by Jean Echenoz
After retaking possession of Constance the other day, he had driven her back to Paris without explaining anything whatsoever to her and dropped her outside the building near the Trocadéro where she had her pied-à-terre, leaving her on the sidewalk with her handbag. It wasn’t a warm day: winter was approaching. Shivering and suddenly alone, Constance felt disoriented. All in all, as intended, she did not understand anything, particularly regarding the behavior of Objat—Victor was his code name, apparently, though she still had difficulty not calling him by that name. What, she wondered as she stood in the elevator, had been the point of kidnapping her and keeping her all that time, only to liberate her without warning, without conditions, with only a muttered line about seeing each other again sometime, and abandoning her outside her apartment building?
And her apartment struck her as hostile, anonymous and—even after she turned the heating up as high as it would go—freezing cold. Constance, unsure what to do with her body or her thoughts, wandered from room to room without any idea of what she wanted to do, as happens sometimes when you return from a long trip with the vague feeling that you have lots of things to take care of, tidy away, bring up to date, and then it turns out that, in fact, you don’t. You have no desire to unpack your suitcase, and it doesn’t even cross your mind to pick up the months of mail piled up in the concierge’s office. For lack of anything better to do, you take a long shower, but it doesn’t relax you or bring you as much pleasure as you’d hoped. Then you do your hair, your makeup, you choose some clothes and get dressed, but this has the same effect: neutral, as if you didn’t care about anything, as if your life had glaciated, as if a glass wall separated you from the rest of the world. Now this feeling—this feeling that you don’t care about anything at all—is exactly what Paul Objat and General Bourgeaud had intended, planned, and developed. You are ripe.
You did try, after forcing yourself, to call Tausk, if only to inform him that you were back. But Louis, happy in his new life with Nadine Alcover, had barely even sounded polite when he assured you that he was pleased to hear it. And your finger? he asked. What about my finger? you said. And the money? he insisted. What money? you asked. Well, said Tausk, never mind, let’s forget it. There was no mention of divorce and, all in all, that brief interview was more a relief than a source of distress. Having hung up the phone, you felt no wish to use it again, to contact friends or old flames who might offer you some distraction. No, your last smile—your only smile in quite some time—was when you remembered Jean-Pierre and Christian. And then you felt hungry.
But that’s enough now. Stop imagining that you’re Constance, who, consequently, went out to buy something to eat. Even in the convenience store, things didn’t go well: the cart kept veering to the left; despite wandering all around the store, she barely filled the bottom of it; and, between the air-conditioned meat and dairy aisles, Constance felt sure she’d caught a cold again. Whereas, up in her wind turbine, the rigors of the Creuse fall had never affected her at all.
Coming out of the store, she made herself walk down the street. She read the property ads, as she always used to, but mechanically now, without any real interest. She couldn’t summon any interest either in the announcements she saw in store windows—the meat we sell is fresh and well-sourced; we also supply clothes for plus-size women; incredible sale on mirrors—and Constance’s body was shaken with a sort of spasm as she walked, eventually stopping in front of (though still at some distance from) an animal lovers’ protest by the doors of an Air France agency. There were only about a dozen women, but they were ranting and raving very loudly about the air transportation of laboratory animals. Constance did not attempt to talk to any of the protesters, but—while she had never been particularly moved by the fate of such animals, however sad and unpleasant it might be—this incident must have started some kind of engine inside her. Because she suddenly started crying. She went home and it didn’t stop: Constance started crying all the time.
All the time. She sobbed ceaselessly—for the smallest of reasons, sometimes for no reason at all—which was in fact not entirely disagreeable. Whether they were tears of pain, emotion, joy, or grief, shedding them did her good. In the end, did it really matter what they were about? Tears bring so much relief. Pouring from our eyes, they soothe our whole body. And by the way, this phenomenon applies to more or less everything that the body expels: from the moment when something liquid, solid, or gaseous escapes the organism—so probably about ten different modes of evacuation that we will abstain from listing in detail—it is, each time, a specific pleasure, from the sublime to the ridiculous. No matter what anyone says, it is—albeit to varying degrees—always a good feeling. The only possible exceptions to this rule are sweating—and even there, in a sauna or hammam, it’s not always so bad—and, of course, bleeding, which is frankly debatable.
