Special Envoy

by Jean Echenoz

  But she didn’t linger there. She went downstairs and walked around the grounds, apparently alone but imagining—probably correctly—that she was being watched, closely or from a distance, by a dozen pairs of eyes. Said grounds, sheltered from all other eyes by the willows that lined them, featured a variety of trees within its borders: cedars, thujas, aspens, larches, and birches, with bushes and flower beds of hibiscus, azaleas, and hyacinths, with precious hybrid cultivars of gerberas, but most of all, everywhere you looked, there was an amazing proliferation of bright red tuberous begonias and mauve orchids. When she had completed her tour, Constance went back to her room.

  A few hours later, Major Bakh appeared at her door with a slim bouquet of other flowers that he held out, wrapped in a square of international cellophane. Oh. Constance smiled. Is that for me? That’s kind of you, she added as she began to unwrap the flowers, already looking around for a vase, but the major reached out to stop her. Well, you see, he said, looking embarrassed, it’s for you but not exactly. First we have something to do. They got back in the Junma.

  Driving through certain areas of the capital, she was surprised to see young people playing basketball on pretty nice courts, children slaloming down the sidewalk on Rollerblades or skateboards, young or less-young women dressed just as well as they would be in Seoul, their outfits just as fashionable as in any Western megacity. It was interesting, and she wondered if the whole thing had been staged for her benefit. Of course, there was no way of posing this question to Major Bakh, who broke the silence to speak two words to the chauffeur as the limousine climbed up to the Mansu hill, in the high part of the city.

  From pretty far off, as they came out of a bend, Constance caught sight of two monumental statues: seventy feet high, standing side by side, the former leaders, father and son, were reproduced in gilt bronze. Draped in a long coat, the generalissimo Kim Il-sung, notably qualified as the Sun of the Nation, Hero of the Workers, Professor of All Humanity, and Eternal Leader, reached out his right arm toward the radiant future, the magnificent past, the way to follow, or all three at the same time, unless he was hailing a taxi. To his left, dressed in an open anorak, one hand leaning on his hip, Marshal Kim Jong-il, supreme commander of the People’s Army and general secretary of the Workers’ Party, who also responded to the names Genius of the Revolution, Perfect Brain, Polar Star, and Dear Leader, smiled proudly at the result of all this hailing.

  At the feet of these two giants, held back by armed guards, a crowd waited patiently before being allowed to advance in orderly lines to lay bouquets or floral arrangements before bowing—again, at right angles—before those exceptional beings. You do have your flowers, don’t you? the major asked anxiously. We’re not going there, are we? Constance asked anxiously in return. I have no choice, said the major; this is the custom. Please notice, he proudly indicated, accompanying her to the next line of respect-payers, that the statues of our leaders have been improved recently by the alteration of a few small details. The Eternal Leader smiles at us now, and we have put his glasses on so that he can see us better. As for the Dear Leader, he used to wear a midlength jacket, but that was not right at all. We replaced it with this anorak, which was more in line with his habits. It’s much better, don’t you think? Constance did not think it a good idea to disagree as she moved forward and bent double with all the others. After putting her little bouquet on top of the large pile that already lay there, she took three steps back.

  The people around her were not as well dressed as those in the areas they had driven though before. While some of the women wore a vaguely traditional outfit—short jacket and baggy pants—the majority of them wore the same type of clothes as the men: fur-lined coats or jackets made from Vinalon, a synthetic fiber invented here two years after nylon, and which—rigid, shiny, uncomfortable, and with a tendency to shrink—has no advantage over its Western rival except that it is fabricated from limestone and anthracite, both of which are to be found in abundance in North Korea. When Constance expressed her surprise to the major that all the men had almost exactly the same haircut, he replied that they were obligated to keep their hair at a length of two inches—two and a half for men over fifty years old who were beginning to go bald—and to cut it every two weeks, because, as everyone knows, long hair steals energy from the brain.

