Revenge of the Translator

by Brice Matthieussent

  New paper, new ink: you must have had the shock of your life, thinking you had discovered—that’s luck for you, remember?—a message from your father, sent from beyond the grave, miraculously rescued from oblivion, like a bottle thrown into the sea long ago, containing not a call for help, but perhaps the truth, if such a thing exists, the truth about your father. And I hope you a had a good shiver of anxiety, a real adrenaline rush: you who so love to manipulate others, you saw, in the space of an instant, your “fortuitous” discovery anticipated by your father, better yet, orchestrated by him, a staging from the last century through this fine strategy that, even after his earthly disappearance, could still provoke amazement, not within the circle of publishing, but this time in the shaken intimacy of his offspring, that vain middle-aged man: you. Hence your anxiety and maybe even terror of falling into a trap set by your father in 1937, an ambush similar to a dormant spy suddenly awakened after decades of hibernation.

  But there you have it, I am not him. After terror comes suspense. You are no longer the master of the game and I imagine you’re furious. That someone dared to touch your father’s sacred violet crown is already unacceptable. But on top of it that someone had the nerve to slide in this imposter letter, an arrow treacherously planted right in the middle of the target, is surely criminal to you. Go ahead and moan. Open your eyes. Grind your teeth a bit. Harder, I can’t hear it. Go on. (The bastard!) More surprises are in store for you. Even though you don’t know who I am, I know that you are cursing and insulting me.

  Hey, it’s me. Yoo-hoo, don’t you recognize me? Behind the mask of your handwriting, which is the same handwriting as your dear papa? Have you already forgotten me? Doris, do you remember Doris? This is Doris writing to you! (The bitch!) It’s Doris deceiving and bamboozling you! Not the little Dolores formerly fondled in secret by Maurice-Edgar Prote, but Doris, your “personal secretary” and occasional mistress. Remember me now? You always took me at face value, fucking me and then rewarding me each time with a modest “gift” in the form of a few bills discreetly and wordlessly slid into my moist palm; and you saw me—you still see me—as a mere pawn on your chessboard, a negligible part of your existence, a delicious pastime, a succulent treat, a tantalizing presence that combined business with pleasure, certainly as your own father did with Dolores, except that she was a renowned actress while I am merely a temp, a “floater” as they say.

  But now I am no longer just my face value, you will no longer take me as such and you will no longer take me—on the couch, in your bed, on your messy desk among the crumpled pages of your novel-in-progress, (N.d.T.), on the living room rug, and even once, I’m sure you remember, at the bottom of that famous armoire in the hallway, among your coquettish old peacock shoes, between the ties and bow ties, you used a sky-blue tie from the inside of the left door to bind my hands behind my back, my knees scraped on the rough planks, with each thrust of your penis my cheek moved back and forth among the English leather, the laces, the shoe trees, the nauseating shriveled soles, my face was turned toward the hallway and I saw then, not for the first time of course but with a new, fascinated attention, the fresco on the wall, the dislocated puppet with the suggestive braid, the mannequin being mistreated by four beautiful Spanish girls in the original Goya painting, and I immediately imagined that I was one of those overjoyed girls even if they were not on your wall: while you went back and forth in my ass—for you most enjoyed snaking in and out of my little pleated anus while spreading my butt cheeks wide (don’t deny it) (I say nothing, but I am thinking it. If I had known that at the very moment that I was, it’s true, enjoying myself, that that bitch Doris only had eyes for that pitiful mannequin, to whom she was surely comparing me …)—I wanted for you to be that puppet and for my three friends and me to make you rise and fall between sky and earth, the little slender prick of your rigid braid whipping the air despite your efforts, a puppet subjected to cruel female caprices, a powerless marionette with a useless penis, again and again launched into the air by our mocking movements. Then you came inside of me and I felt your spasms invade my stomach as if your little slender prick were the puppet’s braid, spurting its black ink.

  You’re the one who taught me that the French word “prote” formerly designated a printing foreman. But when it comes to typography, I sincerely believe that my skill now surpasses your own; you have just met your master, or rather your mistress—at the same moment as you lose her.

