Hygiene and the Assassin

by Amélie Nothomb

  “I think you’re a bit behind the times. Women work now, too, and they have the same worries as men do.”

  “How naïve can you get! They’re pretending. Their desk drawers are full of nail polish and women’s magazines. Contemporary women are even worse than the housewives of old, who served some purpose at least. Nowadays, they spend their time chatting with their colleagues about subjects as substantial as relationships and calories, which amounts to the same thing. When they get too bored, they get laid by their bosses, which gives them a deliciously intoxicated feeling, knowing they are messing with other people’s lives. What better professional promotion for a woman! When a woman destroys another person’s life, she views her exploit as the supreme proof of her spirituality. ‘I cause trouble, therefore I have a soul,’ is how she reasons.”

  “To listen to you, anyone would think you have a score to settle with women.”

  “Indeed I do! One of them brought me into this world, although I certainly never asked her to.”

  “You sound just like a rebellious teenager.”

  “A bilious one would be more like it.”

  “Very funny. But a man had something to do with your birth, too.”

  “I don’t like men, either, you know.”

  “But you do despise women more than men. Why?”

  “For all the reasons I already gave you.”

  “Yes. But you see, I have difficulty believing you don’t have another motive. Your misogyny stinks of a desire for revenge.”

  “Revenge? Whatever for? I’ve always been a bachelor.”

  “It’s not just about marriage. Besides, maybe you yourself don’t even know where your desire for revenge comes from.”

  “I can see where you’re headed, and I refuse to be psychoanalyzed.”

  “Without going that far, you might spend some time thinking about it.”

  “Thinking about what, for God’s sake?”

  “Your relationships with women.”

  “What relationships? What women?”

  “Don’t tell me that you . . . No!”

  “What, ‘no’?”

  “You’re not a . . . ?”

  “What, out with it!”

  “ . . . virgin?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Absolutely possible.”

  “Neither with a woman, nor a man?”

  “You think I look like a fag?”

  “Don’t take it badly, there have been some brilliant homosexuals.”

  “You make me laugh. You say that the way you would say, ‘There have even been some honest pimps,’ as if there were some contradiction between the words ‘homosexual’ and ‘brilliant.’ Still, I must protest against your refusal to accept that I might be a virgin.”

  “Put yourself in my shoes.”

  “How do you expect someone like me to put myself in your shoes?”

  “But it’s . . . it’s unthinkable! In your novels, you talk about sex like a specialist, like an entomologist!”

  “I have a Ph.D. in masturbation.”

  “Can masturbation result in such a thorough acquaintance with the flesh?”

  “Why do you pretend that you’ve read me?”

  “Look, I don’t need to have read you to know that your name has been associated with a very precise, expert depiction of sex.”

  “How amusing. I didn’t know that.”

  “I even came across a dissertation with the following title: ‘Tachian Priapism as Expressed through Syntax.’”

  “How droll. I’ve always had a soft spot for dissertation topics, I find them very entertaining. Those sweet students who, to imitate a great man, write idiotic things with hyper-sophisticated titles, when the contents are the very height of banality—like a pretentious restaurant embellishing scrambled eggs with a grandiose description.”

  “Naturally, Monsieur Tach, if you’d rather I wouldn’t, I won’t talk about your virginity.”

  “Why? Isn’t it interesting?”

  “On the contrary, it’s extremely interesting. But I would not like to betray such a secret.”

  “It’s not a secret.”

  “Why have you never spoken about it, then?”

  “Who would I have spoken about it with? I don’t go off to the butcher’s to talk about my virginity.”

  “Of course not, but you shouldn’t go telling the newspapers, either.”

  “Why not? Is virginity against the law?”

  “It’s just that it belongs to the sphere of your private life, your intimate world.”

  “And everything you’ve asked me up to now, you two-faced bastard, that didn’t belong to my private life? You weren’t so scrupulous a few minutes ago. It’s pointless trying to play the blushing virgin (a case in point) with me all of a sudden, it won’t wash.”

  “I don’t agree. Where indiscretion is concerned, there are certain boundaries. A journalist is indiscreet by nature—it goes with the terrain—but he knows the limits.”

  “You’re talking about yourself in the third person singular now?”

  “I’m speaking in the name of all journalists.”

  “That’s a typical reflex with your cowardly lot. I speak only in my own name, with no other guarantor than my own self. And I insist that I will not comply with your criteria: it’s up to me to determine whether something, in my private life, is secret or not. I couldn’t give a damn about my virginity: do whatever you like with it.”

  “Monsieur Tach, I believe you do not realize the danger of such a revelation: you ought to feel sullied, violated . . .”

