The Possibility of an Island

by Michel Houellebecq

  I had told Harry that Isabelle was “on her travels”; that was already six months ago, but he didn’t show surprise, and he seemed to have forgotten she even existed; basically, I think he wasn’t very interested in human beings. I attended another debate with Robert the Belgian, under almost the same conditions as the first; then a third, but this time the Belgians were flanked by their son Patrick, who had come to spend a week’s vacation, and his girlfriend Fadiah, a stunning negress. Patrick looked about forty-five, and he worked in a bank in Luxembourg. I immediately formed a good impression of him, in any case he seemed less stupid than his parents—I learned later that he had important responsibilities, and that a lot of money was channeled through him. As for Fadiah, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and with her it was difficult to go beyond the level of strict erotic judgment; but this didn’t seem to bother her much. A white bandeau partially covered her breasts, she wore a tight miniskirt, and that was about all; that said, I didn’t get a hard-on.

  The couple were Elohimites, that is to say they belonged to a sect that worshipped the Elohim, extraterrestrial creatures responsible for the creation of mankind, and they were waiting for their return. I had never heard this kind of nonsense before, so I listened, during dinner, with a bit of attention. Essentially, according to them, everything boiled down to an error of transcription in the Book of Genesis: the creator, Elohi, was not to be taken in the singular, but in the plural. There was nothing divine or supernatural about our creators; they were simply material beings, more evolved than us, who had learned how to master space travel and the creation of life; they had also defeated aging and death, and asked only to share their secret with the most deserving among us. Aha, I said to myself; there’s the carrot.

  In order for the Elohim to return, and reveal to us how to escape death, we (that is to say mankind) had first to build an embassy for them. Not a palace of crystal with walls of hyacinth and beryl, no, no, something simple, modern, and nice—suitably comfortable; the prophet believed he knew they liked Jacuzzis (for there was a prophet, who came from Clermont-Ferrand). For the location of the embassy he had thought first, quite classically, of Jerusalem; but there were some problems, a few neighborly disputes, in short it wasn’t the right moment. An animated discussion with a rabbi from the Messiahs Commission (an Israeli body that specialized in this kind of case) had given him another lead. The Jews, obviously, were badly situated. When Israel was established, the Jews’ thoughts had turned to Palestine, but also to other places like Texas or Uganda—which were also a bit dangerous, but not quite as much; in short, the rabbi concluded good-naturedly, they shouldn’t focus too much on the geographical aspects. God is everywhere, he exclaimed, His presence fills the Universe (I mean, he corrected himself, in your case the Elohim).

  In fact the prophet thought not: the Elohim were situated on the planet of the Elohim, and from time to time they traveled, that’s all; but he abstained from entering into a new geographical controversy, for the conversation had edified him. If the Elohim had traveled as far as Clermont-Ferrand, he told himself, there had to be a reason for it, probably linked to the geological character of the place; volcanic zones pulsate a lot, everyone knows that. That’s why, Patrick told me, the prophet had, after a brief enquiry, opted for the island of Lanzarote, in the Canary Islands. The land was bought; all that remained was for construction to begin.

  Was he, by any chance, suggesting to me that this was the moment to invest? No, no, he reassured me, from this point of view we’re clear, the subscriptions are minimal, and anyone can come and verify the accounts when they want to. If you knew what I do, in Luxembourg, sometimes, for other clients…no really, if there is one point on which we can’t be attacked it is this.

  On finishing my glass of kirsch, I told myself that Patrick had opted for an original synthesis of the materialist convictions of his dad and the astral fads of his mum. There was then the traditional harp ’n’ stars session. “Waaooh! Wicked!…,” exclaimed Fadiah on seeing the rings of Saturn, before stretching out on her deck chair. Indeed, indeed, the region’s sky was very pure. Turning round to grab the bottle of kirsch, I saw that she had spread her thighs, and it seemed in the darkness that her hand was thrust up under her skirt. A little later, I heard her panting. So, while observing the stars, Harry thought of Christ Omega; Robert the Belgian thought of I know not what, perhaps helium in fusion, or intestinal problems; as for Fadiah, she was masturbating. To each according to their character.

