Hygiene and the Assassin

by Amélie Nothomb

  “Well, yes. For sixty years you have been a fully fledged writer, and this is your first interview. You are never featured in the press, you do not belong to any literary or nonliterary circles, and by all appearances, you only leave this apartment to do your shopping. You are not even known to have any friends. If that is not modesty, what is it?”

  “Have your eyes adjusted to the darkness? Can you make out my face now?”

  “Yes, vaguely.”

  “Well, good for you. Let me tell you, sir, that if I were handsome, I would not live as a recluse. In fact, if I had been handsome, I would never have become a writer. I would have been an adventurer, or a slave trader, or a barman, or a fortune hunter.”

  “So are you saying there is a connection between your looks and your vocation?”

  “It is not a vocation. It came to me the day I became aware of my ugliness.”

  “And when was that?”

  “I was very young. I have always been ugly.”

  “You’re not that ugly.”

  “You, at least, are tactful.”

  “Well, you’re fat, but you’re not ugly.”

  “What more do you want? Four chins, piggy eyes, a nose like a spud, no more hair on my head than on my cheeks, my neck is one roll of fat upon the other, my jowls droop—and, out of consideration for you, I have only described my face.”

  “Have you always been this fat?”

  “At the age of eighteen, I was already like this—you can say obese, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “Yes, obese, but we can still look at you without trembling.”

  “I’ll grant you that I could have been even more repugnant: I might have had a blotchy face, covered in warts . . .”

  “As it is, you have very nice skin, it’s white and smooth, I can tell it must be very soft to the touch.”

  “A eunuch’s complexion, my good man. There’s something almost grotesque about having such skin on my face, particularly on a chubby, clean-shaven face: in fact, my head resembles a fine pair of smooth, soft buttocks. My head inspires laughter rather than disgust, although there are times I would have preferred to inspire disgust. It’s more invigorating.”

  “I would never have imagined that you suffer from your looks.”

  “I don’t suffer. Suffering is for other people, for those who see me. I don’t see myself. I never look at myself in the mirror. I would suffer if I had chosen another life; but for the life I lead, this body suits me fine.”

  “Would you have preferred another life?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think that all lives are equal. One thing is sure, and that is that I have no regrets. If I were eighteen years old now, with the same body, I would start all over again, I would reproduce exactly the same life, insofar as you can say I’ve had a life.”

  “Isn’t writing a life?”

  “I’m not in a good position to answer that question. I’ve never done anything else.”

  “You’ve had twenty-two novels published, and according to what you have told me, there will be even more. Among the host of characters who inhabit your immense oeuvre, is there one in particular who resembles you more than others?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Really? Let me tell you something: there is one of your characters who seems to me to be your exact double.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes, the mysterious wax vendor, in Crucifixion Made Easy.”

  “The wax vendor? What an absurd idea.”

  “I’ll tell you why: when he’s the one speaking, you always write ‘crucifiction.’”

  “So?”

  “He’s no fool. He knows that it’s a fiction.”

  “And so does the reader. But that doesn’t mean he resembles me.”

  “And this mania of his, making wax masks of the faces of the crucified—that’s you, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve never made wax masks of crucified people, I assure you.”

  “No, of course not, but it’s a metaphor for what you do.”

  “What do you know about metaphors, young man?”

  “But . . . I know what everyone knows.”

  “An excellent reply. People don’t know a thing about metaphors. It’s a word that sells well, because it sounds classy. ‘Metaphor’: even the most illiterate person can tell it comes from Greek. Incredibly chic, these phony etymologies, and absolutely phony: when you are familiar with the dreadful polysemy of the preposition meta and the polyvalent neutrality of the verb phero, if you’re at all in good faith you should logically conclude that the word ‘metaphor’ doesn’t mean a thing. Besides, when you hear how people use and abuse it, you come to exactly the same conclusion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Precisely what I said. I don’t use metaphors to express myself, now do I?”

  “But the wax casts?”

  “The wax casts are wax casts, sir.”

  “It’s my turn to be disappointed, Monsieur Tach, because if you exclude the metaphorical interpretation, all that’s left of your work is bad taste.”

  “Well, there are all sorts of bad taste: there is healthy, regenerative bad taste, which consists in creating horrible things for salubrious, purgative, robust, male purposes, like a good well-controlled binge of vomiting, and then there’s the other bad taste—it is apostolic, offended by such elegant barfing, and in need of a waterproof diving suit in order to make its way through. This particular frogman is the metaphor that enables the relieved maker of metaphors to exclaim, ‘I went from one end of Tach to the other, and I didn’t get dirty!’”

  “But that, too, is a metaphor.”

  “Obviously: I try to crush metaphors with their own weapons. If I had wanted to play the Messiah, if I had had to rouse the rabble, I would have cried out, ‘Conscripts, come and enlist in my redemptive mission; let us metaphorize our metaphors, let us amalgamate them, beat them until they’re stiff, let’s make them into a soufflé and let that soufflé puff up, a gorgeous expansion, getting bigger and bigger until it explodes, conscripts, then subsides and collapses and disappoints all the guests, to our utmost delight!”

