Yuri points to the empty cognac bottle and makes a face. Nothing more to drink? he asks. Anything but tea. Something more substantial, he says. Would beer be substantial enough? Not really, but he’ll make do, he has no choice.
I go and fetch two bottles of Eriksberg. No glasses. I like drinking straight from the bottle. So that’s perfect. He does too, and not just beer. We laugh. We drink a toast. We relax. Yuri gulps down his first bottle of beer in one go. Ala couldn’t understand why a poet didn’t know anything about stars and galaxies! He got all worked up about it. To cheer him up before he started crying, I told him, that big dumbass, I’ve got something much better than stars. The Iliad and The Odyssey, my friend. Who are they? he asked, the fool. I said, Concentrated humanity, plus gods, your fucking sky and all the rest along with it, you dumbass. And I set sail with him that very evening. Once upon a time . . . By the end of the week Ala was so hooked on Achilles that there was no way I—Yuri shook his empty bottle. I brought him another. I reassured him. My supply of beer is not inexhaustible but it is at least fairly substantial. Again he says, I don’t know how many times I told him the story about Achilles. That’s my whole tragedy, he would say. He made the story his own. He couldn’t get enough of it. It had become a personal matter. Yuri looks at me, embarrassed. I suppose you’ve read—I nod before he finishes his sentence. Right, I may as well tell you, forget Ulysses or Oedipus or Phaedra. Not even Urania . . . I found out too late that his daughter was called Urania. I didn’t even know he had a daughter. He told me when we were at the Imperial. At the restaurant. Ah, what an unforgettable evening. We stayed up all night long, would you believe. Fook, I miss the dumbass, says Yuri, despondently. A catch in his throat.
I bring all the bottles I have. Eight in all. I line them up before him. He says that the evening at the Imperial should have gotten him thinking. In a disordered rush, he tells me everything that goes through his head while he empties the bottles one by one. He talks fast. Gets muddled. Gropes for words. Says fook every other sentence—with words to fill in, hyphens, ellipses, exclamation marks, question marks—and then it’s time for fook again. Most of his disjointed discourse is incomprehensible to me. An incoherent outpouring of sadness, regret, the refrain of I-couldn’t-help-him, I-didn’t-know-how-to-help-him, I-should-have-helped-him. He drinks the last sip from the last bottle of beer and says, Ala wore me out with his wife. First her ocher dress, then her golden gaze, then let’s lay it on some more, and I’ll finish off the bottle of vodka to the health of her intelligence. Are you trying to give me a hard-on or what, I would say, to calm him down. No way! Not even jealous, that dumbass Oriental. He just laughed. So I tuned out the rest. I didn’t see it coming. I should have. I’d never seen him like that. I should have sensed bad luck was coming, with its underhanded tricks. He’d gone too soft for me to worry. And yet clearly he was saying goodbye. With a flourish. The real dumbass in the story was me. Fook, I’d never seen a man so in love. He was obsessed by only one thing, for his wife to be proud of him. Dead or alive. Looks like he’s dead. For keeps. You know what you have to do now. Yuri jumps to his feet. The ball is in your court, he says, standing by the door, his big volume of War and Peace under his arm. Don’t let this go unpunished. They killed him. They can stick their bullshit human rights up their ass. Yuri rushes down the stairs as if the building were on fire. Without saying goodbye.
I spend half an hour temporizing. Maybe it’s time to scrape the blackened inside of the teapot? Or wash the windows? . . . I sit down at my desk at dusk. I open the letter addressed to Yuri first.
Fook, as you say, my friend. You see? They got me. You were right. The way you often are. They’re a fierce bunch, the ones who call the tune. The ones who own the world. I say to hell with them now. I have nothing more to do with them. And I’m not dead yet. You’ll only find this letter on the first day of next month. If I’m still in the land of the living you’ll be able to tease me about it until the end of time. In the meanwhile, we’re going to have a great evening together. That’s the main thing. I’m so glad I met you, poet. Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with us. You’ll see how beautiful she is, my Vima, in her ocher dress. I’m attaching a letter to this note. Read it carefully. Make a photocopy for yourself if you want to. As a memento. If I disappear, give the original to the person whose name and contact information you’ll find in the usual hiding place. I know I can count on you to deliver it to her in person. As far as the rest goes, you can throw out a few of your best untimely fooks whenever you think of me. I’m going to look for Achilles. And you, old man, will have to wait for Godot. On your own. I’m sorry, I was beginning to like him!”
I’ll read the second letter when I’m in bed. I’m going out to buy a bottle of cognac.
