Yes, O.K.
Bohumil stubbed out his cigarette. The conversation was becoming too philosophical for his liking. He was of a cheerful disposition, and it was his belief that a small dose of irony was all that was needed to be a more critical citizen. He had no fixed career plans, but nor did he have any desire to put at risk what he had, let alone what he might achieve. He liked Martin, but sometimes found his melancholy tedious. He gazed pensively at his ashtray. It was a cast-iron figure of an African man with huge lips, frizzy hair and a grass skirt, his palms formed into a bowl to hold the ash. The figure sat on a plinth that read: “Le Congo reçoit la civilisation belge”. He’d bought this ashtray years ago, at the flea market on place du Jeu de Balle.
You know what? Martin began.
What? Bohumil said.
At that moment Kassándra appeared, and when she saw the billowing smoke she faltered, Martin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray that he noticed only now, Bohumil cried, We’re on fire! Help! The files! The files! Call the fire brigade! Then he laughed, stood up and opened the window. Don’t worry, he said, I killed the smoke alarm.
You’re such kids, Kassándra said. Martin, you’re needed! Xeno wants a word!
The pig became a media star overnight. To begin with there was just a short piece in Metro, the free newspaper, reporting that some passers-by in Sainte-Catherine had seen a pig on the loose. The article was written ironically, as if it were about an alleged U.F.O. sighting, and was illustrated with a stock photograph of some cute piglet and the caption: “Anybody recognise this pig?” Afterwards many more people called the editorial office or sent e-mails to say that they’d seen the pig too and swore they had reported it to the police, but their sightings hadn’t been taken seriously, and that the tone of the article along with the accompanying picture had played down the incident and deceived the public, because it was a much larger and more aggressive animal, perhaps even a wild boar. At any rate it was a danger to the public.
Recognising the story’s potential, Metro followed up with a title-page story. They had questioned residents of Sainte-Catherine, “worried residents” who felt left high and dry and didn’t know whether to allow their children to walk to school unescorted, or if women could still go out alone while there was a possibly rabid wild sow on the rampage through the streets. One Madame Eloise Fourier asked the Metro editorial team whether a pepper spray might be advisable to protect against wild boar, to which Professor Kurt van der Koot, from Vrije Universiteit Brussel, replied in the negative, in response to a request from Metro. A pepper spray might only exacerbate the unpredictability of a Sus scrofa, as the animal was known scientifically. Pepper, he continued, and incidentally salt and caraway too, was only to be recommended for roast pork. This lame joke by the professor, a figure until then unknown to the wider public and who, as people learned, was a behavioural scientist specialising in wolves, unleashed a shitstorm on social media which led to other papers taking up the story. Le Soir ran an interview with the chief superintendent of the Centre Ville police station, a Fleming who had long been on the paper’s hit list. Le Soir’s desire to crucify this man combined with the naivety with which he committed hara-kiri (“What precautions have you taken?” “I’ve instructed the municipal dog-catchers to arrest this pig on sight.” “Why the dog-catchers?” “We have many stray dogs. That’s why the city has dog-catchers. But we don’t have any pig-catchers.” “The plan is as perfect as his French,” the newspaper commented.) More and more eye-witnesses got in touch and now De Morgen was printing a new map of the Brussels region every day, with flags to mark where and when the pig had been spotted. It was soon evident that the pig had become omnipresent. One day, for example, it was sighted in Anderlecht, soon afterwards in Uccla and then in Molenbeek again.
