The Mystery of Henri Pick

by David Foenkinos

  It was strange to see this remote little town, usually so quiet, invaded by all these human shadows, these men and women driven by love of the written word. It was easy to spot those who had come to drop off their manuscript. But not all of them looked defeated. Some people thought it chic to leave a text here, even a private journal. The town welcomed everybody’s words, a baroque overflow of sentences. Sometimes, the writers came from far away; two Poles travelled from Cracow just to deliver what they believed to be a misunderstood masterpiece.

  One young man, Jérémie, came from south-west France to abandon a collection of short stories and poems that he had written over the previous few months. About twenty years old, he looked like Kurt Cobain: lanky and stoop-shouldered, with long, blond, dirty hair; but a strange light seemed to emanate from this scruffy exterior. Jérémie was a throwback to another age, like a photograph from a 1970s high school yearbook come to life. His writing was influenced by René Char and Henri Michaux. His poetry, while attempting to be political and intellectual, was above all completely obscure to everyone but its author. Jérémie was fragile in the way of those people who cannot find their place in the world, and who wander endlessly searching for a place to lay their head.

  Magali was tired of constantly welcoming these manuscript-bearers, and she sometimes cursed Gourvec for his hare-brained idea. More than ever, she considered the project absurd, seeing it only as a massive added workload. When she first spotted Jérémie, she assumed he was just another lost soul, rejected by the world, who had come here to buttonhole her like all the others. In fact, he smiled as he presented her with his manuscript. His sweet attitude made an interesting clash with his wild, rugged appearance. In the end, she decided she liked him. And not only that, but she thought him extremely handsome.

  “I’m trusting you not to read my manuscript,” he said, almost whispering. “It’s very private, you see.”

  “No, don’t worry…” Magali replied, blushing slightly.

  Jérémie knew that this woman would read what he’d written, precisely because of what he’d just said. That didn’t matter. This place was like an island where the idea of being judged had no importance. Here, he felt lighter. Usually very shy, despite his apparent self-confidence, he stayed a moment in the library to observe Magali. Discomfited by those blue eyes gazing at her, she tried to look busy. But it was obvious that she had been basically accomplishing nothing since he arrived. Why was he looking at her like that? Could he be a psychopath? No, he seemed quite gentle, harmless. You could tell from the way he walked, spoke, breathed; as if he were apologizing for existing. Yet he had an undeniable charisma. It was impossible to stop looking at this man who acted like a ghost.2

  He stood there a little longer without speaking. Occasionally they smiled at each other. Finally he went up to Magali.

  “Could we maybe go out for a drink? After you finish work?”

  “A drink?”

  “Yes, I’m on my own here. I came a long way to bring my manuscript. I don’t know anybody… So, it’d be nice if you could.”

  “All right,” said Magali, surprising herself with this spontaneous reply that had not been authorized by her rational mind. But she’d said yes now, so… she would go for a drink with him. It was just out of politeness; he didn’t know anybody. And that was the only reason he wanted to go for a drink with her, of course. He didn’t want to be alone. It’s perfectly understandable; yes, that’s why he wants to go for a drink with me, thought Magali, brooding obsessively over the situation.

  5

  A few minutes later, she sent her husband a text: she was busy at work, so she would be late home. This was the first time she had ever lied to him; not out of principle, but simply because she’d never needed to tell him anything but the truth before. The problem was that Crozon was a small town where everybody knew one another. The best thing, perhaps, would be to stay inside the library, after closing. She had an office there where they could have a drink. Why had she said yes? She felt magnetized by the moment. If she backed out now, she had the feeling that nothing else would ever happen in her life. Hadn’t she dreamt of this? It was hard for her to know exactly what she was feeling. She hadn’t thought about her desires, or even her sexuality, in such a long time. Her husband barely touched her these days; sometimes, when he was aroused, he would relieve himself mechanically inside her; it wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it was all fairly basic, without any hint of sensuality. And now this young man wanted to have a drink with her. How old was he? He looked younger than her sons. Maybe twenty? She hoped he wasn’t younger. That would be sordid. But she wasn’t going to ask him. She didn’t want to know anything about him, in fact, preferring to leave the moment mysterious, a non-reality that would have no effect on the rest of her life. Anyway, they were only going to have a drink. Yes, that was all: just a drink.

  He was finishing his beer now, and staring at her. She turned her face away, trying to regain some composure. She uttered a few phrases, meaningless words, anything to break this unbearable silence. Jérémie asked her to relax: there was no obligation to talk. They could just sit here in silence. That was fine with him. He was opposed to all conventions in relationships, the first and most important being the obligation to talk when there are two of you. Despite that, he started a conversation:

  “It’s a strange library.”

  “Strange?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird, don’t you think, this collection of rejected books? Like a cursed place or something.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “So, what do you think of it?”

  “For me, it had ceased to exist. And then Pick’s book came out…”

  “You really think he was the one who wrote it?”

