Best European Fiction 2013

by Unknown

  From a distance, our midsummer’s party this year would have looked more than a trifle odd to passersby. The entire staff worked on the shoot. We were one big family, dealing with a bereavement.

  Our furniture company will help you deal with your bereavement; that was the motto for our project, and this photoshoot was for the pilot catalog that would introduce our customers to the new line. We are setting an example, describing our vision of the affordable funeral of the future. We welcome more honesty in matters of life and death. We offer valuable tips, equipment and accessories, clever solutions. You will not be alone in this. We will help you. We will supply instructions. Invite your friends over and mourn together while you think up a few wise, comforting words.

  The employees’ children were playing baseball, badminton, football. The younger ones were playing pirates in the sandpit, or on swings and jungle gyms. They relieved some of the solemnity of the situation and symbolized renewal and the eternal cycle of life. The first funeral wreath was under construction: the intern was making it with the heads of department. The photographer snapped away eagerly while they worked. She rattled off the instructions, and they handed her ligustrum, then carnations, roses, ribbons. She made a floral crown out of the leftovers, which she was wearing on her head the next time I looked over. It was slightly cloudy, so I could look up without sunglasses.

  A canopy of leaves. Wind. Dappled sunlight. Perfect lighting conditions for our model funeral.

  The checkout girls were dressed in casual gear from our textile department—we consider clothes, which after all we put on and take off, as portable furnishings. They were working away, equipped with screwdrivers, demonstrating that our coffins could be easily assembled by women too. The intern looked proud as she stood there, erect, chin jutting out. She was the first to put her hand up when I was casting for the shoot, I remember.

  The wind was blowing the black ribbons about. The apprentices, who had put them out too early, were cursing and throwing away the tangled ones, rolling off new lengths of ribbon from the spool and putting them on the tables where the golden lettering for our sympathy messages lay. The early summer light shone playfully on the apprentices’ young faces as they enthusiastically rubbed the transfer letters onto the black ribbon.

  The intern was busy chatting to the women screwing the coffins together when they began pointing excitedly to the other end of the grassy area. There, beneath the green shade of a tree, and between the green of the bushes, a woman dressed in white had suddenly appeared. She just stood there, a distraction.

  I think my first thought must have been that someone had ordered an angel of death for the set. I was annoyed by this kitschy idea, which would have ruined my enlightened plan for an enlightened society. I was about to jump up and give the intern a dressing-down, but at the last minute I realized that the apparent angel of death was more likely a bride in her wedding dress who had accidentally wandered onto our set.

  Meanwhile the intern was already running off in that direction, and before I could even raise my voice, she had already reached the little girls, whose innocent game of baseball was meant to illustrate how death is just a natural part of everyday life. Waving her arms, the intern shouted at the girls from the edge of the playing field and rounded them all up. Following her lead, the gaggle ran off blithely toward the woman in white.

  I no longer remember whether the carriage that I’d spotted in front of the pleasure pavilion was our horse-drawn hearse or a wedding coach. The horses were whinnying, tossing their heads back and forth. The coachman was in traditional dress: black trousers, black cloak, and black bowler. We had even purchased a background banner that said “Horse-Drawn Hearse.”

  The horses headed off, the coachman roaring unintelligibly at them. He kept shouting and yanking the reins as if to force the horses to a halt. But all his shouting and roaring only sped them up, and they broke into a trot, whinnying all the while. The coachman pulled on the reins again and the horses started to turn. Another yank on the reins, a crack of the whip, and the horses started galloping around the pavilion as if racing one another. The grown-ups were laughing; the children were getting a little scared.

  The coachman disappeared behind the pavilion. He shouted for help. The horses stomped, then the carriage clattered off along the main avenue into the forest, the sounds fading as it grew more distant.

  The excited children ran over to the grown-ups. The grown-ups reassured the children.

  Had anyone seen what happened the bride?

  And where had the intern got to?

  At first I just scanned the area from where I was. Maybe she was behind the bushes?

  We couldn’t go on with the shoot if the deceased had up and left with the bride.

