I walked past the group of people lying on the floor, ready to go to sleep. On the way home, it occurred to me that life was a much more joyful thing than I had thought it would be at my age: it's always possible to go back to being young and crazy again. I was so focused on the present moment that I was surprised when I saw that people didn't recoil from me as I passed, didn't fearfully lower their eyes. No one even noticed me, but I liked the idea. This city was once again the city about which Henry IV had said, when he was accused of betraying his Protestant religion by marrying a Catholic, "Paris is well worth a mass."
It was worth much more than that. I could see again the religious massacres, the bloodlettings, the kings, the queens, the museums, the castles, the tortured artists, the drunken writers, the philosophers who took their own lives, the soldiers who plotted to conquer the world, the traitors who, with a gesture, brought down a whole dynasty, the stories that had once been forgotten and were now remembered and retold.
For the first time in ages, I arrived home and did not immediately go over to the computer to find out if anyone had e-mailed me, if there was some pressing matter requiring urgent action: nothing was that urgent. I didn't go into the bedroom to see if Marie was asleep either, because I knew she would only be pretending to sleep.
I didn't turn on the TV to watch the late-night news, because the news was exactly the same news I used to listen to as a child: one country was threatening another country; someone had betrayed someone else; the economy was going badly; some grand passion had come to an end; Israel and Palestine had failed, after fifty long years, to reach an agreement; another bomb had exploded; a hurricane had left thousands of people homeless.
I remembered that the major networks that morning, having no terrorist attacks to report, had all chosen as their main item a rebellion in Haiti. What did I care about Haiti? What difference would that make to my life or to that of my wife, to the price of bread in Paris, to Mikhail's tribe? How could I have spent five minutes of my precious life listening to someone talking about the rebels and the president, watching the usual scenes of street protests being repeated over and over, and being reported as if it were a great event in the history of humanity--a rebellion in Haiti! And I had swallowed it whole! I had watched until the end! Stupid people really should be issued their own special identity cards because they are the ones who feed the collective stupidity.
I opened the window and let in the icy night air. I took off my clothes and told myself that I could withstand the cold. I stood there, not thinking anything, just aware of my feet on the floor, my eyes fixed on the Eiffel Tower, my ears hearing barking dogs, police sirens, and conversations I couldn't quite understand.
I was not I, I was nothing--and that seemed to me quite marvelous.
You seem strange."
"What do you mean 'strange'?"
"You seem sad."
"I'm not sad. I'm happy."
"You see? Even your tone of voice is false: you're sad about me, but you don't dare say anything."
"Why should I be sad?"
"Because I came home late last night and I was drunk. You haven't even asked me where I went."
"I'm not interested."
"Why aren't you interested? I told you I was going out with Mikhail, didn't I?"
"Didn't you go out with him, then?"
"Yes, I did."
"So what's there to ask?"
"Don't you think that when your boyfriend, whom you claim you love, comes home late, you should at least try to find out what happened?"
"All right, then, what happened?"
"Nothing. I went out with Mikhail and some of his friends."
"Fine."
"Do you believe me?"
"Of course I do."
"I don't think you love me anymore. You're not jealous. You don't care. Do I normally get back home at two in the morning?"
"Didn't you say you were a free man?"
"And I am."
"In that case, it's normal that you should get back home at two in the morning and do whatever you want to do. If I were your mother, I'd be worried, but you're a grown-up, aren't you? You men should stop behaving as if you wanted the women in your life to treat you like children."
"I don't mean that kind of worried. I'm talking about jealousy."
"Would you prefer it if I made a scene right now, over breakfast?"
"No, don't do that, the neighbors will hear."
"I don't care about the neighbors. I won't make a scene because I don't feel like it. It's been hard for me, but I've finally accepted what you told me in Zagreb, and I'm trying to get used to the idea. Meanwhile, if it makes you happy, I can always pretend to be jealous, angry, crazy, or whatever."
"As I said, you seem strange. I'm beginning to think I'm not important in your life anymore."
"And I'm beginning to think you've forgotten there's a journalist waiting for you in the sitting room, who is quite possibly listening to our conversation."
Ah, the journalist. I go on automatic pilot, because I know what questions he will ask. I know how the interview will begin ("Let's talk about your new novel. What's the main message?"), and I know how I will respond ("If I wanted to put across a message, I'd write a single sentence, not a book.").
I know he'll ask me what I feel about the critics, who are usually very hard on my work. I know that he will end by asking: "And have you already started writing a new book? What projects are you working on now?" To which I will respond: "That's a secret."
The interview begins as expected:
"Let's talk about your new book. What's the main message?"
"If I wanted to put across a message, I'd write a single sentence, not a book."
"And why do you write?"
"Because that's my way of sharing my feelings with others."
This phrase is also part of my automatic pilot script, but I stop and correct myself:
"Although that particular story could be told in a different way."