  “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it have been him?”

  “I dunno. You make pizzas, you never read a book, and after your death it turns out you wrote a great novel. It just seems weird, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you do things that nobody knows about?”

  “No…”

  “So whose idea was it, this library?”

  “The man who hired me. Jean-Pierre Gourvec.”

  “Did he write?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know him that well.”

  “How much time did you spend with him?”

  “Just over ten years.”

  “You were with him every day for ten years, in this tiny little place, and you say you didn’t know him?”

  “Yes, well… I mean, we talked. But I was never really sure what he was thinking.”

  “Do you think you’ll read my book?”

  “I don’t think so. Unless you want me to. I never open any of the books that are deposited here. They’re often pretty bad, it has to be said. Everybody thinks they’re a writer these days. And it’s been even worse since Pick’s success. To hear them speak, everybody you meet is a misunderstood genius. Well, that’s what they all tell me. I get lumbered with so many losers…”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “What did you think of me when you saw me?”

  “…”

  “You don’t want to tell me?”

  “I thought you were very handsome.”

  Magali couldn’t quite believe she was talking like this. Simply. Frankly. She might easily have been embarrassed by the probing nature of their discussion, but she wasn’t; she wanted to keep talking with him, to drink until morning, hoping that the night would never end, that the sun would never rise on a new day, that they would lose themselves somewhere in a time warp. She was an honest, straightforward person, but she never talked about her feelings or emotions. Why had she admitted that she found him handsome? Because it was her main thought, squeezing out all the others. She could enjoy talking to him, but the enjoyment was minor compared to the physical desire that was slowly overcoming her. How long was it since she’d felt this way? She had no idea. Perhaps
it was the first time she’d ever felt it. This desire was as intense as the erotic void that had preceded it. Jérémie stared at her, a faint smile on his lips, as if he were taking pleasure in slowing time down, in not rushing into anything.

  Finally he stood up and walked over to her. He put his head on her shoulder. She tried to control her breathing, hoping that he couldn’t sense the incredible pounding of her heart. Jérémie moved his hand along Magali’s body, lifting up her dress; he slid his finger inside her before he even kissed her. She clung to him desperately; the simple fact of being touched had sent her into a forgotten world. He kissed her passionately, holding her neck firmly with his hand; she tipped backwards, as light as if her body were evaporating with pleasure. He took her hand and moved it towards his penis; she touched it clumsily, without looking, but he was already hard. He told her to stand up and turn around, and then he took her from behind. It was impossible for Magali to guess how long it lasted; each second erased the previous one in a physical pleasure so intense even the present was forgotten.

  6

  The two of them were lying on the floor now, in darkness, Magali with her dress lifted up, Jérémie with his trousers pulled down. She heard her phone ringing—probably her husband—but that didn’t matter. She hoped she could make love again that evening, suddenly incredulous that she had spent her whole life deprived of the presence of other bodies. But she got dressed, feeling embarrassed at being half naked like that. How could he have desired her? And why her? He could probably have any woman he wanted. It was like a mirage, or the kind of thing that only happens in films. She mustn’t get carried away, just savour the beauty of the moment; he would leave, and it would be perfect; she could live and relive every second of the memory in her mind, and that would enable it to exist again.

  “Why are you getting dressed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have to go home? Is your husband expecting you?”

  “No. Well, yes.”

  “I’d like you to stay, if you can. I’ll probably spend the night here, if you’re okay with that. I don’t have a hotel room.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I want you again.”

  “You don’t think I’m too…”

  “Too what?”

  “You don’t think I’m too fat?”

  “No, not at all. I like women with curves. It’s reassuring.”

  “Did you need that much reassurance?”

  “…”

  7

  José, becoming anxious, sent another message: he was coming to the library. Magali replied, apologizing for getting caught up with the inventory and saying she was on her way home. She gathered all her belongings and stuffed them at random into her bag, casting quick glances at the man she’d just made love with.

  “So I’m an inventory,” he sighed.

  “I have to go home. I have no choice.”

  “Don’t worry, I understand.”

  “Will you be here tomorrow morning?” Magali asked, although she already knew the answer. He was going to leave; he was the kind of man who left. Yet he replied, with intense conviction in his voice, that he would be there; he sounded very sure. He kissed her one last time, without saying anything. But Magali had the feeling that she’d heard words. Had he spoken? Her senses were confused, leading to these little hallucinations where she had to hold tight to her lover to be certain of reality. At last, he whispered: “Tomorrow morning, come before the library opens, and wake me with your mouth…” Magali didn’t try to understand the precise meaning of this erotic request, she just let herself be flooded by the happiness inspired by this carnal rendezvous; in a few hours, they would be together again.

  She got in the car and, although she knew she ought to hurry home, just sat there in suspense for a while. She turned on the lights, then started the engine. Each insignificant gesture took on quasi-mythological proportions, as if what had just happened was spreading throughout her life. Even the way back home, which she’d driven every day for decades, seemed different.

