Special Envoy

by Jean Echenoz

  They only ever left the Yanggakdo with those guides in close attendance. Yun Sam-yong and Im Chin-sun had completely different personalities. The former was austere and reserved and spent his time napping and taking notes as the car moved through the capital, whose sights were praised in a stream of robotic compliments by the latter, their smiling and determined interpreter. It seemed that the principal role of the former was to surveil the latter—although it was probably the other way around. While displaying an excessive mutual friendliness, the two guides spent as much time watching each other as they did their guests, vigilant above all that they did not have the slightest contact with any passersby.

  So, a tourist trip. After having to bow, like Constance and everyone else, before the giant statues, they were taken to rhapsodize over every possible monument. Kim Il-sung Square, the Kim Il-sung Arch of Triumph, and the Kim Il-sung Mausoleum, to start with. Then the Grand People’s Study House, the Schoolchildren’s Palace, the Victorious War Museum, not forgetting a quick visit to the USS Pueblo—the American spy boat captured in January 1968 and now moored on the right bank of the Taedong River—before ending the morning at the Embroidery Institute, where Im Chin-sun encouraged Jean-Pierre and Christian to buy a few overpriced souvenirs—in euros, dollars, whatever they preferred—for their wives. We don’t have wives, they said, starting to feel tired.

  In the afternoon, they were taken to the metro to admire its monumental architecture, its fiddly details, its bronze and marble, its chandeliers and colonnades, its multicolored portraits of the leaders, and its vast murals. The rolling stock was mostly Chinese-made, although they did glimpse—despite the best attempts of Yun to screen its furtive passage—an old train of East German origin, still covered with pre-1989 graffiti, unrenovated, unstandardized. Their metro journey, however, was limited to the last two stops on Line 1, between Puhung and Yonggwang: Jean-Pierre and Christian made this trip in the company of their guides, of course, along with a handful of natives, supposedly just random fellow travelers but too well dressed, perhaps, to be anything other than extras. Those two stations, presumably the most attractive on the network, were the only ones shown to the visitors, opening the door to the hypothesis that there were in fact no other stations, or maybe that this was a parallel network for government use only, inspired by the secret lines on the Moscow metro.

  To end the day on a high note, they were taken to see the Juche Tower, symbol of the juche ideology, the North Korean version of communism, which is based less on orthodox, rational Marxism-Leninism and more on principles of political independence, economic self-sufficiency, and military autonomy. The tower was five hundred feet tall, and from its peak, which you could reach by means of a rapid, optional elevator—payable in dollars or euros—you commanded a panoramic view of the capital. After that, they were taken back to the hotel, with Im and Yun promising other climbs (notably the mountains of Paektu, Songak, and Kumgang) and wonders in the coming days.

  Jean-Pierre and Christian felt saturated, exhausted, and especially frustrated not to have been able to decipher the slogans that they saw everywhere on banners, posters, and gigantic billboards. These slogans, invariably ending with an exclamation point, were presumably exhortations to the masses to praise their leaders, celebrate the party’s actions, vilify those imperialist American bastards—as well as the faggot puppets installed in power in the South by said imperialist bastards—and blindly follow the essential principles of juche, among many other excellent pieces of advice.

  Christian, in particular, could barely summon the strength to remain upright by the end of the day, and Jean-Pierre had to force him to go downstairs to eat dinner in the hotel restaurant. There, they found themselves with plates full of the local delicacy, noodles in sweet potato starch, floating in a cold beef broth. After two beers, they didn’t even feel like going outside to get some air, which was in any case forbidden. Back in their rooms, it seemed all the easier just to try to sleep, given that the power always went off at ten p.m. Jean-Pierre managed this without difficulty but was woken by Christian banging on his door one hour later, complaining of gastric discomfort: You wouldn’t have any MiraLax or something like that, would you? I think I’ve gotten rid of the noodles, but it’s the broth . . .

  The power did not go out at the residence where Constance was staying. On the contrary, even the garden was lit up. Gang Un-ok had been busy all day and in the early part of the evening with high-level meetings, so she had spent her time walking in town accompanied by her own guides, two women who were much funnier and more likable than Im and Yun. Once again, the people she passed in the streets did not look particularly unhappy, because Pyongyang enjoyed a privileged status. It was separated from the rest of the country by numerous checkpoints, and its inhabitants had been handpicked for their loyalty to the dynastic regime.