"In a different way? Do you mean you're not happy with A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew?"
"No, on the contrary, I'm very pleased with the book, but I'm not so pleased with the answer I've just given you. Why do I write? The real answer is this: I write because I want to be loved."
The journalist eyed me suspiciously: What kind of confession was this?
"I write because when I was an adolescent, I was useless at football, I didn't have a car or much of an allowance, and I was pretty much of a weed."
I was making a huge effort to keep talking. The conversation with Marie had reminded me of a past that no longer made any sense; I needed to talk about my real personal history, in order to become free of it. I went on:
"I didn't wear trendy clothes either. That's all the girls in my class were interested in, and so they just ignored me. At night, when my friends were out with their girlfriends, I spent my free time creating a world in which I could be happy: my companions were writers and their books. One day, I wrote a poem for one of the girls in the street where I lived. A friend found the poem in my room and stole it, and when we were all together, he showed it to the entire class. Everyone laughed. They thought it was ridiculous--I was in love!
"The only one who didn't laugh was the girl I wrote the poem for. The following evening, when we went to the theater, she managed to fix things so that she sat next to me, and she held my hand. We left the theater hand in hand. There was ugly, puny, untrendy me strolling along with the girl all the boys in the class fancied."
I paused. It was as if I were going back into the past, to the moment when her hand touched mine and changed my life.
"And all because of a poem," I went on. "A poem showed me that by writing and revealing my invisible world, I could compete on equal terms with the visible world of my classmates: physical strength, fashionable clothes, cars, being good at sports."
The journalist was slightly surprised, and I was even more surprised. He managed to compose himself, though, and a
sked:
"Why do you think the critics are so hard on your work?"
My automatic pilot would normally reply: "You just have to read the biography of any writer from the past who is now considered a classic--not that I'm comparing myself with them, you understand--to see how implacable their critics were then. The reason is simple: Critics are extremely insecure, they don't really know what's going on, they're democrats when it comes to politics, but fascists when it comes to culture. They believe that people are perfectly capable of choosing who governs them, but have no idea when it comes to choosing films, books, music."
I had abandoned my automatic pilot again, knowing full well that the journalist was unlikely to publish my response.
"Have you ever heard of the law of Jante?"
"No, I haven't," he said.
"Well, it's been in existence since the beginning of civilization, but it was only officially set down in 1933 by a Danish writer. In the small town of Jante, the powers that be came up with ten commandments telling people how they should behave, and it seems to exist not only in Jante, but everywhere else too. If I had to sum it up in one sentence, I'd say: 'Mediocrity and anonymity are the safest choice. If you opt for them, you'll never face any major problems in life. But if you try to be different...'"
"I'd like to know what these Jante commandments are," said the journalist, who seemed genuinely interested.
"I don't have them here, but I can summarize if you like."
I went over to my computer and printed out a condensed and edited version.
"You are nobody, never even dare to think that you know more than we do. You are of no importance, you can do nothing right, your work is of no significance, but as long as you never challenge us, you will live a happy life. Always take what we say seriously and never laugh at our opinions."
The journalist folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.
"You're right. If you're a nobody, if your work has no impact, then it deserves to be praised. If, however, you climb out of that state of mediocrity and are a success, then you're defying the law and deserve to be punished."
I was so pleased that he had reached this conclusion on his own.
"And it isn't only the critics who say that," I added. "More people, far more people than you might think, say exactly the same thing."
Later that afternoon, I rang Mikhail's cell phone number:
"Let's travel to Kazakhstan together."
He didn't seem in the least surprised; he merely thanked me and asked what had made me change my mind.
"For two years, my life has consisted of nothing but the Zahir. Since I met you, I've been following a long-forgotten path, an abandoned railway track with grass growing between the rails, but which can still be used by trains. I haven't yet reached the final station, so I have no way of stopping along the way."
He asked me if I had managed to get a visa. I explained that the Favor Bank had once again come to my aid: a Russian friend had phoned his girlfriend, who was the director of a major newspaper company in Kazakhstan. She had phoned the ambassador in Paris, and the visa would be ready that afternoon.
"When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow. In order to buy the tickets, I just need to know your real name; the travel agent is on the other line now."
"Before you hang up, I'd just like to say one thing: I really liked what you said about the distance between the tracks and what you said just now about the abandoned railway line, but I don't think that's why you're asking me to come with you. I think it's because of something you wrote once, and which I know by heart. Your wife was always quoting these lines, and what they say is far more romantic than that business about the Favor Bank:
A warrior of light knows that he has much to be grateful for.
He was helped in his struggle by the angels; celestial forces placed each thing in its place, thus allowing him to give of his best. That is why, at sunset, he kneels and gives thanks for the Protective Cloak surrounding him.
His companions say: "He's so lucky!" But he knows that "luck" is knowing to look around him and to see where his friends are, because it was through their words that the angels were able to make themselves heard.
