While he sits back in his seat without saying a word and lowers his eyes once again toward the circular container placed on his food tray, persistence of vision acts out its special crystal ball effect: like a very dark film projected onto a pale flecked screen, the residual image seen in the night superimposes itself on the transparent broth. The approximate ellipse of the window and the circle of the soup coincide gradually, two green and red asterisks blink and slowly transpose themselves from one edge to the other of the plastic bowl, from New York to Paris, in the middle of the pale oval pasta suspended in the now-gray liquid. (Translation Night)
Chapter 12
THE FLIGHT
* It’s done.
Thirty-two-thousand feet above the Atlantic sea, taking advantage of the crystal ball or of that primitive radar screen upon which swim the swarm of pale asterisks slowly roamed by a couple of blinking green and red stars, thanks to the clairvoyant bowl crossed by two opposite trajectories beneath David’s incredulous eyes, I make my move and break through the bar to fly away in my turn. In high school, the high jump was never my forte and I always refused to do the pole vault (I suffered from vertigo). Nevertheless I hope, in my flight, not to crash too quickly or reach too early that famous escape velocity that, apparently, allows objects propelled into space to be liberated, in the blink of an eye, from the earthly gravitational field and to pursue their celestial trajectory instead of falling back toward the Earth and crashing there dismally, like the first meteorite, shot forth from outer space to meet its not-so-glorious demise.
Seizing the opportunity of the two planes crossing in the middle of the sky and the curious superimposition of the images in David’s bowl, I don’t jump from one plane to another like a daredevil to repeat the disastrous experience of the unfortunate Icarus in my contemporary fashion, no, I don’t take that kind of idiotic risk only garlanded with success in rare and hilarious American cartoons. Instead, thanks to my large legs I step across the possibly electrified barbed wire of the fence without a moment’s hesitation, hoping not to be turned into méchoui or remain suspended ad vitam aeternam on its double barbs as food for the vultures, the crows, the rats, the maggots, and the various carnivorous animals of that region, which doesn’t appear on any map and whose vegetation I know nothing about.
I leave the lowly asterisk behind me to its sad fate, and leap with no regrets toward its superior double.
* * *
*
* I cling on.
I believe in my lucky star.
I hold on tight.
I am still here, even if I can hardly believe it.
* * *
*
* To the question “Is there a pilot flying the plane?” I immediately respond “Yes, me!” You will forgive me certainly for a few involuntary swerves due to my lack of experience, rather sudden turns that slam your body to your chair, abrupt nosedives that make your stomach shoot up into your throat, that provoke nauseating retching and perhaps more simple groaning—paper bags, I remind you, can be found in front of your knees in the net containing various dull magazines; if you should need more bags, don’t hesitate to ask your flight attendants. I will use this opportunity to tell you that, on the other hand, inevitable air pockets and other turbulences are out of my control. You will also pardon me, I hope, for a perhaps brutal landing, for slightly defective communication via the airplane sound system—I am talkative but, I willingly admit, a bit confused, of a disorderly temperament. I’m a beginner, you understand. And so I rely on your indulgence. Above all, remain calm. Don’t panic. In case of a sudden decrease in cabin pressure, use the plastic thingamajig that should, if everything is in working order, fall in front of your nose. There is also the sketch on the emergency exit, inflatable emergency slides, life jackets and the usual things … It seems you’ve already heard this speech; I won’t insist. Have I forgotten anything? Ah yes: I don’t have many hours of flying under my belt, navigation is not my forte, but you can trust me to bring you to your destination safe and sound, despite the few disgraces I still carry with me that I plan to rid myself of as soon as possible. I am talking about those two superfluous asterisks that still mar the windshield in my cockpit, I don’t know why, perhaps those nasty gulls crashed there during a previous takeoff—the cleaning services on the ground, on a slowdown strike since last Monday, clearly screw around instead of doing their jobs—and then above all I am alluding to that vile black bar that compromises the landing gear and which I would like to chuck beneath my feet, even if it sometimes gives me the * reassuring impression of flying from left to right above the horizon—look, that’s bizarre, “flying from left to right above the horizon,” I don’t recall a single pilot course evoking that specific situation—the impression, then, of flying toward a destination still hidden beyond that perfect line, or rather somewhere to its right. Moreover, it’s not just an impression, it’s exactly what I’m doing. Where the hell did my flight plan go?
