Before going back to the detention center I make a long detour. I stop at all the bars in the port. I drink three more shots of vodka, one after the other. They don’t do much to get me warm. Make me feel a bit lighter. I was hoping for calm but in fact I’m exhausted. She will do what it takes. I’m sure of it. She will find you, and fill you in, my Vima. You will know what you need to know, if I were to disappear . . . I know I’ll be risking a lot if I turn down their scheme. In Intelligence there is no going back. No more here than back there. It’s an international law. I wasn’t naïve and I didn’t trust them. I tried my luck, I didn’t really have any choice. You say we always have a choice. And no doubt you are right. The proof is that I won’t accept their mission. They think they’ve got me. They say, This guy will do anything to be reunited with his wife and children. Yes, I would accept my own damnation to be reunited with you. But those idiots don’t know you. They don’t know that I would never be reunited with you if I went back to working as an assassin. Fuck their mission, as Yuri would say. You can rest assured, I won’t lift a finger. Deep down I still have some hope, in spite of my fears. Maybe they’ll leave me alone. I’ll put it in writing, everything I couldn’t tell your namesake. My testament as a free man, if you like. Beginning with my incestuous relations with the Western intelligence agencies. I know what I have to do for my letter to reach the appropriate quarters. That doesn’t worry me. I wasn’t born yesterday. Once it’s all in writing, I’ll go and find them. And I’ll say nyet, like Yuri. I’m staying indoors. My field of operation is this office, these computer screens, and boxes of archives. It was in our contract. As soon as I say that, I’ll be good for quarantine. They’ll take away the few rights they had granted me up to now. I’ll be under house arrest and transferred to the center for undesirable asylum-seekers. No more freedom of movement until further notice. No more right to communicate however I see fit. Yuri and all the other inmates at the detention center will be interrogated and briefed. A cop with a dejected expression will inform them that their former co-detainee has infiltrated the services of an enemy government. A spy. A filthy snitch who rats on the nationals of his country of origin. They’ll ignore me, they’ll let me stew for a while. Will they give me a second chance? Will they come back to see me? Only if they think I’m worth it. I’m the first to have my doubts. Serious doubts. A man with an Achilles’ heel is prone to sudden U-turns. Weakness is fatal in this profession. Once you’ve let someone down, it’s a slippery slope. A first screw-up leads to a second, and then to a third. No, I’ve become worthless. There will be reprisals. All that remains is to find out when, how, and in what order. Enough. Let’s move on to something else. I’ll take you out this evening, my Vima. We’ll celebrate. Just the two of us, gorgeous. I’ve been thinking about you so much. You will be here, more than ever. I bought myself a fine suit. I chose one that’s just your taste. Yuri couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the pictures of me in a suit, superb! You look like 007, you dumbass. Is she the one who dressed you up like Bond? Indeed, Yuri, I was the only high-ranking officer in the Commander’s army who wore tailor-made suits. Ah, you are as elegant as a queen, my Vima. You have the wisdom of a goddess. I would need Yuri’s gift of the gab to describe you the way you deserve to be described. The honor of being your man is no small matter. You may have noticed how I often walk behind you. It’s normal. One must behave humbly in the presence of the goddess of heavenly knowledge, who knows all the secrets of all that is infinitely on high. You object. You don’t want to hear me talking like those assholes who drive us to distraction with their fucking phantasmagorical sky. All right. Let me amend that: you know that you know nothing. Just an infinitesimal part of the mysteries of the universe. Satisfied? Good. Yes, we will celebrate tonight. Together. We’ll drink to your health. Your health. I’ve been saving. My pockets are full of cash. More than enough to spend an unforgettable evening at whatever passes for a swanky restaurant in this town. I am ready, my Vima.
The letters have been signed and dated. I am dressed to the nines. And you are pretty as a picture. Your dress, the color of the setting sun, looks ravishing on you. You are magnificent. The sparkle of your honeyed eyes makes me melt. I’m sick with longing for you. Why not invite Yuri? Ah, Vima, you have always known how to change the subject when my emotions run away with me. Of course. I will ask the poète maudit to accompany us. Yes, that’s an excellent idea. But he’ll have to dress up, too. No way is he wearing his grunge jeans and his vindictive proletarian plaid shirt. He has to be an honor to you. To deserve you. The time it takes him to change, I’ll put the letters somewhere safe. In their cenotaph. We’ll go and dine all three of us at the Imperial, the grandest restaurant in town. On television they call it a hangout for jet-setters and princesses! Then we’ll go on a bar crawl. You’ve never drunk a drop of alcohol in your life, but you’ll be a match for Yuri. For sure. Down the hatch, my Vima. Down the hatch. Don’t forget, I love you.
