by Unknown
“What?”
“They make things up, don’t they? You’ve read The Sins of the Wolf, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I made it up. From start to finish. There’s not a single character in it who really exists.”
“Well then why did you write ‘This is a true story’ at the beginning?”
“It’s just what writers do, isn’t it …?”
(How could I explain?)
She smiled again. A sympathetic smile. A pitying smile.
But eventually my patience ran out. I was old enough to be her father, at the very least, and so with as much authority as I could muster I said to her in a low voice, “I swear on my own life that Bakar Tukhareli is not a real person, and may I be struck down if I’m telling a lie.”
She actually jumped. She was dumbstruck … but only for a moment. Then she squinted at me again, suddenly, suspiciously. “He should’ve played his ace. Then he wouldn’t have needed to go into hiding.”
(Even swearing on my own life hadn’t done it!)
And then I realized she was referring to chapter seventeen, “The Casino Affair,” where Bakar trumps Neron Pilpon’s Jack of Hearts with his joker, and the Baron beats his ace with a second joker.
And now she’d made me angry with myself; I should have just laughed in her face! There’s nothing worse than a reader with blind faith. She really would have believed anything I’d written.
Fine. If she wasn’t going to believe me, what could I do?
There was no reasoning with her, but I still had to get away somehow. There was nothing else for it—I was going to have to pretend my character did exist after all.
I needed to draw a line here. Calmly, with no fuss, no irony …
Like this:
“Okay. There’s nothing else for it. I’ll tell you everything …” I paused. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t heard from him in over a month.”
She actually sighed. Oh my God, I’ll never forget how she sighed, with such relief.
“Has he sold the car, the Opel Vectra?” she asked me, seriously, like some weary co-conspirator.
I nodded.
“Did Maggie call him?”
And then I saw it: she loved him, my Bakar Tukhareli, my thief. She was scared to ask that question more than any other, but she asked it nonetheless.
How her heart must have pounded in her chest, the poor thing!
I don’t even know how to describe what I was witnessing; she was like some terrible enigma, this teenager, full of life, standing right in front of me, jealous of the lover of a man who existed only in my novel.
It was the stuff of fiction.
I felt sorry for her. I wanted to protect her.
“No, she never called. Edishera went to western Georgia instead.”
She wasn’t exactly pleased to hear this. Edishera was no less of a threat than Maggie (in The Pig Skin, he had shot Bakar three times, because while he was alive Edishera couldn’t become a thief), but it seemed to calm her down anyway.
All she asked me was this: “So why did you swear a minute ago that he doesn’t exist?”
She was right, that had confused things: neither she nor Bakar the Thief would ever have sworn such an oath unless they were certain it was the truth. What had I done? I had committed an unforgivable sin—the Gypsy Baron would have given me a beating for that—and cheapened the very act of swearing an oath, casting doubt upon its worth …
I suspect she just couldn’t understand how Bakar had ever trusted me—such a faltering, inconsistent, and deceitful man. How could he have let someone like me write him, how could he have told me his story?
I don’t know whether it was this or something else that made her look at me with that air of disgust again, as if I smelled bad. I was starting to rattle her, and her nerves were going to pieces.
But I wasn’t about to push this child too far, was I?
I said nothing. I just smiled at her like an idiot and went on my way. Once again I was sure I would never see her again.
Some time afterward I was appearing as a guest on a radio show, talking about literature, and I recounted the story of the girl who’d believed the hero of my novel was real.
“I don’t think she was really that naïve,” speculated the presenter, who wrote novels himself. “She must have been a bit strange … a bit crazy.”
“That’s what I thought at first, but then I started to question that. There was something really unique about her. I’ve never come across a reader as gullible as her before … She was as trusting as a newborn baby.”
I spent almost the entire show trying to convince him how naïve my teenage reader really had been. Yes, I was laughing along with him, but if I’m honest I was angry: first she wouldn’t believe that Bakar didn’t exist, and now he wouldn’t believe such a naive reader did exist …
I really don’t understand how it could be so difficult to believe in the nonexistence of one or to entertain the notion of the other.
“That could only happen with someone who’s never read a book in their life,” one caller argued (there was a phone-in as part of the show). “It sounds like your novel was the first book she’d ever read.”
Well yes, it’s not impossible. But so what?
“Or maybe she was actually the ideal reader?” one woman argued. “Maybe that’s how people read the world’s very first books? So here is a pure, untarnished reader, a virgin reader if you like, and we sit here with our erudite skepticism, drunk on our own intellect, and assume she has psychiatric problems …”
And so this real-life event dragged me into a discussion about the education—or lack of education—of society at large. But regardless of how naïve or insane Bakar’s admirer was, we all agreed on one thing: there was no way you could describe this girl as a “quality reader”—we all felt it was completely impossible for a book to have an impact like that on a reader with any level of competence.
“You should write a novel about it, you know,” the presenter said to me after the show had finished.
A novel? I don’t think so.
I’d say it was more suited to a short story.
