The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant

by Pablo Tusset

  ‘Well, we could agree to meet at some out-of-the-way joint and then leave here separately. I doubt anyone could follow both of us.’

  The guy was still hesitant. I kept at it.

  ‘Come on, I’m having a bad day. They’ve kidnapped my brother, smashed into my father, and killed the detective I hired to investigate the situation. I’m not in the mood to eat alone.’

  He softened up a bit. He asked me if I liked paella. I said yes.

  ‘Do you know those outdoor cafeterias at Las Planas, in front of the train station? Take the Vallvidrera road there. The motorcycle will follow you. We’ll lag behind, tailing you.’

  He removed a hand-held radio from a unit in the centre of the dashboard and said something to someone who was listening in from somewhere. The pot-bellied dude was sharp: the continuous zigzag of the Vallvidrera road gave the motorcycle an advantage over almost any other car. Anyway. There was paella and lamb chops for everyone, plus some cheap red wine – refrigerator-cold, though that was remedied by some sweet fizzy gaseosa. Followed by shots and a round of cheap cigars. And then there was the conversation, which was straight out of central casting: Lopez, a former cop, had plenty of lurid stories under his belt, and Antonio had his share of low-rent shenanigans as well, having been a common carjacker in his day. The motorcycle dude and I mostly listened to the other two. Good guys. By the time we made our way back to Barcelona – slowly – we were all a little tipsy. I’m sure all they wanted to do was park in front of my building and take a little nap in the car.

  When I arrived home, in fact, that was exactly what I felt like doing, but I had to connect to the internet first.

  I went straight to worm.com, entered the site, introduced the password “molucas_worm” in the space and found myself back again on the page with the questions related to The Stronghold. What was Harry holding in his hand when he met the Queen? A red kerchief was the answer. What did the King do on the castle ground? Training was the answer to that one, and it went on and on until I finished the twenty questions, which were not always quite so trivial as those first few. Two or three times, in fact, I had to consult the printout before being able to select an answer from the drop-down menus. I hit submit and crossed my fingers.

  Bingo. Now, beneath the sign that read ‘Welcome to the Worm Gate,’ were three sentences written in modern English:

  The road is long and difficult. One life is

  not always enough.

  Ask your conscience. Impoverished is he who

  approaches with impure intentions.

  He will never reach the heart of the worm,

  but he will nonetheless be pursued.

  Ask your conscience. Welcome is he who

  approaches with a pure soul.

  He will not reach the heart of the worm but he

  will nonetheless be well-loved.

  In short: three rings for the eleven kings under the sky and the fat lady sings. That was it, along with a link that led to the email address mail@worm.com and a button that said “First Contact.” It was all so childish, but I don’t know … Anyway, I did have good reason to think that all these threats were not empty ones. Oh, God. I summoned up all my cojones and hit the button. Luckily I had given them a fake snail-mail address the day before when I had filled out the first form to get the access code – close to my real address, which was handy because when the page finished loading, a name and a telephone number appeared, and it seemed to have been assigned based on geographic proximity to the information I had given them. Specifically, this name and telephone number were Villas, 93 430 1321

  Of course, I instantly bolted from the chair and went looking for the slip of paper where I had taken notes on the numbers in The First’s mobile phone directory. There it was: Villas, 93 430 1321.

  I returned to the screen. ‘Call this number and tell the Worm you are Molucas_worm,’ it said below the telephone number.

  Too fast. Too goddamn fast. Calm. Serenity. Let’s think for a second. I had already rang that number. I had rung it, they had answered and then immediately hung up. I remember it perfectly, I had tried it one or two times, in fact. Was it because I hadn’t given them some kind of password? Now I had it, but was it in my best interests to use it?

  After a bit I decided I was better off waiting until I had a better idea as to the authenticity of The Stronghold. This led me to the realisation that in less than an hour I would have to be prepared to face another trio, one that was aeons away from my Guardian Angels. An Irish metaphysic suffering from a severe hangover, a German techie, and a Chinese philologist specialising in Medieval English Literature.

