by Jean Echenoz
But after initially admiring the bird for its melodic invention, Constance ended up finding the constant reiteration of this same tune boring, annoying, and finally exasperating. Soon she was cursing the song’s composer, devaluing his work, and regarding him merely as an inept disciple of the minimalist school, a poor man’s La Monte Young or Charlemagne Palestine. This bird apart, Constance could also inspect the comings and goings of polychromatic butterflies, sometimes fluttering around on their own but more often in couples. There were a prodigious number of butterflies in the area that summer, far more than usual, despite the fact that you never saw a single elephant.
This last line might seem incongruous to you: after all, why should you see elephants in Creuse? Well, you’re right. The only reason we mention it is because, according to the work of Dr. L. Elizabeth L. Rasmussen, the females of Elephas maximus use—as all animal species do—a certain combination of molecules when rutting becomes conceivable or even desirable. Such a chemical signal allows the female elephants to inform the male elephants that they are at their sexual peak, madly in love, wildly horny, and ready to mate whenever they like. In her studies, L. Elizabeth L. Rasmussen successfully proved that this molecular gathering—this pheromone, in other words, technically designated as (Z)-7-dodecen-1-yl acetate—is exactly the same in an elephant as it is in more than a hundred species of butterflies.
We thought it would be good if this little-known zoological phenomenon were brought to the attention of the wider public. Naturally, said public has the right to object that such a piece of information seems purely digressive, a mere didactic amusement, permitting us to bring the chapter to a smooth ending without any connection to our actual story. To this objection, which is of course admissible, we would like to respond as we did earlier: for the moment.
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FOLLOWING HUBERT’S INSTRUCTIONS, Tausk made an appointment with Nadine Alcover, who turned up at his apartment around five o’clock in the afternoon. She was a pretty girl, as we have already established, with shoulder-length brown hair, a look that—like any other look, for that matter—can be appealing. Before her arrival, Tausk put on some Mahler at low volume, partly to give an elegant atmosphere, but above all to express the fact that, while his own songs might be shallow and poppy, he was open to serious, moving, dark works too, let’s say, Kathleen Ferrier in the Kindertotenlieder.
Nice place you’ve got here, Hubert’s assistant said as she sat down, and it’s a peaceful neighborhood too. Ah yes, agreed Tausk eagerly, such silence, such peace, you can’t imagine. Some tea? I’ll make it. Be with you in a second, he shouted from his American kitchen and, back in the living room, he put the tray on the coffee table, where he saw his dossier already open. This is the documentation on your case, said Nadine Alcover, with an initial summary written by Maître Coste. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Yeah, muttered Tausk, flicking through the documents, but there’s nothing here about the finger, is there? Do you want to see it, the finger? No, thank you, Nadine Alcover replied very quickly, turning her eyes away, not for the moment. I understand, said Tausk, I understand. But if you change your mind, it’s in the freezer. So, anyway. Let’s take a look.
But it was then that everything went wrong, initially in that domain of calm and silence mentioned by Lou Tausk when Hubert’s assistant arrived: from a nearby apartment, the whir of a drill started up. And yes, I know that is a lot of drills in a relatively short time in the same story, but what can I do? That’s just how it is. Beginning quietly, the whir became a whine that quickly grew loud enough to compromise a serene examination of the dossier. At first, they acted as if they couldn’t hear the drill, before raising their voices and frowning, repeating or asking the other to repeat what had been said, and in that way the hushed atmosphere that Tausk had wanted was completely ruined.
In normal circumstances, you need to use a drill only once to hang up a painting, twice to fix a curtain rod, three or four times for a bathroom mirror, and not more than a dozen times for a set of shelves. And in all these cases, they are only temporary operations, brief monotone drones that last no longer than twenty seconds . . . an everyday nuisance, annoying for the neighbors but generally pretty brief: you roll your eyes and then it’s over. But this was different. Its rumble—so powerful that you might have suspected it of coming not from an ordinary drill but from some kind of genetically manipulated machine tool: the illicit progeny of a jackhammer and a bulldozer with chromosomes from a power jigsaw—became an increasingly loud roar that, far from content to emit a single note, kept modulating as it swelled, yowling like a cat or trumpeting like an elephant depending on its angle of attack, perhaps, or the depth, resistance, or density of the material it was drilling through.
