by Jean Echenoz
30
Having gone into effect in 1995, the Schengen Agreement inaugurated, as everyone knows, the unrestricted circulation of persons between the member countries of Europe. The abolition of interior border controls, along with reinforced surveillance at the external frontiers, authorizes the rich to visit the rich, comfortably among their own kind, opening their arms wide the better to shut them to the poor, who, even more inbred, understand their pain all the better. Naturally the customs institutions remain, and although the civilian may still not smuggle whatever he wants with impunity, he can at least move around now without waiting an hour at the border for someone to sniff his passport. This is what Baumgartner is getting ready to do.
By dint of having crisscrossed the area, the humblest ecomuseums, curiosities, scenic views, and rest stops situated in the lower left-hand corner of the French map hold no more secrets for him. Of late he hasn’t ventured away from the extreme southwest tip, never more than an hour from the border, as if, a semiclandestine passenger aboard a leaky steamship, he were always hovering near the lifeboats, hidden behind a ventilator.
But Baumgartner didn’t need to notice more than three times in three days the same red-clad, red-helmeted motorcyclist to decide on a change of scenery. This individual first appeared to him in the rearview mirror, some distance back, on a winding local highway in the open mountain range, emerging and eclipsing with the hairpin turns. Another time, at a toll booth, not far from two motorcycle cops in black, it seemed that the same person was leaning on his bike and biting into a sandwich—evidently the helmet didn’t inhibit the vertical motion of his jaws. The third time, apparently broken down on the side of a local highway under the renewed rain, the man was hanging on to an emergency phone: coming up the roadside, Baumgartner aimed the right tires of his car toward a deep, wide puddle. He laughed to watch, in his mirror, the man jump under the muddy spray, and was even a little disappointed not to see him shake his fist.
Baumgartner’s life, which these past weeks had been fairly loose-ended, silent, muffled like a bad fog, now experienced a little animation with the advent of the red cyclist. The other’s presence and the concern it inspired made him feel less alone, attenuating the echo produced, in hotel rooms, by each of his movements. The daily calls to Paris, his only remaining connection to the world, blunted his isolation; it was moreover by telephone that he announced his departure for Spain. And besides, he said, autumn was here, the evenings were getting chilly. It’s simple, it rains all the time. I’ll be better off down there.
From where he is, i.e., today, Thursday morning, in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, there are two possible roads to Spain. Either Autoroute 63, where the border consists in aligned arches and columns, punctuated by road signs and emblems; old yellowish heat-sealed spots peeling off the asphalt; closed, abandoned booths, their barriers perpetually raised on three scattered, idle functionaries wearing indifferent uniforms, turning their backs to the traffic and wondering what the hell they’re doing there. Or you can take the old Highway 10: this is what Baumgartner chooses.
On Highway 10, it’s at Béhobie that you cross the border, which is embodied by a bridge over the Bidasoa. Enormous trucks are parked in front of the last French building, a bank, and customs on the other side now consists in desolate, vandalized blockhouses, their caved-in shutters askew. The remains of their dirty windows poorly conceal the rubble and detritus cluttering them up and the whole thing is very sad, but they’re going to be torn down soon: given the state of the installations, the Madrid authorities have endorsed the procedure initiated by the community; it’s only a matter of time. The steam shovels are chomping at the bit and everyone is waiting for the official clearance, at which point they can sign the permit that will let them blow the whole thing sky high.
The entire area, moreover, already looks like a demolition yard. A number of houses with fallen walls have been invaded by parasitic vegetation that has grown inordinately through the collapsed roofs. The more recent constructions, not yet ripe, have various textiles and blackish plastics flapping from their windows. It smells of sour rust, and the sky, too, is the color of rust or excrement, barely distinguishable behind the carbon of the rain. Several factories look like they’ve been destroyed even before the bankruptcy petition was filed, surrounded by heaps of garbage, marked by deserted scaffolds and slathered with graffiti. Past the bridge, the haphazardly parked vehicles await their drivers, who have gotten out to buy duty-free alcohol and tobacco. Then, once they’ve left, the road choked by red lights convulses in a chronic bottleneck: they progress in spasms like a cough.
