"Hmm. I see… "The policeman scratched his forehead for a moment, silent.
"Actually, I don't," he began again. "To tell the truth, I don't see at all. Could you be a bit clearer, more precise: how is this closeness shown?"
I dropped my gaze. "He… he caresses my hands, gazes fondly at me, gives me the most excessive, extravagant compliments!"
"… and?"
I blushed. "Oh, this is absurd! He says my skin is lily-white and soft as a peach, that I'm aglow with health, that my teeth are gleaming-"
I bit my tongue long enough to clear my throat. "He praises my wit, my manners, my diction, my knowledge, my fashion sense, thethe freshness of my breath!"
"And these compliments irritate you?"
"To say the least, sir!"
"So why don't you just slap him in the face?"
"I have! I've insulted him, slapped him, half strangled him, smacked him silly, left him for dead again and again-"
"That bad, is it?"
"Yes!" I said, nodding frantically, heedless of the fact that in the policeman's eves I was changing from victim to victimizer. "I've often thrown him to the ground and trampled him, twisted his cars and nose, broken his fingers, even tried to poke his eyes out!"
"But you never managed?"
"No-well, I thought I did once or twice, but sadly, no!"
"In short: you'd like us to intervene?"
"I want it to stop! I want him to go away! I want him to leave me alone!" I'd raised my voice. The patrolman scowled.
"Calm down now, mister. Mister… I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
I stated my name. He noted it.
"And this individual… What's his name?"
It was inevitable. We were bound to reach this point sooner or later. I felt sheepish, helpless. "I don't know, officer."
He frowned. "You don't know?"
"He never said."
"How exactly do you know each other?"
The pointlessness of my approach was suddenly clear to me. How could I have thought my agony might be relieved by an outside party? I was quiet for a moment. But the officer was getting impatient. I had to give him an answer.
"I met him at Buttes-Chaumont. Well…I think it was ButtesChaumont."
"You're not sure?"
"It's just that it's been more than thirty years since he first showed up in my life, officer. After all that time, I'm not sure anymore. I could just as well have met him in the little square on the rue de Crimee-I was there a lot too back then-but I'm leaning more toward ButtesChaumont, since-"
The patrolman cut me off. "Buttes-Chaumont it is. Well? What happened then?"
"I was playing in the sandbox with a few other kids when he appeared. In the wrong clothes, even back then. Grubby and pimply. His nose was running, and a few big snotty drops had fallen on the half-chewed waffle in his hand. He stepped into the sandbox, walked right up to me, and made a great show of friendship: the first of many! He sang praises of my sandcastles, marveled over the stickers on my little bucket, and grabbed the other kids' rakes and shovels, piling them up at my feet like spoils of war. Then he made me eat his waffle. I got a cold the next day, lice the day after, and two weeks later came down with chicken pox. My troubles had begun."
My voice broke into a sob. Recounting the first station on my long road to Calvary had moved me to tears. I took a packet of tissues from my pocket and blew my nose loudly. Just above the edge of the tissue, I caught the officer's look. It didn't seem quite as compassionate as I might have expected.
"Of course," I said, folding the tissue back up neatly, "if you've never been through that, you couldn't understand."
The patrolman coughed gently. "I understand"
"You'd have to have been through what I've been through. The sandbox was only the beginning of an endless series of encounters. If only you knew-"
Carried away by the desire to convince the officer it was essential he intervene, I gathered myself to tell him everything in the greatest detail.
He stopped me right away. "Let's skip that for now, OK? Where does this man live?"
I grew flustered, and dropped my gaze again. Bad enough that I didn't know my tormentor's name. But how could an outsider ever accept that I'd put up with him under my own roof? For live together we did, for long periods, against my will, of course. I'd change my locks every week, but he'd get in somehow and impose his awful presence on me. If I moved, he'd find me. Even if I fled to the far ends of the earth, it wouldn't be long before he happened by.