  I started out admiring you without knowing you. When I met you last fall, after the little anonymous ad you put in two or three papers, “Parisian writer seeks part-time personal secretary, contact the paper who will relay,” at first I was delighted to discover that the anonymous writer was Abel Prote, as I had read a few of your books, and they had meant something to me. You were a charmer from our first meeting in that café. I had to do some research on the internet and in the library—on translation. Pytheas the Greek sailor of Phocea, King Edward VII, Zorro the masked avenger, the plane christened the Super Constellation, a young American actress from the 30s named Dolores Haze, etc. I didn’t understand the link between the various topics, but you told me (we were already sleeping together at that point): “You will see, you will see.” All I saw was the bottom of your sordid armoire, your stinking shoes crushed against my face. All that I learned was that the idolized writer translated into several languages (you went out a lot, often went to New York for “business” which you told me nothing about) certainly knew how to churn out a story, but a fundamental narcissism and an immoderate taste for manipulation motivated the majority of your actions, not to mention your thoughts. I continued to sleep with you, giving in to your caprices—spanks, bizarre disguises (I admit that it used to make me laugh, you disguised as a Mexican bandit, as the Invisible Man, as Al Capone, as Saddam Hussein, as a maharaja or a yogi, as a postman or an academic, the living painting of Susanna and the Elders—there was only one elder: you—for a long time I wondered where those costumes came from, for I searched your apartment from top to bottom and never found a single trace of them), and the garters, the bright red bustiers, the push-up bras you liked to pull my tits from to suck on them, the risqué panties, etc. Fortunately, you are too old to be into piercings, or else you would have demanded that I deck myself out with jewelry from my breasts to my vagina.

  In sum, I was a conciliatory, obedient mistress. Proud to have you as a lover, doing my best to support your writing. Until the incident with the filthy armoire and my attentive, prolonged examination of the puppet in the hallway fresco (you had left your stingy light bulb on so you could see what you were doing to me). Until the entrance onto the scene of your American translator, David Grey. I saw how you treated him. And I know that in a few days, when he arrives for the exchange of his New York apartment for yours in Paris, your traps will be in place to manipulate from a distance that poor boy who suspects nothing: the pile of books conspicuously placed on your desk, the letter in New Impressions of Africa, the corkboard and its insulting Post-it, the open armoire where you fucked me, the secret passage that I discovered at the bottom of that large piece of furniture (it reeked of old shoe inside, but there was also a wine cellar odor that intrigued me), the key that I finally found in your desk drawer (The scoundrel!); finally, at the end of the secret passage, the door opening onto the costume storage room of the Odéon theater! Suddenly I understood where you got your supplies for our little disguised performances. I also understood why I had had to do research on Dolores Haze, father Prote’s little lady (Ingrate!). You see, you no longer have much to hide. You’re stark naked and it’s not very appetizing, believe me (Whore!).

  One last thing before I take my leave of you for good: that onionskin I folded in sixty-four and slid into the center of the crown of violets, into the bullseye, replaced another letter that I actually found and read before substituting mine, the one that you, mad with rage, are reading at present. The other onionskin, well preserved despite the passing of time, as you suspected, i
s dated June 21, 1937. I am stealing it and keeping it.

  Adios,

  Doris

  ** I don’t know what’s holding me back from running to the rescue of my visibly struggling colleague David Grey and “rectifying” both Abel Prote and his text. Despite his very understandable perplexity faced with Scattered Figments, in which Prote discovered that he was but a character of this rambling novel, the Parisian writer cannot know that his fragile life is subjected to the goodwill of my American author and myself. How would you, my discerning reader, like to make such a discovery? It must be very unpleasant. In any case, it’s really me that Prote should be asking not to cross him out, saber him, rewrite him, massacre him, censor him, as he demands of David Grey; in fact, he should get down on his knees and beg me not to modify him, correct him, augment him, subvert him, for not only his writing—which I am liking more and more, I’ll admit—but even his very existence depends on my author and, ultimately, on me. From here on out I wield significant power. (Translator’s Nefariousness)

  †† What nerve! If only Abel Prote knew his subaltern, ectoplasmic status, he would be the one suddenly turning crimson with rage and humiliation… (Trap’s Nausea)