And if I do write it, I’ll finish it like this:
I see the girl again (in a crowded place, like a station, or at a demonstration, or the airport, or a sports stadium), but this time I just watch her; she doesn’t see me. Standing next to her—or is he sitting?—there’s a young man. He has black hair, a tattoo on the back of his hand, and the yellowed face of someone with hepatitis C. I can’t believe it: it’s Bakar Tukhareli. The Thief, the one and only. Exactly as I described him in my novel.
TRANSLATED FROM GEORGIAN BY ELIZABETH HEIGHWAY
[BELGIUM: FRENCH]
PAUL EMOND
Grand Froid
This evening a play was performed at a little theater in suburban Brussels, one of those curious productions in which the actors mix so intimately with the audience that the latter wind up believing they’re part of the cast. Before the performance began, extras had been installed in the auditorium, scattered here and there among the seats. When the audience began to enter, usherettes dressed up in black conducted them with great ceremony to their assigned places, while around them the extras sat hunched and immobile in heavy fur coats covered with snow, or a sort of white powder that imitated it precisely. Surprised, certain members of the audience couldn’t prevent themselves from emitting a few sotto voce comments:
– See that? They look like they’re frozen.
– Like cadavers, almost.
– They keep it horribly cold in this theater.
– It’s scandalous, they could warm it up a bit.
– Look, look at that one, there’s a little icicle hanging from his nose!
– That’s not an actor, it’s a mannequin.
– No, no, it’s an actor.
– Touch him, you’ll see.
– I wouldn’t dare.
– Remind me who wrote this play?
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– It’s another one by that Damploune, whose pieces are playing almost everywhere these days. They’re never very cheerful, but this one sounds promising!
– If I’d known …
– Grand Froid! You can see where he got the title!
– It’s even colder in here than outside.
– They’re saying it’s minus twenty tonight.
– Let’s hope this doesn’t last too long. My teeth are chattering already.
The lights had been lowered, but the performance failed to begin. A fine white powder, a sort of light sleet, perhaps even genuine sleet, or a feathery, almost impalpable snow, like that which covered the extras, or mannequins, had begun to sift down from the ceiling onto laps and shoulders.
– You can’t see where it’s falling from, they’ve snuffed out all the lights up there.
– It’s as cold as real snow.
– But it is real snow, I assure you.
– Let’s not exaggerate.
– My feet are already frozen.
Very quickly it became almost impossible to distinguish the extras from the spectators, unless one of the latter happened to fidget a bit, so that there slid from his lap or his shoulders a minute amount of that frozen powder, that sleet, that almost impalpable snow, which had gradually covered everything: the extras and the audience, the seats, the floor, the carpeting in the aisles, everything, all of it now veiled by a slightly glimmering layer of white, while the stage remained in darkness. Several spectators, in increasingly timid whispers, exchanged a few more words:
– We’ve got to get out of here.
– It isn’t possible.
– Yes it is, no one could stop us.
– I wouldn’t dare.
– I’m so cold, I’m going to get sick.
Finally, after what had felt like an interminable wait, there came something like an enormous silent rupture. Up front, where the stage should have been, a street appeared, a street with slightly melancholy lamps, a street covered with snow, a street where it was still snowing, where it never stopped snowing, a street empty and cold and of seemingly infinite depth; out of which there emerged, to the great stupefaction of the audience, squealing across the snow, all of its ancient metal rattling, an almost antediluvian streetcar, slowly advancing toward the auditorium: an antediluvian streetcar likewise skinned with snow.
– Do you see that old tram? It’s magnificent!
– Unbelievable: it’s a real street, not a set.
– Are you sure?
– Don’t you feel that wind?
– I can’t feel much of anything. I’m still too cold.
– In theory, there shouldn’t be wind in a theater.
– In theory …
The old streetcar looked so exhausted, it seemed to have come from the farthest of far-flung faubourgs, from those frozen and deserted suburbs where the avenues dwindle and lose themselves in almost infinite extension. It crept toward the audience, magnifying little by little, like some strange white caterpillar crawling out of the depths of time, and finally halted a scant three meters from the first row of spectators; its windows were flocked with frost, nothing of its interior could be distinguished.
The streetcar had stopped, but its doors did not open. In the auditorium and on the street that had taken the place of the stage, another long silence descended.
– It’s just like Damploune, that.
– All the same, it’s crazy!
– I don’t want to stay here. I’ve been sitting in the cold, at a show I don’t understand at all. Let’s go.
– Impossible, how can you want to leave?
– I’m afraid.
– That’s absurd, there’s no reason.
Then, approaching the front of the stage at a slow trot—at a pace so dragging, so seemingly fatigued, that one might have imagined they too were emerging from the depths of time—there came a group of men dressed in heavy fur coats identical to those worn by the extras in the audience, coats whitened by snow, or that white powder that so perfectly imitated snow. At irregular intervals, and according to some quite unguessable logic, each of these men would stop for a moment, draw a revolver from the pocket of his coat, aim with an extended arm, fire in the direction of the old streetcar, and then resume the chase.