  After that ceremony, they went back in the limousine to the villa, with the major identifying himself once again at each checkpoint. When they had passed all those barriers and were inside the protection of the weeping willows, Constance saw another long and very official-looking car, parked empty outside the building. Ah, exclaimed Major Bakh, opening the car door for Constance, I think Comrade Gang has arrived. As they were walking through the grounds to the villa, she decided it would be a good idea to toss the major a compliment about the floral arrangements. And these begonias, she said, pointing to the beds of red and purple flowers, and all these orchids, it’s all very nicely done. Yes, but I believe you are wrong about the names, replied the major stiffly. The mauve flowers are kimilsungias and the red ones are kimjongilias. As for the others, I’m not too sure. My training was mostly military, you see.

  In the lobby, he went off in the direction of what looked like offices on the first floor while two minions escorted Constance upstairs to her room. Nothing had changed inside, except that this time, as in the most upscale Western hotels, posed on a coffee table was a new bouquet of flowers—kimilsungias, apparently—a basket of blueberries from, according to the label, Mount Paektu, legendary spot and official birthplace of the Supreme Leader, and an envelope with her name on it, containing an invitation for the next day, though with no mention of the time or the address. Now there was nothing to do but wait. An hour of CNN, for the want of anything better, until there was a knock on the door and Gang Un-ok appeared.

  Without wishing to offend anyone, Gang Un-ok was unusually handsome for a Korean, with regular features, a face that was more oval-shaped than round, soulful eyes, lascivious lips, and all that jazz. Even his haircut, slightly mussed up, was different from the national norm. It was not that Gang’s countrymen, glimpsed by Constance through the limousine’s tinted windows, were ugly, but she had not spotted anyone particularly attractive either. Because of the country’s aforementioned nutritional deficiencies, they had become short and frail, whereas the dignitary Gang was tall and athletic, highlighting his nicely designed civilian suit, so that even the obligatory badge representing the Leader’s ancestors seemed somehow more discreet on his torso than on others’. So, to sum up, he really wasn’t bad at all and—why not just say it?—Constance immediately felt something—yes, something—when she first laid eyes on him.

  And Gang, too, presumably, as it must have been pretty special for him to meet the original singer of so much so that it must have taken quite a bit of self-control not to ask for an autograph right away. That could wait. In the meantime, after he had invited her to dinner, they left in his long, official-looking vehicle. As they traveled through the city, he pointed out to Constance the most noteworthy monuments, as Major Bakh had already done, but in a more elegant, detached, and amusing way, embellishing his descriptions with delicately crafted anecdotes. Because Gang Un-ok, thanks to his bilingual education in Switzerland, spoke French perfectly. Which certainly suits us, as it spares us the need for interpreters: cumbersome secondary characters, not to mention potentially embarrassing witnesses, which we wouldn’t know what to do with afterward.

  After reaching Ghangguang Avenue, the car parked outside a very large luxury hotel reserved for officials, delegations, diplomats, and foreign businessmen. First they had a good time in one of the hotel’s bars, knocking back two or three dry martinis to warm things up—and, let’s be honest, Gang was probably hoping to get Constance, already disoriented from the jet lag, a little tipsy—before going up to the restaurant on the top floor, which—to add to Constance’s burgeoning dizziness—was revolving. There, they enjoyed a panoramic view of the capital, the only cit
y in North Korea to benefit from nocturnal illumination or, more generally, from electricity, the rest of the country being plunged in darkness. So much so that, at night, when viewed from space stations, the country is invisible, a dark absence between China and South Korea, meaning that a cosmonaut with a poor grounding in geography might have taken it for a wide shipping lane connecting the Yellow Sea to the Sea of Japan.

  Far from the provinces where people were starving in the dark, they sat in subdued lighting, with easy-listening music playing quietly in the background, and ate a delicate meal composed of seaweed leaves with soybeans followed by a dish of freshwater turtle and a rooster stuffed with chestnuts, jujube fruit, and ginger root, washed down with some excellent imported French wines, with a digestif of 65 percent rose-flavored wheat alcohol, by which point, according to Gang’s calculations, he should have her pretty much where he wanted her.