“Vima, by the time you receive this letter I will be dead. A few words regarding my great departure. My family must know. A few weeks after my last appointment at the Office, where you and I met, I had a couple of visits from the cops. Routine checks. So they claimed. Blatant lies, obviously. They were special agents from Intelligence. They questioned me as if it were no big deal. I made it clear to them that I was no fool. I made fun of them. Teased them. They didn’t insist. There was no rush. We’ll see you again, they said. They’d be back with good news! My situation should be settled soon. One week later they summoned me. To HQ. As if to say, We’re not trying to outsmart you anymore, and we won’t take you for a fool. This will be a meeting between equals. Between colleagues. The meeting lasted six hours. They were testing me. They wanted to know if I would be willing to collaborate with them. And if so, what was my price. What sort of collaboration? Consultant! Nothing scary about that. A cushy job that would consist in evaluating the psychological profiles of fanatical suicide bombers, how their terrorist networks function, how they are connected amongst themselves and with hazy organizations or states like the Theological Republic. After three months of training and an advanced computer course in a software that was new to me, I would finally obtain my papers. I would be able to send for my family at once. There was nothing dishonorable about the work. Vima would not object if I could talk to her about it. I would be on the right side of the fence. Against the dictators. I said okay. My job as a bookworm was not unpleasant. I had to go through files. Comment on them. Leave notes. Write up reports. Verify the authenticity of certain sources or documents. Decrypt secret codes, within the limits of my skills. But also, and above all, learn how to operate computer cameras and lasers remotely, as well as analyze weather data and maps of the terrain. It was all new to me and I found it really interesting. I was pretty sure, however, that this training had something to do with drones. The three months went by. Quickly. Smoothly. They congratulated me. They found me very gifted. But the papers they promised me were taking their time. They gave me one useless pretext after another. Gone was the atmosphere of trust. I left them in the lurch, and deserted their offices. We began playing hide and seek. One fine morning they called me. Summoned me. My papers were ready. I ran all the way. And there they were, on the desk, those damned papers. I felt them. Breathed them in. But I couldn’t take them with me. Not yet. I had to do a mission for them. In a word, they asked me to do some more work for them. It had all been too good to be true . . . I reminded them of the terms of our agreement. My territory was the Internet. So I was determined to keep my ass on my chair. I refused to do any other missions. I didn’t want to have anything to do with any sort of operation. I would not touch a weapon. Not even a cartridge. They said, You won’t leave this office or your chair! And I told myself I’d been royally screwed. I waited for what came next, knowing perfectly well what it would be. They wanted me to go back to killing. To bomb targets by means of pilotless airplanes—drones, in other words. Planes which you could hardly see, but which sounded like thunder. I know something about it. I was on a mission in Yemen when American drones struck the village where a jihadi leader was hiding out, a guy they’d been looking for for years.
He was killed along with a group of children who were playing near his hideaway. I remember the testimony of an American soldier who’d been a screen pilot for Predator drones, and after a few years of service he’d come down with PTSD. Anxious, insomniac, unable to communicate, disgusted with life. He was responsible for the death of two thousand people, including civilians, but also other American soldiers whom he had taken for the enemy. Collateral damage. The worst thing about it, confessed the soldier, was the disconnect between what seemed to be a game in an air-conditioned facility, and the violence wrought by his control buttons, causing death thousands of miles away! A soldier in war takes risks, and kills only the enemy on the battlefield. If all you are doing is killing on screen, you lose all respect for life. I remember how sorry I felt for that Yank. Virtual war is a rich country’s weapon, while the poor country resorts to terrorism. I abhor them both now. In the end I said to the director, I’m listening. He spread a map out on the table. The strike zone was on the border with our country. I was petrified. I asked them for some time to think about it.
That day I followed you along the waterfront I had reached the end of my deadline. What happened afterwards is of no importance. Except what you have to say to my wife. Tell her I kept my promises. Thank you.
P.S. I have left clues in a secure electronic dropbox with proof that what I have said is true. My wife can have access to it if she so desires. She will receive the code at some point in the future. As for you, don’t take any risks. Destroy this letter and forget everything. Above all, I do not want to cause you any problems. Be careful. The underground territory of Intelligence is often mined. No matter where you are.”