No news from the Colonel. Two weeks have gone by since our meeting. I check my answering machine every day. From wherever I am. I keep an eye on my inbox. Morning and evening. Nothing. Complete silence. I’ve just finished transcribing the cassette. I cleaned it up. The way he asked me to. I would like to tell him about my project. To thank him for having restored my pleasure in writing. I thought I would be incapable of stringing two words together. Now all I can think about is this book. The book of intersecting promises. The Colonel’s promise to his wife. My promise to Del. Or rather, the book of the intersecting pledges; my pledge to Del. The person I love without knowing why. The book of scarred loves. Dedicated to the person who destroyed the soul of Number 455. A message tossed into the wind. Del, why did you forsake me?
I have spent a week drawing up an outline for the book. And another week looking for titles. I’ve chosen three from out of a dozen. The Lovesick Murderer. The Man Who Snapped his Fingers. The Colonel and Bait 455. I have formatted the titles and the synopsis, and I’ve called a young fashionable editor, Lars Gunar. The friend of a friend. The only thing he has read of mine is one short story in translation, which appeared in a literary journal not long after I arrived here. He’s interested in my life. All I have to do is get started. He’ll take care of the rest. He’s definitely interested. Lars is not surprised to hear from me. He was expecting my call, or so he says. What would he say to a love story? A wild, intense, improbable love. After a few moments’ hesitation he replies, Your love story, without the political dimension—I interrupt him. I put him right, it’s not my story. But the passion of a former colonel in the Theological Republic for a high-flying scientist. The man was involved in crimes committed by the regime. And the lover . . . I break off. I’ll send him a synopsis. Before hanging up Lars asks, Why are you starting with someone else’s story and not your own? What I feel like saying is, Mine has been aborted, left hanging. I mumble something about a promise, a tribute to a free woman who has refused to bow down. A mirror effect? he asks. I suddenly fall silent. I am overwhelmed by Del, my heartbreaker. And I hang up.
I hope to hear from the Colonel. Tomorrow means a fresh start, a new promise.
For the last twenty days I’ve been in the detention center for illegal migrants. A place where any hope of freedom is gone. Possible freedom. Potential. Hypothetical. The walls ooze with the anxiety of depressive insomniacs. The pestilential rejects of humanity, waiting to be extradited. A factory for the despondent. Men in the prime of life, twiddling their thumbs. Morning to night. The hardiest among them rebel. Shout their rage, after midnight. They won’t put up with it, they say. They’ll fight. They’ll know how to defend themselves . . . The most courageous among them make plans for a possible future. They get excited. Pass around a bottle of adulterated vodka. Drown themselves in it, and forget the pale nights. To hear them, you’d think all you have to do is set sail for England and the El Dorado. There are honest people smugglers . . . you just have to find them. A few hours spent brushing aside the bad news of th
e day. They have put aside the thoughts of their mates’ corpses, mates who set out on the rotting crafts of slave-ship smugglers. They thought they were honest, too.
I hear shouting in the corridor. I won’t get involved. I drift off. I am lulled by the murmur of hushed conversation. I ferment my nightmares. I miss Yuri and his stories. I tell myself I should have gone on waiting for Godot, the way he told me to, instead of venturing into the labyrinth of the secret services. Dens of spies, not something I would recommend, he used to say. Godot was the last story Yuri told me. Tonight I prefer it to the one about Achilles. I too dream of the future’s probabilities. I could slip on the part of Godot, and you’d be waiting for me, my Vima. Just one hour with you, time enough to tell you one of Yuri’s stories. To impress you. To dazzle you with all the things I’ve learned while we’ve been apart. To make love to you as if it were a fairy tale unfolding. For years you took me traveling in your Milky Way, tucked inside the sparkling Big Dipper. I wish I could tell you about the feats of Achilles. My desperate, absurd waiting . . . Godot, or the impossibility of the infinite present, says Yuri. I hope someday you will know how much I loved you.
Would Vima have become the renowned scientist she is today were it not for the Colonel? Or, should I say, were it not for the Colonel’s love? His devotion?” I have just typed the question mark at the end of chapter two when I am startled by the ringing of the telephone. It’s the secretary from the Office. They need me. I have to be there in an hour at the latest. It’s a pain, but I have no choice. I am under contract for the week. I’ll be there. In an hour at the latest, she repeats. I confirm. Reassure her, irritated though I am. The book is just beginning to take shape. I find it hard to tear myself away from the computer screen. I switch it off, in a very bad temper.