In an effort to restore his reputation, Professor Kurt van der Koot published a consciously sober opinion piece in De Morgen in which he correlated the maximum velocity a pig could attain at full pelt with the distances it must have covered, thus proving empirically that there could be only two possibilities. Either – hypothesis one – we were not talking about a single pig here, but several, for according to a path–time diagram it was absolutely impossible that one pig could be in every place eye-witnesses claimed to have seen it. Or – hypothesis two – there was no pig, merely the fiction of a pig in the minds of a population irresponsibly unnerved by the affair, that is to say, a hysterical collective projection. Historically there had been a number of authenticated cases of such collective hysteria, such as the sighting of a unicorn in 1221, mentioned in the Nuremberg city chronicle. He, however, was sceptical that the Brussels pig represented a similar phenomenon, for all the historical cases referred to mythical creatures, not domesticated ones. Moreover, since the end of the Middle Ages there had been no more sightings and descriptions of mythical creatures with supernatural powers, such as omnipresence. In this case, he thus concluded, they were dealing with neither an imaginary pig nor a single one, but with a horde of pigs that had been sighted in various places around Brussels at the same time.
A horde! And what was the chief of police doing?
Six
Can you plan a comeback of the future?
THE PAST FORMS the future, without regard to life.
It was hard to say why this phrase made Fenia Xenopoulou happy or, if happy was perhaps too strong a word, then at least cheerful. Fridsch had called, he had called at last and told her that for the time being a switch to another Directorate-General was highly unlikely. The Commission had only recently been reshuffled and right now the president was expecting his officials – especially those at management level – to first prove themselves in their posts. It was far too early to consider changes and switches. But, Fridsch said, to underscore the consolatory aspect of his message, and it was a particularly emphatic “but”, followed by a brief pause – and Xeno thought of butter, of Last Tango in Paris, then of butterflies, she felt butterflies in her stomach, or at least this was the association she had – and Fridsch said “but” again, then explained that she was on Queneau’s radar as well as that of other very influential and high-ranking officials, there was recognition of her work, her past achievements, serious recognition, and what mattered now was not what she wanted, but that she remain visible and kept getting noticed. Xeno listened, she wasn’t disappointed, it was O.K., yes, yes, it was O.K. and then . . . she couldn’t remember what he’d said after that, how he’d moved on to this, but all of a sudden he came out with the phrase: “The past forms the future, without regard to life.” These words stuck in her head, she thought about them for a while after her telephone conversation, translated them into her mother tongue and realised that it wasn’t just international treaties and laws that depended on the tiniest nuances of every single word in the translation, but even such a personal . . . a personal what? A phrase. Simply a phrase. About life. Her life. A life-phrase as clear as a legal paragraph, but which in Greek, as she realised in astonishment, required interpretations that made the phrase hopelessly confused . . . What term should you use to translate the past? In Greek neither parelthón nor istória is coterminous with in the past, which also implies history somehow. Everything that has happened? Happened to whom? Individual history, i.e., what has been experienced, biography? Or general history, world history? The English language leaves all this open, and yet one senses there is greater precision. In the Greek translation these questions must be clarified, as a result of which everything becomes less clear and somehow narrower, a matter of interpretation. Does the past have a definite beginning and a definite end, or is it uncertain when it began and if it has ended? Does it repeat itself or was it – is it – unique? This is what the construction of the Greek verb depended on – in English it was in the present tense, but for the translation one might have to choose the aorist or the imperfect or perfect, depending on how one defines what the past did or had done. And it amused her that what the English phrase boiled down to was precisely this: t
hat her background stood in contrast to her life – perhaps this conclusion was the translation of, or at least a valid interpretation of “The past forms the future, without regard to life.”
She called for Martin Susman. He came into her office and stood there indecisively. Fenia smiled. He was bewildered; he had never seen her like this before. Greeting him with a smile. Putting on a friendly face. He could only misinterpret this. Had she been so taken by his paper? He hadn’t expected that, he’d already regretted having written and sent the document in a feverish and thus unrestrained state. On the other hand . . .
It was the suit. Martin’s cheap, grey, knackered suit. A man with even a limited sense of elegance, Fenia thought, would never buy a suit like that. But nor would a man who didn’t care about being elegant, or harbour any pretension to elegance. With casual indifference he would wear something functional yet comfortable, but never ever a mouse costume like that. Fenia looked at Martin and imagined him in a clothes shop, in the – for him – inappropriately named “Gentlemen’s” department, dismissing several suits on the rail then suddenly pointing to this grey outfit and saying, I’d like to try that one on.