  I waited a bit, then stood up and went looking. The photographer took a break. I was fuming. The intern was sabotaging my project. Out of revenge, because I had stolen her idea. The first place l looked for the little bitch was behind the bushes. That’s where the pond was. A murky green. A few leaves floating motionless in the middle. Water lilies in flower. Water striders skated jerkily across the still surface. I spotted a few toads on a small spit of land along the shore, but no sign of my chief mourner. Farther on there was nothing but scrub.

  I went back to the park area. The children were playing Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? As I listened to them explaining the rules of the game, I was struck by the careful way these kids, who had all grown up with two languages, chose their words. Everyone had forgotten about the bride, and the intern was still missing. Which of them had abducted which?

  All the staff were sitting in a circle, finishing off the food. The half-assembled coffin lay abandoned on the grass. A few of the children were trying to put the crosses together. I took the screwdrivers away from them so that no one would get hurt.

  Later on I had another good look around all the paths in the park. The intern had vanished into thin air. I had to take her place. Otherwise I might as well dig my own grave. We quickly finished assembling the coffin, completed the wreaths and ribbon-lettering in a flash, fit all the bits of the candelabra together, stuck in the candles, distributed the crape, and took up our places in a casual, free-standing formation around the coffin, in which I lay as the corpse, the piéce de résistance. The photographer clicked and clicked and clicked. I think we managed to get the whole thing in the can.

  The midges arrived as the sun began to set. The toddlers grew cranky. The baby was hungry again. The children wanted to go home.

  We started to break camp. The adults took care of the furniture and the heavier things; the photographer took care of his camera. The children folded up the tablecloths and collected the dishes. I took care of the trash, collecting the ends of ribbons, the scraps of crape, the bits of ligustrum and wire. Where had the intern got to? The women wrapped plates and glasses in foil and banners so that the insides of our bags wouldn’t be smeared. I stuffed what was definitely waste into an ordinary trash bag.

  I carried the trash over to the large bins behind the pavilion. I walked right around the circular building.

  Maybe the intern’s still hiding out with the bride and waiting to ambush me, I thought, because she feels robbed of her idea.

  Not a trace of the carriage. Nothing but the wind and the avenue.

  I went to the bins and stuffed the refuse in. Then I went along the avenue for a bit and from there into the bushes again. I found a piece of cloth. White and black. I pressed on into the thicket. Found what were perhaps shreds of ribbon or crape, and footprints in the softened ground. My heart pounding, I bent branches aside, broke off twigs. Snapping. Splashing. The pond. It was all darkness above the water; nothing to be seen.

  I beat my way back through the undergrowth and hit upon the bins again. The tarmac shimmered a silvery color. I opened the lid of a bin and lifted up the bag I had thrown in, to see if any bits of bride or intern were lurking underneath. But the only thing under the picnic refuse was my funeral refuse. I walke
d around the building again and wanted to head back to the grass. But I couldn’t budge. I tried to lift first one leg, then the other, but I was glued to the spot. I pulled and strained so much that my muscles and ligaments began to burn. I couldn’t move, and finally became exhausted from all my exertions. I fell to my knees, breathing heavily, bobbing my head like a horse, and then looked up.

  I was alone. I hadn’t even noticed the others leaving. My colleagues, the apprentices, the checkout girls, the photographer—all gone! They had left me behind. Where the hell had they got to? Why hadn’t they waited for me? How long had I been running around after the intern? By now it was pitch black.

  There was one bag left on the grass. Where was the coffin, where were the crosses and flower arrangements that had been scattered across the grass? Only this last bag was still there, glinting in the dark. They would have waited for me, I was sure, and wouldn’t have dared leave a bag behind if I had exercised more authority with my staff and hadn’t stood in as the corpse.

  Maybe they had stayed behind and were watching me from within the pavilion. In the darkness the round building had become a watchtower. I felt as though I was under observation, and that was enough to scare me. I didn’t want to feel scared. But I started to panic all the same. The only thing that seemed at all reassuring was the plain company bag on the grass. The crown in our logo gleamed kitschily at me. The bag had no handles, just a zipper. Surely I didn’t design this type of bag, I thought to myself. But I didn’t want to add to my confusion and ask questions that I couldn’t answer. All that mattered was that the bag was one of my company’s bags. So I accepted it unquestioningly. It was much bigger than our other bags, the ones I knew, and longer than it was wide; it looked a bit like a boat from where I was, if I were at the helm.