"Usually, you'll find him wherever I am. I mean, at my place, since right now I work at home stuffing envelopes because of him," I said, trying to control my trembling voice.
"At your place? You mean you live together?"
"Not exactly. We don't really live together, strictly speaking. He's just… there most of the time, that's all."
The patrolman took a deep breath, then shook his head. "One last question, if I may: do you have a history of psychiatric illness?"
"Excuse me?"
"Have you ever spent time in an asylum?"
"Never, officer! I don't think you understand. I'm not insane! In fact, I am in full command of all my faculties. I'd have to be, to put up with what I do without losing my mind."
"We'll see about that."
When I managed to escape the hospital eight days later, I was worried. The doctors had succeeded in raising my doubts again. Did my tormentor really exist? I hurried back home on foot from the distant suburb where I'd been shipped despite my protestations, mulling the question over seriously. If he didn't exist, I was insane. Moreover, doubting his reality meant doubting my own-I felt my reason waver, unsteady as a child's loose tooth beneath a probing finger. If he did exist, my health but also my misfortune would be confirmed, for everything led me to believe he'd be around as long as I would.
Once more-for the thought had crossed my mind many times before-I was tempted to put an end to myself. Only an abiding uncertainty about the nature of the afterlife-and also, let's face it, a certain natural pusillanimity-had always stayed my hand. I'd suffered enough, and been kept from acting often enough and therefore from acting wrongly), to go straight to heaven if there was one. But if I got up there only to find him, that groper, that toady, in all his sniveling bonhomie, ready to stick by me for the rest of eternity, well, it wasn't worth it. But that day, my despair almost won out.
Despite myself, my steps led me to the river's edge. Night was falling. The waters seemed to be calling me through the gray mists, promising me a blessed oblivion free of everything, especially that despicable puppet who'd ruined my life.
Drowning isn't usually considered a barrel of laughs, but as I was frail of body and a poor swimmer to boot, I was hoping for an easy death without too much suffering if I went about thirty feet out. Besides, the harsh winter would come to my aid. I stood a good chance of succumbing to sudden pulmonary congestion, or something of the kind, before the water reached my chin.
I'd taken a few steps down a half-submerged stone staircase toward the water when a voice rang out in my ears. I'd have known it anywhere. It'd been the cause of each of my innumerable defeats. It was the voice of bad luck itself.
"Oh, it's you! What a pleasant surprise! I was just taking a stroll, and thinking about you, in fact! What are you doing here?"
In the mist that rose from the river, I was flooded by two contradictory feelings: relief at being able to dispel the doubt the doctors had instilled in me, and rage at finding myself back in a life that horrified me.
My reply rang out in the still air. The sound of his execrable voice had swept aside every last hesitation. "I'm going! I'm leaving you forever, you hellish creature!"
"What? You're not thinking of-you can't be! You don't have the right! A man like you can't let down the hopes he's raised in others!"
I burst out with a cackle and took another step into the icy water.
"You silver-tongued clown! A man like me'? `Hopes I've raised'?
Fuckall, I say! Without you, I might've been something… I'm not sure what. But at least I would've lived! Too bad! I'm going to drown myself and escape you in death, you pestilent meddler!"
"Stop! You poor man! Think about those who'll grieve for you! Who've loved you, who love you still!"
"That's right, keep talking!"
Still cackling, I took two more steps. An icy hand squeezed my belly. O river Seine, make quick work of me! I leaned forward and pushed off with my heels. Terror struck my heart, and my entire body rose up prickling against the vise suddenly tightening around me. But I was sincerely determined to die. From here, it looked painful but brief. All I had to do was take a few strokes from shore and let myself go under.
Not far away, something heavy hit the water with a massive splash. I couldn't believe my ears. It was him! The fool had jumped in!
He surfaced, shook himself like an elephant seal, and reached out his hand.
"Get away from me;" I screamed. "I don't want you to save me, you filthy piece of trash!"