  “A writer who hates metaphors is as absurd as a banker who hates money.”

  “I am sure that great bankers hate money. There’s nothing absurd about it, on the contrary.”

  “Words, however—you do love words?”

  “Oh, I adore words, but there’s no comparison. Words are a fine substance, sacred ingredients.”

  “So metaphors are a form of cooking—and you do like cooking.”

  “No, Monsieur, metaphors are not cooking—syntax is cooking. Metaphors are bad faith; it’s like biting into a tomato and asserting that the tomato tastes like honey, and then eating honey and saying it tastes like ginger, then chewing on ginger and saying the ginger tastes like sarsaparilla, and at that point . . .”

  “Yes, I understand, sir, you needn’t go on.”

  “No, you don’t understand: to make you understand what a metaphor really is, I would have to go on playing this little game for hours, because metaphorians never stop, they will go on playing until some well-intentioned person comes along to smash their face in.”

  “And are you that well-intentioned person?”

  “No. I’ve always been a little too soft and too kind.”

  “Kind, you?”

  “Terribly. I know of no one as kind as I am. And such kindness is terrifying, because I am never kind out of mere kindness, but only out of weariness and, above all, a fear of exasperation. I get exasperated very easily, and I find exasperation very hard to take, so I avoid it like the plague.”

  “You scorn kindness, in other words?”

  “You haven’t understood a thing of what I’m trying to tell you. I admire kindness when it is truly founded on kindness or love. But how many people do
you know who actually practice that form of kindness? In the vast majority of cases, when human beings are kind it is in order to be left alone.”

  “Granted. But that still doesn’t explain why the wax vendor was making casts of the faces of the crucified.”

  “And why shouldn’t he? Every trade has its own merits. You’re a journalist, are you not? Have I asked you why you’re a journalist?”

  “Go right ahead. I’m a journalist because there’s a demand, because people are interested in my articles, because they’re buying them from me, and because it enables me to communicate information.”

  “In your shoes, I wouldn’t brag about it.”

  “But Monsieur Tach, I have to make a living!”

  “Do you think so?”

  “That’s what you’re doing, no?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “It’s what your wax vendor does, in any case.”

  “You really do have a thing about this old wax vendor, don’t you? Why does he make casts of the crucified? For reasons, I suppose, directly opposed to your own: because there is no demand, because people aren’t interested, because no one buys his casts, and because it doesn’t enable him to communicate information.”

  “An expression of the absurd, maybe?”

  “It’s no more absurd than what you do, if you want my opinion—but I’m not sure you do.”

  “Of course I do, I’m a journalist.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Why do you feel such hostility toward journalists?”

  “Not toward journalists, toward you.”

  “What have I done to deserve it?”

  “This is too much. Here you have been insulting me, treating me as a metaphorian, accusing me of bad taste, inferring that I was not ‘so’ ugly, importuning the wax vendor and now, to take the cake, you claim to understand me.”

  “But . . . what am I supposed to say?”

  “That’s your profession, not mine. When one is as stupid as you are, he ought not to harangue Prétextat Tach.”

  “You yourself gave me permission.”

  “I most certainly did not. It was that idiot of a secretary, Gravelin, and he has no talent for discernment.”

  “Earlier, you said he was an excellent man.”

  “That doesn’t preclude stupidity.”

  “Come now, Monsieur Tach, don’t make yourself more disagreeable than you already are.”

  “You vulgar so-and-so! Leave here at once!”

  “But . . . the interview has only just begun!”

  “It has lasted far too long already, you ill-mannered lout! Get out of here! And tell your colleagues to show some respect for Prétextat Tach!”

  The journalist hurried away, his tail between his legs.

  His colleagues were having a drink at the café across the street and hadn’t expected to see him come out so soon; they waved to him. The poor fellow was green, and he collapsed in their midst.

  Once he’d ordered a triple egg flip, he found the strength to relate his misadventure. His fear meant he was giving off a terrible smell, which must not have been unlike that of Jonah emerging from his cetacean sojourn. His companions found it off-putting. Was he aware of his fustiness? He himself evoked Jonah: “The belly of the whale! I assure you, it was all there! Dark, ugly, frightening, claustrophobic . . .”

  “Did it stink?” ventured a colleague.

  “That was about the only thing that was missing. But the man himself—like a slimy intestine! Smooth as a liver, as blown up as his belly must be. Perfidious as a spleen, and as bitter as a gallbladder! Just the way he looked at me, I felt as if he were digesting me, dissolving me in the juices of his totalitarian metabolism!”

  “Go on, you’re exaggerating!”

  “On the contrary, I’ll never find words strong enough. If you could have seen how angry he was at the end! I’ve never seen such terrifying anger: it was both sudden and perfectly controlled. You’d expect a lard-ass like him to go red, swell up, have trouble breathing, and sweat like a pig. Not at all, the only thing that equaled the suddenness of his anger was his coldness. If you could have heard his voice when he told me to get out! It was just how I imagined a Chinese emperor would speak when ordering an immediate beheading.”

