Hygiene and the Assassin (3 page)

“An expression of the absurd, maybe?”

“It's no more absurd than what you do, if you want my opinion—but I'm not sure you do.”

“Of course I do, I'm a journalist.”

“Precisely.”

“Why do you feel such hostility toward journalists?”

“Not toward journalists, toward you.”

“What have I done to deserve it?”

“This is too much. Here you have been insulting me, treating me as a metaphorian, accusing me of bad taste, inferring that I was not ‘so' ugly, importuning the wax vendor and now, to take the cake, you claim to understand me.”

“But . . . what am I supposed to say?”

“That's your profession, not mine. When one is as stupid as you are, he ought not to harangue Prétextat Tach.”

“You yourself gave me permission.”

“I most certainly did not. It was that idiot of a secretary, Gravelin, and he has no talent for discernment.”

“Earlier, you said he was an excellent man.”

“That doesn't preclude stupidity.”

“Come now, Monsieur Tach, don't make yourself more disagreeable than you already are.”

“You vulgar so-and-so! Leave here at once!”

“But . . . the interview has only just begun!”

“It has lasted far too long already, you ill-mannered lout! Get out of here! And tell your colleagues to show some respect for Prétextat Tach!”

The journalist hurried away, his tail between his legs.

 

His colleagues were having a drink at the café across the street and hadn't expected to see him come out so soon; they waved to him. The poor fellow was green, and he collapsed in their midst.

Once he'd ordered a triple egg flip, he found the strength to relate his misadventure. His fear meant he was giving off a terrible smell, which must not have been unlike that of Jonah emerging from his cetacean sojourn. His companions found it off-putting. Was he aware of his fustiness? He himself evoked Jonah: “The belly of the whale! I assure you, it was all there! Dark, ugly, frightening, claustrophobic . . .”

“Did it stink?” ventured a colleague.

“That was about the only thing that was missing. But the man himself—like a slimy intestine! Smooth as a liver, as blown up as his belly must be. Perfidious as a spleen, and as bitter as a gallbladder! Just the way he looked at me, I felt as if he were digesting me, dissolving me in the juices of his totalitarian metabolism!”

“Go on, you're exaggerating!”

“On the contrary, I'll never find words strong enough. If you could have seen how angry he was at the end! I've never seen such terrifying anger: it was both sudden and perfectly controlled. You'd expect a lard-ass like him to go red, swell up, have trouble breathing, and sweat like a pig. Not at all, the only thing that equaled the suddenness of his anger was his coldness. If you could have heard his voice when he told me to get out! It was just how I imagined a Chinese emperor would speak when ordering an immediate beheading.”

“In any case, he gave you the opportunity to play the hero.”

“Do you think so? I've never felt so pathetic.”

He gulped down his egg flip and burst into tears.

“Go on, this won't be the first time anyone's taken a journalist for an idiot.”

“It's true, I've heard worse. But there was just something about the way he said it, his smooth face icy with scorn: it was very convincing.”

“Can you let us hear the recording?”

In a religious silence, the tape recorder unreeled its truth, which was bound to be partial, because it had been amputated of the darkness, the placid features, the huge inexpressive hands, the general immobility, and everything which had contributed to make the poor journalist reek with fear. When they had finished listening, his colleagues, cruel as only humans can be, could not help but think the novelist was right: they admired him, and each one had to put in his two cents and lecture the victim.

“Sorry old boy, but you asked for it! The way you talked about literature with him—as if from a school book. I totally understand his reaction.”

“Why did you want to identify him with one of his characters? What a simplistic idea.”

“And those biographical questions, nobody cares about that. Haven't you read Proust,
Contre Sainte-Beuve
?”

“You really screwed up, saying that you're used to interviewing writers.”

“How tactless can you get, saying he's not ‘so' ugly! Don't you have any manners, you pitiful old thing?”

“And what about the metaphor! He really got you there. I don't mean to be hurtful, but you deserved it.”

“Honestly, how can you talk about the absurd with a genius like Tach? It's pure slapstick.”

“In any case, one thing is patently clear about this botched interview of yours: this guy is amazing! So intelligent!”

“So eloquent!”

“So much finesse for a fat man!”

“So nasty and yet so concise!”

“But you do agree, at least, that he is nasty?” cried the unfortunate fellow, clinging to this notion as if it were his last hope.

“Not nasty enough, if you want my opinion.”

“I think he was even quite good-natured with you.”

“And funny. When you—forgive me—were stupid enough to tell him you understood, he could easily, in all fairness, have come out with a scathing insult. But he merely showed his sense of humor—completely tongue-in-cheek, and you couldn't even see it.”

“
Margaritas ante porcos
.”

They were going for the jugular. The victim ordered another triple egg flip.

 

As for Prétextat Tach, he preferred Brandy Alexanders. He did not drink a great deal, but when he wanted to imbibe a little something, it was always a Brandy Alexander. He insisted on preparing it himself, because he did not trust other people's proportions. Luxuriating in spite, the intransigent fat man was wont to repeat an adage that he himself had coined: “You can measure an individual's bad faith by the way he mixes a Brandy Alexander.”

If one were to apply this axiom to Tach himself, one would be forced to concur that he was the very incarnation of good faith. A single sip of his Brandy Alexander would suffice to defeat the champion of any raw egg or condensed milk ingestion contest. The novelist could digest an entire tankard without a flicker of indisposition. When Gravelin marveled at his employer's prowess, the fat man replied, “I am the Mithridates of Brandy Alexanders.”

“But can we even still call it a Brandy Alexander?”

“It is the quintessence of Brandy Alexanders, and the rabble will never know anything but unworthy dilutions thereof.”

To such august declarations, there is nothing more to add.

M
onsieur Tach, before anything else, on behalf of my entire profession I would like to apologize for what happened yesterday.”