  The dew was already falling on the grass, on the trees, on the bag, on me. I didn’t want to spend the night crouching there senselessly and getting wet. And I didn’t want to be afraid. Eventually I undid the zipper, crept into the bag, and was going to crawl over the grass and onto the avenue, on all fours, with the bag on my back like a shell. I was pleased that I’d had this idea and that I could, as it were, wrap myself up in the idea of sheltering and hiding in the bag. I started crawling but immediately got so tired that I had to give in to it. I lay there in the bag and slept and dreamed. I could hear myself speak. I distinctly heard myself say “bag.”

  And at that very moment I realized that’s it, that’s what I’ve been forgetting. But now I don’t even care. I’m not thinking at all. For I am a fictional character, and the writer who created me wants me to die, because she doesn’t like advertising directors who steal her ideas. So she lets it become tight and dark and airless around me. I can already hear her closing the zipper, which can only be opened from the outside, of course. So I am trapped and doomed to die.

  Now I’m shivering. I could do with a good stretch but I can feel my limbs growing stiffer and stiffer. I want to sink into a deep sleep again or else die quickly. I have a feeling I can still hear steps, but should I cling to disillusionment until my last breath? I think I am being carried. I feel the scratching of the pen that is writing: yes, you are safe.

  TRANSLATED FROM GERMAN BY RACHEL MCNICHOLL

  body

  [FRANCE]

  MARIE REDONNET

  Madame Zabée’s Guesthouse

  My bedroom is tucked away in the attic, with a sink and a toilet hidden in the corner by a wooden screen covered with designs of lotus blossoms and birds. From my window, I can see the rooftops of Paris and the bell tower of the church, Saint Ursula, on the edge of the Quartier des Perles. Every hour I hear the bells ring. Pigeons and sparrows come and peck at my windowsill. The sky has been low and cloudy since my arrival, but when the sun comes out in the middle of the day, light pours into my room, which has a full southern exposure. For the first time I have a room of my own. It gives me a sense of well-being and freedom: I have a place where at last I can be alone with myself. It’s a new experience. In Ama and Lili’s home I slept in the living room, and in prison I always shared my cell with other detainees.

  Madame Zabée lives, as I do, in the attic of her guesthouse. She insists on saving the loveliest rooms for her boarders. She has made up a very cozy little apartment for herself, with embroidered draperies on the walls and decorative objects from all over the globe displayed on shelves—souvenirs from her trip around the world. It’s hard to guess her age because it seems to change throughout the day, from one moment to the next, depending on her constantly changing hairstyles and outfits. Her smooth face is always perfectly made up. She wears exotic clothes that give her a certain flair. She also likes jewelry; she has a whole collection, from all the countries where she’s lived. Throughout her long trip, she always worked in hotels. She is proud to say that her guesthouse is her first home and that she worked hard to buy it and then fix it up the way she wanted. She wants her boarders to feel at home, too. Her guesthouse is very well maintained. She watches over everything, conscientious about the comfort of each tenant. She spares no effort and seems to live only for her guesthouse. She likes to play at keeping whomever speaks with her off balance, so that it’s impossible to have a stable image of her. With her, I can be sure of nothing, even if everything appears to be so well established.

  My schedule isn’t very different from the one I kept in Loisy. I go back up to my room around eight in the morning after waiting for Madame Zabée to come and tell me that my shift as the night watchman is finished. She is usually punctual and respectful of my time. Then I sleep until the early afternoon. The boarders get up at the same time that I do, and I have breakfast with them at the host’s table. Madame Zabée takes advantage of the sleeping guesthouse to do the chores, buy groceries, and cook. Always thrifty, she has no household employees. She wants to do everything herself.