  1He did consider calling it something simpler, such as “Writing Day” or “The Festival of Writing”. But, in the end, he preferred to emphasise unpublished authors: it was a way not of celebrating amateurism but of empowering writers who had not received public recognition.

  2If Magali had known Pasolini, she might have thought of his film Teorema, where the central character makes souls tremble with the simple power of his ghostlike presence.

  PART SEVEN

  1

  A few years ago, Jean-Michel Rouche was a man with real influence in literary circles. His articles were feared, particularly his column in Figaro Littéraire. He enjoyed this power, playing hard to get when press officers asked to meet him for lunch, always leaving a dramatic pause before giving his opinion on this or that novel, knowing that his voice would echo like an oracle. He was the prince of an ephemeral kingdom that he imagined eternal. All it took was the appointment of a new editor at the newspaper, and he was sacked. Another writer wore his crown before, in turn, being dismissed a few years later; such was the ceaseless waltz of fragile power.

  Without realizing it, Rouche had made a lot of enemies during his glory years. He hadn’t thought that he was being mean or unfair, just intellectually honest about what he felt, bravely denouncing pretentiousness and overrated writers. He hadn’t always acted in a career-minded way; nobody could accuse him of that. But now it was impossible for him to find an outlet to express himself; not on radio, not on television, and certainly not in the press. Gradually, he would be forgotten; anyone who tried to remember his name would say, “Oh, hang on, it’s on the tip of my tongue…”

  However, the hellish period he was going through had not made him bitter, but almost kindly. He presented round-table discussions in provincial towns, and came to realize that behind every writer, even the most mediocre, there was a will to work, the dream of accomplishing something. He shared cold buffets and hand-rolled cigarettes with the witnesses of his decline. In the evenings, in his hotel room, he would examine his hair, observing with horror as it gradually, inexorably disappeared. Particularly from the top of his head. He drew a parallel between his social life and his baldness. The pattern was clear: he had begun to lose his hair on the day he was fired.

  As soon as Pick’s novel came out, Rouche developed a sort of obsession with the story behind it. Brigitte, his girlfriend of three years, didn’t understand why he kept talking about this publication, which struck him as shady in some way. He scented a literary hoax.

  “You see plots everywhere,” said Brigitte.

  “I don’t believe an artist really wants to remain hidden. Well, I mean, it happens, but it’s very rare.”

  “That’s not true. Lots of people have a talent that they prefer to keep to themselves. Me, for example. Did you know that I sing in the shower?” Brigitte asked, very proud of this semi-sonic, semi-liquid repartee.

  “No, I didn’t know. And no offence, but I don’t think that’s quite the same thing.”

  “…”

  “Listen, I just have a hunch about this. When I uncover the truth, a lot of people will be surprised, believe me.”

  “Well, I think it’s a great story and I believe it. You’re just cynical, and that’s sad.”

  Jean-Michel didn’t know how to respond to this somewhat brutal put-down. He could tell that Brigitte was growing tired of him. This didn’t shock him. He was losing his hair, putting on weight, his social life was dull, and he was earning less money; he could no longer ask her out to a restaurant on a whim. He had to plan all his expenses in advance.

  In fact, none of that really mattered to Brigitte. What she missed most of all was the passion of their early days; the way he would tell stories, his enthusiasm. Most of the time, he was still gentle and attentive, but she could feel his dark side gaining ground. He was being eaten up by bitterness. She wasn’t surprised that he should be incredulous about that Breton author. And
yet she was wrong. The truth was almost the exact opposite of what she thought. Something in Jean-Michel was awakening. It had been a long time since he’d felt this motivated. He wanted to investigate the story, and he felt convinced that the outcome would be crucial for his career. Thanks to Pick, he would return to the forefront of the literary scene. He needed to follow his intuition to find evidence of the fraud. His first move was to travel to Brittany.

  He begged Brigitte to lend him her car. She was hesitant, because she knew he was a bad driver. But she wasn’t against the idea of him going away for a few days. It might do them both some good. So she agreed, reminding him to be very careful, because she didn’t have enough money to pay for additional insurance. He quickly packed his bag and got behind the wheel. Barely two hundred metres later, misjudging the first bend, he scraped the side of the Volvo.

  2

  After seeing Madeleine on television, Rouche felt convinced that there was no more information to be had from her. He had to focus on the daughter, who was much more expansive in her interviews. For now, she had only been asked to recount anecdotes about the past, but Rouche would do everything he could to persuade her to show him as many documents as possible. He felt sure that, somewhere, he would find proof that his intuition was correct. Joséphine was not getting weary of the media attention. She used it to talk about her shop, and the publicity she gained from it was considerable. Rouche had read the articles on the internet, and couldn’t help having a negative opinion about her; in fact, he thought she was probably a bit stupid.