This machine soon showed such modal inventiveness that, to begin with, it didn’t hesitate to hum the first notes of the hymn “À Toi la Gloire, Ô Ressuscité”—albeit without, as is traditional, following it with the line “À toi la victoire, pour l’eternité”—morphing furtively into the chorus to “Standing on the Corner” before going wild in a tribute to the variations improvised by Jimi Hendrix in his famous version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as performed on Monday, August 18, 1969, at about eight in the morning.
They looked at each other, embarrassed and then apologetic, with half smiles of perplexity. As it was clearly impossible to examine the dossier now, they decided to be patient and wait for the noise to end. It’s very nicely decorated, your apartment, shouted Nadine Alcover, just to shout something. I could give you a tour if you like, yelled Tausk, getting to his feet. Follow me. And he showed the assistant into all the rooms in the apartment, where, despite everything, the machine tool seemed to follow them or even precede them, its howl growing ever fiercer. When, despairingly, Tausk suggested they go out to the balcony—so they could admire the view at a lower volume—the machine went into overdrive, perhaps because its operator had opened all the windows to get rid of the dust clouds. And then, suddenly, it went quiet. They exhaled. You can see how calm it is, observed Tausk. Normally, I mean. Let’s go back inside. They did, and it was as if the sky had clouded over. It’s getting a bit dark; I’m going to turn on a lamp, he announced, walking over to the lamp in question.
But apparently the drill’s operator had only taken a brief pause, enough time to go for a piss or make some coffee or both. Whatever he did, it seemed to have re-energized him, because when it started up again, his power tool was even louder than before, if that’s possible, first sounding like high-pitched flatulence and then opening its new recital with an audacious variation on the first movement of The Rite of Spring.
The noise’s unexpected resurgence made Tausk jump as he was leaning over the lamp, and he must have pressed too hard on the switch because it emitted a flash of light, accompanied by a dull crack and followed by a brief puff of smoke, and then the power went out throughout the entire apartment, silencing Kathleen Ferrier, whom we’d hardly heard at all amid this racket, though she had provided a discreet background presence.
Tausk’s visible discouragement, his extreme helplessness—because he knows nothing about electricity and cannot do anything with his ten fingers except, in an emergency, on a keyboard—were so obvious that Nadine Alcover couldn’t help noticing. A little disconcerted, but far less distraught than her host, she tried to calm him down by assuring him that it was probably nothing, that there was no reason to get upset, it must have just short-circuited. Or it could be the fuses. While indicating that she wasn’t especially good with her hands either, she thought she might be able to fix it because it would probably be very simple. But first, where was the fuse box? And second, did Tausk have a flashlight?
After Tausk took a moment to recall where those two things might be, Nadine Alcover got up on a chair to inspect the fuse box. Already Tausk felt slightly better: there was nothing more comforting than a woman who was happy to take care of this type of thing. On top of the chair, Hubert’s assistant put on her glasses and,
raising her voice (because of the altitude and the continuing din of the machine tool), diagnosed in professional-sounding tones that she could see what was wrong, and it wasn’t anything to worry about, but did he happen to have a screwdriver handy? Tausk knew that he didn’t have much in the way of tools in the apartment, but he felt sure there had to be something like that, in a box somewhere with a tape measure, a roll of duct tape, and a box cutter. He went off to look for them, then remembered that he had a box containing six screwdrivers arranged by size, still in their packaging. He found it. Things were looking up.