And so, in the days that followed, Constance did not stop crying. While listening to music—so she turned off the music. While watching ads on TV—so she turned off the TV. Once, she turned on the radio: Today, we welcome Gérard Delplanque, whose movie, The Uncertainties and Doubts of Nitchika, the Spy in Love, is released on Wednesday. Gérard Delplanque, hello, and let me begin by saying: that title sounds a little like—how can I put this?—a provocation. So that will be my first question: homage or parody? Your question is meaningless, Gérard Delplanque replied angrily. Neither, obviously. It is, above all, an action movie. And at that moment the doorbell rang.
Constance turned off the radio and went to open the door. And there, once more, was Paul Objat. Ah, Victor, Constance said again. But Objat noticed that she did not pronounce these words in the same lighthearted tone she had used the other day in the wind turbine. Her modulation was now lackluster, absent, clearly lacrimal, and Objat thought: Perfect. I came to find you, he said, but don’t worry. I just wanted to introduce you to someone.
They left in his car and joined the outer loop at the Porte de Passy, turning off at the Porte des Lilas, from where it was only a one-minute drive to 141 Boulevard Mortier. After Objat showed his badge at the gate, they entered the barracks courtyard and parked in a reserved space. From there, they went through a door, crossed an entrance hall, and, after another flash of the badge, climbed a staircase, went along a corridor, knocked at an anonymous door, and opened it without awaiting a response.
Sitting behind his desk, General Bourgeaud was immersed in a recalcitrant dossier, cursing between his teeth as he discreetly underlined passages with the tip of his Panter Small. He did not seem to have noticed their presence, and it might have gone on forever like this had not Objat loudly cleared his throat, causing the general to look up at his visitors. This is the person, General, said Objat. Without speaking a word to her or even nodding at her, the general slowly looked Constance up and down, with a brief detour via his cigarillo. This was not the first time Constance had been inspected this way, but it was the first time, she thought, that it had been done without either medical or libidinal motivations. Then, turning to Objat, the general said: You were right, I think she’ll do nicely.
I beg your pardon, interrupted Constance, but what are you talking about? Well, it’s very simple, the general replied. You’re going to destabilize North Korea.
III
26
YOU’RE MAKING FUN OF ME, Constance supposed. Not in the least, Bourgeaud reassured her. Then you must be completely nuts, she diagnosed. Not completely, he replied, pointing to a map of the Korean peninsula pinned to a wall of the office. Let me explain.
Although everyone knows or thinks they know what North Korea is, I would remind you that it is a dynastic and practically theocratic tyranny, with the last three generations of leaders having elevated themselves to divine status. Surveillance is omnipresent there; nobody trusts anybody; they denounce one another as naturally as they breathe—because they would be denounced for not denouncing—all while desperately seeking, often in vain, something to eat.
Note that on this point—fo
od—there is a chasm between the capital and the rest of the country. While some people in Pyongyang run on sturgeon and grands crus classés, life is not quite so pleasant in the countryside or in other towns. There’s been famine after famine, and the best they can hope to eat is about ten ounces of corn per day. The average height is now as low as five feet. But it’s not a good idea to complain. In fact, it’s much better for them if they don’t say anything at all. The slightest word or gesture that might be interpreted as critical of the regime will land you in a camp where, between twenty hours of hard labor and two highly imaginative torture sessions per day, you would be happy to catch a rat or a snake and eat it raw, and genuinely thrilled if you could discreetly cook it, even if the penalty for such behavior would be further torture prior to your public execution, whether that is by firing squad, hanging, or stoning, a choice that would depend on the mood of the camp’s director. But of course you know all this, said the general, catching his breath after this very long sentence.