“What is supposed to have happened yesterday?”

“Well, that journalist dishonored us, bothering you the way he did.”

“Ah yes, I remember. A very nice boy. When will I see him again?”

“Never again, rest assured. You might like to know that he's sick as a dog today.”

“Poor boy! What happened?”

“Too many egg flips.”

“I've always known that egg flips can play dirty tricks on you. If I had been aware of his taste for such invigorating beverages, I would have mixed him a good Brandy Alexander, there's nothing like it for the me­tabolism. Would you like a Brandy Alexander, young man?”

“Never while I'm on duty, thank you.”

The journalist failed to notice the intensely suspicious gaze that his refusal inspired.

“Monsieur Tach, you must not be angry with our colleague over what happened yesterday. There are not many journalists who have been properly prepared to meet individuals like yourself . . .”

“That's all we need. Train good people so they can meet me! You could call such a discipline ‘The art of dealing with geniuses'! How dreadful!”

“You think so? May I conclude that you won't hold it against my colleague? Thank you for your understanding.”

“Have you come here to talk about your colleague, or to talk about me?”

“About you, of course; this was just by way of introduction.”

“What a pity. Dear Lord, the prospect is so distressing that I need a Brandy Alexander. I hope you don't mind waiting a moment—it's your fault, after all, you shouldn't have mentioned Brandy Alexanders, you've made me want one with all your carrying on.”

“But I never said anything about Brandy Alexanders!”

“Don't start off on the wrong foot, young man. I cannot stand bad faith. You still don't want to taste my beverage?”

He did not realize that Tach was offering him his last chance, and he let it slip by. Shrugging his huge shoulders, the novelist wheeled his chair over toward a sort of coffin, then raised the lid, revealing bottles, cans of food, and tankards.

“This is a Merovingian coffin,” explained the fat man, “that I've converted into a bar.”

He took hold of one of three big metal goblets, poured a generous dose of crème de cacao, and then some brandy. He gave the journalist a cunning glance.

“And now, you're going to learn the chef's secret. The common of mortals adds a final third of heavy cream. I think that's a bit too rich, so I've replaced the cream by an equivalent amount of . . .”—(he grabbed hold of one on the cans)—“sweet condensed milk.” (And went on to illustrate his words with his gesture.)

“But that must be disgustingly rich!” said the journalist, sinking ever deeper.

“This year, we're having a mild winter. When it's cold, I add a big dollop of melted butter to my Brandy Alexander.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes. Condensed milk does not contain as much fat as cream, so you have to make up for it. In fact, as it is still only January 15, theoretically I am entitled to add some butter, but to do so I would have to go into the kitchen and leave you alone, and that would be ill-mannered. So I will do without the butter.”

“Please, I beg you, don't deprive yourself for my sake.”

“No, never mind. In honor of the ultimatum that expires this evening, I shall do without butter.”

“Do you feel directly concerned by the Gulf crisis?”

“So concerned that I am not adding butter to my Brandy Alexander.”

“Do you follow the news on television?”

“Between two commercial breaks, I sometimes subject myself to the news.”

“What do you think of the Gulf crisis?”

“Nothing.”

“You still think nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“You're completely indifferent to it?”

“Not at all. But what I might think about it is irrelevant. You shouldn't ask a fat man for his opinion on this crisis. I am neither a general, nor a pacifist, nor a gas station attendant, nor an Iraqi. However, if you ask me about Brandy Alexanders, I shall be brilliant.”

To conclude his flight of eloquence, the novelist raised the tankard to his lips and quaffed a few gluttonous gulps.

“Why do you drink from a metal container?”

“I don't like transparency. That is also one of the reasons why I am so fat: I don't like for people to see through me.”

“Speaking of which, Monsieur Tach, I would like to ask you something that all the journalists are burning to ask, but have never dared.”

“How much I weigh?”

“No, what you eat. We know that food is a very important part of your life. Gastronomy, and its natural consequence, digestion, are at the heart of some of your recent novels, such as
An Apology for Dyspepsia
,
a work which, to me, seems to contain a condensed version of your metaphysical concerns.”

“Exactly. I consider metaphysics to be the best form of expression for the metabolism. Along the same line, since one's metabolism can be divided into anabolism and catabolism, I have split metaphysics into anaphysics and cataphysics. This should not be seen as a dualist tension, but as two obligatory and, more inconveniently, simultaneous phases of a thought process devoted to triviality.”

“Is this not also an allusion to Jarry and pataphysics?”

“No, monsieur.
I
am a serious writer,” answered the old man icily, before imbibing another swallow of Brandy Alexander.

“So, Monsieur Tach, if you please, would you be so kind as to outline for me the various digestive stages in a typical day of your life?”

There was a solemn silence, while the novelist seemed to be thinking. Then he began to speak, in a grave tone of voice, as if he were unveiling some secret dogma.

“In the morning, I wake up at around eight o'clock. To begin with, I go to the toilet to empty my bladder and my intestines. Would you like any details?”

“No, I think that should be enough.”

“So much the better, because while it is an indispensable stage in the digestive process, it is absolutely disgusting, that you may believe.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

“Blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed. After that, I powder myself, then I get dressed.”

“Do you always wear this dressing gown?”

“Yes, except when I go out shopping.”

“Does your handicap not make it difficult to get around?”

“I've had time to get used to it. Then I go into the kitchen and make my breakfast. In the old days, when I spent my time writing, I didn't cook, and I ate coarse meals, such as cold tripe . . .”

“Cold tripe in the morning?”

“I can see why you might be surprised. You must realize that in those days, writing was virtually my sole preoccupation. But nowadays I would find it repulsive to eat cold tripe in the morning. For twenty years I have been in the habit of browning it in goose fat for half an hour.”