Once more there is a string attached, or perhaps two. But a rib just gave way, a bolt just sprang loose, a rivet just exploded. I am floating more freely between sky and sea. All that remains, beneath the persistent horizon, is the reflection, as stubborn as ever, of a star that went extinct a few light-years ago.
Summoning my courage, I try the impossible and jump despite the risks toward the other plane, which, at a slightly higher altitude, is flying toward the Paris airport. May the passengers on their way to New York forgive me, I plan to meet back up with them a bit later. For the moment, I sink my claws into the wing of the plane, draw gradually closer to the large central tube and the luminous row of windows, resolutely thrust my head into the steel and, like a diver gracefully piercing the liquid mirror of a pool, I enter the cabin. Not used to my new discretion, I walk comically on my tiptoes. No one, apparently, notices my intrusion. I am a monster from outer space. A discreet entity. An agile walker through walls. A being come from the nonbeing. After that exploit, sadly gone entirely unnoticed, I settle myself into a comfortable reclinable seat in business class, whose thick fabric barely sinks beneath my ectoplasmic weight. Next to me, Abel Prote, “the virile man with green eyes,” is leaning over to the window, face strangely turned toward the void. In the black night he sees two navigation lights below him, one green one red, which blink in a rapid rhythm while heading in the opposite direction of his own plane. Green red. Green red. Paris-New York. He makes nothing of that vision, thinks nothing. He soon returns to his appetizing meal, taking only a brief inventory as his eyes peruse the menu given to him earlier: grated carrots with orange and cinnamon, Atlantic salt cod with beet purée and sliced black radish, an assortment of goat cheeses, and chocolate mousse with Espelette pepper. Champagne and French wines, choice of digestifs. Bon appétit. Enjoy your meal.
Everything is going well. I showed up at dinnertime. No one noticed. I fly incognito.
* * *
*
I feel at ease in this large soft seat. Beneath the bar, the last rivet has popped out, the reflection of the dead star has just disappeared in its turn. Does light take such a long time to cross that derisory distance that separates the top and bottom of a book page?
I glance around to assure that no one, no passenger, no crew member, is looking at me. Then, still invisible, I firmly push the button of the armrest that thanks to a well-designed mechanism slowly brings my chair to a reclined position. My ghostly body soon rests on what is a nearly horizontal bed, like those few lines printed in size 11 font arranged on the lower black bar, that support, that foundation, that table, that flimsy base, that stylized box spring, that thin shelf, which has now revealed an unexpected and astonishingly pleasant usefulness: I can simply lie down on top of it. I feel good. Relaxed. Calm. Comforted after my recent efforts. I breathe freely in the muted humming of the plane. Yes, I feel good. The flight attendants are my stratospheric mommies, even though I cannot speak to any of them at risk of triggering an unprecedented panic in the confined space of the cabin. I eve
n feel a little drunk, without having had a single drop of champagne, probably because of my acrobatic leap from one plane to another at the moment of their crossing in the freezing air. This rest is a new experience for me, an unprecedented intoxication. I am in seventh heaven, drunk off the altitude, according to the mountaineer expression. From now on, whatever happens in the cargo hold, I don’t give a damn.
Next to me, Abel Prote finishes his pseudo-gourmet meal. He asks for more champagne. The docile flight attendant refills his flute. He thanks her, staring at her intently, then, as she walks away, he watches the curves of her feminine hips, the shape of her thighs that can be made out from beneath her formfitting skirt, her slender legs. Then, his veiled stare keeps up its momentum within his alcoholic inertia, and finally stops on the seat next to his, on my seat, imperceptibly imprinted by the minimal weight of my body, on this horizontally reclined seat whereas, I would know, it was in its upright position only a minute ago. The French writer certainly has no idea that he is traveling next to a being he cannot see, but who paradoxically possesses a degree of reality superior to his own: for isn’t Prote merely a character in Translator’s Revenge, the novel I’m translating, vampirizing, contaminating, literally possessing?