  Daniel24, 9

  A KIND OF JOY DESCENDS from the physical world. I am attached to the Earth.

  The rocks, completely black, today plunge through vertical stages to a depth of three thousand meters. This vision, which terrifies the savages, inspires no terror in me. I know that there is no monster hidden in the abyss; there is only fire, the original fire.

  The melting of the ice occurred at the end of the First Decrease, and reduced the population of the planet from fourteen billion to seven hundred million.

  The Second Decrease was more gradual; it happened throughout the whole of the Great Drying Up, and continues to this day.

  The Third Decrease will be definitive; it is yet to come.

  No one knows the cause of the Great Drying Up, or at least its efficient cause. It has, of course, been demonstrated that it was owing to the modification of the axis of rotation of the Earth on the plane of its orbit; but the event is considered highly improbable, in quantum terms.

  The Great Drying Up was a necessary parable, teaches the Supreme Sister; a theological condition for the Return of the Humid.

  The duration of the Great Drying Up will be long, the Supreme Sister also teaches.

  The Return of the Humid will be the sign of the coming of the Future Ones.

  Daniel1, 10

  God exists. I stepped in Him.

  —Anon.

  FROM MY FIRST STAY with the Very Healthy Ones, I recall in particular a ski lift in the mist. The summer course was being held in Herzegovina, or in some such region, known primarily for the conflicts that had once drenched it in blood. It was, however, very pretty: the chalets, the inn, all made of dark wood, with red-and-white-checked curtains, and heads of boars and stags decorating the walls, all of it done with a Central European kitsch that I’ve always liked. “Ach, war, the madness of men, Gross Misfortune…,” I mentally repeated to myself, imitating involuntarily the intonation of Francis Blanche. For a long time I had been the victim of a sort of mental echolalia, which in my case did not apply to famous songs, but to the phrases used by classic comedians: when, for example, I began to hear Francis Blanche repeating: “KOL-LOS-SAL SHOOT-ING!” as he does in Babette Goes Off to War, I had a lot of difficulty getting it out of my head, I had to make an enormous effort. With de Funès, it was even worse: his vocal shifts, his funny expressions, his gestures, I suffered them for hours at a time, it was as if I were possessed.

  Basically I had worked hard, I told myself, I had spent my life working endlessly. The actors I knew at the age of twenty had had no success, it’s true, most had even completely given up the trade, but it must also be said that they had done fuck-all, they had spent their time drinking in bars or trendy clubs. During this time I was rehearsing, alone in my bedroom, I spent hours on each intonation and each gesture; and I wrote my sketches as well, I really wrote them, it took me years before that became easy. If I worked so hard, it was probably because I wouldn’t actually have been capable of enjoying myself; I wouldn’t have been very at ease in the bars and trendy clubs, at the parties organized by couturiers, in the VIP sections: with my ordinary physique and my introverted temperament, I had, from the outset, very little chance of being the life of the party. So I worked, for want of anything else; and I have had my revenge. In my youth, basically, I was in the same state of mind as Ophélie Winter when she ruminated, thinking about her entourage: “Have a good laugh, my little cunts. Later I’ll be the one on the podium and I’ll give you all the finger.” S
he had declared that in an interview with 20 Ans.

  I had to stop thinking about 20 Ans, I also had to stop thinking about Isabelle; I had to stop thinking about almost everything. I stared at the moist, green slopes, I tried to see only the mist—mist had always helped me. Ski lifts in the mist. Thus, between ethnic wars, they found the means to go skiing—you have to work your abductors, I said to myself, and I outlined a sketch in which two torturers exchanged fitness tips in a weight room in Zagreb. It was over the top, I couldn’t help it: I was a clown, I would remain a clown and I would die like a clown—with hate, and in convulsions.