  “It’s my turn to ask you a question, young man: are you stupid or merely masochistic?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because if you’re neither stupid nor masochistic, I can see no explanation for your behavior. Here I am giving you a superb scoop, making a noble gesture of disinterested generosity—but, instead of seizing the opportunity like an intelligent vulture, you start inventing scruples and making a fuss. And do you know what you are in danger of, if you go on like this? You are in danger that out of exasperation I might take your scoop away from you, not to preserve my sacrosanct private life, but quite simply to piss you off. I’ll have you know that my spurts of generosity never last very long, above all when I get annoyed, so take heed at once and accept what I am offering you before I take it away. And you could thank me all the same, it’s not every day that a Nobel Prize winner offers you his virginity, now is it?”

  “You have my heartfelt thanks, Monsieur Tach.”

  “That’s better. I love brown noses like you, dear boy.”

  “But you yourself asked me to—”

  “And so what? You’re not obliged to do everything I ask.”

  “All right. Let’s go back to the previous subject. In the light of your most recent revelation, I believe I can understand the origins of your misogyny.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, couldn’t it be that your desire for revenge on women is founded in your virginity?”

  “I fail to see the connection.”

  “But there is one: you despise women because none of them wanted anything to do with you.”

  The novelist burst out laughing. His shoulders were shaking.

  “That’s a good one! You’re very funny, old boy.”

  “Am I to understand that you are refuting my explanation?”

  “I think your explanation is self-refuting, my good man. You have just invented an edifying example of retrocausality—something journalists excel at, moreover. But you’ve done such a good job at reversing the issues that it’s mind-boggling. So, you are inferring that I despise women because no woman has ever wanted anything to do with me, whereas in fact I wanted nothing to do with any of them, for the very si
mple reason that I despise them. A double reversal: well done, you are talented.”

  “You would have me believe that you despise women out of hand, for no good reason? That’s impossible.”

  “Give me the name of a food that you despise.”

  “I hate skate, but—”

  “Why such a desire for revenge on that poor skate?”

  “I have no desire for revenge on skate; I’ve always found it inedible, and that’s all.”

  “Well then, we understand each other. I have no desire for revenge on women, but I’ve always hated them, and that’s all.”

  “But really, Monsieur Tach, there’s no comparison. What would you say if I compared you to calf tongue?”

  “I would be very flattered, calf tongue is delicious.”

  “Go on, be serious.”

  “I’m always serious. And more’s the pity for you, young man, because if I were not so serious, perhaps I would not have noticed that this interview has gone on for an unprecedented length of time: you do not deserve such generosity on my part.”

  “What have I done not to deserve it?”

  “You are ungrateful, and you are in bad faith.”

  “I’m in bad faith, me? And what about you?”

  “You’re insolent! I’ve always known that my good faith would never get me anywhere. Not only does no one notice it, but it is reversed—it’s true that you are an expert in reversing things—and is qualified as bad faith. My sacrifice will have been in vain. At times I think that if I were to start over, I would play the bad faith card for all it’s worth, so I could enjoy some of your peace of mind and respect. But then I look at you and find you so repugnant that I congratulate myself on not having imitated you, even if it has condemned me to solitude. Solitude can only do me good if it keeps me well away from your mire. My life may be nasty, but I prefer it to yours. Leave my home, Monsieur, I have just finished my tirade, so prove to me that you know how to take your cue, be so good as to leave my home.”

  In the café across the street, the journalist’s story added fuel to the debate.

  “Under these conditions, are we deontologically justified in continuing our interviews?”

  “Tach would surely reply that we must be two-faced bastards to dare talk about deontology in our profession.”

  “That is certainly what he would say, but he isn’t the pope, after all. We’re under no obligation to put up with his dreadful nonsense.”

  “The problem is that his dreadful nonsense stinks of truth.”

  “Here we go, he’s got you jumping through hoops. I’m sorry, but I have no respect for the guy anymore. He’s too full of himself.”

  “It’s just as he said: you’re ungrateful. He gives you the dream of a story and to the only way you can think of to thank him is by heaping scorn on him.”

  “But didn’t you hear how he insulted me?”

  “Precisely. That’s why you’re so full of rage.”

  “I can’t wait until it’s your turn. Then we’ll have a good laugh.”

  “I can’t wait until it’s my turn, either.”

  “And did you hear what he said about women?”

  “Oh, he’s not completely wrong on that score.”

  “Shame on you. It’s a good job there are no women around to hear you. Actually, whose turn is it tomorrow?”