Like everyone else, Baumgartner gets out of the car and runs in the rain toward the discount shops, the collar of his raincoat pulled up over his skull. One shop is selling small black nylon rain hats with plaid lining for thirty-five francs, a lucky break. Baumgartner tries several on. Size 58 is too small, 60 is a bit large, so he buys without hesitation or trial a 59, which must be right, but which, after he looks at it in the makeup mirror of his car, somehow doesn’t seem to fit right either—too late and too bad. The Fiat crosses the border without incident, and Baumgartner breathes easier afterward.
Your body changes when crossing a border—everyone knows this, too—your eyes change lens and focal depth, the air modifies its density, and scents and sounds particularly stand out; even the sun wears a different face. Rusts corrode the road signs in unknown ways, while the signs themselves announce an innovative conception of steep inclines, bends in the road, or reduced speed ahead. Some of these signs remain obscure, moreover, and Baumgartner feels himself becoming someone else, or rather the same and someone else at once, as if he’s had all his blood transfused. On top of which, the minute he crosses the border, a soft breeze unfamiliar to France starts blowing.
Two miles past the former border post, a new traffic jam forms. A van with the word Policia blocks the road in the opposite direction. Men in black uniforms filter the traffic, and fifty yards beyond that, their chests barred by diagonal machine-pistols, others in camouflage watch the embankment. Baumgartner does not feel especially concerned but, two miles farther on, as he’s rolling along at moderate speed, a navy blue Renault van passes him. Instead of cutting in front, the van pulls alongside, then an arm emerges from a lowered window, in a rolled-up sleeve of the same color and extended by a long pale hand whose slender fingers wave slowly up and down, tap the air in cadence, beat time while lithely indicating the shoulder of the road onto which, calmly but firmly, Baumgartner’s car is forced to pull over.
Baumgartner activates his blinker while exhorting himself not to sweat, brakes slowly, then stops. Once the blue van has come to a gentle halt a dozen yards ahead of the Fiat, two men get out. They are Spanish border guards, smiling and clean-shaven; their hair has retained all the grooves of the comb, their uniforms are well starched, a song still plays about their lips as they approach Baumgartner with a dancing step. One speaks almost accentless French, the other keeps silent. “Mobile Customs, Sir,” says the one who speaks, “just a little formality. Car registration and identity papers and please be so good as to open your trunk.”
It takes less than a minute for the contents of the trunk, inspected by the silent one, to reveal themselves of no interest: suitcase, change of clothes, toiletries. The speechless customs man closes it with a watchmaker’s delicacy while the other, Baumgartner’s identity in hand, heads on tiptoe toward the van from which he reemerges three minutes later, no doubt having phoned in or consulted a screen. “Very good, Sir,” he says. “Kindly accept our deepest apologies and our gratitude for your cooperation, which does us honor and reinforces our inalterable respect for the fundamental morality that is indissociable from the mission we have by good fortune been entrusted and to which we devote our lives absolutely and without distractions even of a familial nature (Yes, says Baumgartner) whatever the obstacles whose very size and brutality inspire and enhance the impetus which daily moves us to battle the cancer that is violation of the p
rinciples of municipal taxation (Yes, yes, says Baumgartner) but which also allows me to wish you among many other things, in the name of my people as a whole and of our customs institution in particular, an excellent journey.”
“Thank you, thank you,” says Baumgartner, his head swimming; then he shifts into the wrong gear and stalls, but finally drives off.
He is back on the road now. Autumn has indeed arrived, is even fairly well advanced, since right now the sky is crossed by a flock of storks following the highway axis. These storks are migrating; it’s the season; they’re doing their yearly Potsdam-Nouakchott via Gibraltar almost without stopping, tracing the paths of existing roads. They will stop only once, practically at midway, on the interminable straight line that runs unbroken from Algeciras to Málaga; the road is lined with pylons atop which the wise authorities have thought to install vast stork-sized nests. There they will take some rest, time to breathe a little, cackle among themselves awhile, massacre native rats and vipers, maybe even a nice little carcass, you never know—while upstream the two good-looking Spanish customs men glance at each other and burst out laughing. “Me parece, tío,” says the man who talks to the one who doesn’t, “que hemos dado tiempo al Tiempo.” They both double over; the breeze turns cooler.
