The Mystery of Henri Pick

by David Foenkinos

  “Yes. I did bump into her, but we didn’t go for a coffee together.”

  “I don’t understand you. I don’t know what’s true any more.”

  “I just wanted to have an argument.”

  “An argument? You want me to smash a vase just to make you happy?”

  “Why not?”

  Delphine moved closer to Frédéric. “You’re crazy.” She was realizing the truth of this a little more every day. She’d known it wouldn’t be easy to live with a writer. But she loved him; she loved him so much, and had done from the first second. So she said: “Do you want an argument, my love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not tonight, because I’m shattered. But soon, my love. Soon…”

  And they both knew that she always kept her promises.

  5

  Delphine had hoped the book would be a success, she’d wanted it so badly that she couldn’t sleep, but had she ever imagined a phenomenon like this? No, it wasn’t possible. Her mind, though capable of the most extravagant dreams, could never have envisaged the improbable events that would follow.

  It all began with a media frenzy. Journalists were immediately enraptured by the story of the novel, which they considered amazing, incredible, extraordinary. Hyperbole, of course, but our era has a love of facile exaggeration. Within a few days, Pick’s novel was the toast of literary France. The novel, and the story behind it. For the newspapers, it was an exciting subject, a great story. One journalist, a friend of Delphine’s, compared the phenomenon to Houellebecq’s most recent book.

  Delphine was surprised. “What makes you say that?”

  “Submission is his biggest success. Bigger than his Goncourt winner. But it’s his worst book. I almost fell asleep reading it. Frankly, for anyone who likes Houellebecq, it’s a long way short of his other work. He has an exceptional gift for narrative, but in Submission there’s hardly any story. And the few good pages, about sexuality or solitude, are just tired retreads of stuff he’s written before.”

  “I think you’re being very harsh.”

  “But everybody wanted to read it because the idea is absolutely brilliant. Within two days, the whole of France was talking about it. Someone even asked the president of France in an interview: ‘Are you going to read Houellebecq’s new novel?’ In terms of promoting a book, it doesn’t get much better than that. It’s a polemic masquerading as a novel, it’s remarkable.”

  “It’s always like that, every time he brings out a book. People always go on about stuff that isn’t even in his novels. Doesn’t matter though. He’s still a great writer.”

  “That’s not the point. With Submission, he left the novel behind. He has entered a new era before anyone else. The text has no importance any more. What matters is having one very strong idea. An idea that will make people talk.”

  “What does that have to do with Pick?”

  “It’s less inflammatory, it’s less brilliant, and it’s not by a public relations genius, but everybody is talking about your book, and not because of the actual text. You could have published the IKEA catalogue and it would still have been a bestseller. The book itself isn’t that good. It’s slow in parts, it’s kind of clichéd. The only really interesting bit is Pushkin dying. Basically, it’s a novel about the absurd death of a poet.”

  Delphine didn’t share the journalist’s opinion. It was obvious that the fabulous commercial success of Pick’s novel was linked to its context, but she didn’t think that explained all of it. She’d heard from many readers who’d been deeply moved by the book. She herself thought it was excellent. But in one sense the journalist was right: people were talking much more about the mystery of Henri Pick than about his book. A huge number of journalists called her, trying to find out more about the dead pizzeria owner. Some even launched investigations into his life. Who was he? When did he write the book? And why hadn’t he wanted to publish it? They wanted answers to all these questions. Soon, there would undoubtedly be new revelations about the author of The Last Hours of a Love Affair.

  6

  Success breeds success. When the novel had shifted 100,000 copies, many newspapers started writing about it again, using the word “phenomenon”. Everybody wanted the first interview with “the widow”. Until then, Delphine had thought it preferable to keep Madeleine in the shadows; to let people speculate about the backstory without too much information. Now that the book was a hit, they could launch a new publicity campaign around the discovery of the woman who had shared Henri Pick’s life.

  Delphine decided to let Madeleine appear on the television show La Grande Librairie. The presenter, François Busnel, had obtained an exclusive interview with her on the condition that filming took place in Crozon. Madeleine had no desire to go to a TV studio in Paris. Busnel often conducted interviews away from the French capital, but usually so he could meet a Paul Auster or a Philip Roth in the United States. All the same, he was happy to have this scoop; at last, the world would find out more about Henri Pick. After all, behind every male writer there is often a woman.

  Delphine slept very badly the night before her departure for Brittany. In the middle of the night, she was jolted awake by a sort of convulsion. She asked Frédéric what had happened. “Nothing, my love,” he replied. “Nothing happened.” She couldn’t fall back asleep, so she sat on the living-room sofa for the rest of the night, waiting for morning.

  7

  A few hours later, accompanied by a television camera crew, she rang the doorbell at Madeleine’s house. The old lady hadn’t imagined that so many people would come all this way to see her: there was even a make-up artist. She found this ridiculous. “I’m not Catherine Deneuve,” she said. Delphine explained that everybody who appeared on television had to wear make-up, but it made no difference. Madeleine wanted to be natural, and perhaps it was better that way. The television crew quickly realized that this old Breton woman was not the kind of person to let herself be put upon. François Busnel tried to charm her with a few compliments about the décor of her living room, a task that required him to plumb the depths of his imagination. In the end, he understood that the best thing would be to talk about the region itself, Brittany. And he made a few references to Breton authors that Madeleine didn’t know much about.