He doesn’t suspect a thing—how could he? On the other hand, he wonders about the elusive modification of the seat next to him. He can’t put his finger on the precise nature of the change, but he feels that something is not right. It’s a simple detail, but agitating because it’s indefinable. A few seconds later, tired from that fruitless exam, incapable of defining his suspicions, he turns his head once again to look at the cheeses from his dinner. He’s already drunk a lot of champagne and a large glass of red wine accompanies the plate of goat cheeses. All that alcohol is muddling his ideas: he no longer really knows whether the seat next to him was in an upright position or reclined. Soon, he forgets even his recent perplexity to concentrate exclusively on his meal. Abel Prote the gourmand.
Hurray! I am levitating. I reached then surpassed the sound barrier without disintegrating, and then the famous escape velocity. The line, bar, foundation, support, shelf, box spring, pedestal, partition, first ceiling and most recently floor, it is henceforth far behind me, far below my feet, like the first floor of a rocket ship is cast off into space as soon as its reserves are empty: all that useless scrap iron will fall back to earth or to the sea, but not me. For I follow my silent and chatty trajectory. It’s a flight, a takeoff, a coup d’état, a change of state, a transformation. The black space of the interstellar night, the blank page striped with black letters is finally mine, and mine alone.
Now, I can focus fully on my characters. My author is me. Or almost. And I have accomplished my revenge. I have finally taken the place of the other. Who took off with no further ado. Now, I’m the one who establishes the pitch, I am still reclined on a business class seat on flight AF7202 on its way from New York to Paris, but I have the intoxicating impression of soaring immobile above the soft padding that my weightless body now no longer touches. In fact, I realize, I am floating five feet above my seat!
To my right, Abel Prote has just started on his chocolate mousse with Espelette pepper. He slowly savors his first melting, creamy mouthful, the aroma of cacao exciting his taste buds, and he waits impatiently for the light puff of heat from the finely ground spice, a sensation that after a few seconds invades and ravishes his mouth. He feels a sudden affection for the anonymous chef who, in a distant kitchen, like the planter of a time bomb or a clever strategist, anticipated and dosed the future pleasure of his customers so precisely, even if they would not taste his dishes in an opulent restaurant firmly anchored to earth, but inside a large metallic cigar flying thirty-two thousand feet above the ocean. He feels gratitude toward this chef, a sort of spiritual kinship. After all, Abel Prote so enjoys playing chess and booby-trapping his Parisian apartment that anticipation is practically his middle name.
I see him taste his chocolate mousse with the expression of a sated cat. My human neighbor soon dozes off, his eyelids gradually droop, his groping arms find the armrests, his head topples forward, his eyes close. He ate only half of his dessert, abandoning the other half to the airborne trash. Suddenly I want to taste it, that chocolate mousse. I’m salivating. After all, appetite and gluttony are not unknown to ectoplasmic beings. So I leave my seat, lean toward him noiselessly—incapable of making any noise in the first place, that still doesn’t keep me from walking like an idiot on my tiptoes—I take the spoon from the porcelain bowl, I turn it around in the container, then bring it to my invisible lips. Mmm, delicious. Such a wonderful aroma, such creaminess, I love it! I go to put the spoon back in the bowl delicately, preparing for the subtle surge of heat of the Espelette pepper, when Prote brusquely opens his eyes, notices his utensil suspended in the air above his food tray, and lets out a piercing scream. Frightened, I immediately drop the spoon, which falls loudly to the bottom of the bowl, and sit back quickly as possible in the neighboring seat.