  If I privately referred to the Elohimites as the Very Healthy Ones, it was because they were, in fact, very healthy. They did not want to grow old; and with this goal in mind, they forbade themselves from smoking, and took antiradicals and other such things that you generally find in parapharmacy shops. Drugs were rather frowned upon. Alcohol was permitted, in the form of red wine—limited to two glasses a day. They were slightly Cretan Diet, if you like. These instructions, insisted the prophet, had no moral significance. Health was the objective. All that was healthy, and therefore, in particular, all that was sexual, was permitted. You could see this at once, on looking at the Web site and in the brochures: a pleasant and slightly insipid erotic kitsch, sort of Pre-Raphaelite with big tits, à la Walter Girotto. Male or female homosexuality was also present in the illustrations, in smaller doses: strictly heterosexual himself, the prophet had nothing of the homophobe about him. The ass, the cunt: according to the prophet, everything was good. He was there in person, all dressed in white, to greet me with an outstretched hand at the Zwork airport. I was their first real VIP, and he had wanted to make an effort. Up until then, they had only had one very minor VIP, a Frenchman as well, an artist called Vincent Grelsamer. He’d had, nonetheless, an exhibition at the Pompidou Center—of course, even Bernard Branxène has had an exhibition at the Pompidou Center. So he was a half-pint VIP, a Plastic Arts VIP. A nice boy, by the way. And, I was immediately convinced on seeing him, probably a good artist. He had a sharp, intelligent face, and a strangely intense, almost mystical look in his eyes; that said, he expressed himself normally, with intelligence, weighing his words. I had no idea what he did, whether it was video art, installations, or what, but you got the feeling that this guy really worked. We were the only two declared smokers—which, in addition to our VIP status, brought us closer. We did not, however, go as far as smoking in the presence of the prophet; but, from time to time, during the lectures, we went outside for a quick smoke, which was quite soon tacitly accepted. Ah, VIPness.

  I hardly had time to settle in, and make myself an instant coffee, before the first lecture began. To attend the “teachings” you were supposed to put on, over your usual clothes, a long white tunic. I obviously felt a little ridiculous when I pulled the thing on, but it didn’t take long for the point of the accoutrement to become clear to me. The layout of the hotel was very complex, with glass passages linking the buildings, half-levels, and underground galleries, all with signs written in a bizarre language that was vaguely reminiscent of Welsh, which in any case I didn’t understand a word of, so much so that it took me half an hour to find my way back. During this lapse of time, I came across about twenty people who were making their way, like me, down the deserted corridors and who were wearing, like me, long white tunics. On arriving in the lecture room, I had the impression that I’d started off on a spiritual path—even though this word had never made the slightest sense to me. It made no sense, but there I was. You could indeed judge me by my appearance.

  The day’s orator was a very tall, thin, bald guy, impressively serious—when he tried to be funny, it was quite frightening. I called him Knowall, and he was in fact a professor of neurology at a Canadian university. To my great surprise, what he had to say was interesting, and even fascinating in places. The human mind, he explained, developed by the creation and progressive chemical reinforcement of neural networks of variable length, from two to fifty neurons, if not more. As a human brain contained several billion neurons, the number of combinations, and therefore of possible circuits, was staggering—it went way beyond, for example, the number of molecules in the universe.

  The number of circuits used varied greatly from one individual to the next, which sufficed, according to him, to explain the countless gradations between idiocy and genius. But, even more remarkably, a frequently used neuronal circuit became, as a result of ionic accumulations, easier and easier to use—there was, in short, progressive self-reinforcement, and that applied to everything: ideas, addictions, and moods. The phenomenon was proven for individual psychological reactions as well as for social relations: to conscientize mental blocks only reinforced them; trying to settle a conflict between two people generally made it insoluble. Knowall then launched a pitiless attack on Freudian theory, which was not only based on no consistent physiological foundations, but also led to dramatic results that were directly contrary to the chosen goal. On the screen behind him, the succession of diagrams that had punctuated his speech stopped and was replaced by a brief and poignant documentary devoted to the mental—and sometimes unbearable—sufferings of Vietnam veterans. They couldn’t forget, had nightmares every night, could no longer even drive or cross the street without assistance, they lived constantly in fear and it seemed impossible for them to readapt to a normal social life. It focused then on the case of a stooped, wrinkled man who had only a thin crown of disheveled red hair and who seemed to be truly reduced to a wreck: he trembled constantly, could no longer leave his house, and was in need of permanent medical assistance; and he suffered, suffered without end. In the cupboard of his dining room he kept a little jar, filled with soil from Vietnam; every time he opened the cupboard and took out the jar, he broke down in tears.

