“Nor are there any women in The Solvent, Pearls for a Massacre, Buddha in a Glass of Water, Assault on Ugliness, Total Disaster, Death and Then Some, or even—and this is more astonishing—in Poker, Women, and Other People.”
“What exquisite subtlety on my part.”
“So that makes eight novels without women. Twenty-two minus eight makes fourteen. So there are fourteen novels sharing out the forty-six female characters.”
“Isn’t science wonderful.”
“Naturally the characters are not evenly spread out among the fourteen remaining books.”
“Why ‘naturally’? I cannot stand all these ‘naturally’s and ‘of course’s you resort to when speaking of my books, as if my oeuvre were so very predictable, with transparent inner workings.”
“It is precisely because your oeuvre is so unpredictable that I used the term ‘naturally.’”
“No sophistry, please.”
“The absolute record for female characters is held by Gratuitous Rapes Between the Wars, where there are twenty-three women.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“Forty-six minus twenty-three equals twenty-three. Which leaves us with thirteen novels and twenty-three women.”
“Admirable statistics.”
“You wrote four monogynous novels, if you will allow me such an incongruous neologism.”
“But can you yourself allow it?”
“They are: Prayer on Breaking and Entering, The Sauna and Other Luxuries, The Prose of Epilation, and Dying without Adverbs.”
“Which leaves us with?”
“Nine novels and nineteen women.”
“And how are they divided up?”
“Dirty People: three women. All the other books are dygynous: Crucifixion Made Easy, The Disorder of the Garter, Urbi and Orbi, Slaves in the Oasis, Membranes, Three Boudoirs, Concomitant Grace—wait, there’s one missing.”
“No, you’ve named them all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, you’ve learned your lesson well.”
“I’m convinced there’s one missing. Let me count over from the beginning.”
“Oh, no, you’re not going to start all over!”
“I have to, otherwise my statistics won’t tally.”
“I will give you my absolution.”
“Never mind, I’ll start over. Have you got a piece of paper and a pencil?”
“No.”
“Please, Monsieur Tach, help me, we’ll save time.”
“I told you not to start over again. You are an utter bore with all your lists!”
“Then help me not to have to start over again, and tell me the title that is missing.”
“But I have no idea. I’ve already forgotten all the titles you listed.”
“You forget your own work?”
“Naturally. You’ll see, when you get to be eighty-three years old.”
“But still, there are some of your novels that you cannot have forgotten.”
“No doubt, but which ones exactly?”
“It’s not up to me to tell you.”
“What a pity. Your judgment is so amusing.”
“I’m delighted. And now, please be quiet a moment. Let’s see: Apology for Dyspepsia, that makes one, The Solvent—”
“Are you having me on or what?”
“—makes two. Pearls for a Massacre, three.”
“Do you have any earplugs on you?”
“Do you have the missing title?”
“No.”
“Never mind. Buddha in a Glass of Water, four. Assault on Ugliness, five.”
“165. 28. 3925. 424.”
“You’re not about to confuse me. Total Disaster, six. Death and Then Some, seven.”
“Would you like a toffee?”
“No. Poker, Women, and Other People, eight. Gratuitous Rapes Between the Wars, nine.”
“Would you like a Brandy Alexander?”
“Be quiet. Prayer on Breaking and Entering, ten.”
“You’re watching your weight, aren’t you? I was sure of it. Don’t you think you’re thin enough as it is?”
“The Sauna and Other Luxuries, eleven.”
“I expected just such an answer.”
“The Prose of Epilation, twelve.”
“My my, this is crazy, you’re reciting them in exactly the same order as the first time.”
“You see yourself that you have an excellent memory. Dying without Adverbs, thirteen.”
“You mustn’t exaggerate. But why don’t you list them in chronological order?”
“You even remember them in chronological order? Dirty People, fourteen. Crucifixion Made Easy, fifteen.”
“Do me a favor, stop there.”
“On one condition: give me the missing title. Your memory is far too good to have forgotten it.”
“And yet I have. Amnesia tends to be incoherent.”
“The Disorder of the Garter, sixteen.”
“Are you going to go on like this for long?”
“Just long enough to stimulate your memory.”
“My memory? You did say ‘my’ memory?”
“Indeed.”
“Am I to understand that you yourself have not forgotten the novel in question?”
“How could I have forgotten it?”
“But why don’t you just say it, then?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“But I’m telling you, once again, I don’t remember it.”
“I don’t believe you. You could have forgotten all the others, but not that one.”
“What’s so extraordinary about it, then?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“No. I’m an unwitting genius?”
“Make me laugh.”
“Besides, if that novel was so fabulous, someone would have already mentioned it. And no one ever has. When people talk about my work, they always refer to the same four books.”
“You know very well that that doesn’t prove a thing.”