  Filming began. Busnel started by talking about the genesis of the novel. His enthusiasm was real, without being excessive. Presenters of literary TV shows have to find a middle ground between the charisma necessary for TV shows generally and the subtlety preferred by a public who favour seriousness over theatricality. Finally, he addressed Madeleine: “Hello, madame.”

  “Call me Madeleine.”

  “Hello, Madeleine. May I ask you where we are?”

  “But you know perfectly well where we are. What a weird question.”

  “It’s for the viewers. I’d like you to introduce the location, because the programme usually takes place in Paris.”

  “Oh yes, everything takes place in Paris. Well, that’s what the Parisians think.”

  “So… Here we are in…”

  “My house. In Brittany. In Crozon.”

  Madeleine pronounced each sentence a little louder than the one before, as if her pride could only express itself in a rise in vocal volume.

  Delphine, sitting behind the cameras, watched in surprise as the show began. Madeleine seemed astonishingly at ease, perhaps because she wasn’t fully aware that hundreds of thousands of people would be watching her. How could you imagine so many people, after all, when only one man is talking to you? Busnel cut to the chase: “Apparently you had no idea that your husband had written a novel.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you very surprised?”

  “To start with, yes. I couldn’t believe it. But Henri was unusual.”

  “In what way?”

  “He didn’t speak much. Maybe he was like that because he wanted to keep all his words for his book.”

  “He ran a pizzeria, correct?”

&nb
sp; “Yes. Well, we did. The two of us.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry, you both ran it. So you were together every day. When could he have done his writing?”

  “Probably in the mornings. Henri liked to go to work early. He’d get everything ready for the lunch shift, but I’m sure he had some spare time.”

  “There’s no date on the manuscript. All we know is the year that it was delivered to the library. Perhaps he wrote it over a long period of time?”

  “Perhaps. I have no way of knowing.”

  “And what did you think of the book?”

  “It’s a good story.”

  “Were you aware that he liked certain writers?”

  “I never saw him read a book.”

  “Really? Never?”

  “I’m a bit too old to start lying.”

  “And Pushkin? You found a book by the Russian poet in your house, is that right?”

  “Yes. In the attic.”

  “To remind our viewers, your husband’s novel describes the last hours of a love affair, a couple who have decided to separate, and also the death throes of Alexander Pushkin. An intense, gripping description of the poet’s death, during which he suffered terribly.”

  “He certainly did a lot of moaning.”

  “It is 27th January 1837 and, if I may say so, he is unlucky not to be killed instantly. ‘Life didn’t want to escape him, preferring to remain inside a body and make it suffer’, to quote your husband. He writes about the coagulating blood. This image recurs constantly, as the love between the two other characters becomes a dark blood. It’s very beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So you found a book by Pushkin.”

  “Yes, I already told you that. Up in the attic. In a cardboard box.”

  “Had you ever seen that book before in your house?”

  “No. Henri didn’t read. Even with the newspaper, he just quickly leafed through it. He said it was always bad news.”

  “So what did he do with his spare time?”

  “We didn’t have much. We never went on holiday. He liked cycling, the Tour de France. Especially the Breton riders. He once saw Bernard Hinault in real life, and that put him in a state. I’d never seen him like that before. You had to get up pretty early to impress Henri.”

  “Yes, I imagine so… But let’s return to Yevgeny Onegin, the book by Pushkin that was found in your attic. Your husband underlined a passage. I’d like to read it out, if you’ll permit me.”

  “All right,” said Madeleine.

  François Busnel opened the book and read a few words:4

  To live and think is to be daunted,

  To feel contempt for other men.

  To feel is to be hurt, and haunted

  By days that will not come again,

  With a lost sense of charm and wonder,

  And memory to suffer under—

  The stinging serpent of remorse.

  This all adds piquancy, of course,

  To conversation.

  After leaving a rather long silence, a rare event on a television show, the presenter asked: “Does that inspire anything in you?”

  “No,” Madeleine replied without hesitation.

  “This passage is about a contempt for humanity. Your husband lived a very discreet life. He didn’t try to have his novel published. Was this down to a desire not to mix with other people?”

  “It’s true that he was discreet. And he preferred us to stay home when we weren’t working. But don’t say that he didn’t like people. He was never contemptuous of anybody.”

  “And what of that line about remorse? Did he have any regrets in his life?”

  Madeleine, usually so talkative and quick to respond, seemed to hesitate before finally saying nothing. The silence deepened.

  Busnel said: “Are you thinking about something in your life or would you prefer not to answer?”

  “It’s personal. You ask a lot of questions. Is this a television show or an interrogation?”

  “It’s just a television show, Madeleine, I promise you. We simply want to get to know you a little better, and your husband too. We would like to know what was hiding behind the author.”

  “I get the feeling he didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “Do you think this book was personal? That the story might be partly autobiographical?”