  Keeping things calm and copacetic in life sure is one hell of a job.

  OBERON IN THE WOOD

  I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. Too many ideas running through my head.

  I got out of bed, but there was still a bit of time to kill before the chat, and since patience is not my strongest suit, I decided to get a jump-start on things and rang John anyway. He answered in a fine display of foul humour.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking what the fuck is wrong with you. I just spoke to Günter not five minutes ago. Says he can’t do anything from home. He’s punished.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘Punished. His father says he can’t hook up to the Internet for a week. What’s the matter? Don’t they punish you in Spain when you misbehave? Or don’t they – and that’s why you turn out to be such immature adults?’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Günter? Thirteen. Why?’

  This was the last straw. For God’s sake, there must be a hundred thousand hackers in the world who also happen to be legal adults, and I had to end up with an adolescent punished with modem confiscation. Luckily, John assured me that all was not lost. The kid could go to Stinkend Soft’s clubhouse and connect to the chat and at the same time look into the problem for us. By the end of the afternoon, he would be able to give us some kind of answer.

  ‘Have you started The Stronghold?’

  ‘Are you gonna get off my arse? Yes, I’ve been reading it this morning.’

  ‘Right. So listen, do you mind connecting now and we can talk in the chat room? Calling Dublin costs a fortune from here.’

  He grudgingly agreed. I gave him five minutes to connect and went over to my own computer to boot up. Our home page on Metaclub.net featured a few new design tweaks that I would have liked to examine a bit more closely, but I didn’t have time for that. I went straight to the chat section and entered the general room. There was John’s nickname, “Jhn”, in the attendance box. The conversation went as follows:

  Pbl> Right. I’m here.

  Jhn> I hope you’re happy, you’ve ruined my entire day. Would you mind telling me what this madness is all about?

  Pbl> You said you read The Stronghold, right?

  Jhn> Yes, what about it?

  Pbl> You didn’t notice anything strange?

  Jhn> Was I supposed to?

  Pbl> Shit, Jhn, how old is it? How old would you say the text is?

  Jhn> Middle English, 14th century more or less. Maybe earlier. Woung could tell us for sure.

  Pbl> Don’t get sulky on me, I can’t handle it right now.

  Jhn> What?

  Pbl> Have you read the full text of the poem?

  Jhn> Yesssssssss.

  Pbl> And you don’t find it strange to see Freudian references popping up in a 14th century text?

  Jhn> Come on, Pablo: Freud is anything but original, he’s all over the entire canon of world literature.

  Pbl> Well, what about Russell, then? There is a complete explication of the language-portrait theory, and that’s strictly 20th century.

  Jhn> Thanks for the clarification. I have a real tough time remembering what century Russell wrote in.

  Pbl> I’m serious. The theory is there, almost word for word, in about a dozen verses down toward the end of the poem.

  Jhn> If I’m not mistaken, the language-portrait the
ory literally proposes the isomorphism between language and reality. Is there some verse in there that mentions that, in such a literal way?

  Pbl> You know as well as I do that it can be explained in other words … Remember the part where Henry tries to draw a sketch of the fortress structure? There’s a couple of stanzas where he makes exactly the same assumptions as Russell: the idea of studying language to understand the structure of reality, the same combination of blindness and clarity. And in the Tractatus, Wittgenstein discusses the propositions of language as ‘paintings of that which is real’, and that is exactly the same expression used in the poem, the reference is obvious, all you have to do is read it.

  – Woung from Hong Kong is joining the chat at 17:01 (GTM +1)

  That was the little message generated by the system to alert us that the Chinese guy had clicked on.

  Woung> Hello, Jhn and company.

  Jhn> Woung, I’d like to introduce you to Pablo, my associate in Barcelona.

  Woung> Pleasure to meet you, Pablo. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.

  Pbl> Hi, Woung, thank you for coming.

  – 121 from Berlin is joining the chat at 17:02 (GTM + 1)

  Another newcomer to the chat room. The nickname didn’t ring any bells.

  Jhn> What can you tell us about the text, Woung? Pbl is ranting on about some anachronistic content-form hypotheses.