  * * *

  I concede that my secret passage, where I planned to demonstrate my power over you, David Grey, my American translator, has taken an unexpected turn. The breakup letter from Doris, that abomination, I didn’t see it coming. Nevertheless I include it in my own letter, which you will discover tomorrow when you return from the Odéon, inside the white chest placed in the center of the wine cellar, in the violet envelope marked with a Z. All that comes before, and all that follows until my signature, will appear in my book, (N.d.T.), and you must therefore translate the entirety of this addition, including my indignant exclamations. It’s true that I am mad with rage—that traitress guessed right, she predicted my reactions, she knows me inside and out, and it’s with a heavy heart that I fly to New York, for the close circle of my private life now includes two people of whom I have good reason to be wary: first you, the deceitful villain and soon the notorious tattletale, and then her, Doris, who, I understand now, took advantage of my kindness, my trust, my nearly paternal tenderness, yes, nearly paternal, in order to swap out the letter my father addressed to me from beyond the grave, the testament he wanted to transmit to me belatedly that probably contains crucial elements of who he was, of what he hoped for from me, of his life before my birth, to substitute this repugnant scrap, these slurs, these defamations that make my blood boil. I never want to see you again, Doris!

  All the same, you should have heard her coo, moan, and yell, the swooning Doris, when I made love to her … That voluntary amnesiac adored when my skillful hands, nails scrupulously cut short, trickled down her body, slid into the cracks and folds of her flesh to caress her as a musician plays his instrument. It’s true that very soon after our first encounter I plucked her strings with jubilation—or rather: she gave herself to me with perfect generosity, I have to admit—vibrating harmonies, delicious arpeggios, staggering glissandos, titillating pianos, enchanting allegro ma non tropos, pianissimos full of emotion and anticipation, finally the fortissimo, powerful and symphonic, majestic, dazzling.

  In sum, without going into detail, she was not the unpleasant slag that Doris is today. Furthermore, she had a weakness, or rather a true passion, for our little disguised romps, she asked for them again and again, the miscreant, soon she couldn’t do without them, it became a drug for her. Yes, we dressed up: Doris as a marquise, Abel as a highway bandit (a tree trunk fallen over the road, in the middle of the forest; the coach driver pulling tightly on the reins, then the courtesans and lackeys dismounting, all immediately subjected to my sword; my valiant accomplices shooed away; the marquise frightened, but also aroused, stepping down from the carriage and then advancing toward me covered in blood, visibly excited by it; then I lift her up, I lay her on a stump, my bed, and I provoke genuine cries of pleasure from her). Doris a frisky CEO, Abel a humble courier. Doris a sports journalist, Abel the champion of the Tour de France. Doris as Alice, me as Lewis. Her a dominatrix, me a submissive slave. Her Desdemona, me Othello. Her Satan, me Saddam. Doris as a young American actress, Abel as a renowned Parisian editor (during that vertiginous flashback, I went so far as to deck myself out in my father’s hat to offer to my young actress of the second millennium the crown of faded violets that I had retrieved from the armoire. How Doris’s eyes sparkled!). Sometimes, to spice things up, we inverted roles: for example, Doris as a pretty page, Abel as a haughty female chateau owner; her a lustful postman, I a consenting housewife; she a gigolo of Montmartre, I a little salesgirl. Her as Zorro, me as Donna Elvira. Her as Vladimir, me as Estragon (an incredible night!). No, David, we did not go so far as her playing a male writer with green eyes and me a personal secretary with shapely curves. Nevertheless, one night, hearts racing with excitement, we agreed that I would play the writer and her the secretary—another writer, a different secretary—for one of the most stimulating erotic role-plays, the most arousing of our entire eclectic repertoire … No matter what she says in her letter, we spent many delicious hours disguising ourselves in this way, staging unprecedented seductions, rough or subtle, violent or delicate, a surprise attack or a skillfully arranged crescendo. And each time, or almost, I am profoundly convinced that we would share the same fascinated fervor: on the illuminated stage of my apartment with its drawn curtains, the mounting, real fever of our first simulated encounter would soon come to the point of no return, that brutal tipping point where imagination, strategy, and mastered artifice were suddenly exposed, outmoded then devastated, ripped to shreds by the conquering and very concrete rush of desire. So my feverish hands would open her costume, which was sometimes complicated, tearing buttons and laces, ripping the fragile fabric, to find Doris’s burning flesh at last, other times it was her who, trembling from frustration and lust, letting out little cries of anger and bitterness, would rip open my doublet, clumsily undoing my large embroidered belt, pulling down my zipper, grabbing hold of my rock-hard cock. She cannot deny the pleasure, unprecedented and all the more violent because of it, that she discovered in those games, in that performance, in that truth.

