“This guy is a gold mine. He’s what I’d call a force of nature.”
“He’s wonderfully abject.”
“At least he doesn’t subscribe to some sort of soft ideology.”
“Or lite ideology!”
“There’s something about the way he throws his adversary.”
“He’s really good at it. Our friend, on the other hand, fell into every trap.”
“I don’t like to speak badly about someone who’s not here, but what was he thinking, asking him all those questions about food! I can see why the fat man wouldn’t put up with it. When you have the opportunity to question such a genius, you don’t go talking about food.”
The journalists were secretly delighted that they hadn’t gone first or second. If they had been completely honest with themselves, they would have admitted that, in their unfortunate predecessors’ shoes, they would have brought up the same subjects—stupid to be sure, but mandatory—and they were delighted that as a result they would not have to do the dirty work: they could put on their best face, and make the most of it, although this did not prevent them from having a bit of a laugh at the expense of the victims.
So, on that terrible day when the entire world trembled at the prospect of imminent war, an adipose, paralytic, unarmed old man had managed to draw the attention of a handful of media priests away from the Persian Gulf. There was even one who, on that night where all were sleepless, went to bed on an empty stomach and slept the heavy, exhausting sleep of those who suffer from liver complaints, with nary a thought for those about to die.
Tach was milking the innate potential of disgust for all it was worth. Fat was his napalm, Brandy Alexanders were his chemical weapon. That evening, he rubbed his hands together, a gleeful strategist.
So, has the war started?”
“Not yet, Monsieur Tach.”
“It is going to start, isn’t it?”
“Listening to you, anyone would think you hope it will.”
“I can’t stand it when promises are not kept. A bunch of goons promised us a war for January 15 at midnight. It’s the sixteenth and nothing has happened. Who do they take us for? Billions of television viewers are anxiously waiting.”
“Are you in favor of this war, Monsieur Tach?”
“You mean do I love war! Unthinkable! How can anyone love war? What a ridiculous, pointless question. Do you know anyone who loves war? Why don’t you ask me if I have napalm for breakfast, while you’re at it?”
“As regards your eating habits, I think we’re all set.”
“Ah? Because on top of everything else you spy on each other? You leave the dirty work to your unfortunate colleagues and then you go to town, huh? Shame on you. And maybe you think you’re more intelligent because you ask brilliant questions of the ‘Are you in favor of war?’ kind? And do you think I have been a universally admired writer of genius, who has received the Nobel Prize for literature, all so that a greenhorn can come and pester me with tautological questions, of the sort that even the dumbest of the dumb could answer with a reply identical to my own!”
“Fine. So, let’s suppose you do not like war, but do you want the war to go ahead?”
“In the current state of affairs, it’s a necessity. All those stupid little soldiers have a hard on. You have to give them the opportunity to ejaculate, otherwise they’ll get pimples and they’ll go home crying to their mommies. It’s unkind to disappoint young people.”
“Do you like young people, Monsieur Tach?”
“You have a gift for asking brilliant, unusual questions, I’ll say that much. Yes, would you believe, I do like young people.”
“That’s rather unexpected. From what I know of you, I would have imagined you couldn’t stand them.”
“‘From what I know of you’! Who do you think you are?”
“Well, knowing your reputation . . .”
“And what is my reputation?”
“Well . . . it’s hard to say.”
“Uh-huh. Out of consideration for you, I won’t insist.”
“So, you like young people? For what reason?”
“I like young people because they are everything I am not. And as such, they deserve tenderness and admiration.”
“That is an astonishing reply, Monsieur Tach.”
“Would you like a handkerchief?”
“Why are you making fun of your more noble sentiments?”
“My ‘more noble sentiments’? Where the devil do you go to find such utter nonsense?”
“I am sorry, sir, you yourself inspired me: what you said about young people was truly moving.”
“Dig a little deeper, and you will see if it’s moving.”
“Then let us dig a bit deeper.”
“As I was saying, I like young people because they are everything I am not. Which is to say, young people are attractive, nimble, stupid, and nasty.”
The journalist looked at him in questioning silence.
“Don’t you agree? An astonishing reply, to use your own words.”
“I suppose you are joking?”
“Do I look like someone who jokes? And what would be funny about this? Can you refute even one of those adjectives?”
“Even if we were to admit the adjectives are appropriate, do you really think you are at the opposite pole?”
“What? Or do you think I am attractive, nimble, stupid, and nasty?”
“You are neither attractive, nor nimble, nor stupid . . .”
“Well, that is reassuring at least.”
“But as for nasty—well, that you are!”
“Nasty, me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Nasty? You are sick. I have lived eighty-three years, and I have never met anyone as incredibly kind as my own self. I am a monster of kindness; I am so kind that if I met myself, I would vomit.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“This is too much. Find me one individual, not better than I am (that would be impossible), but as kind as I am.”
“Well . . . just anybody.”
“Just anybody? You yourself then, if I’ve understood correctly? You must be joking.”