  “It was probably inspired by our separation, when we were seventeen. But after that, the story is very different. Maybe he heard the story in the restaurant. Some customers used to stay there all afternoon, drinking and talking about their lives. I once told my life story to a hairdresser, so I can understand that. Actually, can I say hello to him? He’d like that.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then again, I don’t know if he watches this. He’s more a fan of cookery shows, you know.”

  “No problem. We can say hello to him anyway,” said Busnel, flashing a complicit smile at the camera to share his amusement with the programme’s viewers; unlike the shows that were filmed before a live studio audience, he had no way of knowing whether he had succeeded in establishing this rapport or whether his wink had fallen flat. But he had no desire to let the interview dwindle into trivia; he was determined to remain focused on his subject, and still hoped to discover some new or surprising information about Pick. Nobody could read this novel without being avidly curious about its improbable backstory. Our era is generally on the hunt for the truth behind everything, particularly fiction.

  8

  In order to maintain the viewer’s interest until the end of the show, it was time to take a break. Usually, there was a brief interview at this point with a bookseller, who would share some of his current favourite books; but as this was a special edition of the show, another journalist had interviewed Magali Croze, hoping to find out more about the famous section of the library devoted to rejected books.

  Since agreeing to the interview, Magali had been on the verge of despair. She’d bought some self-tanning pills at the pharmacy, which had turned her skin an unusual shade somewhere between faded yellow and carrot-orange. She had gone to her hairdresser (the same one to whom Madeleine had said hello) on three different occasions, each time choosing a new style before regretting her decision. In the end she opted for a strange fringe that made her forehead look exceptionally long. The hairdresser thought she looked extraordinary, a word he accompanied by placing his hands on his cheeks, as if he himself were surprised at having been capable of such a creation. And perhaps he was: nobody in the history of hairdressing had ever seen such a hairstyle before, a blend of the baroque and the classical, the futuristic and the old-fashioned.

  Next came her outfit. She quickly chose5 to wear her palepink suit. To her surprise, she struggled to fit inside it, but she managed in the end, even at the risk of suffocation. With her new complexion, her new haircut and that suit rescued from the depths of her walk-in wardrobe, Magali barely recognized herself. José, her husband, who had grown thinner and thinner while she grew fatter and fatter (as if the couple had a fixed maximum weight which they had to share between both bodies), stood transfixed as he looked at this new vision of his wife. He thought of an overinflated pink balloon with a cabbage-shaped head on top.

  “What do you think?” she asked him.

  “I don’t know. It’s… bizarre.”

  “Oh, why did I bother asking you? You don’t know anything!”

  The husband went off to the kitchen, leaving the storm behind him. His wife had talked to him that way for a long time now. They tended to exchange silences or shouts; very rarely did their marriage produce a normal conversation. How long had it been like that? It is difficult to pinpoint the moment when love turns sour. It is gradual, insidious, a long downward slide. Life had undergone a logistical change with the birth of their two boys, and they ascribed the increasing distance between them to the exhausting nature of their daily lives. Things will be better when the children have grown up, they thought; we’ll be clo
ser again then. But in fact it was quite the opposite. The boys’ departure left a huge void behind; a sort of emotional cliff face in the living room. A giant crack that no tired relationship could ever hope to fill. The boys brought them life, subjects of conversation, engagement with the world. Now, none of that existed any more.

  José, though, decided to go back and reassure his wife. “Everything will be fine.”

  “You think?”

  “I know it. You’ll be perfect.”

  Magali was touched by this sudden tenderness. She had to admit that their emotional relationship was difficult to define, constantly vacillating between black and white, and she no longer knew what to think of it. When she was angry, she wanted to break up with him; and then she loved him again, almost to her surprise.

  Magali was also confused about the filmed interview. In fact, she hadn’t really understood what it would be like. She’d prepared as if she was going to appear on the nine o’clock news. For her, “being on television” meant: “Everybody is going to see me”. She hadn’t realized that she would be part of a two-minute section largely composed of images of the library and the comments of various readers. All that effort just to sit in front of the cameras for seventeen seconds on a literary programme that, even if it beat its own record audience, would remain relatively obscure. The journalist asked her to describe how the idea for the library came about. She talked briefly about Jean-Pierre Gourvec and how enthusiastic she had been about his brilliant project:6

  “Unfortunately, it wasn’t the big success he hoped it would be. But since Monsieur Pick’s book came out, things have changed. The library has far more visitors. People are so curious. I spot them as soon as they come in, the ones who are there to drop off their manuscript. Obviously, it’s a lot more work for me…”

  She was ready to keep talking for considerably longer, but the journalist abruptly thanked her for her “valuable insight”. The journalist knew that his report would only be a short insert, so there was no point recording too much material; it would only complicate the editing process. Magali, disappointed, continued talking anyway, with or without the camera. “It’s strange. Sometimes I have more than ten people at the same time. I’ve never seen anything like it. If it goes on like this, there’ll be a bus full of Japanese tourists turning up any day now!” She smiled as she said this, but nobody was listening any more. She was right, though: the craze for the library would continue to grow. For now, Magali headed towards her small office and removed her make-up, with the same melancholy bitterness as an old actress in her dressing room after the last performance of a play.