  As for me, I admit that it was not my first time using disguise as a means to heighten the power of eroticism. But with none of my other mistresses did I find the same talent, ardor, invention, ingenuity, intelligence, the same cheerful and passionate cunning. The bursts of laughter at the beginning were nowhere near as joyful and contagious; no other lover demonstrated as eloquently the mounting of arousal, at first imperceptible, distant, deep within her, then manifest, right up close, mastered with great effort, finally triumphant and suffocating, an arousal that was born out of that programmed seduction, that planned excitement (“You will fall in love with me at nine thirty-two on the dot”), at once artificial and astounding.

  When my partner and lover was not there, I devoted a good amount of time to imagining enticing costumes, to perfecting new sketches, to inventing encounters full of possibilities. When Doris arrived at my place around seven o’clock, I would suddenly surprise her: there would be two costumes in my room that she had usually never seen before, spread out over my large bed. She would choose hers, which, incidentally, was not always the one that I had expected. She was full of incredible resources. Then, keeping on our normal clothes and acting as if nothing had happened, but already playing—she as the perfect personal secretary, me as the focused writer—we would work two or three hours and, as the time passed, we would become more and more distracted, each imagining the events of the night, the various scenarios, turns of events, strategies, lines, assaults, partial or definitive surrenders, each as if magnetized by the fateful moment when words, postures, spirits and senses would flip over, overwhelmed, carried by the flood. But we would stand firm, we scrupulously respected the rule, the tacit ritual, Doris would speak only of her research for (N.d.T.), I would reflect out loud about my novel, contin
uing our work until the aperitif (she would have a glass of Sandeman port, I a whiskey on the rocks, sometimes two). We would then eat in a little restaurant in the Latin Quarter that has since been polished, plunged into the formalin of money for the purpose of touristic preservation. We spoke little, would often order the same dishes as the day before (spaghetti Bolognese for her, prime cut of beef with shallots for me, and a pitcher of red wine, finishing with two coffees). Rather than savoring what we ate, we were like athletes ingesting diet-specific food before a competition, carefully selected and portioned according to their nutritional values. Then, absorbed, nearly absent, already yearning for what was to come next, our joint entrance onto the stage of my apartment, our only audience the blind and deaf books of my library, the massive piece of furniture, or the puppet in the fresco, we would go back on foot, with a mechanical step growing faster and faster, exchanging words that tried to be benign but were already trembling with the electric impatience and nerves of a first amorous encounter: we had a rendezvous with other versions of ourselves.

  Then, undress (no arousal in these perfunctory, efficient, rapid gestures), put on the chosen costume (Doris would begin with a burst of nervous laughter), do a little trial run together improvising two or three lines, poses, intonations, movements, sharing another few nervous laughs until she and I were little by little consumed by the game, literally became prisoners of the fiction over which we should have remained masters. The sketch, although we had indeed imagined it, conceived of it, breathed life into it, evolved according to an implacable logic that soon escaped us entirely, even snatched us up, reduced our will to nothing, provoked our shared powerlessness faced with this mysterious mechanism in which we were merely the centerpieces. But at the same time, this feeling of destiny, if that is the right word, miraculously spared us from the least effort, freed us of all clumsiness, of all possible blunders. I would even say that this destiny liberated us, took charge of us, carried us, turned us into consummate actors focused entirely on our reciprocal seduction. There was no doubt about it: the CEO and the courier, Alice and Lewis, Zorro and Donna Elvira, the lustful postman and the consenting housewife, the dominatrix and the submissive slave, the gigolo (Doris) and the little salesgirl (me), Desdemona and Othello, Satan and Saddam, Vladimir and Estragon, even the writer and his secretary, all those couples, two lovers irresistibly attracted to each other. Night after night, with a diabolical regularity, the theatrical metronome of desire seized us and stupefied us again and again. Every night before the “performance,” that implausible constancy nevertheless planted fear in our stomachs: would it be as good, would we be as good as the night before? Would it be as good as all the other times? Would luck not abandon us? That’s luck for you… But no, luck was always on our side; this feeling of being carried and blown away until the irresistible breakdown, that miraculous inevitability, always intoxicated us: for us, destiny never went on hiatus. It never faltered.