Bad eminence, p.12
Bad Eminence, page 12
I drug and abuse myself on the regular, let’s not lose sight of this unsightly fact. But how I choose to destroy my body is my business. You don’t get to superimpose on my own self-destructive tendencies your power trips or sad Sadean fantasies. Unless I give you explicit permission or, e.g., beg you to spank me senseless, you are not allowed to touch me. Or talk to me. Or look at me, for that matter. If I’m in a bad mood and you look at me the wrong way, I might kick in your teeth. It happens.
Other times, as when dealing with a serial harasser like H1, I’ll let it pass for a while, because I’m mildly interested to see how long he can keep it up. If you see what I did there.
The state of the world will be precisely what it was before as to outward form. It is now allowable to enter intelligently into the mysteries of the faith.
In 1755 an earthquake destroyed Lisbon and forty thousand people died in the ensuing tidal wave, landslide, uncontrollable fire and General Panic. It took place on All Saints’ Day and could be felt from Scotland to Asia Minor. Because of the religious significance of the day, and the fact that many people were in church when it happened, you can probably guess that the usual rebarbative opportunists promoted the usual apocalyptic scenarios.
But that was not the apocalypse. It wasn’t even an apocalypse. It was a disaster. Surveying my own life and comparing it to the earthquake of 1755 always makes me feel better. My life is not a disaster. It’s got its kinks, but I’ve killed far fewer than forty thousand people. To my knowledge, I’ve only killed one, and that one is more me plashing in a mire of guilt than an actual provable killing. Still. A kill’s a kill. Any time I start to feel superior to someone like H1 slobbering over my Bloody Marys and my cheese and trying with his miniature claw-hands to straighten what remains of his steel-wool hair, I check myself. He’s probably never killed anyone. He may have wanted to kill someone, he certainly has written about killing people. He’s killed himself, in his own books, if it’s him (here, in my apartment, I mean, not in his books, where when he appears as a character he’s not himself but not not himself, either).
There’s another possibility, H1 said, slurping from his twentyteenth Bloody Mary.
That neither I nor H2 are Not Michel Houellebecq, he said.
Sure, I said. Metatextual talk bores me, tbh.
Not Michel Houellebecq may not exist, he said.
I’m not that lucky, I said. Which was a lie, because I am that lucky. I don’t like admitting it, especially in front of possibly non-existent cretins.
53
This talk of killing: stupid. I’m about peace and love, man. I look forward to the collapse of rentier capitalism as much as the next girl. I can do without any of the commodities I have. I’d be happy in a cabin in an isolated area. Maybe Newfoundland. I’ve always liked the sound of that place. When you come from a graveyard like Europe, the attraction of a relatively new culture cannot be overstated. In the room the women come and go, talking about death again. Jules Laforgue. Graveyards. ‘Le cimitière marin’. ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’. ‘The Dead’. Donner la mort. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, ask who do you have to pay, and how much, not to have it rung.
Several drinks later, I watched H1 stumble out of my bathroom and slump onto my cream-coloured fainting couch. He looked like what death wanted people to think death looked like. He looked like life, or what life does to you if you’re careless, or even if you’re careful. Most of us are careful, to a point. Clarity is overrated, I once heard in an AA meeting I attended involuntarily. The remark was meant as a joke, the result of a misfired impulse towards irony. But I didn’t take it as a joke. I took it seriously. I thought about it a lot. Clarity. Do I enjoy clarity, or do I run screaming from any room where it’s kept on display? Depends on the situation. On balance I prefer clarity, perhaps because true clarity is so difficult to achieve. Too often my brain is like a hemispheric bottle crammed with cotton balls, whether dead sober or cold drunk or grounded by chemicals.
I brought H1 another Bloody Mary, half-full, because though I didn’t care about wine-dark stains on my sea-foam couch, I wanted him to think that I cared, so that he would either take care or deliberately spill his drink on my couch because that’s what Not Michel Houellebecq might do if he was in a mood. Either way I would be interested in the result. In the event, he didn’t notice my pretence of care, or if he noticed didn’t himself care, as he drank the half-glass in one long draught and held out the glass for more, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
I didn’t refill his glass. I took it from him and set it on my coffee table. I sat down on the ottoman opposite him without a word. Just stared at him. I know not what I wanted to happen. Maybe I wanted him to do more to convince me that he was H, or maybe I wanted to catch him out and determine for sure that he was not H, or both, or neither. I filled my glass and sipped contemplatively, watching him watch me drink. The sole item on his mind’s agenda was alcohol. Because I sometimes enjoy being cruel for no real reason, I decided to wait a while before giving him what he wanted.
My phone rang. I checked the screen. My parents. I don’t ever want to speak to my parents. Not because I dislike them but because I have less-than-nil to say, and the resultant conversations are forced and weather-based; but I particularly did not want to speak to my parents now. I let the call go to voicemail. It rang again immediately. This was unusual. My parents are not persistent. They are perhaps the least persistent people I know.
You going to get that? slurred H1.
I stared at my screen, willing it to stop ringing. It did not. I walked over to the window, where I could delude myself that H1 wouldn’t overhear me.