  At nightfall, she ate dinner alone in her room—a light meal of pea mousse with pomelo zest—then turned on the TV and channel-surfed until she found TV5 Monde: Tonight I welcome Pierre Michon, whose appearances are, as we all know, very rare, and I would like to thank you sincerely, Pierre Michon, for accepting my invitation. You’re welcome, smiled Michon. And first of all, Pierre Michon, a question that seems to me central to your work: the style, by which I mean that singular manner that is your own, does that provoke the content or is it the consequence of that content? I don’t know if I’m making myself clear. Absolutely, absolutely, answered Michon after a long silence, but it’s perhaps a little more complicated than that. It’s not that binary, you see. He was about to say more when the bedroom door opened without warning and Gang Un-ok appeared. Constance pressed the power button on the TV remote control.

  First, Gang threw himself on her, which took up quite a bit of our time. Then, when they’d both gotten their breath back, he suggested they go to a few nightclubs. They did this, and Constance observed that in the chic areas of Pyongyang the nightclubs were in every way similar to nightclubs all over the world. Large, shiny, brand-new European cars, some of them convertibles, were parked outside the entrance of the first club. Inside, a mostly young crowd of people filled the vast space, dancing, talking very loud, fooling around, singing karaoke in front of giant screens, buying drinks for the pretty hostesses, spending their foreign money without counting, and chugging drinks. On this last point, Gang refused to be outdone, and Constance watched as he became more and more talkative. Sometimes I feel like I can’t bear those meetings anymore, he shouted so she could hear him over the din, and she began to listen carefully: as General Bourgeaud had envisaged, internationally important confidences seemed about to be shared any minute now.

  Back at the villa in the early morning, after watching the apparatchik bump into the walls of the corridor as they walked to their room, Constance thought she could make the most of his inebriation while they undressed: So what was that meeting about? Sitting on the edge of the bed, taking his shoes off without undoing the laces, using the toe section of his right to push the heel section of his left, Gang said: Just a routine Workers’ Party Central Military Committee meeting. I have to go to one every month, and they’re exhausting. Were there many of you? Constance asked, with a yawn. Let me think, said Gang, pulling his socks off so they ended up inside out. Well, there was the director of the People’s Army General Political Bureau, the army chief of staff, the head of the defense office, the head of the air force, the minister of state security, the financial director of the Workers’ Party . . . and who else? Oh yeah, three party assistant directors. And me. So, you see, quite a few people. What about your president? suggested Constance as she unhooked her bra. Of course, smiled Gang, struggling with his shirt buttons, Kim was there. For meetings of that level, he always comes. But what do you talk about, in that kind of thing? Constance asked casually. Why? He had stopped smiling. Are you interested? Not really, laughed Constance, leaping on top of him, I just wanted to hear your voice.

  Now it is five in the morning. The sun is rising over Pyongyang.
The recently installed nocturnal illuminations have all gone out except for the eternal red flame at the top of the Juche Tower. They fucked, then they grew drowsy and fell asleep. Gang Un-ok soon started snoring quietly, and before long Constance was doing the same.

  Jean-Pierre, too, was asleep when there was a loud knock at his door: Christian stood in the corridor, looking pale and holding his hand to his abdomen, dressed in a striped pajama jacket that Jean-Pierre noticed had the buttons in the wrong holes. Jesus, do you know what time it is? he protested. Shut up, Christian shouted, this is an emergency. You wouldn’t have any Imodium or something like that, would you? I really don’t feel good at all. Ah, it’s nothing, Jean-Pierre diagnosed. All you have, my boy, is a classic case of Pyongyang tummy. I’m not your boy, Christian yelled. Now show me what drugs you have. Immediately.

  32

  THAT SOUNDS FINE, Pognel says, but on one condition. I want to be able to impose my own conditions.

  No conditions, Objat replies. You won’t be imposing anything at all.