  “Stop,” said Knowall. “Stop.” The image froze on the close-up of the old man in tears. “Stupidity,” continued Knowall. “Complete and utter stupidity. The first thing this man should do is take his bottle of Vietnamese soil and throw it out of the window. Every time he opens the cupboard, every time he takes out the bottle—and sometimes he does it up to fifty times a day—he reinforces the neuro-circuit, and condemns himself to suffer a little more. Similarly, every time that we dwell on the past, that we return to a painful episode—and this is more or less what psychoanalysis boils down to—we increase the chances of reproducing it. Instead of advancing, we bury ourselves. Whenever we experience sadness, disappointment, something that prevents us from living, we must start by moving out, burning photos, avoiding talking to anyone about it. Repressed memories disappear; this can take some time, but they disappear in the end. The circuit deactivates itself.

  “Any questions?” No, there were no questions. His presentation, which had lasted more than two hours, had been remarkably clear. As I went into the dining hall I saw Patrick coming toward me, all smiles, stretching out his hand. Had I had a good journey, was I settled in, etc.? While we conversed pleasantly, a woman embraced me from behind, rubbing her pubis against my backside, placing her hands on my belly. I turned around: Fadiah had taken off her white tunic and put on a sort of vinyl leopard-patterned bodysuit; she looked in rude health. While continuing to rub her pubis against me she too asked me about my first impressions. Patrick regarded the scene good-naturedly. “Oh, she does this with everyone…,” he told me as we made for a table where a man of about fifty, strongly built, with thick gray hair in a crew cut, was already sitting. He stood up to greet me and shook my hand, observing me closely. During the meal, he didn’t say much, contenting himself from time to time with adding a point of detail on the logistics of the course, but I could sense that he was studying me. He was called Jérôme Prieur, but immediately I baptized him Cop. He was in fact the right-hand man of the prophet, the Number 2 of the organization (although they used a different phrase, and had a whole load of titles along the lines of “archbishop of the seventh rank,” but that was what they really meant). You progressed
according to seniority and merit, as in all organizations, he told me without smiling; according to seniority and merit. Knowall, for example, although he had only been an Elohimite for five years, was Number 3. As for Number 4, I absolutely had to be introduced to him, insisted Patrick, he really appreciated what I did, he himself had a great sense of humor. “Oh, humor…,” I stopped myself from replying.

  The afternoon lecture was given by Odile, a woman of around fifty who had had the same kind of sex life as Catherine Millet, and who incidentally looked a bit like her. She seemed a sympathetic woman, without problems—again like Catherine Millet—but her presentation was a bit woolly. I knew that there were women like Catherine Millet, who shared the same kind of tastes—I estimated the number at around one in a hundred thousand; this didn’t seem to me to have varied throughout history, and was unlikely to evolve. She became somewhat animated when outlining the probability of contamination by the AIDS virus in relation to the various orifices—this was obviously her hobbyhorse, she had gathered a whole heap of figures. She was in fact vice president of the association Couples Against AIDS, which tried to provide intelligent information on this subject—that is to say, enabling people to only use a condom when it was strictly necessary. For my part, I had never used a condom, and with the development of tritherapies, I wasn’t going to start now—supposing I ever had chance to fuck again; for me, at that point, even the prospect of fucking, and of fucking with pleasure, seemed to be more than sufficient motivation for putting an end to it all.