“Me, or anybody.”
“Don’t talk about just anybody, you don’t know them. Talk to me about yourself. What gives you the right to claim you are as kind as I am?”
“I have the most flagrant proof.”
“Uh-huh. Just as I thought, you have no arguments.”
“Really, Monsieur Tach, stop talking nonsense, would you? I listened to the two interviews with the previous journalists. Even if all I knew about you were based on those samples, I would already know what to expect from you. Can you deny that you tortured those two poor fellows?”
“Such bad faith! They are the ones who tortured me!”
“Just in case you were unaware of the fact, both of them have been sick as dogs since their dealings with you.”
“Post hoc, ergo propter hoc, don’t you think? You are drawing up a relation of cause and effect that is altogether eccentric, young man. The first journalist fell ill after drinking too many egg flips. You’re not about to tell me that I’m the one who made him drink them, I hope? The second one badgered me, against my will, to make me talk about my eating habits. If he could not stomach my detailed descriptions, that’s not my fault, now is it? I would like to add that both those individuals behaved most arrogantly toward me. Oh, I put up with it, I was as gentle as a lamb on the sacrificial altar. But they must have suffered. You see, it always comes back to the Gospels: Christ said as much, that those who are nasty and hateful harm themselves first and foremost. Whence the torment endured by your colleagues.”
“Monsieur Tach, may I ask you to respond in all sincerity to the following question: do you take me for an imbecile?”
“Naturally
.”
“Thank you for your sincerity.”
“Don’t thank me, I am incapable of lying. Moreover, I cannot understand why you are asking me this question when you know the answer already: you are young, and I have not hidden from you what I think about young people.”
“Speaking of which, don’t you think you’re lacking in nuance somewhat? You can’t put all young people in the same bag.”
“I’ll grant you that. Some young people are neither attractive nor nimble. You, for example, I don’t know if you’re nimble, but you are anything but attractive.”
“Thank you for that. And what about nastiness and stupidity, are there no exceptions where young people are concerned?”
“I’ve known only one exception: myself.”
“What were you like, at the age of twenty?”
“Just as I am now. I could still walk. Otherwise, I don’t see how I have changed. I was already hairless, obese, mystical, genial, ugly, too kind, supremely intelligent, and solitary, and I already liked to eat and smoke.”
“In other words, you had no youth?”
“I love to listen to you talk, I could swear you’re a feast of platitudes. I will agree to the statement, ‘Yes, I had no youth,’ on the following tacit condition: be sure to specify in your article that this was your expression. Otherwise, people might think that Prétextat Tach is in the habit of using terminology from airport novels.”
“I’ll be sure to do so. And now, if you have no objections, please explain to me why you think you are so good, with examples to back up your arguments, if possible.”
“I love your ‘if possible.’ You don’t believe in my goodness, then, do you?”
“Believe is not the appropriate verb here. Let’s just say, rather, I have difficulty imagining it.”
“Well, I never. Young man, try to imagine what my life has been: a sacrifice lasting eighty-three years. What was Christ’s sacrifice, in comparison? My passion has lasted for fifty years or more. And before long I shall undergo an infinitely more remarkable apotheosis, that will be longer, more exclusive, and perhaps even more painful: a slow death that will leave on my flesh the glorious stigmata of the Elzenveiverplatz Syndrome. Our Lord inspires the most noble sentiments in me, but with all the good will in the world, I could not imagine Him dying of cartilage cancer.”
“And so?”
“What do you mean, and so? Do you think it’s the same thing, whether one dies from crucifixion, which was ordinary as rain back in those days, or from an extremely rare syndrome?”
“It’s still death, one way or the other.”
“My God! Have you any idea of the nonsense your tape recorder has just recorded? And your colleagues are going to hear this! My poor fellow, I would not like to be in your shoes. ‘Still death, one way or the other.’ I’m so kind that I will grant you permission to erase that.”
“It’s out of the question, Monsieur Tach, and that truly is my opinion.”
“Do you know that I am beginning to find you fascinating? Such a lack of discernment is extraordinary. You should be transferred to the ‘Run-over dogs’ department, learn dog language and ask these poor dying animals if they would not have preferred to die from an exceptional disease.”
“Monsieur Tach, do you ever speak to people other than to insult them?”
“I never insult people, Monsieur, I diagnose. In fact, I suppose you have never read any of my works?”
“You’re mistaken.”
“What? That’s impossible. You have neither the demeanor nor the attitude of a typical Tachian reader. You must be lying.”
“It’s the absolute truth. I have read only one of your novels, but I read it thoroughly, then I reread it, and it had a lasting impact on me.”
“You must be confusing it with something else.”
“How could anyone confuse a book like Gratuitous Rape Between Two Wars with another? Believe me, I was deeply shaken by your work.”
“Shaken? Shaken! As if I wrote to shake people! If you didn’t merely skim the book, Monsieur, as I suspect you did, if you read it the way it was meant to be read, with your guts—provided you even have any—you would have thrown up.”