The waiting room is packed. Straight away I identify my compatriots among the men squeezed together on the dilapidated bench. There is just something in their gaze, you can’t miss it . . . I go into the office and close the door behind me. The director, Mr. Hans, hands me two files and the day’s agenda. He says, Students in graphic design, sentenced in absentia to fifteen years in prison. They were able to get out at the last minute. Three months spent crossing Central Asia until they got to the Schengen Zone. Included in the file are copies of their caricatures representing the Commander as a fire-breathing dragon. Crime of lèse-majesté. Before you examine the files, Hans adds, read the insert on page 8 of the Posten, the news-in-brief section. It’s important. I open the newspaper. The title, in bold characters, makes my blood run cold. “Death by Drowning of Former Colonel from Theological Republic.” I skip a few lines and focus on the end. The police have now ruled out the possibility of suicide voiced at the beginning of the investigation. According to the crime squad investigator, they are dealing with a contract killing, ordered from the country of origin of the former high-ranking officer, who was seeking asylum. I put the newspaper down on the table. Try to get hold of myself. It’s freezing in here, I stammer, and I wonder if the heating hasn’t broken down. I stand up. I rub my palms together. I hope the director hasn’t noticed how my body is trembling. He says, This is the first case in series A. You know, the guy that the big boss questioned a few months ago. He asks, It was you who worked as his translator, wasn’t it? I nod. I have difficulty speaking. Breathing. I go to the restroom. Lock myself in. Drink huge amounts of water. Splash my face. Anxiety is sawing through my guts. I take a tranquilizer. Wait for it to take effect before I go back to Hans. He says, One thing’s for sure, the leader of that vile regime is behind this assassination. I don’t care one way or the other if those guys go around killing each other, but for Christ’s sake, why can’t they wash their dirty laundry in their own country? I wonder why he didn’t say “in your country.” Does he really think I belong to his country now? He concludes, We have to be very vigilant. Pay close attention to the statements of the young men who are coming in today. Reread their depositions carefully. I nod. I pretend to concentrate on the files. I leaf through them, mechanically. Surprised by my silence, he eventually asks me what I think about the whole business. I shrug. Nothing. I don’t think anything about it. And yet I would like to ask him why they did not offer him protection. And add, Aren’t we also at fault, to some degree? Yes, I would say we—including myself in the Office—to pretend to belong. But I say nothing. I bite my tongue. He wouldn’t understand. The no that is screaming inside me fills my lungs. Hans says no more about it. He calls in one of the two graphic design students. He is young, handsome, anxious. He sits down where the Colonel once sat. He spells his first and last name. Familiar sounds harmonizing so well with the echo of the no which persists all through the interview. The no which is burrowing deeper and deeper inside me. I listen, I translate, I transcribe. Like a robot. Just as I did with the Colonel. In this same room. After three hours of extreme tension I leave the place. Completely drained. Depressed. With this no throbbing, refusing to let go. The sky is low, the air is heavy. On the street corner I buy the evening papers and go into the first café I find in the shopping mall next to the building. The Colonel’s death is not mentioned in any of the papers other than the Posten, which I have folded into my backpack. I drink my second coffee straight down, with a splash of brandy. I buy some running shoes in a sporting goods store. I run all the way home. There is nothing better than a marathon to deal with overexcited nerves.
After a freezing shower I curl up in bed under the covers and read the insert in the Posten at least a dozen times. Backwards, from bottom to top. Which gives: “drowning by murder . . . country our in asylum political requesting was.” I would like to rid myself of words. The scandalous, inadmissible verb. Thus the act which is said to have occurred would be canceled out, given the absurdity and confusion of the statement. It’s a subterfuge that takes me back to my early childhood. During those long winter nights when my grandmother was teaching me the secrets of the how the world was created from the mouth of the Goddess Atahina. By uttering the names of things she made them appear. She said ocean. Then land. Then man. And in that way she created the world and all the creatures that inhabit it. Do you understand, my little one? Then she wrote down everything she wanted to keep in this world. Tell me, grandmother, if I write ocean and then erase it, will I make the ocean disappear? Try another word, rather. Take “cruelty,” for example. That will surely work. Then you will be allowed into the country of kind people. It’s the nicest country in the world! Tell me, grandmother, what word would you suggest today? Yield. Accept. Let go. Stop shouting no. Put an end to its vibrations, they’ll drive you mad. There is no longer anything admirable about that sterile no, powerless in the face of what is irreversible. It’s pitiful. Del won’t ever be coming back. The Colonel is dead. He had warned me, after all. He knew, and so did I, that the men in power would eventually get him. For an assassin, even a reluctant one, there is no escape. And a traitor on top of it. I take a pill. Sleep. That’s the only remedy. My nightmare is full of words. The words in the article: drowning, murder, contract killers, agent, theological republic, asylum. And other, older words. Those that are embedded in my soul. Words the goddess said, without my knowing it. Words that cannot be removed with the simple rubbing of an eraser. Del, love, hope, reunite, abandon, betrayal, pain, nostalgia. Words with sad or laughing eyes, terrified or indifferent. The Colonel’s, Del’s, my mother’s, my father’s. The glazed eyes of dead fish.