  121> Hi, jhn. are you john?

  Woung> Well, I haven’t had time to read the entire poem, just a few stanzas here and there. Interesting.

  – Puck from Norway is joining the chat at 17:04 (GTM + 1)

  Things got difficult from this point on. A chat with four guys and an elf is not the easiest thing to follow.

  Jhn> Yes, 121, I’m Jhn. Are you Günter?

  121> yes, günter. hello for all. my english not so good.

  Jhn> I’d like to introduce you all to Günter: the best hacker this side of the Mississippi.

  Pbl> Hi, 121.

  Pbl> Woung: can you give us a preliminary estimate of a date for that document?

  Puck> 121: are you really a hacker? Did you hit the NASA computers with a virus?

  Woung> Middle English: most definitely later than the 12th century.

  Pbl> Woung: can you be a bit more specific? What’s the very latest date you would put it at? That’s what I’m mainly after.

  Woung> Not so easy to place an upper limit on the date. I would say 14th century, but it could also be 13th or 15th. Strictly basing my judgment on the language used, I can’t get more specific than that.

  121> puck: i not cracker who plants virus.

  Jhn> puck: never ask a hacker if he is a hacker.

  Woung> A precise dating requires a content analysis plus a fair amount of historical research and documentation. This is usually done in teams with specialists in different areas. I haven’t even read the whole poem.

  Puck> Why can’t I ask?

  121> puck: i not cracking. i like hacking. much admire.

  Pbl> Woung: It’s a shame, because there isn’t a single explicit historical reference in the entire text – like battles, wars, recognisable characters. Is that what you meant?

  Jhn> Puck: because a real hacker would never introduce himself as such. It is an honour that others confer upon him.

  Pbl> 121: has John told you about what I need?

  Puck> What’s cracking?

  Pbl> 121: the text I am discussing with Woung has to do with the domain worm.com.

  Woung> Not just specific historical references, but the whole environment – clothing, furniture, customs … They help a great deal with dating.

  121: yes, pbl. jhn told me a little.

  Puck> Is someone going to tell me what cracking is?

  121> Cracking is bad cyberpunk. Hacking no never zerströrend. Hacking good construction for liberty.

  Jhn> Puck: the idea is that the crackers are bad and stupid and the hackers are good and intelligent.

  Pbl> Woung: do me a favour, write down everything that came into your head when you read those stanzas. I’m interested in anything that might have occurred to you. I’ll read whatever.

  Pbl> 121: can you get the information I need?

  121> hacking is information for all in harmony.

  Jhn> There are some cracker movements that denounce the hacker hypocrisy, and propose a kind of purification by fire, revolutionary style.

  Puck> 121: but have you broken into NASA?

  Pbl> Jhn, do you mind, if you can’t help at all at least don’t be a nuisance. Don’t get 121 going, come on.

  Woung> At first glance, we find a poem of 500 some-odd dodecasyllabic verses, with a consonant ABABA rhyme, very typical of the 12th century.

  121> pbl: yes i can give you information. but better with help.

  Jhn> Listen, you shithead, you dragged me out of bed at nine in the morning and now I can’t talk about what I want to talk about in my own club? If you don’t want to read me just hit ignore and stop being such a bloody pain in the ass.

  121> yes i have done hacking in nasa.

  Woung> The lexicon most likely corresponds to the late 13th century, which makes the versification even older.

  Pbl> What kind of help, 121?

  Pbl> Keep going, Woung. I’m still listening.

  Puck> LOL.

  Woung> The spelling could also be dated to the 13th century, although it seems to be more representative of the 14th. In any event, it isn’t later than 15th.

  Jhn> What are you laughing at, Puck?

  121> Pbl: help from friends.

  Woung> I’m not stopping, Pbl, I just can’t type that fast.

  Puck> Your ‘shithead’ comment was very funny. I thought this was a philosophy chat room.

  Pbl> I’m sorry, Woung. I really appreciate your help. Keep going however fast you can.

  >>121: help from friends? Can you get it? Have you been able to find anything out?