Please sit down, Martin.
She found it so funny. The idea of him trying on this suit in the changing rooms, staring at himself in the mirror and thinking, Yes! It’s perfect! Wiggling about in front of the mirror and then saying to the sales assistant, I’ll keep it on!
She had to stop herself from laughing.
Martin felt a sense of uneasy happiness. A confusing feeling.
You’ve read my paper? he said.
Yes, of course, she said. She couldn’t stop thinking about his appearance. Smiling, she shot glances at his suit like needles into a voodoo doll. He always wore a grey suit like this, she’d never seen him look any different. She imagined him needing a new suit. The only one in which he would recognise himself in the mirror would be exactly the same grey suit. In all the others he would think, That’s not me. Habit doesn’t provide security, it makes you insecure. About everything else. Pinstripes: too formal. Blue: maybe for the evening, but not for daytime. A lighter-coloured material: too dandyish. No pattern, no fashionable cut was appropriate for work; the office isn’t a catwalk, after all. Fenia pictured the sales assistant trying to offer him alternatives. No, no, Martin would begin to sweat, panic even, the grey suit is O.K., he’d say, I’ll stick with the grey one, that’s me. The man in the grey suit.
Fenia Xenopoulou looked at the printout of Martin’s draft on the desk in front of her, she stroked the paper with her fingertip, back and forth and back and forth, then looked up at Martin and said, Auschwitz! What were you thinking? I have to admit, I was shocked when I read it. I thought you were . . . wait! Here: Auschwitz as the birthplace of the European Commission. It says it right here! It’s insane. What’s wrong with you, Martin? Are you ill?
With his hand he wiped the sweat from his brow into his hair and said, I was sick for a few days, yes. I caught a cold in . . . I caught a cold on my trip. But I’m feeling better now.
Good. But can you explain this to me? We’re looking for an idea we can, or rather must put at the heart of our jubilee celebrations. I thought we were agreed: a jubilee is an occasion, but not an idea in itself. So how can we get people to see that the Commission is necessary, more than that . . . how shall I put it? That we’re sexy, that we’ve got something – she cleared her throat – yes, that people are glad we exist. That they have expectations of us. That there’s something which connects us. Do you understand? That would be the idea. And you come up with Auschwitz.
Half an hour earlier, when he was smoking in Bohumil’s office, Martin Susman would have been happy if Xeno had told him his suggestion was utter nonsense, let’s bin it and forget about it. Although he had feared this reaction, he had also been anticipating it. Rather a brief humiliation now, he had thought, than all that work, which would no doubt lead to a whole host of rejections and complications in the office. But the way in which Xeno was now treating him, this armour-plated woman with a smile that initially had surprised him, but which in fact looked like it had been Photoshopped onto her face, this insipid artificiality he was sitting opposite, sweating, he couldn’t accept this . . .
But I explained in my paper why we have to take Auschwitz as our starting point. O.K., it was just a few keywords, I thought —
So explain it to me again, Martin.
She stood up, she was wearing a black skirt with a red zip running diagonally across it. As if someone had crossed out her womb! Martin thought. And yet furnished it with a mechanism that allowed it to be opened in a flash!
Coffee? She had her own Nespresso machine on a little side table. Milk? Sugar? Martin shook his head. She sat down at her desk, held her cup in both hands. It occurred to Martin that this was exactly how he had clutched his coffee in Auschwitz, to warm his numbed fingers.
Martin coughed. Sorry, he said, then added, But this is the essence of the Commission, it’s what it says in the articles of association, declarations of intent and side letters! O.K., it sounds rather abstract, but it’s perfectly clear, too: the Commission is a supranational rather than international institution, which means it doesn’t mediate between nations but stands above them and represents the common interests of the Union and its citizens. It doesn’t seek compromises between nations, it aims to overcome the classic national conflicts and disaccords in a post-national, i.e. collective development. It’s about what connects the citizens of this continent, not what divides them. Monnet wrote —
Who?
