system of self-contradiction? And now along comes a silly little gooseâall that's missing is a pair of glasses on her noseâtriumphantly announcing to me that she has uncovered a few unfortunate contradictions in my work! Isn't it marvelous having such discerning readers?”
“I never said that the contradiction was unfortunate.”
“No, but it's obvious that's what you were thinking.”
“I'm in a better position than you to know what I am thinking.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“And, as it happens, I thought the contradiction was interesting.”
“Good Lord.”
“Forty-six female characters, as I was saying.”
“For your calculations to be of any interest whatsoever, you should have counted how many male characters there are, too, my child.”
“I did.”
“Such presence of mind.”
“One hundred and sixty-three male characters.”
“My poor girl, if you did not inspire so much pity, I would readily laugh at such a disproportion.”
“Beware of pity.”
“Ooh! She's read Zweig! How cultured she is! You see, my dear, the peasants who resemble me go no further than Montherlant, who seems to be cruelly lacking from your reading. I pity women, so I hate them, and vice versa.”
“Since you have such healthy feelings toward our sex, please explain why you created forty-six female characters.”
“It's out of the question: you are the one who is going to explain it to me. I would not forego such entertainment for anything on earth.”
“It is not up to me to explain your work to you. However, I can share a few remarks.”
“Please do.”
“I'll give them to you off the top of my head. You have written books without any women: there is
Apology of Dyspepsia
, of courseâ”
“Why âof course'?”
“Because it contains no characters at all, obviously.”
“So it's true you have read me, at least in part.”
“Nor are there any women in
The Solvent, Pearls for a Massacre
,
Buddha in a Glass of Water
,
Assault on Ugliness
,
Total Disaster
,
Death and Then Some
,
or evenâand this is more astonishingâin
Poker, Women, and Other People.
”
“What exquisite subtlety on my part.”
“So that makes eight novels without women. Twenty-two minus eight makes fourteen. So there are fourteen novels sharing out the forty-six female characters.”
“Isn't science wonderful.”
“Naturally the characters are not evenly spread out among the fourteen remaining books.”
“Why ânaturally'? I cannot stand all these ânaturally's and âof course's you resort to when speaking of my books, as if my oeuvre were so very predictable, with transparent inner workings.”
“It is precisely because your oeuvre is so unpredictable that I used the term ânaturally.'”
“No sophistry, please.”
“The absolute record for female characters is held by
Gratuitous Rapes Between the Wars
, where there are twenty-three women.”
“There's a reason for that.”
“Forty-six minus twenty-three equals twenty-three. Which leaves us with thirteen novels and twenty-three women.”
“Admirable statistics.”
“You wrote four monogynous novels, if you will allow me such an incongruous neologism.”
“But can you yourself allow it?”
“They are:
Prayer on Breaking and Entering
,
The Sauna and Other Luxuries
,
The Prose of Epilation
,
and
Dying without Adverbs
.”
“Which leaves us with?”
“Nine novels and nineteen women.”
“And how are they divided up?”
“
Dirty People
:
three women. All the other books are dygynous:
Crucifixion Made Easy
,
The Disorder of the Garter
,
Urbi and Orbi
,
Slaves in the Oasis
,
Membranes
,
Three Boudoirs
,
Concomitant Graceâ
wait, there's one missing.”
“No, you've named them all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, you've learned your lesson well.”
“I'm convinced there's one missing. Let me count over from the beginning.”
“Oh, no, you're not going to start all over!”
“I have to, otherwise my statistics won't tally.”
“I will give you my absolution.”
“Never mind, I'll start over. Have you got a piece of paper and a pencil?”
“No.”
“Please, Monsieur Tach, help me, we'll save time.”
“I told you not to start over again. You are an utter bore with all your lists!”
“Then help me not to have to start over again, and tell me the title that is missing.”
“But I have no idea. I've already forgotten all the titles you listed.”
“You forget your own work?”
“Naturally. You'll see, when you get to be eighty-three years old.”
“But still, there are some of your novels that you cannot have forgotten.”
“No doubt, but which ones exactly?”
“It's not up to me to tell you.”
“What a pity. Your judgment is so amusing.”
“I'm delighted. And now, please be quiet a moment. Let's see:
Apology for Dyspepsia
, that makes one,
The Solventâ
”
“Are you having me on or what?”
“âmakes two.
Pearls for a Massacre
, three.”
“Do you have any earplugs on you?”
“Do you have the missing title?”
“No.”
“Never mind.
Buddha in a Glass of Water
,
four.
Assault on Ugliness
,
five.”
“165. 28. 3925. 424.”
“You're not about to confuse me.
Total Disaster
, six.
Death and Then Some
, seven.”
“Would you like a toffee?”
“No.
Poker, Women, and Other People
,
eight.
Gratuitous Rapes Between the Wars
,
nine.”
“Would you like a Brandy Alexander?”
“Be quiet.
Prayer on Breaking and Entering
, ten.”
“You're watching your weight, aren't you? I was sure of it. Don't you think you're thin enough as it is?”
“
The Sauna and Other Luxuries
, eleven.”
“I expected just such an answer.”