You also know, he went on, that this country is always ready to fight. Its leaders’ speeches are relentlessly bellicose, all the more so as the nation is technically at war with South Korea, and the army consists of two million active soldiers or reservists, a considerable stock of planes, tanks, warships (even if this arsenal is often obsolete), enough plutonium to build several atomic bombs, and vast reserves of chemical and biological weapons. They also make some excellent missiles—the No-Dong-1 and the Taepodong-2—which they sell at high prices to various global hot spots (Syria, Libya, Iraq, Iran, Yemen, and Pakistan), as the arms trade represents one of the regime’s largest sources of revenue.
Among the specialties of said regime, Bourgeaud then mentioned a few airplane hijackings and various kidnappings, the sale of military equipment and experts to African countries, and a warm welcome for foreign terrorists, whom they immediately betray by selling them to their enemies. So, basically, they have everything they need to make lots of cash. Mass production of various drugs—including the best methamphetamine in the world—the trafficking of anything that can be trafficked, the counterfeiting of foreign currencies (fake dollars and fake yen in particular), the billion-dollar swindling of international insurance firms, and that’s without even mentioning cyberattacks and the hacking of bank details and other information all over the world.
If you’re interested, the general added, pointing the end of his Panter at the map, the largest concentration camps are situated here, here, and here, although obviously I am only talking about the most severe camps. And why are you telling me about this shitty country? Constance asked. I’m getting to that, said the general.
Mentalities change gradually, don’t they? Very slowly, but there are clues. For the past few years, the population, which used to know nothing about the outside world, has begun to learn more: they secretly listen to foreign radio stations, they receive DVDs and USB keys from the South. It’s very discreet, but it is happening, even if the punishment for such crimes is torture or execution. The same is true for any escape attempts, which generally go through China, Mongolia, or Southeast Asia—Thailand or Laos. There are a few pretty good people-smuggling networks. Constance tried to cut him off by saying I actually know quite a bit about this, I’ve read newspaper articles about it. I’m nearly done, said the general. I’m getting to the point.
So, let me sum up. When Kim Jong-un, the new Supreme Leader—son of the Dear Leader Kim Jong-il and grandson of the Eternal Leader Kim Il-sung—came to power, he was for a time encircled by seven historic leaders of the country, among them his uncle, the regime’s number two. But it didn’t take him long to get rid of this group. The uncle was publicly arrested and then executed. A bit like Hamlet, if you see what I mean? Silence from Constance.
Hamlet, Objat, the general said, you know about that at least, don’t you? Ah no, replied Objat without turning away from the window, I’m sorry, I don’t know that work either. Well, anyway, Bourgeaud snapped unhappily, the uncle’s liquidation was followed by that of the head of state security and some high-ranking army leaders. Minister, vice marshal, chief of general staff . . . I don’t remember their names but they were all demoted, fired, probably killed. At the same time, quite a few ambassadors close to that clique were brought back to Pyongyang and sent to concentration camps or physically eliminated. Do you follow?
Silence from Constance. Well, repeated Bourgeaud, this purge in the highest echelons of the state naturally led to a more general clear-out of others associated with the former regime: about ten thousand apparatchiks who must have met the same fate. This presumes a completely new team to replace them, all of them under the Supreme Leader’s heel. And, among these recent promotions, there is one that interests us. He’s a new adviser. The Supreme Leader consults him on various points, particularly in the nuclear field. A young man, quite discreet, brought up in Switzerland like his boss. He seems pretty open-minded to us, and we think he’s someone we might be able to talk with. We need to develop a connection with him, the general concluded. He’s the target. And this is where you come in.
Why me? asked Constance. Bourgeaud paused deliberately for a moment, pretending to look for something inside a drawer and then another one. Paul Objat, at the back of the office, was staring through the window at the barracks courtyard. For some time now, a light rain had begun to fall in that courtyard, the quiet, sighing hiss it made forming a harmony with the purr of a printer in the office next door.