  “Don’t know him, and he hasn’t come to introduce himself.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Don’t forget that Gravelin has been asking each of us for a copy of our recordings. That’s the least we owe him.”

  “That guy is a saint. How many years has he been working for Tach? It can’t have been a Sunday picnic.”

  “No, but it must be fascinating to work for a genius.”

  “Genius had nothing to do with it.”

  “Actually, why does Gravelin want to listen to the tapes?”

  “The better to know his tormentor. That, I can understand.”

  “I wonder how he can put up with that fat slob.”

  “Stop calling Tach a fat slob. Don’t forget who he is.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, as of this morning, there is no more Tach. He will always be a fat slob and nothing more. We should never meet writers.”

  Who are you? What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Today is January 18, Monsieur Tach, and this is the day I’ve been assigned to meet you.”

  “Didn’t your colleagues tell you that—”

  “I haven’t seen them. I have nothing to do with those people.”

  “A point in your favor. But you should have been warned.”

  “Your secretary, Monsieur Gravelin, had me listen to the tapes yesterday evening. I am fully aware of the circumstances.”

  “So you know what I think of you, and you come here all the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Well done. That’s very brave of you. And now you can leave.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve pulled off your stunt—what more do you need? Do you want me to sign a certificate for you?”

  “No, Monsieur Tach, I really would like to speak to you.”

  “Listen, this is very amusing, but there are limits to my patience. The prank is finished: now out you go.”

  “It’s out of the question. I was given permission by Monsieur Gravelin, just like all the other journalists. So I’m staying.”

  “That Gravelin is a traitor. I told him to tell all those women’s magazines to go to hell.”

  “I don’t work for a women’s magazine.”

  “What? Are you telling me men’s magazines now hire females?”

  “It’s nothing new, Monsieur Tach.”

  “Well, shit! What next! If they start hiring females, they’ll end up hiring Negroes, and Arabs, and Iraqis!”

  “And this is a Nobel Prize winner saying such tactful things?”

  “Nobel Prize for literature, not Nobel Peace Prize, thank God.”

  “Thank God indeed.”

  “Madame is playing the fine wit?”

  “Mademoiselle.”

  “Mademoiselle? I’m not surprised, with your ugly face. And sticky, on top of it! No wonder no man will have you as a wife.”

  “You’re a few wars behind, Monsieur Tach. Nowadays, some women prefer to remain single.”

  “Well, I never! Why don’t you just say you can’t find anyone who’ll screw you?”

  “That, monsieur, is my business.”

  “Oh yes, it’s your private life, now isn’t it?”

  “Exactly. If you think it’s funny to go around telling everyone that you’re a virgin, you’re well within your rights. Other people are not obliged to imitate you.”

  “Who do you think you are to judge me, you ugly insolent unfuckable little shit face?”

  “Monsieur Tach, I’m going to give you two minutes, with my watch in my hand, to apologize for what you have just said. If by the end of the two minutes you have not apologized, I will go out the door and leave you to stew in your disgusting apartment.”

  For a split second, the fat man seemed to be struggling for air.

  “Impertinent bitch! It’s pointless looking at your watch: you can stay here for two years, I will never apologize to you. You’re the one who has to apologize to me. And besides, what gave you the idea I might want you to stay here? I have told you to leave the premises at least twice since you entered. So don’t bother waiting until the two minutes are over, you’re wasting your time. There’s the door! There’s the door, do you hear me?”

  She pretended not to hear. She went on looking at her watch, inscrutably. What could be shorter than two minutes? And yet, two minutes can seem endless when they are being painstakingly measured in a deadly s
ilence. The old man’s indignation had time to change into stupor.

  “Well, the two minutes are over. Farewell, Monsieur Tach, delighted to have met you.”

  She stood up and headed toward the door.

  “Don’t leave. I order you to stay.”

  “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Sit down.”

  “It’s too late to apologize, Monsieur Tach. You’ve passed the deadline.”

  “Stay, goddammit.”

  “Farewell.”

  She opened the door.

  “I’m sorry, do you hear me? I’m sorry!”

  “I told you it was too late.”

  “For Christ’s sake, this is the first time in my life I’ve ever said I was sorry.”

  “No doubt that is why your apology is so poorly formulated.”

  “Are you saying there is something wrong with my apology?”

  “There are even several things wrong with your apology. First of all, it has come too late: you must understand that tardy apologies lose half of their virtues. And then, if you spoke our language properly, you would know that you don’t say, ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, ‘I apologize,’ or, even better, ‘Please forgive me,’ or better still, ‘Please accept my apologies.’ But the best of all is, ‘I beg you please to accept my humble apologies.’”