I am dismayed. My thoughts are going round and round. Should I believe in a conspiracy theory? And why not believe? Because it is easier to point the finger of guilt at the Theological Republic. It suits me, and it makes sense. This is all beyond me. Why has the Office summoned me urgently in order to close the Colonel’s file? He was not a priority. In his case I cannot suspect any of the zealous agents at the Office who, just before election time, wrap up all the outstanding files in order to empty the asylum centers of any potential jobseekers. It’s the policy of ambitious civil servants toward political parties of every stripe. According to my colleagues, that is how the big boss obtained his position at the Office. But the Colonel could not be extradited. If the life of an asylum seeker, even a fascist one, is in danger in his country of origin, they hang onto him, even if they don’t give him refugee status. So why would they have hurried the erstwhile officer’s case, if not to force him to collaborate with the services in question? Did the big boss know about it? Or was it all done behind his back? Is that why they chose me as their translator? Another translator, in particular Professor Hilberg, the Colonel’s usual translator, who is known for her unconditional empathy toward asylum seekers, would have noticed the slightest irregularity in his case. It gives me a cold sweat and, perhaps, some foolish ideas. Shouldn’t I take the matter to the appropriate person? The press, for example? But what proof do I have to back it up? Should I talk about it with Lars? He would be thrilled at the idea of publishing a political document in the place of a personal novel. And Ala’s wife? I can’t do anything without her consent. She is still in the jaws of the lion. No, I can’t do anything. Other than honor my promise and wait. I do decide, however, to suggest to Lars that we publish my manuscript in his “Life Testimony” collection. A compromise that is more faithful to the duty of memory, and which will enchant him, I’m sure. I fall asleep at dawn.
Nine months later, on a fine spring morning, Vima received a DHL parcel from the United States. The sender was the Colonel’s wife. It was quite large, and contained a letter and a gift-wrapped cardboard box. Vima hesitated. Should she read the letter before opening the package or the other way around? For a long while she stared at the box, with its blue tissue paper wrapping, which was creased and torn in places. A web of purple ribbon was knotted in a tangled clump, stuck to the middle of the parcel with a heart-shaped sticker. She picked up the box, shook it, and put it back down on the table. It wasn’t very heavy. She would read the letter first. She put it in her handbag and left the apartment. She needed human contact, people around her. She went to the most crowded outdoor café in town, ordered an espresso and opened the envelope. The letter was typed on letterhead from the Astrophysics Science Division at NASA.
Dear Vima,
In spite of all the precautions you took, I had to refuse to meet your contact. I didn’t want to take any risks before leaving the country. He arranged to have the package re-sent through a traveler we could trust. Recently I received your letter, my husband’s testament, and your manuscript. Thank you for your condolences. Before I reply to your request concerning your manuscript, and offer you my opinion in all sincerity, just a few words regarding my husband’s assassination. Thank you in advance for disregarding my language, which tends to be rather threadbare when it comes to feelings. When they were little my children reproached me for my mathematical way of speaking. They were imitating my husband. If human beings could communicate in mathematical language—which is more poetical than any other language—the world would be an easier place to live. Perhaps one day we will follow Nature’s example, for her immense book is written in mathematical language, as Galileo has affirmed. But let us get back to the main thing. My husband’s death was reported in the media and received a lot of commentary. It was a first, after many years. The policy of the regime—as you know—had hitherto consisted in silencing defections, particularly those of military personnel. But the murder of that ignominious traitor was justified as an emanation of divine will. This headline from an official newspaper typifies the tirades on the part of the pencil-pushers in the service of the government, which has clearly claimed responsibility for the assassination. Henceforth one conclusion prevails: the leaders’ change of tactics contains a clear message to anyone who might be tempted to follow Ala’s example. They eliminated him and they’ll start again. Anyone who might be bold enough to try now knows what to expect. Nowhere is safe. Like Ala’s friends, I also believed he’d been the target of the despots. But now your letter, which refers to Ala’s “testament as a free man,” as he calls it, has stunned me. The news affected me above all because of my children, for they know nothing about the true circumstances surrounding their father’s death. I’ll tell you more when we meet, soon I hope. I have been in the United States for not even two weeks. I just got my green card, and the administrative formalities regarding my employment at NASA are underway. As soon as my children are enrolled in high school and university, respectively, I will come and see you, if that’s all right with you. I intend to bring a suit against persons unknown for the murder of my husband. The lawyer specialized in international law whom I consulted here suggested I sue the Theological Republic. In other words, to substantiate the theory put forward by the criminal investigation police in your adoptive country. According to the lawyer, that’s the only way the mice will emerge from their hole. A situation that might seem comical if it weren’t a tragedy for my children. Obviously I will be grateful to you if you agree to help me once I get there. Take time to consider any inconvenience or problems you might encounter before you decide. Don’t take any risks. Regarding your writing, thank you again for taking the time to transcribe my husband’s declarations so admirably. I recognize him, in the intensity of his emotions, but not in the way they are expressed, which is yours. His message is extremely important to me. My children will have to learn about it sooner or later. I am sure it will help them overcome the ordeal they are undergoing. They were deeply disturbed by the way the media went after their father. They could not wait to leave the country, despite their fear of the unknown and the sorrow of leaving family and friends. I’m sure they will be better off here than back there. Unless . . . There are always the what-ifs. Science is based on nothing other than what-ifs, and skepticism with regard to the preconceived notions that
make up the material world.
The Man Who Snapped His Fingers Page 11