I have been vegetating. For at least a week. Without a computer screen, a book, or a newspaper. I’m like a grub. It’s impossible to work, to read, or to think. I run myself to exhaustion. I have to force myself back down to earth. I have to remember my promise. That’s the best thing I can do for the late Colonel. Immerse myself in his life again. Bring his love back to life.
End of a new chapter. I take my finger from the keyboard. The telephone rings. There’s a man, a certain Yuri, on the line. He introduces himself as a friend of Ala the Colonel. His English is as ragged as his voice, his
Slavic accent. He wants to see me. It’s urgent. The Colonel’s name was Ala. I’ve just found this out. It’s moving. I would like to know more. But I’m wary. This Yuri makes me uncomfortable. I ask, What is this regarding? And I immediately regret my words, I sound like some little bureaucrat. I’m not a secretary. I’m not someone who is particularly important. Fuck, says Yuri on the other end of the line, not the least bit aggressive. And I repress my desire to laugh and say fuck, and not fuck you too. He says it again, Fuck, don’t tell me you didn’t know they bumped off my buddy! Do you want to know more about it or just fuck it? I tell him to come to my house. He’ll be here in an hour. He has the address.
Yuri is tall and thin. It’s hard to tell how old he is. He has disheveled hair the color of wheat. Fluorescent green eyes of the sort to rip into a faint-hearted soul. I have him sit down in the living area of my studio. I go to make some tea. Yuri doesn’t move. Stares into space. I put the tray down on the coffee table. He takes a big, battered book from the inside pocket of his overcoat. Sets it down among the glasses and the teapot. He has no intention of moving it, that’s obvious. I pour the tea. Too bad if his book gets splashed. He points to the title, in Cyrillic characters, and says War and Peace. Tolstoy is my intellectual guide. And it is the first of the month. I wait. In silence. Somewhat taken aback. He asks, I don’t suppose you have any vodka? All I have is cognac so I offer him some. It’s okay, let’s have cognac. Yuri insists heavily on his consonants. The C in cognac, or earlier, the K in his incomparable fuck, which he pronounces “fook,” consonants grating on my ears. I point to the bottle on the shelf behind him. He reaches for it, shakes it gently, murmurs, This is what you call a drop. He empties the bottle, what was left of it, that is, into his glass of tea. He begins sipping his drink. He looks pleased. His gaze is sparkling. He has the eyes of a devil and an angel, half and half. Yuri picks up his book. Strokes it nonchalantly. He says, Every first day of the month I read a chapter from War and Peace. This edition dates from 1899, he adds solemnly. It’s a treasure that will go with him until he dies. I am starting to lose my patience. I gulp down my tea all in one, and burn my palate. He notices that I am irritated. Be patient, I will explain. It is in this book that I found what I must leave with you. Ala was a clever guy. He knew all my habits. The rituals I never depart from. One month ago, when he left the envelope in the middle of the book, he knew I would find it this morning between eight and nine o’clock. And that’s exactly what happened. I look at Yuri, my eyes open wide. He says, The envelope contains two letters. One for me, the other for you. He hands me the two envelopes. I can keep both of them, he made photocopies. I grab them and shove them into the pocket of my trousers. My way of saying, you can go now, I want to be alone to read them. Yuri’s gaze hovers, avoids mine, drifts aimlessly, Back and forth between the pocket of my trousers and the window. His way of replying to me, I understand, but I’m staying, I haven’t finished yet. Yuri is the stubborn sort. I sink into the armchair. All right. I have time. I’m all ears. He begins talking. About the vital importance of rituals. The world has been based on rituals since time immemorial, he says. Whenever you have more than one two-footed creature, rituals will prosper. A detention center is no exception. The more lost a poor soul is, the more he will cling to his rituals. Everyone has their little obsessions. Ala had his. Yuri has his. They had a few together. Reading War and Peace in the 1899 edition, every first of the month, was a must—he pronounced it “moost”—for Yuri. For Ala, the must was his weekly pilgrimage to the planetarium. He went there as soon as it opened. And only came back out at closing time. Yuri tells me—in full knowledge of the facts—that the security people had trouble getting rid of him. He says, Twice I went with him. He was like a sleepwalker. He stared at the ceiling and the hemispheric screen, watching one projection after another. He didn’t move. The guy was petrified, a real zombie, says Yuri. Wednesday evenings were devoted to their ceremony of tales from olden times and faraway places. Yuri was the moderator. He provided the vodka and embarked Ala with him upon his stories. He doesn’t recall exactly when their nocturnal sessions began. Oh, it must have been one of those bluesy evenings when Ala asked him if he knew anything about stars. Yuri was a poet, after all. Yuri was astonished: he might be a poet, but no astronomer. Ala was so sad and disappointed he could cry. That’s when the idea for the ballads was born.
The Man Who Snapped His Fingers Page 10