He shook his big head. "You're wrong, you-"
"Get away!" I hit him again and again with all my strength. He went under, then resurfaced almost immediately, huffing and spitting. "Get away from me, you bastard!"
"I can't! I can't swim!"
"What? But you jumped in-"
"So you'd save me!"
"Me? Save you? That really takes the cake! Save you?" Beside myself, I began hitting him again. A few of my blows landed. His face was covered in cuts and bruises. His blood flowed freely.
"Save me!" he cried, one last time. "It's the only way to free yourself!"
I don't know what came over me then-what reversal of the soul, what sudden clarity-but I gave up on suicide and saved him.
It wasn't easy. He was a fat slob and didn't lift a finger to help. But we hadn't had time to drift very far from shore. I hauled him onto the steps, and we staved there for a moment, moaning and shivering, miserable. Finally, we made our way back up the bank, hanging on to each other.
"Real smart," I said. "We're going to get sick now."
"Probably. But if you get better, you'll be free. I give you my word."
He spoke the truth. We ran to the nearest bistro. They undressed us by the stove, rubbed us down, covered us in blankets, served us grog, and even called us a taxi. He let me take it on my own. I have never seen him since.
Lozere, December 1988
Delaunay the Broker
All things there are the same, but the same as what, I could not say.
e walked into my antique shop one September afternoon. I knew right away he hadn't come to buy. I have an eye for these things. Even taking a certain fashionable negligence into account, he wasn't well-dressed enough. In truth, he was neither well nor poorly dressed: he simply couldn't have cared less for his appearance. His kind is rare among my clients. I have no complaints about this. I hate mediocrity in all its forms.
So, he hadn't come to buy. I was making ready to turn him away with my customary skill when our gazes met. Make no mistake-I am by no means insensitive to the promise in a gaze… In fact, I've an eye for that, too. He wasn't like that, I would have staked my life on it. Something else gave me pause. A lived-in gaze is so rare these days.
I made my way toward him unhurriedly. Nonchalantly, even. Perhaps he was one of those people for whom every encounter is a joust-in which case he'd already scored a point.
"You have quite a collection of handsome items," he said.
Neither upper, nor lower middle class. I have an ear for it. But nothing common about him either. Clear speech, firm tones, fine timbre. His voice confirmed his gaze; this was no ordinary man.
"Very… personal items," he concluded.
I appreciated his adjective without letting it show. Indeed, such items are precisely what I sell: it is up to the right person to present himself
The stranger carefully picked up a mechanical toy displayed on a low table. "Gunthermann's perambulator… The lithographs look so fresh!"
He tripped the switch, and the baby whose head surfaced from the stroller shook his noisy rattle. "Charming, really!"
He set down the plaything and turned to face me. "Allow me to introduce myse: I am De aunay.
"Delaunay… wait-"
"The broker."
"Ah! So you're a real person?"
He smiled in amusement. "So it would seem."
My heart had begun foolishly to beat harder. Like everyone in the business, I'd heard of Delaunay. Rarely does a conversation among antique dealers end without some mention of his name. "And… to what do I owe the honor of your visit?"
He shrugged. "You must know that Raymann is dead."
"That's right, Raymann is dead! What a loss!"
Every guild has its notables. Raymann had been one of the richest and most influential of that roster to which I belonged. Rumor had it Delaunay worked exclusively for him.
"Doubtless. But here I am, without employ," said he prosaically. "I thought of you."
I must have blushed with pleasure. Delaunay had thought of me! At the same moment, however, I reproved myself in petto. I practice a difficult profession, in which I must sell at the highest possible price and buy at the lowest. By showing too much joy in his offer, I encouraged Delaunay to overestimate his services, and compromised any anticipated profits.
He must have read these thoughts on my face, for he made a soothing gesture.
"Raymann found it rewarding to work with me," he said with a little laugh. "You will, too-you'll see"
In the months that followed, I saw that Delaunay was indeed the king of brokers-the only one, at any rate, to furnish any object on demand in the shortest possible time, no matter how unusual, no matter how uncommon.