Jean Monnet. He wrote: National interests are abstract, the commonality of Europeans is concrete.
Fenia saw she had a new e-mail. Yes, and? she said. National, supranational, this was hair splitting as far as she was concerned: she was a Cypriot, but her national identity was Greek. The e-mail was from Fridsch. Opening it she said, What has all this got to do with Auschwitz?
What the Commission is, or what it ought to be, Martin said, was only conceivable after Auschwitz. An institution that makes the individual states gradually relinquish national sovereignty and . . .
When? Where? Fenia typed. (Fridsch had asked whether she had the time and the inclination to go to dinner with him.)
Auschwitz! Martin said. The victims came from all over Europe, they all wore the same striped clothing, they all lived in the shadow of the same death, and all of them, those that survived, had the same desire: a guarantee that human rights would be respected, a guarantee that would be binding for ever more. Nothing in history has brought together the diverse identities, mentalities and cultures of Europe, the religions, the different so-called races and former hostile ideologies, nothing has created such a fundamental solidarity of all people as did the experience of Auschwitz. The nations, the national identities – all that was obsolete, whether you were a Spaniard or a Pole, Italian or Czech, Austrian, German or Hungarian, it was obsolete – religion, background, all of it was subsumed in a common desire: the wish to survive, the wish for a life in dignity and freedom.
Italian? (Fridsch)
O.K.! (Fenia)
The experience and the consensus that this crime must never be repeated were what made the project of European unity possible in the first place. We wouldn’t be here without it! And that’s why Auschwitz —
Fenia looked at Martin and said, But —
That is the idea! The overcoming of national sentiment. And we are the guardians of this idea! And our witnesses are the survivors of Auschwitz! The survivors are not only the witnesses of the crimes committed in the camps, they are also the witnesses of the idea that arose out of those crimes, the idea that, as has been proved, we do have something in common and —
Pasta Divina, 16 rue de la Montagne. Eight o’clock? (Fridsch)
O.K.! (Fenia).
Xeno seemed to be have become thoughtful, and so Martin went on: The guarantee of a life with dignity, happiness, human rights, that’s been an aspiration since Auschwi
tz, hasn’t it? Surely everyone understands that. We have to make clear that we are the institution representing this aspiration. The guardians of this eternal covenant. Never again – that is Europe! We are the moral of history!
Fenia stared at him in astonishment. How animated this sweaty, grey man had become all of a sudden.
People died for this, their death was a crime and each individual death was senseless, but what they gave rise to remains. Ultimately this is what they died for, and it will endure for ever!
Even though Xeno wasn’t fully aware of this at that moment, it sounded like an echo from the deep, dark depths of her pre-history; it sounded like death from undying love.
She looked at Martin. Now she seemed very serious, very pensive. Martin wondered whether he might have convinced her, even though he hadn’t yet finished with his argument.
Fenia had never thought about herself much, and when she did, her mind focused on opportunities and goals rather than states of mind and feelings. Well-being – for her this was the ideal state of emotionlessness in a very broad sense, and that meant not being troubled by moods. She regarded emotions as moods.
Have you got any cigarettes?
Yes, of course, Martin said, surprised.
Fenia stood up, opened the window and said, Would you give me one?
I didn’t know you smoked.
Sometimes. Very rarely. Just one.
They stood close together in the narrow recess of the open window and smoked. Martin expected her to say something, he sensed that she wanted to say something, but she just puffed away with the pinched face of the amateur smoker. It was ice-cold and finally Martin said, It’s our last opportunity!
She looked at him in astonishment. How dreadfully cold it was by the open window, Martin thought, they would have to huddle together to keep each other warm . . . He gave a start and tried to edge away from her, and then she said, I’m sorry?
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