And twenty minutes later, a little before noon, Baumgartner enters a seaside resort town. He parks his Fiat in the underground lot in the center, takes a room at the London & England Hotel, which looks out on the bay, then goes out again to wander a moment, with no particular goal, around the clear wide streets of the central quarter with its purveyors of luxury and other garments. He knows enough Spanish to try on a pair of trousers in a shop, but not enough to explain why he doesn’t want them. Then he returns to the old town where the streets harbor a supernatural multitude of bars. Entering one of them, Baumgartner points to some little poached or grilled things in sauce displayed on the counter, which he devours quickly while standing; then he returns to the hotel via the promenade along the bay.
And two weeks later it turns quite cold for early October. On the promenade, everyone is already dressed in parkas and overcoats, furs and scarves; quilts smother baby carriages that are pushed more briskly. From the window of his room in the London & England Hotel, Baumgartner sees a woman with the magnificent physique of a sea lion, wearing a black one-piece bathing suit, enter the verdigris ocean whose color alone gives you the chills. She is absolutely alone in the bay, under a brownish-gray sky that doesn’t make it feel any warmer; people on the promenade stop to watch. She moves forward into the icy water until it reaches her ankles, her knees, her pubis, then her waist, at which point, before plunging in with outstretched arms, she crosses herself, and Baumgartner envies her. What has she got that I haven’t to be able to do that? Maybe it’s just that she knows how to swim. I don’t. I know the sign of the cross, but how to swim, no.
31
“So are we drawing up this contract or what?” Corday feverishly insisted the next morning.
“The contract, the contract,” mused Ferrer, already less enthusiastic than the day before, “not right away. For the moment, let’s just say that I’ll take care of manufacturing the works, okay? I’ll take over that whole side of it. And I’ll reimburse myself from the proceeds when they sell. Then we’ll have to see if the stuff catches on, if we can find you another place to exhibit. Belgium or Germany, something like that. If it doesn’t catch on, we’ll stay mostly in France, try to find something in a cultural center, for instance. Then afterward we’ll try to get a piece bought by some department store or other, you know, then we can get that piece shown somewhere, that would already create a little momentum. And after that, New York.”
“New York!” the other gawped in echo.
“New York,” repeated Ferrer, “New York. It’s always pretty much the same scenario, you see? Then if all that works out, we can put whatever we want in the contract, at that point. Would you excuse me a moment?”
Near the entrance, pondering a recent work, a giant asbestos bra by the husband of the lover of Schwartz who had recommended it to Ferrer, stood Criminal Identification officer Supin. He looked so young; he was still wearing his standard cool young cop outfit, an outfit he profoundly disliked, but a job’s a job. He mainly seemed happy to be there, Ferrer gallery, modern art, finally something he could relate to.
“About that Fiat,” said Supin. “I just wanted to let you know we think we’ve spotted it near the Spanish border. Mobile Customs, routine check—a lucky break. They tried to detain the driver for a while, but of course customs can’t do much in matters like this. They tipped us off right away, we’re lucky we get along so well with our counterparts in the sector. Obviously I’m going to try to locate the individual. I’ve got some colleagues down there who I’ll put on the case, but I can’t guarantee anything. If I find out anything I’ll call you. I’ll let you know what’s what tonight or tomorrow, in any case. Tell me, just out of curiosity, how much does that kind of thing go for, that big bra over there?”
After Supin went reeling out, floored by the price, and despite his hopeful information, a somber melancholy flooded Ferrer. He had gotten rid of Corday as expeditiously as possible, no longer sure of being able to keep even his minimal promises; we’d see. He had to force himself not to let this black abyss swallow everything, especially not infect his professional life and his views on art in general. Casting a panoramic and suddenly disgusted glance over the works exhibited in his gallery, he was invaded by doubt and again had to close up earlier than usual. He let Elisabeth go for the day before locking the glass door and electrically lowering the iron shutter, then walked, hunched against the violent wind that was blowing, up to the Saint-Lazare metro station. Transfer at Opéra, get out at Châtelet; the courthouse was just across the Seine, less than a two-minute walk from there. Ferrer’s various professional and financial troubles were not the only source of his depression, his hunched back and pinched face: it’s also that it was October 10, and going somewhere to get divorced is never an enticing prospect.