“There is indeed an emetic esthetic in your oeuvre.”
“An emetic esthetic! You are hell-bent on making me weep!”
“Anyway, to get back to what we were saying earlier, I can safely assert that I have never read anything more bloated with nastiness.”
“Precisely. You wanted proof of my kindness: you have it, and it is flagrant. Céline understood as much, and in his prefaces he said he wrote his most poisonous books out of disinterested kindness, out of an irrepressible tenderness for his detractors. That is true love.”
“That’s a bit much, no?”
“Céline, a bit much? You’d do better to erase that.”
“No, really, that unbearably nasty scene with the deaf-mute woman, one can tell you were jubilant when you wrote it.”
“To be sure. You cannot imagine the pleasure one derives from bringing grist to the mill of one’s detractors.”
“Ah! In that case, it isn’t goodness, Monsieur Tach, but an obscure mixture of masochism and paranoia.”
“Ta, ta, ta! Stop using words you don’t even understand. Pure goodness, young man! Which books, in your opinion, have been written out of pure goodness? Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Les Misérables? Of course not. Those books were written so that their authors would be made welcome in drawing rooms. No, believe me, books written out of pure kindness are rare indeed. Such works are created in abjection and solitude, with the terrible knowledge that once they are thrown out into the world, their author shall be even more alone and more abject. That’s normal, the primary characteristic of disinterested goodness is to be unrecognizable, unknown, invisible, and above suspicion—because a good deed that says its name is never disinterested. As you can see, I am good.”
“There’s a paradox in what you’ve just said. You tell me that true goodness is hidden, and then you shout out loud that you are good.”
“Oh, I can allow myself to do so as much as I like, because, in any event, no one will believe me.”
The journalist burst out laughing.
“Your arguments are truly fascinating, Monsieur Tach. So you claim to have devoted your entire life to writing—out of pure goodness?”
“And there are many other things that I have been in the habit of doing out of pure goodness.”
“For example?”
“The list is long: celibacy, gluttony, et cetera.”
“Would you care to explain?”
“Of course, goodness has never been my only motive. Take celibacy: it is a well-known fact that I have no interest in sex. But I could have gotten married all the same, if only for the pleasure of making my spouse’s life miserable. Well I didn’t, because my goodness intervened: I forswore marriage in order to spare the unfortunate woman.”
“So be it. And gluttony?”
“What could be more obvious: I am the Messiah of obesity. When I die, I will take all the excess pounds of humankind onto my shoulders.”
“You mean that, symbolically . . .”
“Careful! Don’t ever use the word ‘symbol’ in my presence, unless you’re talking about chemistry: it’s in your own interest.”
“Forgive me if I’m being stupid and obtuse, but to be honest I don’t understand.”
“It’s doesn’t matter, you are not alone.”
“Couldn’t you explain it to me?”
“I despise wasting my time.”
“Monsieur Tach, even supposing that I am stupid and obtuse, can’t you imagine that behind me somewhere there is a future reader of this article, an intelligent, open reader who does deserve to understand? And who might be disappointed by what you’ve just said?”
�
�And supposing this reader exists: if he is truly intelligent and open, he won’t need any explanation.”
“I don’t agree. Even an intelligent individual needs an explanation when he is confronted with a new and unknown idea.”
“What do you know? You’ve never been intelligent.”
“That’s as may be, but I am humbly trying to imagine.”
“My poor boy.”
“Go on, show me your proverbial kindness and explain it to me.”
“Do you really want to know? Truly intelligent, open people do not beg for explanations. Nothing is more vulgar than to have everything explained, including the things that are inexplicable. So why should I provide you with an explanation that an idiot would not understand and a more astute individual could not care less about?”
“Already I am ugly, stupid, and obtuse, and now I must add vulgar, is that it?”
“I cannot keep secrets from you.”
“If I may be so bold, Monsieur Tach, this is not the way to go about trying to make people like you.”
“Make people like me? That’s all I need. Besides, who are you to come and preach to me, less than two months before my glorious death? Who do you think you are? You began your sentence with ‘If I may be so bold,’ well, you may not be so bold! Go on, get out, you’re bothering me.”
The journalist was dumbfounded.
“Are you deaf?”
Sheepish, the journalist joined his colleagues in the café across the street. He did not know whether he had gotten off lightly or not.
As they listened to the tape, his colleagues didn’t say anything, but it was most certainly not at Tach that they aimed their condescending smiles.
“That man is really a case,” said the most recent victim. “Go figure! You never know how he’s going to react. Sometimes you get the impression he’ll listen to anything, that nothing fazes him, that he even enjoys it if you nuance your questions with some impertinent remarks. And then suddenly without warning he goes and explodes because of a ridiculous detail, or he throws you out the door if you have the unfortunate wisdom to make a tiny, legitimate remark.”
“Genius cannot bear any commentary,” said one of his colleagues, as haughtily as if he were Tach himself.
Hygiene and the Assassin Page 4