  After lunch, I go for a walk. I cross the Quartier des Perles and go up the boulevard as far as the Gare du Nord. Then I go down toward the Seine. I walk softly along the quays. I find it so moving to walk alone in Paris. I need to walk, to walk without stopping. I don’t go far from the Seine, which is my landmark, much as the Canal Saint-Martin was for Amid when he lived in Paris. I don’t dare to sit on a bench or go into a café. With my false papers, I feel as criminal as an illegal immigrant. But as long as I walk, I have a sense of security because I melt into the crowd. Madame Zabée insisted that I should always keep my papers on me, in case I’m stopped, to have my identity verified, but that doesn’t reassure me, because the papers are forged. At Saint-Michel, I get on the metro and go up to the Gare du Nord, and then I come back on foot to the Passage du Soir via the most direct route, as it’s time to go back for dinner, just before I begin the night watch. I almost always dine alone because by then the boarders are already busy in their rooms. The night for them begins earlier than it does for me.

  When I get back from my walk, I take care always to greet Ali. He’s finished his nap and is always in his shop at the end of the day. I buy what I need from him. You can find everything in his corner store. He comes from a small village located in the south of Tamza. What a coincidence that it was in precisely this town, in the teacher’s house, that I was arrested while I slept peacefully in Ama’s arms. I don’t tell Ali because I don’t want to remind him of my past. Unlike Madame Zabée, he has never been sympathetic toward the failed revolutionary movement that I was a part of. He made that very clear to me. According to him, there is no better regime than the one in Tamza. If he chose to live in Paris, it had nothing to do with politics, but with business. He tells me, laughing, that his shop is like a hive—it makes the best honey. I wonder what he does with the money he’s made from his honey, as he works hard and seems to live modestly. Every man has a secret, and to penetrate this secret would be fatal: that’s part of one of the Chinese poems that I meditate upon during my night watch, while I think of Mateo. It feels like he left a long time ago. I don’t want to admit that I miss him. I don’t want to thi
nk about the old train station at Loisy.

  Ali always invites me to have a cup of tea in the back of his shop. He doesn’t drink alcohol and doesn’t offer any to his friends. He says to me: “I obey all the precepts of my religion. So far, I have had baraka, blessings. God is great and merciful. He protects the Quartier des Perles and its foolishness. Without Him watching over us, we would be lost.”

  I am friendly but reserved with Ali. I don’t want him to try to indoctrinate me. It wouldn’t work and he would blame me for it. I don’t want to know with whom he spends his time in the neighborhood, aside from Madame Zabée. He lets me know that he is in contact with immigrants from Tamza who have been successful in Paris and to whom, if I wanted, he could introduce me. “They need a guy like you.” I thanked him, declining his offer. Out of the question for me to meet the legitimate Tamza network, whose reputation is known even in Fort Gabo prison! I want to lead my life alone, even if I have to forgo certain protections and advantages. With Ali, I maintain good relations while keeping my distance. I’ve asked him several times about Madame Zabée, but he pretends not to hear me. He won’t talk to me about her.

  Madame Zabée’s guesthouse lives for the night, like the aptly named Passage du Soir—the Evening Passage. I understand now why Madame Zabée is so demanding of her night watchman. The boarders need me constantly. They call me incessantly. I have to bring them coffee or a drink, go buy them cigarettes, or maybe medicine, or oils with which to massage their backs, I have to fix sandwiches for them, comfort them on the nights that work weakens them and when one or two are sick or having a nervous breakdown. I learn to be a jack-of-all-trades: errand boy, waiter, counselor, psychologist, nurse. There are often little incidents that need to be handled carefully in order to keep things from going sour, such as a dishonest client with demands that can never be satisfied, and who starts threatening one of the boarders. Then I have to come and help the boarder so that his client can leave the hotel without doing him any harm. I must never call Madame Zabée unless there’s a serious incident. She only works during the day. At night I take the baton. So far I’ve managed to avoid any real trouble. I’ve had to be smart and cunning. I’ve discovered talents in myself that I didn’t know I had. I’ve entered into an unknown world that seems mysteriously familiar to me. The boarders are satisfied with me.