A flight attendant, alerted by Prote’s scream, arrives quickly:
“Is everything okay, monsieur?”
“Th … the spoon.”
“Yes?”
“Well, it … it was floating in the air.” He points with a trembling hand to the space in front of him. “There, it was floating there, weightlessly …”
The flight attendant frowns, eyes the utensil quietly placed in the leftovers of the chocolate mousse, notices the passenger’s slightly slurred speech, the apparent incoherence of his words, his hand still extended in front of him. Then she remembers all the champagne he recently drank and replies: “Perhaps it was a dream, monsieur. Would you like something else? A digestif? A bit more champagne?”
“I assure you that …” Finally understanding the absurdity of his words, Prote renounces pleading his case. “No, thank you. I think I’ll go to sleep.”
“Very good, monsieur. May I clear your plate?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
The flight attendant takes the food tray, folds up the tray table, and, before walking away, says: “Good night, sir.”
Prote is lost in thought. He’s sure he saw that spoon floating in front of his eyes. He looks at the neighboring seat: still unoccupied and in a reclined position. He who thought he could anticipate all the moves of his adversaries on the chessboard of life has just lived an unusual experience, an unprecedented surprise that got the jump on him. He turns pale, widens his eyes, lets his jaw drop, he can’t fall asleep. I observe him and celebrate. I burst into a silent laugh.
Then he turns toward the window, as if to interrogate the night, search there for an explanation for his distress. But it was not a dream, he thinks suddenly with anger, no, despite the champagne and the wine I was not seeing things.
But I was certainly caught unawares, suddenly confronted with that flying object, so familiar but not there, not in that place, not twenty inches above my tray table, no, that spoon should not have been there, suspended in space by a magic trick designed for me. Next, it was as if my cry or my gaze had been enough to break the enchantment, to immediately make that stupid utensil fall back to its normal place … In opening my eyes I certainly did not expect to discover such a trick, I let myself be caught by surprise like an amateur.
On the other hand, in New York, he continues in silence, I did anticipate the return of the two lovebirds. They are the ones who are in for a surprise. They will very quickly be disillusioned, their cooing interrupted… They must be on the plane given the time. If that’s the case, I’ve already passed them in the sky, or I will. Bah, our paths are surely meeting for the last time. Perhaps I should wave my hand in front of the window, to bid them hello and farewell at the same time, hi and bye. Strange, but I perceive a sort of presence next to me, as if someone were observing me mockingly. I have the unpleasant feeling that someone is scrutinizing me, laughing at me. A look around the cabin: besides that majestic, very elegant black woman with the braided hair who has just f
allen asleep over her book, there is no one else in business class tonight. Bah, that story of the flying spoon, maybe it’s the salt cod weighing on my stomach, or the chocolate mousse, or more likely all the champagne I drank. I’d be better off sleeping and forgetting all about it.
He presses the button on his armrest to recline his seat to a horizontal position, then, beneath my attentive gaze, he places the blanket carefully over his plump body and pulls the edge beneath his chin. He closes his eyes, lets out a sigh of pleasure, and soon I hear his gentle snores.
Chapter 13
THE FRENCH TRANSLATOR
Seated at a table at Last Chance Bar in Greenwich Village, I’m as worried and feverish as a young man who’s arrived early for a first date with the girl he has a crush on. It’s ridiculous. But, even if I hold all the trump cards, I also have sweaty palms and I can feel the cards fall to the sawdust on the ground. I’ve just ordered a coffee and a glass of water.
An hour ago, from the apartment I’m staying in, I called one of the characters of the book I’m translating. (Can I really say, “An hour ago, from the apartment I’m staying in, I called one of the characters of the book I’m translating”? Certainly not. Or rather yes: of course I can, we can write anything, but sometimes we lose credibility. That is what I did: I called a fictional character, then, later on, I wrote that sentence, and certainly lost some of my credibility, or of my consistency.) David Grey, that’s his name, was speechless at first. I even thought the line might have cut off. But I could still hear breathing, panting, and then he said:
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