“Oh, I see. Mademoiselle is a drawing room snob. You’re the type who exclaims, ‘Dear friend, have you read Proust? No, no, not Remembrance of Things Past, don’t be vulgar. I mean the article he published in 1904 in Le Figaro . . .”
“So let’s agree that I’m a snob. The missing title, please.”
“I’m afraid I don’t like it.”
“Which confirms my assumption.”
“Your assumption? Well, I never.”
“Fine. Since you refuse to cooperate, I will have to start my list all over again—I don’t remember where I left off.”
“You don’t need to repeat your litany, you know the missing title.”
“Alas, I fear I’ve forgotten it again. Apology for Dyspepsia, one.”
“One more word and I’ll strangle you, crippled though I may be.”
“Strangle? The choice of the verb is telling.”
“Would you prefer I gave you a rabbit punch?”
“This time, monsieur, you will not succeed in avoiding the subject. So talk to me about strangling.”
“What? I wrote a book with that title?”
“Not exactly.”
“Listen, you’re getting downright exasperating with all your riddles. Tell me the title and let’s get it over with.”
“I’m in no hurry to get it over with. I’m having too much fun.”
“Well, you’re the only one.”
“Which makes the situation all the more pleasant. But let’s not get off the subject. Talk to me about strangling, my good man.”
“I have nothing to say on the matter.”
“Oh, no? Why were you threatening me, then?”
“I just said it, well, the way I would
have said, ‘Go fly a kite!’”
“Yes. And yet, what a coincidence: you preferred to threaten me with strangling. How strange.”
“What are you getting at? Maybe you have a thing about Freudian slips? That’s all I need.”
“I didn’t use to believe in Freudian slips. But as of a minute ago, I’ve become a believer.”
“I didn’t use to believe in the efficiency of verbal torture. And now as of these last few minutes I’ve started to believe in it.”
“You flatter me. But let’s put our cards on the table, all right? I have plenty of time, and until you dig that missing title out of your memory, and until you speak to me about strangling, I will not leave you alone.”
“Aren’t you ashamed, hounding a crippled old man who is obese, and destitute, and sick?”
“I don’t know what that is, shame.”
“Yet another virtue that your teachers neglected to inculcate you with.”
“Monsieur Tach, you don’t know what shame is, either.”
“That’s normal. I have no reason to be ashamed.”
“Didn’t you say that your books are harmful?”
“Precisely: I would be ashamed if I had not harmed humankind.”
“As it happens, I’m not interested in humankind.”
“Nor should you be: humankind is not interesting.”
“But individuals are interesting, aren’t they?”
“Indeed, they are so rare.”
“Talk to me about an individual that you have known.”
“Well, there is Céline, for example.”
“Oh, no, not Céline.”
“What? Is he not interesting enough for Mademoiselle?”
“Talk to me about a flesh-and-blood individual that you have known, with whom you have lived, spoken, etc.”
“The nurse?”
“No, not the nurse. Come on, you know who I mean. You know perfectly well.”
“I have no idea, you irritating little bitch.”
“I’m going to tell you a little story, which might help your senile brain to retrieve its memories.”
“Go right ahead. Since I am not going to be allowed to speak for some time, I request permission to go get some toffees. I sorely need them, with all the torment your are subjecting me to.”
“Permission granted.”
The novelist placed a huge square toffee in his mouth.
“My story begins with an astonishing discovery. Journalists are creatures who are completely devoid of scruples, that you know. Therefore, I rummaged around in your past without consulting you, because you would have forbidden it. I can see you smiling and I know what you’re thinking: that you covered all your tracks, that you are the last representative of your family, that you have never had any friends—in short, that I would not be able to dig up any information about your past. You are mistaken, dear sir. You must beware of underhand witnesses. You must beware of the places where you have lived. They speak. I see you are laughing once again. Yes, your childhood château burned down sixty-five years ago. A strange fire, actually, that was never explained.”
“How did you hear about the château?” asked the fat man in a languid voice sticky with toffee.
“Oh, that was very easy. Elementary research in registers and archives—easy stuff for journalists. You see, Monsieur Tach, I didn’t wait until January 10 to become interested in you. I’ve been studying your case for years now.”
“How industrious you are! You must have thought, ‘The old man won’t live much longer, let’s be ready for the day he dies,’ is that it?”
“Stop talking and chewing that toffee at the same time, it’s disgusting. Let me get back to my story. My research was long and hazardous, but not difficult. I eventually found the trace of the last members of the Tach family known to the public: there is the record of the death in 1909 of Casimir and Célestine Tach, who drowned in the tide at Mont Saint-Michel, where the young couple had gone on a trip. They’d been married for two years and they left behind a one-year-old child—I’ll let you guess who that was. On learning of the tragic death of their only son, Casimir Tach’s parents died of sorrow. After that, there was only one Tach left, Prétextat. It was more difficult for me to follow your own trajectory. I had the bright idea of looking up your mother’s maiden name and I learned that, while your father came from a little-known family, Célestine was born the marquise de Planèze de Saint-Sulpice, a branch that has now died out, not to be confused with the de Planèze counts and countesses . . .”