  And so, as is often the case in such an ambience, things moved quickly and—not to beat about the bush—in room 9104 of that establishment, the dignitary Gang Un-ok did not have much difficulty having his way with Constance: married name Coste, maiden name Thoraval, but above all, from the point of view of the starfucker that the dignitary had at that moment become, briefly famous back in the good old days under the stage name of So Thalasso.

  30

  THAT’S IT, EXCLAIMED THE GENERAL, contact has been established. You mean . . .? Objat asked. I mean, explained the general, rubbing a Panter Vanilla against his ear, that Gang screwed the girl less than twenty-four hours ago and that that is a good start. How do you know that? Objat inquired. That’s not complicated, said Bourgeaud, puffing up his chest. The Americans have listening stations in Mongolia: they can surveil anything they want in the region. I get along well with them. We exchange tips. It’s much better with them than it is with the Chinese, for example. There’s also MI6, who have a very small branch over there, but the English never find much—the Americans are better. He was looking at his cigarillo ambivalently now. Objat abstained from comment, remaining where he stood, near the window: from there, at that moment, he could see a torrential downpour transforming the barracks courtyard into a lake.

  Anyway, we’re off to a good start, the general reiterated, but what worries me a little bit is your two men. I know they went through the training, but their report was not very positive. Apparently—he grimaced as he leafed through this report—they are very willing but not very talented. Mediocre performance. Lack of attention. Not much presence of mind. No initiative. Pretty clueless, basically. You wouldn’t have anyone else, would you, just in case? Someone more radical, if you know what I mean, more battle hardened. I might have an idea, said Objat after some thought.

  And at that very moment: I have an idea, Lucile announced. What if we invited Nadine and Louis one night soon? They invited us, didn’t they? Certainly not, grumbled Lessertisseur. Their place is really chic and ours is shabby. It’d be humiliating. What do you take me for? And what if that madman turns up with his gun and his dog like he did the other day?

  Still, at that very same moment (a notably thought-heavy moment, it has to be said), that madman and the potential problems he posed were the subject of Lou Tausk’s preoccupations. Like Objat, he was staring out as it rained cats and dogs on Rue Claude-Pouillet. He thought about putting the radio on, then remembered it wasn’t working; then he thought about asking Nadine Alcover what she thought, then remembered that she had gone out, as she was doing more and more often these days. The idea of consulting someone else must have stuck with him because he headed toward the telephone, picked it up while grabbing a Pall Mall from the desk, lit it, and hesitated for a moment before dialing Hubert’s number.

  The voice of a new assistant asked him to kindly wait a moment; then, as often happened, Hubert first answered coldly before relaxing and, unable to resist his urge to make personal remarks, remarked: Your voice sounds strange, you know. Did you catch a cold or something? Well, not surprising with this weather. You could try gargling agrimony. I often take that before pleading—it’s very effective. And there’s also homeopathy, which isn’t bad either. I’ll think about it, promised Tausk, but could I drop by to see you? Of course, sighed Hubert, drop by, by all means.

  In a raincoat, under an umbrella, Tausk walked to the Villiers metro station. Taking another Pall Mall from his pocket, he closed his hand around it like a shell to protect it from the rain, then noticed as he rummaged in his other pocket that he had forgotten his lighter. At the entrance to the metro, a beggar begged him for a cigarette, and, distractedly, instead of giving him one, Tausk asked him if he had a light. Now, that just isn’t done. It is simply one of those things that you do not do. What terrible manners! And yet, the beggar searched his pockets for a long time while Tausk waited impatiently. He even made a joke: Yeah, too many pockets in winter, not enough in summer. When the poor homeless person finally handed him a lighter, he lit his cigarette, returned the lighter without thanks, took two or three drags as he went down the steps, then, remembering that smoking is prohibited in the metro, threw the soaked Pall Mall onto the ground, where the beggar dived on it.

  In Neuilly, Hubert’s new assistant, who once again asked him to kindly wait, could not hold a candle to Nadine Alcover in a physical sense—a face that sloped like a steep staircase, with a large platinum bun to act as a counterweight—and Tausk, just to say something, complimented her on its color. You think? she quivered, revealing long ivory teeth as she smiled. That’s nice of you, because I’m a brunette, naturally, you see, and then I decided to dye it blond. Good idea: it suits you, Tausk said encouragingly. You’re not going to seduce this one too, surely? Hubert exclaimed tactlessly, coming out of his office. Follow me. What can I do for you?