  They are sitting on a bench, two feet apart. They are speaking in low voices, barely moving their lips and not looking at each other at all, as is customary during spy meetings. The few people who stroll past cannot imagine that they are deep in discussion, as they don’t appear to know each other at all; they look like two strangers who happen to be sitting on the same bench by chance or because they’re tired or idle, or because they want to observe three swans splashing around on the surface of the lake—which is, in fact, not a lake but an artificial pond with an equally artificial island at its center, in the shape of a half-melted sugarloaf, crowned with a peripteral rotunda inspired by the Temple of Vesta in Tivoli. Even Faust, busy watching the pigeons around the bench (and wondering if their latest physical-chemical status renders them still edible), seems unconcerned by these two men, as if, obeying their instructions, he did not know them either.

  Late morning, midweek, steel-gray sky, forty-three degrees Fahrenheit: the park is practically deserted. Even if it is the richest park in Paris in terms of varieties of flora, they all look artificial and everything here is fake: the lake, the island, its rocks, and its grotto decorated with reinforced cement stalactites. To the right of Pognel and Objat, we can see the traces of a ghostly bandstand. To their left, a bridge composed of a single semicircular arch vaults over the lake. In the background, toward the northeast, we can hazily make out the tall buildings that line the Canal de l’Ourcq.

  Of course I can impose them, my conditions, says Pognel. You’ve got nothing over me. I did my time in prison, I paid for my crimes, and I don’t owe anybody anything. Oh really, says Objat, and what about the hairdresser? Icy silence from Pognel: the temperature suddenly plunges by three degrees. There’s overwhelming evidence against you where the hairdresser is concerned, continues Objat. Your DNA on the door . . . Even someone like me, who has no experience in such matters, I might have thought to wipe the door handle. And that thing with the bathtub . . . Frankly, a first-year forensics student would have seen that in an instant.

  The sweat freezes on Pognel’s forehead as he stammeringly attempts to whisper the word careful. Forget it, Objat advises him. Where murder is concerned, you’re just an amateur, but I do acknowledge that you have your qualities. You did okay with the girl’s kidnapping; you did what I asked. That’s why I wanted to see you. I have another proposal for you. Pognel shrinks backward. Objat calms him: Still the same girl, don’t worry. Nothing complicated. And you have no choice anyway. For now, I’m blocking the hairdresser investigation, but I could set it in motion again like that [finger snap]. So, anyway, I’m sorry to put it like this, but I think I have you by the balls. All right, mutters Pognel, go ahead.

  It’s simple, Objat reassures him. For the hairdresser, I’ll hush it up. The investigation will be suspended and you’ll have nothing to fear. For you, we’re just talking about a brief trip and some instructions to follow. But where is it, this brief trip? Pognel asks. Far away, says Objat. I’ll tell you more later. Okay, but just one more thing, says Pognel uneasily as he gets to his feet. Could I take my dog with me? As you like, shrugs Objat, but I wash my hands of all responsibility. I’ll take him, come what may, Pognel stiffens. I’ll take him wherever I go because I love him.

  I think we’ve covered everything for now, concludes Objat, lifting the collar of his coat. Meet me next week for instructions. Same day, same place, same time. Okay, repeats Pognel, before whistling for Faust and zipping up his jacket. In the meantime, I’m going to take him for a walk, seeing as we’re in the park already. I have to make him run, you see, a little bit every day. Objat watches him limp away, then starts walking back to the Mortier barracks, which—if you go up Rue de Crimée and Rue de Belleville—is only three or four stations from Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.

  And not much farther from Couronnes station, from where Tausk emerges at that moment to head over to his studio. He’s been going there more and more frequently recently. He even sleeps there sometimes and is a regular at the Pensive Mandarin again. Yes, I’m afraid things are not going well with Nadine Alcover. When Tausk goes home to his apartment on Rue Claude-Pouillet, either she’s gone out for a walk or she’s there but barely says a word except on the telephone; she can sometimes lock herself up with the telephone for hours before going out for a walk again. In the end, Tausk starts wondering if maybe she’s having an affair or something.