54
Vanessa? said my mother. Though she’s fluent in both French and English, she was brought up speaking mostly English, and so we usually speak English. Her accent is irredeemably posh.
Maman? I said.
It’s about your sister, said my mother.
What about her?
She’s missing.
What does that mean, ‘missing’? I said. She’s never not missing. It’s normal not to hear from her for months.
This is different. She sent a letter.
You mean an email?
No. A letter. It’s her. It’s her handwriting. No one has seen her since her film premiere last week. She says that she’s run away with an Italian count, and that she doesn’t want us to fret, but that she’s finished with acting, through with the lot, and probably won’t be in contact for a long time.
An Italian cunt?
Count.
I shrugged. If I was a smoker, but then again no.
Vanessa?
I’m here.
What should we do?
About what?
I watched H1 help himself to the bottle of Singani, pouring a sloshy glassful, neat, with unsteady hands. I wondered whether his hands were always unsteady. Usually with topers their hands get more steady when they’re toping, but with H1 his hands never improve.
About your sister. You have to talk to her.
The noumenon is a posited object or event that is known (if at all) without the use of the physical senses. The term noumenon is generally used in contrast with, or in relation to, the term phenomenon, which refers to anything that can be apprehended by, or is an object of, the physical senses. In Platonic philosophy, the noumenal realm was equated with the world of ideas known to the philosophical mind, in contrast to the phenomenal realm, which was equated with the reality as perceived via the physical senses, as known to the uneducated mind.
Why do I have to talk to her?
Because you’re the only person she’ll listen to, my mother said.
Even if that were true, it doesn’t answer my question.
She’s lost her mind, Vanessa. Giving up her career? And for some dubious count who runs a chemical company?
My blood did not freeze, nor did my heart skip a beat, but there was a sensation in my stomach that could fairly be described as sinking.
What was that last part?
She mentioned that he was the CEO of a large chemical corporation based here in Paris, in addition to being an Italian count, though we cannot find his name in the red book or anywhere else.
The red book?
The Annuario della Nobiltà Italiana. Or Debrett’s Peerage, or any of the other directories.
That’s because he’s not a count. He’s not at all what he claims. He’s a fabulist.
You know him?
I’ve met him. Yes.
And you say he’s a criminal? But Vanessa, you must do something!
I didn’t say he was a criminal. Have you tried calling her yourself?
She changed her number. Temple can’t find her. Or so she claims.
Temple—
Her assistant. And we tried Eva, same result.
Eva—
The actress. Her best friend, or supposedly. Also that one with the blue hair, what’s her name, Léa?
Didn’t we go to school with Léa?
Maybe the same school, but I think she’s a few years younger.
Ouch. How am I supposed to get A’s new number if you can’t get it?
In her letter she specifies that you already have it, and that you alone have it. And further, that she’ll only talk to you.
Interesting.
That’s what she wrote.
Maman, please know, I’m not questioning what you’ve said. But Angelica and I haven’t spoken in a long time.
I know, dear, but we’re worried sick.
You’re always worried sick.
With you two girls, it’s no wonder!
The call was falling into maternal banality, which was a sign of how serious the problem was. My mother was rarely banal except when genuine emotion was called for, at which point she turned into a fount of truisms. It was one of the qualities I liked best about her.
I’ll talk to her, I said. I’m sure it’s a caprice. Or a joke.
I fail to see the humour.
I didn’t say it was a good joke. I’ll ring you as soon as we’ve spoken. In the meantime, try not to repine. How’s Papa?
Oh. He’s, well, you know, he’s your father. Same as ever.
It was my turn to repine. How bad?
What do you mean?
How bad is he? Can he remember your name? Does he know his?
Whatever would give you the idea that—
Can I talk to him? Is he there?
He’s sleeping, Vanessa. It’s late.
All right. You get some sleep too. That’s an order.
Oui, mon capitaine. Her tone brightened. I don’t think she expected to talk me into calling A so easily. I was a little surprised, myself, at my willingness to do what I hadn’t bothered to do for years. The events of the past few weeks had unmoored me.
I hung up and turned to H1.
The bastard’s taken off with my sister, I said. He’s posing as an Italian count.
Does he also own a chemical company? asked H1.
How do you know about the chemical company?
This is a dangerous man.
You do know him then.
I should think so. He’s my brother.
55
Of course H2 was H1’s brother. Of course he was. The only way that could not be true was if nothing was true. And some things are true. Aquinas proved that a few years back. That H2 was H1’s brother made sense and helped restore balance to the universe. But doubts immediately crowded forward. First off, the two of them didn’t look anything alike.
You don’t look anything alike, I said.
Half-brother, said H1. We had the same father but different mothers. My father left my mother to be with his. Then he died. For a long time his mother did not tell him about my existence, but when I became famous, it was inevitable he would find out.
It’s not your fault, I said, reflexively, without considering in any detail the matter of blame in H1’s relations.
He’s insane, H1 said. He pretends to be many different people. He runs a chemical company, he’s a big Hollywood producer, he’s an Italian count, he’s the head of the largest French exporter of wine, he’s an architect. You get the idea. But what makes this more than just silliness is that he believes himself to be these people, consecutively and sometimes simultaneously.