You’re the ideal subject, the general replied at last. Perhaps you don’t know this, but you are an idol for the North Korean leadership. I beg your pardon? said Constance. Ah yes, he sighed, that is an essential element. Let me remind you that you were the original singer of Could you repeat that, please? asked Constance, alarmed. It’s the Korean version of “Excessif,” Bourgeaud explained. You know, that little ditty you sang quite a few years ago. Well, believe it or not, that song is still very popular over there. They adapted it to their language, but that is no longer enough for them. Apparently the original version—that’s to say, your version—is played constantly at Workers’ Party banquets. Even the Supreme Leader has a crush on you. We know that for a fact.
You’re kidding, said Constance. Not at all, insisted the general. That is how you will enter the country. You’ll be welcomed as a star. But don’t worry—you won’t be alone. We’ll have two professional contacts to watch over you. The first objective, then, is that adviser. We’ll tell you how to contact him—although you’ll see that it will happen of its own accord—and after that, you will receive instructions. And what’s his name, this guy? Constance asked. Gang Un-ok, the general articulated clearly. Pretty easy to remember, don’t you think? We have researched his background in great detail and you are just his type, apparently. That could be helpful in your work. That’s disgusting, Constance objected. It is, above all, the general pronounced gravely as he stood up, in the interests of the international community. But I must leave you now. I believe we will see each other again soon. Shall I accompany you? offered Objat.
27
IT WAS ALSO IN SWITZERLAND, though in a very different kind of camp, that the two aforementioned professional contacts were sweating blood, after an intensive accelerated course to bring them up to the title of personal protection agent.
Nothing predisposed them to such training. Neither of them, particularly Christian, had done any physical exercise in a long time. When they arrived, they were chilled by the welcoming speech of the chief instructor. You are here, he told them, to acquire technical, psychological, physical, tactical, and conceptual intelligence in personal protection. That seemed quite a lot, to them.
An imposing stature is no gauge of effectiveness, the instructor then went on, which was reassuring to Christian. However, he said, the personal protection agent must be educated, cultivated, polyglot, versatile, observant and perceptive, capable of adapting to the society he’s in, aware of the current laws applicable to his field, psychologically stable, di
screet, unassuming, athletic, healthy in body and mind. The two men were thoroughly daunted by now. Jean-Pierre bit his lip and they didn’t dare look at each other.
They were immediately put to work in order to acclimatize to paramilitary life. Their mornings began early with a six-mile group run: to start with, Christian would often collapse with exhaustion and the instructor would not let the others help him up, making him get his breath back and stand up on his own before resuming his run with a limp. The rest of the day was devoted to theoretical and practical training: the observation and scouting of locations; the searching and securing of a site; martial arts and self-defense; weapons handling; the extraction of a VIP in difficulty; the neutralization of a civilian; exercises in holding someone on the ground; procedures to follow after an attack with a gun, a knife, or any other object; first aid and emergency rescue in a hostile environment; and use of a bulletproof Kevlar folding briefcase. All of this was very tiring. They went to bed early, too weak to speak, and fell asleep quickly.
When the training ended, it was less difficult to get used to the black suit, the black tie (or, according to circumstances, the black bow tie), and the black glasses, or to having a wire earpiece wedged behind their ear. It was trickier to learn how to shave their heads, so Jean-Pierre and Christian began by shaving each other’s before moving on to performing the operation unilaterally. It burns, groaned Christian while massaging his head. It irritates my scalp. You wouldn’t have any lotion or anything, would you?
The day before their departure, after they had—not without indulgence or kindness (and perhaps also an eagerness to be rid of them)—been judged competent to protect someone, they were given one night off to relax and open a bottle in their room, each of them sitting on a twin bed, above which, respectively, Jean-Pierre had pinned a Bazaine reproduction and Christian two photographs of naked women. Well, we did it, said Christian while pouring as little water as possible into his Pastis 51, we made it through. I’d never have believed I was capable of that, admitted Jean-Pierre, twisting the ice tray to push the cubes out. But I reckon it did me good. Physically, it got me back in shape again. Makes a change from Creuse, doesn’t it?