  In fact, it is precisely that subject which she is discussing at the moment with Lucile on the phone: I’ve known him for two months, yeah, replies Nadine Alcover. No, he’s older than the other one, but he’s still great. Very attentive, very well dressed, very discreet. What about money? Lucile asks. Lots, summarizes Nadine Alcover. Seems to have lots, anyway. Married? asks Lucile, alarmed. I don’t think so, Nadine Alcover reassures her, I see him more as a widower. What does he do? wonders Lucile. I’m not sure about that, admits Nadine Alcover, he never really talks about it. Maybe retired. Sometimes I think he’s like an old soldier, but not at all the rough, brutal type. He’s more the elite type—you know, Saint-Cyr, Cadre Noir, that type of thing. Where did you meet him? asks Lucile. In a museum, Nadine Alcover remembers. One afternoon, I think it was the Jacquemart-André Museum. We were both standing in front of a Caillebotte painting. You know who that is, Caillebotte? Not a clue, admits Lucile. Doesn’t matter, shrugs Nadine Alcover. So anyway, we talked about the painting, we talked about Caillebotte and lots of other things and then he invited me to have some tea with him, and there you go. I see, Lucile nods. Sorry, will you hang on for a second?

  As the bedroom door has just been opened by Lessertisseur, holding a shopping basket, Lucile turns away and covers the mouthpiece of the old, dusty Alcatel phone with her hand. Listen, Maurice, can’t you see that I’m busy? Lessertisseur gestures questioningly at the shopping basket. I was thinking of broccoli, he says in a low voice, but what would go with it? I don’t know, Lucile says exasperatedly, just get a couple of escalopes. With broccoli, good, good, I’ll see you later. Sorry again, Nadine, she breathes, it was just Maurice, going out to buy groceries.

  So how are things with him? asks Nadine Alcover. Still the same, more or less, says Lucile, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He’s not a bad guy, Maurice, you know, but I have the feeling I don’t love him as much as I did before. And as I told you before, sexually, he just has one thing on his mind and that, sometimes, frankly . . . They’re so egotistical. I know, agrees Nadine Alcover. Wait a second, I’ve got another call, let me just get rid of them.

  Nadine Alcover touches her Samsung Galaxy Trend: Yes, Georges, no, not at all, on the contrary, I’m delighted to hear from you. Excellent, seven o’clock, as we said. I don’t know, wherever you like. Place du Palais-Bourbon? You mean the large café at the end of Rue de Bourgogne? Perfect, it’s just next to Philippe’s place. Oh, no, not at all! He’s my hairdresser. I’ll be there. See you later, Georges. Excuse me, Lucile, that was him, the other one. The new one, I mean.
/>   33

  CONSTANCE’S FIRST FOUR DAYS in the villa were more or less identical, similar to the way that her days in Creuse had blurred into one. Indeed, there were several elements in common, and there was nothing in particular that made her feel she might be in Asia rather than anywhere else in the world.

  She spent most of her mornings reading in the villa’s grounds, again on a sun lounger, and with even better service than before. She was provided with a few French books or books translated into French, a disparate mix from who knew where, chosen by who knew who, ranging from the Treatise on Style to the Treatise on Passions of the Soul, from Pearl Buck to Pierre Daninos, via Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, The Life of Bees, and an old paperback edition of Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor.

  In the afternoons, her guides took her on tours of the city, always in the same wealthy areas where there were luxury stores for the elite, who drove around in Range Rover Sport V8s or Mercedes Coupes. A parallel economy was beginning to flourish in Pyongyang, with boutiques open to an elegant clientele of women with dyed or wavy hair instead of the standard bun, dressed in Versace or Ferragamo instead of the traditional hanbok. In an undertone, one of the guides explained to Constance that this commercial strategy perhaps had something to do with the Leader’s wife, whose elegance and beauty were widely praised, although she was not merely a decorative object but a woman of influence too, so much so that since their marriage this capitalist liberalization had begun to bloom.

  While waiting for the return of Gang Un-ok, Constance spent her early evenings watching foreign television, seeing him again only at night, when her real work as a pillow-talk informer began. She diligently collected all the data the Korean apparatchik let slip about the highest echelons of the regime. As these highest echelons had learned about the presence in Pyongyang of the singer of “Excessif,” Constance and Gang were invited, on her fifth day, to a party on one of the Kim family’s private yachts, anchored at sea off Wonsan on the country’s eastern coast. They went there after lunch: ninety miles by limousine on a deserted and arrow-straight, almost autistically single-minded highway with no interchanges or access roads or any kind of rest areas at all: they reached the quay in an hour. The yacht was like a floating amusement park, with swimming pools, water-skiing and windsurfing equipment, multiple bars and bands on every floor, fifteen incredibly luxurious suites, gold-plated plumbing, and precious woods everywhere. They spent the afternoon at the pool on the boat’s top floor.