When the first of these pursuers had arrived within about ten meters of the vehicle, they stopped; they were soon rejoined by their fellows, and a few moments later stood side by side, forming a line which blocked the whole breadth of the street, each of them motionless in his heavy fur coat covered with snow, or white powder. Once more a silence invaded the street and the theater, a deathly silence, descending on utter immobility.
– Do you think this is going to last long? Nothing’s happening.
– I don’t know what they’re waiting for.
– That’s enough. This time it’s certain, I’m going.
– How are you going to do it?
– I don’t see how they can stop me from leaving the theater. I’m going, that’s all there is to it.
– Me, I wouldn’t dare.
– Your mistake. Bonsoir.
The audience member had risen, was requesting with a gesture that his left-hand seatmate shift a bit to let him pass, when an echoing voice rang out from behind him:
– Halt! Where are you going?
It was the extra seated to his right, who had risen as well, causing some of the white powder or snow that covered him to fall. He’d drawn a revolver from his pocket and was threatening the fugitive, who, at the sound of his voice, had stopped cold.
– Where are you off to? Answer!
– But … Monsieur …
Again, there was a murmuring some three rows up: –
They’ve hidden actors among the audience as well.
– The runaway? No, no, I know that fellow, he isn’t an actor, he’s a tax official.
– Are you sure … ?
– Yes, yes, I’m telling you.
The whole theater had turned toward the man attempting to leave, and the one who was threatening him—not just the audience but, even more surprisingly, the extras in their fur coats as well, who had risen to their feet as one a few moments after their colleague, letting a bit of the snow or white powder that covered them sift to the floor. Each of them held a revolver, also pointed in the fugitive’s direction. The extra with the echoing voice repeated:
– I told you to answer.
– I wanted to leave … the other began in a hesitant tone. But he did not continue.
For at that precise instant the sound of a violin became audible—a marvelous music, an air of such exquisite purity that it seemed to be emerging from another world. Two steps from the old streetcar there appeared to the spectators a young woman dressed in a superb white fur coat, followed by a violinist playing as he walked. Perhaps they’d stepped from one of the tall houses lining the street, whose gray façades gleamed softly in the cold. They advanced toward the audience; then, leaving the street, they entered the theater, finally reaching the row where the man who had wanted to leave, and the one who’d prevented him, were still standing. The violin’s tone quavered like a magic crystal in the frosty air of the theater.
– You desire, Monsieur, to leave our show, said the young woman in a slightly histrionic tone. It’s possible, of course—but you should know that it will entail certain risks, certain dangers. Follow me, if you will.
– Listen, I …
– Since you’ve expressed the wish to leave our show, follow me. I’m here to attempt to satisfy you.
– It’s so cold, and I thought …
– Your reasons don’t matter, Monsieur. Your name, please?
– Traumont, Michel Traumont.
– You want to leave our show. Very well—follow us, Monsieur Michel Traumont. I beg you, my friends, put your weapons away and sit down again, she added, addressing the extras, who immediately obeyed: Monsieur Traumont will follow us without your assistance,
I’m certain of that.
– But I mean, I …
– Follow us, Monsieur Traumont. This way.
Accompanied by the violinist, who hadn’t ceased his playing for a moment, and followed by Michel Traumont, who didn’t dare protest, the woman once again traversed the theater, stepped back into the street, and approached the old streetcar.
– Halt! Where are you going?
This time the violinist’s bow stopped short, and that sudden cessation of music ran like a shock through the audience. One of the streetcar’s pursuers had left the line formed by his companions, and advanced a few steps. He brandished his revolver at Traumont.
The young woman stepped between them:
– Monsieur Michel Traumont has expressed the desire to leave our show. It’s my role to show the exit to whoever does so.
A burst of applause rang out from the extras in the theater, and the pursuer holstered his pistol, took his place once again in the line.
– This play is truly curious.
– And you’re sure Traumont isn’t an actor?
– Impossible.
– My nose is going to freeze.
– Cold blood—you would’ve done better to stay at home. Much warmer.
– You don’t find all of this a touch unsettling?
In the first row of the audience, a man, still young but with a severe expression, rose with evident haste, as if propelled by too stiff a spring. One might have imagined he’d only just realized what role he had to play—unless, of course, it was all just a part of the show. In a voice marked by emotion—unless, of course, it was merely a sign of that nervousness that attends a first performance, and particularly a performance for which one hasn’t prepared—he delivered his line:
– It is my role, this evening, to administer the exit exam. Take the violin, Monsieur Traumont.
Traumont looked down at him with an indecisive air. Then he glanced at the young woman, who waited, still smiling. Then at the musician, who was offering him the violin. Then, once more, at the man who had called out from the first row. He addressed himself to the latter:
– Look, this whole thing is completely insane. I was cold, I just wanted to go home …
– Cher Monsieur, the young woman broke in, I told you, your reasons don’t matter at all. Don’t speak anymore, don’t say a single thing, you can be sure that nobody here is interested.