“Do you intend to tell me the history of a family that is not my own?”
“You’re right, I’m getting off the subject. Let’s get back to the Planèze de Saint-Sulpice family: there were not many of them left by 1909, but their background was impeccable and they were well respected. When they learned of their daughter’s death, the marquis and marquise decided to take charge of their orphaned grandson, and that is how you came to live in the château at Saint-Sulpice at one year of age. You were pampered not only by your nurse and your grandparents, but also by your uncle and aunt, Cyprien and Cosima de Planèze, your mother’s brother and sister-in-law.”
“These genealogical details are so interesting they’re taking my breath away.”
“Don’t they indeed? Let’s see what you will have to say about that which is still to come?”
“What? You haven’t finished yet?”
“Certainly not. You’re not even two years old yet, and I want to tell you your life story up to the age of eighteen.”
“Lord help us.”
“If you had told it to me yourself, I wouldn’t be obliged to do it.”
“And what if I didn’t feel like talking about it, huh?”
“Well, that was because you have something to hide.”
“Not necessarily.”
“It’s too early to go into that. Now, you were a baby your family adored, despite your mother’s misalliance. I’ve seen sketches of that château that no longer exists: it was splendid. What a dream of a childhood you must have had!”
“Do you write for that rag Hello! by any chance?”
“When you were two, your aunt and uncle gave birth to their only child, Léopoldine de Planèze de Saint-Sulpice.”
“It makes you foam at the mouth, a name like that, doesn’t it? Not the sort of name you could ever have.”
“Yes, but at least I’m alive.”
“For all the good it does you.”
“May I go on, or do you want me to let you do the talking? Your memory must be resuscitated by now.”
“Go on, please, I’m having a wonderful time.”
“So much the better, because we’re a long way from the end, still. So, as I was saying, they gave you the only thing that was missing: some company your own age. You never had to experience the dreary days of a friendless only child; naturally, even though you didn’t go to school and didn’t have any classmates, you had something much better: an adorable little cousin. You became inseparable. Do you want to know how I came upon these details?”
“With the help of your imagination, I suppose.”
“In part. But an imagination needs fuel, Monsieur Tach, and I owe the fuel to you.”
“Stop continually interrupting yourself and tell me about my childhood, it’s bringing tears to my eyes.”
“Scoff all you like, monsieur. There will be plenty more to bring tears to your eyes. Your childhood was far too beautiful. You had everything anyone can dream of, and then some: a château, a huge estate with lakes and forests, horses, incredible material ease, an adoptive family who cherished you, a tutor who was not at all authoritarian and who was often on sick leave, loving servants, and above all, you had Léopoldine.”
“Tell me the truth: you’re not a journalist. You are looking for material to write a roman
ce novel.”
“A romance novel? We’ll see about that. Back to my story. Of course, in 1914, there was the war, but children find a way to live with war, particularly rich kids. Viewed from your paradise, the conflict seemed insignificant, and it scarcely ruffled the waters of the long, slow flow of your happiness.”
“My dear, you are a peerless storyteller.”
“Not as good as you.”
“Continue.”
“The years hardly went by. Childhood does not move at a very rapid pace. What is a year for an adult? For a child, a year is a century, and for you these centuries were made of gold and silver. The lawyers regularly invoked an unhappy childhood as an attenuating circumstance. But in delving into your past, I realized that too happy a childhood could also serve as an attenuating circumstance.”
“Why are you trying to give me the benefit of attenuating circumstances? I don’t need them at all.”
“We’ll see. You and Léopoldine were inseparable. You could not live without each other.”
“Loving cousins: that’s as old as the world.”
“When two people are as close as you two were, can one even still speak of loving cousins?”
“Brother and sister, if you prefer.”
“Incestuous brother and sister, then.”
“Are you shocked? It happens in the best of families. Which just goes to show.”
“I think it’s up to you to tell me the rest of the story.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“Do you really want me to go on?”
“I would be much obliged.”
“I’m not asking you to be obliged, but if I were to go on with my story from the point that I’ve reached, it would be only a pale and mediocre paraphrase of the most beautiful, unusual, and least known of your novels.”
“I adore pale, mediocre paraphrases.”
“Then too bad, you asked for it. Am I right, then?”
“About what?”
“To have classified that novel among your books with two female characters and not three female characters.”
“You are absolutely correct, dear lady.”
“In that case, I have nothing left to fear. The rest is literature, isn’t it?”
“The rest is indeed my work alone. In those days, I had no paper other than my own life, no ink other than my own blood.”