But unfortunately, they soon looked down again, because those screwdrivers were all either slightly too big or slightly too small for the screw, each one passing the buck while blaming its neighbor and laughing behind its hand, as if they were all conspiring to appear incompetent. We need hardly remind you that it is not a good idea to buy screwdrivers in a group, as they are often a bad influence on one another. As for the machine tool, it wasn’t showing any signs of flagging, now launching into a rendition of the “Galgenlied” from Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire.
Still perched on her chair, Nadine Alcover did manage to finish the job, despite having to ask Tausk several times to keep the flashlight beam aimed at the fuse box. The operation took no more than five minutes, enough time for Tausk to observe that the assistant was left-handed, deft but left-handed, and also to take a good look at her legs and what they led up to—hence the deviations of the flashlight beam. They are always a little disconcerting, left-handed people: we imagine them having a special interior life, hidden discord, inner torments, a very private suffering. All of this is almost certainly unfounded, but it can make them seem quite touching. For instance, it is difficult to imagine a left-handed torturer, even if there are probably lots of them.
And so, in the space of less than a second, all the lights in the apartment came back on and Kathleen Ferrier started singing again, at least as far as you could tell under the thunder of the machine tool, which was clearly being used for a very big job. Once Nadine Alcover had come down from the chair, they spontaneously agreed to have a drink, to celebrate the successful conclusion of the operation. Tausk suggested champagne, so they had a glass of bubbly each, and then another.
In any case, it wasn’t possible to calmly study Constance’s dossier as they had intended, because the conditions of quiet and comfort were still missing. All the same, though, there was no need to go their separate ways just yet; what they had been through together had brought them closer. So, we may as well finish off this bottle, don’t you think? said Tausk. Nadine Alcover had enthusiastically agreed, and Tausk had smiled at her as he poured it, batting his eyelids and spilling some of the champagne. Nadine Alcover smiled in the same teasing spirit and soon they had done everything they needed to end up in Lou Tausk’s bed together.
Nadine Alcover really was left-handed, but, contrary to perceived wisdom, she was also very good with her hands. In any case, we know that the sexual organs are ambidextrous, and there lies one of their advantages: right-handers and left-handers can, with the same ingenuity, stimulate any genitalia that come to hand. So anyway, everything went very well, for a very long time, several times over. And, from the point of view of the neighbors, the machine tool at least had the advantage of covering up the vigorous expressions of satisfaction emitted by Nadine Alcover.
She left Tausk’s apartment that evening, just in time for a meeting with a female friend in one of those chic, quiet bars—leather, copper, varnished wood—where you sit on a high stool, legs crossed, looking around out of the corners of your eyes. Nadine Alcover was expecting to find her friend on one of those stools, in front of her first Alexander, already being chatted up by some old flame. But she was wrong: in fact, her friend had taken refuge at the very back of the room, facing the wall, at a discreet table with only a club soda, and it took Nadine Alcover a while to find her. Physically, the two women are complete opposites: while Hubert’s assistant is all smiles, luxuriantly thick hair and generous curves, her friend is reserved, skinny, with dull, thin blond hair. On top of that, she did not look very well: slumped shoulders, waxy complexion, miserable expression.
She managed a feeble half smile when she saw Nadine Alcover, who ordered a gin fizz, and then the two women talked about various things, some trivial, some not: clothes, work, men, but all of this on a general level, without any anecdotes or particular confidences. So, Nadine Alcover did not mention her afternoon with Tausk, and her friend didn’t mention what she’d been up to either. But listen, said Nadine Alcover, you look kind of pale, are you sure you’re okay? I’m fine, her friend replied. A bit tired at the moment but I’m okay. And what’s that, Lucile? Nadine Alcover frowned, pointing to a large bandage around the other woman’s left pinkie. What happened to your finger? Oh, said Lucile, that’s nothing really, just a little domestic accident.
Ah, exclaimed Nadine Alcover, no one realizes how important domestic accidents are! Did you know it’s the third biggest cause of death, after cancer and heart disease? Can you imagine how many people must die in France every year from domestic accidents? More than twenty thousand! You had a lucky escape, if you think about it.