"I don't always remember what I wrote, but thank you for that. Now I just need your name to give to the travel agent."
It takes twenty minutes for the taxi company to answer the phone. An irritated voice tells me I'll have to wait another half an hour. Marie seems happy in her exuberantly sexy black dress, and I think of the Armenian restaurant and the man who admitted to feeling aroused by the thought that his wife was desired by other men. I know that all the women at the gala supper will be wearing outfits designed to make their breasts and curves the center of attention, and that their husbands or boyfriends, knowing that their wives or girlfriends are desired by other men, will think: "All right, have a good look, but keep your distance, because she's with me, she's mine. I'm better than you are, because I have something you'd all like to have."
I'm not going to be doing any business, I'm not going to be signing contracts or giving interviews; I am merely attending a ceremony, to repay a deposit made into my account at the Favor Bank. I will sit next to someone boring at supper, someone who will ask me where I find the inspiration for my books. Next to me, on the other side, a pair of breasts will perhaps be on show, possibly belonging to the wife of a friend, and I will constantly have to stop myself glancing down because, if I do, even for a second, she will tell her husband that I was coming on to her. While we wait for the taxi, I draw up a list of possible topics of conversation:
(a) Comments about people's appearance: "You're looking very elegant." "What a beautiful dress." "Your skin's looking fabulous." When they go back home, they'll say how badly dressed everyone was and how ill they looked.
(b) Recent holidays: "You must visit Aruba, it's fantastic." "There's nothing like a summer night in Cancun, sipping a martini by the seashore." In fact, no one enjoys themselves very much on these holidays, they just experience a sense of freedom for a few days and feel obliged to enjoy themselves because they spent all that money.
(c) More holidays, this time to places which they feel free to criticize: "I was in Rio de Janeiro recently--such a violent city." "The poverty in the streets of Calcutta is really shocking." They only went to these places in order to feel powerful while they were there and privileged when they came back to the mean reality of their little lives, where at least there is no poverty or violence.
(d) New therapies: "Just one week of drinking wheatgrass juice really improves the texture of your hair." "I spent two days at a spa in Biarritz; the water there opens the pores and eliminates toxins." The following week, they will discover that wheatgrass has absolutely no special properties and that any old hot water will open the pores and eliminate toxins.
(e) Other people: "I haven't seen so-and-so in ages--what's he up to?" "I understand that what's-her-name is in financial difficulties and has had to sell her apartment." They can talk about the people who weren't invited to the party in question, they can criticize all they like, as long as they end by saying, with an innocent, pitying air: "Still, he/she's a wonderful person."
(f) A few little complaints about life, just to add savor to the evening: "I wish something new would happen in my life." "I'm so worried about my children, they never listen to proper music or read proper literature." They wait for comments from other people with the same problem and then feel less alone and leave the party happy.
(g) At intellectual gatherings, like the one this evening, we will discuss the Middle East conflict, the problem of Islamism, the latest exhibition, the latest philosophy guru, the fantastic book that no one has heard of, the fact that music isn't what it used to be; we will offer our intelligent, sensible opinions, which run completely counter to our real feelings--because we all know how much we hate having to go to those exhibitions, read those unbearable books, or see those dreary films, just so that we will have something
to talk about on nights like tonight.
The taxi arrives, and while we are being driven to the venue I add another very personal item to my list: I complain to Marie about how much I loathe these suppers. She reminds me--and it's true--that I always enjoy myself in the end and have a really good time.
We enter one of Paris's most elegant restaurants and head for a room reserved for the event--a presentation of a literary prize for which I was one of the judges. Everyone is standing around talking; some people say hello and others merely look at me and make some comment to each other; the organizer of the prize comes over to me and introduces me to the people who are there, always with the same irritating words: "You know who this gentleman is, of course." Some people give a smile of recognition, others merely smile and don't recognize me at all, but pretend to know who I am, because to admit otherwise would be to accept that the world they're living in doesn't exist, and that they are failing to keep up with the things that matter.
I remember the tribe of the previous night and think: stupid people should all be marooned on a ship on the high seas and forced to attend parties night after night, being endlessly introduced to people for several months, until they finally manage to remember who is who.
I draw up a catalog of the kind of people who attend events like this. Ten percent are Members, the decision makers, who came out tonight because of some debt they owe to the Favor Bank, but who always have an eye open for anything that might be of benefit to their work--how to make money, where to invest. They can soon tell whether or not an event is going to prove profitable or not, and they are always the first to leave the party; they never waste their time.
Two percent are the Talents, who really do have a promising future; they have already managed to ford a few rivers, have just become aware of the existence of the Favor Bank and are all potential customers; they have important services to offer, but are not as yet in a position to make decisions. They are nice to everyone because they don't know who exactly they are talking to, and they are more open-minded than the Members, because, for them, any road might lead somewhere.