  “In any case, he gave you the opportunity to play the hero.”

  “Do you think so? I’ve never felt so pathetic.”

  He gulped down his egg flip and burst into tears.

  “Go on, this won’t be the first time anyone’s taken a journalist for an idiot.”

  “It’s true, I’ve heard worse. But there was just something about the way he said it, his smooth face icy with scorn: it was very convincing.”

  “Can you let us hear the recording?”

  In a religious silence, the tape recorder unreeled its truth, which was bound to be partial, because it had been amputated of the darkness, the placid features, the huge inexpressive hands, the general immobility, and everything which had contributed to make the poor journalist reek with fear. When they had finished listening, his colleagues, cruel as only humans can be, could not help but think the novelist was right: they admired him, and each one had to put in his two cents and lecture the victim.

  “Sorry old boy, but you asked for it! The way you talked about literature with him—as if from a school book. I totally understand his reaction.”

  “Why did you want to identify him with one of his characters? What a simplistic idea.”

  “And those biographical questions, nobody cares about that. Haven’t you read Proust, Contre Sainte-Beuve?”

  “You really screwed up, saying that you’re used to interviewing writers.”

  “How tactless can you get, saying he’s not ‘so’ ugly! Don’t you have any manners, you pitiful old thing?”

  “And what about the metaphor! He really got you there. I don’t mean to be hurtful, but you deserved it.”

  “Honestly, how can you talk about the absurd with a genius like Tach? It’s pure slapstick.”

  “In any case, one thing is patently clear about this botched interview of yours: this guy is amazing! So intelligent!”

  “So eloquent!”

  “So much finesse for a fat man!”

  “So nasty and yet so concise!”

  “But you do agree, at least, that he is nasty?” cried the unfortunate fellow, clinging to this notion as if it were his last hope.

  “Not nasty enough, if you want my opinion.”

  “I think he was even quite good-natured with you.”

  “And funny. When you—forgive me—were stupid enough to tell him you understood, he could easily, in all fairness, have come out with a scathing insult. But he merely showed his sense of humor—completely tongue-in-cheek, and you couldn’t even see it.”

  “Margaritas ante porcos.”

  They were going for the jugular. The victim ordered another triple egg flip.

  As for Prétextat Tach, he preferred Brandy Alexanders. He did not drink a great deal, but when he wanted to imbibe a little something, it was always a Brandy Alexander. He insisted on preparing it himself, because he did not trust other people’s proportions. Luxuriating in spite, the intransigent fat man was wont to repeat an adage that he himself had coined: “You can measure an individual’s bad faith by the way he mixes a Brandy Alexander.”

  If one were to apply this axiom to Tach himself, one would be forced to concur that he was the very incarnation of good faith. A single sip of his Brandy Alexander would suffice to defeat the champion of any raw egg or condensed milk ingestion contest. The novelist could digest an entire tankard without a flicker of indisposition. When Gravelin marveled at his employer’s prowess, the fat man replied, “I am the Mithridates of Brandy Alexanders.”

  “But can we even still call it a Brandy Alexander?�
�

  “It is the quintessence of Brandy Alexanders, and the rabble will never know anything but unworthy dilutions thereof.”

  To such august declarations, there is nothing more to add.

  Monsieur Tach, before anything else, on behalf of my entire profession I would like to apologize for what happened yesterday.”

  “What is supposed to have happened yesterday?”

  “Well, that journalist dishonored us, bothering you the way he did.”

  “Ah yes, I remember. A very nice boy. When will I see him again?”

  “Never again, rest assured. You might like to know that he’s sick as a dog today.”

  “Poor boy! What happened?”

  “Too many egg flips.”

  “I’ve always known that egg flips can play dirty tricks on you. If I had been aware of his taste for such invigorating beverages, I would have mixed him a good Brandy Alexander, there’s nothing like it for the me­tabolism. Would you like a Brandy Alexander, young man?”

  “Never while I’m on duty, thank you.”

  The journalist failed to notice the intensely suspicious gaze that his refusal inspired.

  “Monsieur Tach, you must not be angry with our colleague over what happened yesterday. There are not many journalists who have been properly prepared to meet individuals like yourself . . .”

  “That’s all we need. Train good people so they can meet me! You could call such a discipline ‘The art of dealing with geniuses’! How dreadful!”

  “You think so? May I conclude that you won’t hold it against my colleague? Thank you for your understanding.”

  “Have you come here to talk about your colleague, or to talk about me?”

  “About you, of course; this was just by way of introduction.”

  “What a pity. Dear Lord, the prospect is so distressing that I need a Brandy Alexander. I hope you don’t mind waiting a moment—it’s your fault, after all, you shouldn’t have mentioned Brandy Alexanders, you’ve made me want one with all your carrying on.”

  “But I never said anything about Brandy Alexanders!”

  “Don’t start off on the wrong foot, young man. I cannot stand bad faith. You still don’t want to taste my beverage?”