II
15
IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME since we saw General Bourgeaud, hasn’t it? It was right at the beginning of our story, when he was organizing this operation with Paul Objat, while caressing cigarillos in his office.
That office hasn’t changed much since the last time we saw it. There is another box of Panters (a different type) within the general’s reach, near the empty ashtray, but the same arrows and pictures are still taped or pinned to the wall, albeit enriched with some recent additions: two-day-old press cuttings, not-yet-dog-eared Post-its, new photographs, and various other signs that the case is progressing. The only notable change: the computer has been hooked up to some new wires and electronic gizmos.
The general hasn’t changed much either. If he hadn’t been a general, it’s hard to imagine what he would have done with his life, given his bearing, his physique, and his facial appearance. Short, sturdy, neat, crew-cut hair, facial paralysis (more or less deliberate): he is the perfect incarnation of the archetype of a general, as played by Erich von Stroheim. Even if we have seen or even known butchers, foreign exchange brokers, Franciscan monks, or high school principals who looked very much like him, and even if Erich von Stroheim also played other roles: butler, telepath, English teacher, Beethoven . . . But let’s not digress too much, because Bourgeaud is growing impatient.
The bells of Notre-Dame-des-Otages tolled three times quite a while ago, and the vexed general has just slammed shut the lid of his Panter Sprint box when finally there is a knock at the door. Enter, the general bluntly commands, and once again we see Paul Objat as he steps into the office: it’s been a while since we saw him too, we think; at least, that’s the impression we have. You’re late, Objat, the general noted, glancing at his watch rather than his visitor. Enter. Sit down. What news?
It’s coming along, Paul Objat replied. It’s brewing, if I may put it that way. And will it need to brew for much longer? the general asked, concerned. I’m not sure, said Objat. It’s like with cookery, don’t you think? You have to check on it from time to time, brown it, deglaze it, add the right spices at the right moment, you know how it is. Not at all, said the general. Of course you do, said Objat, it’s simple, I can make you understand. Take an eggplant curry, for example. Absolutely not, said the general impatiently, let’s get back to the facts. Let me remind you that it’s out of the question for this affair to be traced back to us. I’m counting on you to have put together something solid. A girl who just vanishes like that, it has to be justified.
All taken care of, General, Objat reassured him. Everything is in place. It took me a while to hand out the roles. It’s not easy, casting something like this. You have to tweak it to get it right, but I think it’s all sorted now. Everyone is playing his part. They have no idea what they’re do
ing, but they’re all doing what I planned. Perfect, sighed the general, good to hear, good to hear. That reminds me of the title of a novel by Balzac, he confided, Les Comédiens sans le savoir, I don’t know if you know it. Ah, no, not at all, said Objat, I’ve never read it. Well, neither have I, obviously, exclaimed the general, but the title is very good, don’t you think?
Paul Objat flashed his handsome smile at the general, who, satisfied with this reply, took a Panter from the box, examined it, then pulled himself together again: Good, and in terms of a deadline, could we hazard a guess at a date? As I said, Objat responded, the subject is not yet fully ripe, but the process is well on its way. It’ll take a while longer before the girl is à point. Because here, unlike in the kitchen, if I may return to that analogy, the cooking time is variable. It’s a question of terrain.
It mustn’t drag on for too long, though, grumbled Bourgeaud. I have contacts in many places who are growing impatient. I understand perfectly, Objat acknowledged, but I would say that the subject should be operational within two or three months. That is very, very long, two or three months. The general exhaled, consulting his watch again. But all right, if you’re sure about this. I’ll see you again in two weeks. Now, please excuse me but I have things to do. Fall out.
Paul Objat left the office, went downstairs, walked through the barracks courtyard, showed his badge to the guard, and found himself back on the sidewalk. He lifted the collar of his raincoat and buttoned it up to the top. The sky above Boulevard Mortier was clouding over.
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