He was, of course, not the only one in this situation, which was no consolation: the waiting room was filled with couples at the end of their journey. Some didn’t seem to get along too badly despite the circumstances, chatting quietly with their attorneys. The summons was for eleven-thirty and, at forty past, Suzanne still hadn’t arrived—always late, Ferrer said to himself with a trace memory of annoyance, but the family court judge was, too. The waiting room was furnished with uncomfortable plastic chairs attached to the four walls, surrounding a low table covered with a collection of heterogeneous and worn-out publications: legal periodicals, art and health magazines, weeklies consecrated to the lives of celebrities. Ferrer picked one of them up and started leafing through it: as usual, it was composed of photographs of stars, stars of every stripe stemming from the lyrical, televisual, cinematographic, athletic, political, and even culinary spheres. A two-page spread in the centerfold offered up the photo of a superstar flanked by her new conquest, in the background of which, a little out of focus but still perfectly recognizable, one could make out Baumgartner. In four seconds Ferrer would come across that page and that photo, three seconds, two seconds, one second, but Suzanne chose that instant to burst in, and he closed the magazine without regrets.
The judge was a gray-haired woman, at once calm and tense: calm in that she felt accustomed to being a judge, tense in that she knew she would never entirely be accustomed to it. Although she was visibly making an effort to remain cool, Ferrer imagined her as a caring person in her private life, reassuring and perhaps even loving, yes, certainly a good wife and mother though not always a barrel of laughs. Her husband was probably a court clerk who took care of the household chores when she had to be late for dinner, during which they would discuss the fine points of civil jurisprudence. As she first saw the couple together, Ferrer, deeming that her questions didn’t apply to him, reacted a minima. Suzanne also remained reserved, answering only when she had to
and with a distinct economy of means.
“No, no,” said Ferrer when the judge confirmed as a formality that there were no children.
“So you’ve made your decision,” said the judge, looking at Suzanne—and, turning to Ferrer: “The husband looks a little less certain than the wife.”
“No, yes,” Ferrer sputtered. “No problem.”
Then she saw each of them individually, one after the other, the wife first. While awaiting his turn, Ferrer did not pick up the same magazine and, when Suzanne came out of the judge’s chamber, he stood up and sought her out with a look that she didn’t return. He banged against a chair as he headed for the chamber. “Are you absolutely sure you want a divorce?” asked the judge.
“Yes, yes,” answered Ferrer.
“Fine,” she said, closing the file, and there you had it, it was done.
As they were leaving, Ferrer would gladly have offered to buy Suzanne lunch or just a drink, across the street, for instance, at the Courthouse Brasserie, but she didn’t leave him time. Ferrer shuddered, expecting the worst, the humiliating insults and categorical demands he’d managed to avoid in January, but no, no. Simply raising a finger to keep him silent, she opened her bag from which she pulled a spare set of keys to the gallery that had remained behind in Issy, handed them to him without a word, then walked off toward the Pont Saint-Michel to the south. Five motionless seconds later, Ferrer started off toward the Pont au Change to the north.
Later that afternoon, back at the gallery, Ferrer closed up as he did every day at seven o’clock. Night would soon fall; the sun was no longer visible from that part of the Earth. There remained only a pure blue-gray sky, in the middle of which a distant airplane, gathering the last imperceptible rays from below, traced a bright pink line. Again Ferrer stood motionless for a few seconds, gazing down the street before heading off. Like him, the neighborhood shopkeepers were pulling down their iron curtains. The workmen from the construction site across the way had also left work, after prudently setting the jib of the cranes in the direction of the wind for the night. On the facade of the neighboring tall building, every other window was obstructed by parabolic antennas: when the sun was out, these parabolas must have kept it from entering, welcoming in its stead images destined for the television that thus replaced the view.