  Half an hour later, Tausk emerged from Hubert’s office without having made much progress: Don’t worry about it, let him make the next move, the lawyer had once again advised him. On his way out, he waved good-bye to the new assistant, who was sitting opposite a man with a closed face and a closed briefcase on his knees, flanked by a not-very-affable-looking bodyguard. Outside, the rain was still pouring down, so he ran to a taxi rank and—as he was not the only one looking for a ride in weather like this—took his place in the line that meandered between metal barriers arranged in the shape of a paper clip. When his turn came to get in a taxi, a tired-looking Dacia, Tausk gave his address to the driver, who was silent for a moment. We should go through town, the driver suggested, because the beltline looks pretty busy, and Tausk did not notice that he abstained from starting the meter. Then the driver’s eyes, staring at him in the rearview mirror, reminded him of someone else’s eyes. But whose? He couldn’t remember. Those eyes were like a pale shadow of someone else’s, the same but faded, like an old fax that we rediscover after all these years, the way we often forget the original document in the photocopier. It took Tausk a great deal of effort, pixel by pixel, to recall those eyes.

  While he was doing this, the windshield wipers kept squeaking under the percussive precipitation and it was only as they came near the Porte des Ternes that Tausk finally thought he had recognized the driver. Is that you, Hyacinth? he asked softly. Yes, replied Hyacinth in a muted voice, sounding unsurprised and not turning around, it’s me. I got a new job, you see. Had to give up the old one. Silence. Which Tausk didn’t dare break. It killed me, that incident, Hyacinth went on as he entered Boulevard Péreire. After that guy committed suicide, I just couldn’t drive a train anymore. Never again. Another silence. Which Tausk continued to respect.

  I did try, Hyacinth said, somewhere near Place du Maréchal-Juin, but I wasn’t sleeping anymore; I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I avoided closing my eyes, so I wouldn’t have to see that again. If I took a shower, though, for example, and I had to close my eyes so I wouldn’t get water in them, it would start right away, the movie in my head. I’d see the look on that guy’s face as he waited for my train to roll over him. I was in shock, you know. I stopped work for a week, and then I
tried to do it again, but no, I could never get back in the cab. I couldn’t drive a train anymore, so I decided to try driving a taxi. At least that way, I’m still in the person-transporting business. The license costs a fortune, but never mind. And what about you . . . how are things? My goodness, was all Tausk could think to say. A third silence. Which Hyacinth broke.

  You don’t need anything repaired these days? he asked. No little jobs that need doing in your apartment? I can always drop by like I used to, if you want. I’ve got some free time on Tuesday. It might do me good, a change of air. My goodness, repeated Tausk, uh, let me see. Oh yeah, I think there’s a little problem with my stereo. Could you take a look at the radio, CD player, all that? Of course, said Hyacinth. High fidelity is absolutely my thing. But I think we’re here now. Thank you, Tausk said. How much do I owe you? Forget it, replied Hyacinth. Take my card instead.

  And not at all at the same moment, because now we are going back to the start of this chapter: Yes, declared Objat, I think my idea is developing. I’ll leave you now, General. Let me see what I can do. Do, do, encouraged the senior officer, proudly tearing apart his cigarillo. Objat left the office, walked along a corridor, opened the door of an empty office, picked up the telephone, and dialed a number. It rang two or three times before it was answered. Hello? said Objat. I’m listening, replied Pognel as he caressed Faust.

  31

  WHILE JEAN-PIERRE AND CHRISTIAN might well have shown a lack of initiative, as the general suspected based on the training report, they did have a reasonable excuse, because their room for maneuver was slim. Trapped in their hotel, reduced to the status of mere tourists, they had not been allowed to perform the task that they had, in principle, been hired to do: guarding Constance’s body. Their constant suggestions, requests, and innuendos on this topic resulted only in more delaying tactics from their guides.