  Jhn> Puck: it is, it’s very philosophical.

  >>Pbl: Speaking of which, shithead, have you read those Primary Sentences I sent you?

  Woung> From what little I’ve read I can tell you that the document includes some characters that are typical of the quest: the knight, the king, the enchanter, the queen … all of which recalls the old talktales; it’s possible that the story has something to do with a Breton legend that evolved into a series of different written versions.

  Puck> Pbl: you worried about something?

  121> i tested with satan. good security there. must try with password generator. a few hours if lucky. maybe a trojan. very important to enter?

  Jhn> SHITHEAD: I WANT TO KNOW IF YOU HAVE READ MY PRIMARY SENTENCES.

  Pbl> I’m sorry Puck, I’m not in the mood for chit-chat. Another day.

  Woung> In short: I would bet that it is from the 14th century, but I can’t be completely sure. It’s always difficult to know for sure. There are Robin Hood tales that people have studied for years and they still can’t figure out if they’re from the 12th or 14th century.

  Pbl> 121: what is ‘satan’ and ‘trojan’?

  >>Jhn: STICK IT UP YOUR ARSE FOR A WHILE, WILL YOU? YOU AND YOUR PRIMATE SENTENCES.

  Woung> It would also not be uncommon for the text to be a compilation of fragments that were expanded upon or reinterpreted in successive versions from various different time periods.

  Pbl> Woung: could this be an apocryphal text? false? i mean, it is possible that it is a contemporary imitation of an archaic style?

  Puck> 121: does NASA have information on extraterrestrials?

  121> satan: security analyser, basic hacker tool. trojan is a program that enters system like trojan horse. spy program.

  Jhn> Listen shithead, the only “primate” here is you. And I should remind you that we have work to do. I may be the one appointed to draft these things, but if you don’t even make the effort to read what i send you its going to be years before we have a minimally presentable theoretical corpus. Up to you.

  Woung> I don’
t believe the text is false. The possibility always exists, but I think it’s small in this case. For this to have been written by a contemporary writer the author would have to be not only a very erudite philologist but also an excellent poet. If we were only talking about a few stanzas, maybe, but over a thousand excellent verses …

  121> too much information in NASA, fun to enter but too much info to look and look.

  Pbl> [private to Jhn] I haven’t been able to read them all, John. Don’t get angry, I’m sorry. I’m in a real fucking mess right now. We’ll talk later. I’ll send you an email or we can talk on the phone.

  Puck> 121: can’t you show me how to get into NASA? That’s a fun site to wreak havoc on.

  Woung> John tells me that you found the document on the web. What surprises me is that I’ve never heard of it before. There aren’t all that many extant Middle English documents, period, and I’m pretty familiar with the principal sources. Maybe if by looking into the website you found it on you’ll come up with more information.

  121> what ‘havoc’ mean?

  Jhn> [Private to Pbl] I hope so. I’d like to hear how you plan to justify what you’ve put me through today.

  Pbl> 121: “havoc” means schelmenstreich; don’t pay attention to Puck: Puck is another name for poltergeist. So you can’t tell me anything, absolutely anything about the domain that I’m interested in?

  >>Woung: I’m on it, 121 is investigating the origin system.

  Puck> I’m no poltergeist, I’m a sprite.

  Jhn> Puck: How the hell did you end up in this chat room?

  Woung> If you come across any more info send it to me at woungw@usa.net. I’d appreciate it. Meanwhile I’ll read through the poem. Can you give me an email?

  Jhn> [Private to Pbl] I already told you that you have to nudge Günter a little. He’s just being lazy. Present the job to him like some kind of fascinating mystery that he may be able to crack, if not he’ll forget about you the minute he leaves the chat and turn his attentions to something other than your paranoia.

  121> I’m sorry Pbl, I haven’t found anything out yet.

  Jhn> Puck: Poltergeist means ‘sprite’ in German. See how this is a serious chat, we even speak German.

  Puck> Jhn: us sprites like to butt in where we don’t belong! Like in NASA for example.