“
The Prose of Epilation
,
twelve.”
“My my, this is crazy, you're reciting them in exactly the same order as the first time.”
“You see yourself that you have an excellent memory.
Dying without Adverbs
,
thirteen.”
“You mustn't exaggerate. But why don't you list them in chronological order?”
“You even remember them in chronological order?
Dirty People
,
fourteen.
Crucifixion Made Easy
,
fifteen.”
“Do me a favor, stop there.”
“On one condition: give me the missing title. Your memory is far too good to have forgotten it.”
“And yet I have. Amnesia tends to be incoherent.”
“
The Disorder of the Garter
,
sixteen.”
“Are you going to go on like this for long?”
“Just long enough to stimulate your memory.”
“My memory? You did say âmy' memory?”
“Indeed.”
“Am I to understand that you yourself have not forgotten the novel in question?”
“How could I have forgotten it?”
“But why don't you just say it, then?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“But I'm telling you, once again, I don't remember it.”
“I don't believe you. You could have forgotten all the others, but not that one.”
“What's so extraordinary about it, then?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“No. I'm an unwitting genius?”
“Make me laugh.”
“Besides, if that novel was so fabulous, someone would have already mentioned it. And no one ever has. When people talk about my work, they always refer to the same four books.”
“You know very well that that doesn't prove a thing.”
“Oh, I see. Mademoiselle is a drawing room snob. You're the type who exclaims, âDear friend, have you read Proust? No, no, not
Remembrance of Things Past,
don't be vulgar. I mean the article he published in 1904 in
Le Figaro
. . .”
“So let's agree that I'm a snob. The missing title, please.”
“I'm afraid I don't like it.”
“Which confirms my assumption.”
“Your assumption? Well, I never.”
“Fine. Since you refuse to cooperate, I will have to start my list all over againâI don't remember where I left off.”
“You don't need to repeat your litany, you know the missing title.”
“Alas, I fear I've forgotten it again.
Apology for Dyspepsia,
one.”
“One more word and I'll strangle you, crippled though I may be.”
“Strangle? The choice of the verb is telling.”
“Would you prefer I gave you a rabbit punch?”
“This time, monsieur, you will not succeed in avoiding the subject. So talk to me about strangling.”
“What? I wrote a book with that title?”
“Not exactly.”
“Listen, you're getting downright exasperating with all your riddles. Tell me the title and let's get it over with.”
“I'm in no hurry to get it over with. I'm having too much fun.”
“Well, you're the only one.”
“Which makes the situation all the more pleasant. But let's not get off the subject. Talk to me about strangling, my good man.”
“I have nothing to say on the matter.”
“Oh, no? Why were you threatening me, then?”
“I just said it, well, the way I would have said, âGo fly a kite!'”
“Yes. And yet, what a coincidence: you preferred to threaten me with strangling. How strange.”
“What are you getting at? Maybe you have a thing about Freudian slips? That's all I need.”
“I didn't use to believe in Freudian slips. But as of a minute ago, I've become a believer.”
“I didn't use to believe in the efficiency of verbal torture. And now as of these last few minutes I've started to believe in it.”
“You flatter me. But let's put our cards on the table, all right? I have plenty of time, and until you dig that missing title out of your memory, and until you speak to me about strangling, I will not leave you alone.”
“Aren't you ashamed, hounding a crippled old man who is obese, and destitute, and sick?”
“I don't know what that is, shame.”
“Yet another virtue that your teachers neglected to inculcate you with.”
“Monsieur Tach, you don't know what shame is, either.”
“That's normal. I have no reason to be ashamed.”
“Didn't you say that your books are harmful?”
“Precisely: I would be ashamed if I had
not
harmed humankind.”
“As it happens, I'm not interested in humankind.”
“Nor should you be: humankind is not interesting.”
“But individuals are interesting, aren't they?”
“Indeed, they are so rare.”
“Talk to me about an individual that you have known.”
“Well, there is Céline, for example.”
“Oh, no, not Céline.”
“What? Is he not interesting enough for Mademoiselle?”
“Talk to me about a flesh-and-blood individual that you have known, with whom you have lived, spoken, etc.”
“The nurse?”
“No, not the nurse. Come on, you know who I mean. You know perfectly well.”
“I have no idea, you irritating little bitch.”
“I'm going to tell you a little story, which might help your senile brain to retrieve its memories.”
“Go right ahead. Since I am not going to be allowed to speak for some time, I request permission to go get some toffees. I sorely need them, with all the torment your are subjecting me to.”
“Permission granted.”
The novelist placed a huge square toffee in his mouth.
“My story begins with an astonishing discovery. Journalists are creatures who are completely devoid of scruples, that you know. Therefore, I rummaged around in your past without consulting you, because you would have forbidden it. I can see you smiling and I know what you're thinking: that you covered all your tracks, that you are the last representative of your family, that you have never had any friendsâin short, that I would not be able to dig up any information about your past. You are mistaken, dear sir. You must beware of underhand witnesses. You must beware of the places where you have lived. They speak. I see you are laughing once again. Yes, your childhood château burned down sixty-five years ago. A strange fire, actually, that was never explained.”