So he’s not pretending.
No.
Because you said he pretends, I said.
I misspoke. Or maybe he is pretending. It’s not possible to know for sure.
Your own brother drugged you and dragged you away. And then replaced you, claiming to be you.
So it would appear, he said.
That’s messed-up.
Yes.
What do you intend to do about it?
Nothing.
You can’t do nothing.
It’s not possible to do something, he said. I have tried. He always has the advantage of me because he knows how life works and he’s convincing. He’s a salesman. That’s his real talent. He sells people an idea of himself.
Is there money in that?
If people believe you are the head of a large chemical corporation in Paris, you can get away with a lot. It’s curious, too.
What’s curious? I asked.
He has a bizarre fascination with sadomasochism. The same as Robbe-Grillet, except he acts out his fantasies.
Yes, I was on the receiving end, no pun intended, or maybe pun intended, I’m not sure yet, of one of his fantasies.
I sighed. I knew that given what I’d learned and what I knew from my own experience, I would have to undertake the one action on earth I did not want to undertake. Besides drink California wine, I mean.
I was going to have to save my bitch twin sister from herself, and from H2, or both.
We have to do something, I said.
But I’m telling you it’s not possible, he said. You cannot challenge him. By the time you find him he will have assumed a new identity and somehow you will end up paying his bills for him.
Because he outwitted you doesn’t mean he can outwit me. I’m sure you’ll agree, you’re not good at… well, you know.
H1 nodded sadly. Yes. I know.
And because you’re more familiar with the terrain, so to speak, much as I scout the idea, you’ll have to come with me.
He was horrified.
I’d prefer not to.
I shrugged.
Fine by me, I said in English.
Va-t-en, I said in French.
You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here, I said in cliché.
OK, he said. He looked sad, as anyone except Thomas Early would, at the prospect of leaving my comfortable apartment.
May I make a phone call before I go? he asked.
Sure, I said. I can be reasonable, I said.
56
He knocked on my bedroom door about five minutes later, as I was throwing some clothes into my rucksack. His face was whiter than usual.
No joy? I asked.
This time he has gone too far, he said.
His hands were shaking, despite or I guess because of the alcohol.
Meaning? I asked.
He has taken over my bank accounts and credit cards. I have to prove to the bank that I am who I am. In the meantime the bank will do nothing. And I can do nothing.
You have any cash on you?
He took my wallet when – he took my wallet. I don’t have any cash, I don’t have my ATM card, I don’t have my credit cards. And even if I did he’s locked me out of the accounts, cancelled the cards and had new ones issued.
Sounds like you’re buggered, mate. I said this in English, too. It’s probably self-evident which parts I’m speaking in French and which parts in English, but as a public service to the obvious-impaired I will occasionally point these parts out.
I have to go to Paris to speak to the bank in person.
You have your passport?
Yes, but no money for a plane ticket. Or a taxi or a car service or, for example, a sandwich.
I repeat: buggered. Up the junction.
Is it possible to borrow some money from you?
No, it is not possible.
But you know that I am rich.
I know that I’m rich. I don’t know anything about you. I’ve heard these identity theft cases can go on for years.
I was going to lend him money. But I enjoyed toying with him, and we both knew that as a condition of lending him money I would make him help me find his brother and my sister.
I will go to the press, he said.
That’s your play? You want the New York Times and Le Monde writing about how your brother stole your identity and locked you in an abandoned cannery near the East River?
No. But that is the truth.
Sounds like the plot of one of your own novels. All of France will be laughing at you.
All of France is already laughing at me. I don’t care (je m’en fous). I want my life back.
I sat down on the bed and folded my arms in my lap. I was starting to enjoy myself.
Come with me to find my sister. Once we’re sure she’s safe, I will lend you whatever funds you require.
If you have so much money, why are you a translator?
Why are you a writer? If you are a writer.
I tell you I am H! The H!
Yeah, not good enough. I’ve no proof H can write.
I’ve sold thousands of books. I’m the most famous writer in France.
Which only proves that the French have terrible taste. A fact I already know, which is why I live here, where this is common knowledge about the French.
Fine, yes, OK. I agree to your terms. Having no other option. May I please have some money now?
57
If H1 were to mulct me for even twenty dollars, he’d give me the slip, and though I neither needed nor wanted him with me, I couldn’t let him run away from the situation, because I wanted to run away from the situation, and when everybody runs away from the situation fascism happens, or the death of journalism, or pythons running wild in the Everglades. Anyway, he could help. I had a few ideas where to look for H2, but H1 knew his hotspots. Should the trail run cold in Cap Ferret, he could point me to the Swiss chalet outside Montreux. Or the apartment in Venice. Or, whatever, the houseboat on the River Cam or the mountain lair at Innsbruck. Wherever H2 was, I needed to go. I couldn’t save my sister over the phone or by any other indirect means. Nor could A fend for herself. She never could before, and she certainly couldn’t now after years of otiose living, her every whim satisfied by paid vassals.