I knew-we all knew-that a mystery surrounded Delaunay. He was known in our little world, known to everyone in it. He rarely visited the auction rooms, he placed no want ads, nor did he rummage around flea markets. No one had ever been able to boast of having done business with him. No one had the slightest idea where he acquired his items. The objects he brought me seemed to have welled up from nothingness… or rather from the very desires of those who'd requested them. A client would come and speak to me about some trinket or a little piece of furniture that he'd glimpsed and missed his chance at in a sale once, or that he'd always loved in the living room of an old uncle now deceased, or which he'd simply dreamed of. I tried to get as precise and complete a description as possible of the item in question-shape, size, color, material; often I even made a sketch from the information given by the collector. I endeavored to ascertain how much he might be willing to spend. Then, without any absolute guarantees of satisfying his desire-for it would have been tactless to dull its edge-I did not rule out the possibility of hope.
I had only to give Delaunay the sketch and the description then. Eight to ten days later, he would bring me the coveted item. It always met in every way the wishes of the client who, overcome with joy, usually settled up without turning a hair. I grant you, our services cost a pretty penny. But for our regulars we procured what they had themselves described as marvels. It was only fitting that they pay marvelously dear.
Delaunay had his limits. He was not to be asked to track down a Norman wardrobe or an abbey table of solid wood. When I ventured to do so, at the beginning of our arrangement, he was adamant: "I won't carry large objects. Jewelry, paintings, silverware, lamps, small bronzes, old dolls, glass paperweights, books, albums, miniatures-any and as many of these as you want; light furniture at the most, a footrest, a pedestal, but nothing heavy or cumbersome. After all, you're not the one crossing the bar."
"Bar? What bar?"
"My point exactly," he muttered.
He was too valuable for me to run the risk of alienating him. My profits had tripled since he'd walked through my door. Nevertheless, my curiosity was keen. But each time I raised the question of his sources, he interrupted bluntly.
"Have you ever had a broker who let sli
p a word on the subject? You have the buyer, I have the item, together we sell it, and for a tidy sum! What more do you want?
As I'd returned yet again to the topic, he grew incensed. "I'll tell you this much: even if I revealed my suppliers, it wouldn't do you any good… Now back off or I'm gone!"
His behavior was understandable, but it infuriated me. I am curious; it's in my nature; I've chosen to spend my life in the business of curiosities. I sought neither to poach on Delaunay's territory nor to evict him from it. I only wanted to know. I suspected Raymann had died without knowing anything about his broker's secrets. The idea that the same thing might happen to me was intolerable. I brooded over this entire days at a time in my shop. That's how I am: a brooder, easily obsessed. Capricious, but persistent. Passionate! Now that I think back on it, was I perhaps in love with Delaunay? I'd understood at once that he wasn't part of my brotherhood, and I'd suffered too much in the past from such incompatibilities to expose myself once more to the inconveniences they occasioned. I'd committed myself, yet my entire temperament as an antique dealer urged me to discover what he hid from me. I had to make up for it somehow. It occurred to me that I might do him one better. I'd send the mighty hunter Nimrod on a wild-goose chase!
I took up pad and pencil, and gave my fancy free rein. The result was a snuffbox whose cover was adorned with an engraving that depicted neither a hunting scene nor a libertine tableau-motifs too common to try a sleuth of his talents-but instead a semaphore tower set atop a hill in the heart of a pleasant countryside. Such snuffboxes couldn't have been so common as to be easily located today. In any case, none had ever passed through my hands. To perfect my snare, I specified that my imaginary client wished the body of the object to be made of rowan wood and the lid of ivory or, failing that, horn. I wrote these desiderata beneath my drawing, added this to an actual order for a silver, helmet-shaped sauceboat, preferably on a pedestal base, signed Boulanger if possible, and had it all sent to Delaunay.
A Life on Paper: Stories Page 8