Foreign Tongue (21 page)

“Like?” I asked.

“You value approval more than we do. We privilege pride, this idea of ‘saving face,’ so important to the Japanese as well. You are more open, we are more reserved. We like riddles, you like answers. We are more interested in the game than the outcome,” he said. The phone rang in another room.

“The game,” I repeated, unsure what he meant.

“The game of social interaction,” he clarified. “The discovery, layer by layer, of people. The unfolding of meaning. This is something we appreciate. It seems to me—but I am speaking in broad strokes and there are always exceptions—however, it seems to me Americans want to know who and what everything is, they want to fix it so it will stay put and they can move accordingly. Look at your politics,” he said. “As de Gaulle said—and I am not usually one for quoting him—your country excels at attempting to impose simplistic solutions onto complex problems. But nothing is simple or fixed in life. People are surprising: vain, careless, flawed, contradictory, often blind, and full of foibles. This is diverting, confusing, maddening, and, of course, touching.” He leaned back in his chair, pipe clamped between his teeth.

“I like that,” I said, realizing I meant I liked him. A small clock on the side table chimed five with delicate pings.

Victorine came back in the room. “It is impossible to get off the phone with my sister,” she said.

I stood up. “I should leave. Thank you for having me.”

No sooner had I stepped outside into the brisk sun than the worried feeling came back to me. I walked up the street, replaying the earlier part of the afternoon in my head. I had to ask Olivier about Estelle. There was nothing wrong with him spending time with Estelle, but why hadn’t he told me? There was something there that was confusing, even troubling.

They were
faux amis
:
“Confus”
meant embarrassed, uncomfortable.
“Troublant”
meant unclear, murky, vague. They meant different things in both languages, but right now, all four words worked.

I
didn’t ask Olivier about Estelle. The more I thought about it, the more I thought I was being paranoid, and I wanted to protect him from my paranoia. Or I wanted to protect myself by not revealing it.

He came over when I was watching the news. A journalist for a rightwing newspaper defended his position, outlined in a column that morning, that Romain Chesnier should resign from his post as minister, given his health problems. Olivier slouched down on the sofa next to me and blew air out of his lips.

“How’s he really doing?” I asked, pointing to the screen.

“Fine. Estelle says it’s entirely political, all this talk about his health. That’s more stressful than his heart,” he said.
“Quoi?”
he asked, looking at me.

“Nothing,” I said. He grasped my arm and shook it gently.

“Il y a quelque chose,”
he said, insisting something was up. It was a perfect opening, and I hesitated. The anxious creature in my stomach
roused itself. I opened my mouth, then shut it. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to risk hearing something I might not like.

“I’m wondering how it’s affecting your play,” I said instead.

“It’s distracting her, but she’s a professional. Shall I make us some tea?”

On Friday, I tried to distract myself by cleaning the apartment and packing, but it was useless. Instead of happy excitement, I felt apprehension. I called Althea.

“Packed your
baise en ville
?” she cracked.

“I hate that expression,” I said. “Only the French would call a weekend bag a ‘fuck in town.’ Besides, I’m going to the country.” I filled her in on my worries and Victorine’s comments.

“You’re being a morose, broody cow,” she said.

“Thanks. That’s encouraging,” I said. “I think you missed your calling. Crisis counselor. ICU nurse. No, kindergarten teacher. People are so soft on kids these days.”

“Sweetie, stop being a pill. Can you tuck that part of you away? It’s not fun to be with, either for you or for him. If there’s something he needs to explain, let him.”

I could always count on Althea to be bracing. I reread my translation, grimacing again as I got to the ending. I printed it out, scribbled a note, explaining my issues (“too quick, not believable, I don’t know how he’s feeling”), and stuck it to the last page.
Tant pis
if it pissed off Bernard or the author. I walked it over to Editions Laveau, hoping the exercise would take my mind off things. On my way down the rue des Archives, my phone rang. It was Bunny, calling from Italy.

“H-e-e-e-ey! I’m in the hills above Rapallo with Gigi and Matthew. The weather is gorgeous, and I’m sipping this foo-foo drink they make with lemons and almond liqueur. You’d like it,” he said. I was relieved to hear how happy he sounded.

“We’ve got sun here, but it’s only thirteen degrees,” I said.

“I’m wearing shorts, sunglasses, and a Hawaiian shirt. Did I mention the sunsets are magnificent here?” He slurped loudly.

“You are a cruel, cruel man,” I said.

“One of my better qualities. How are you?”

“Okay,” I said. “When are you back?”

“Do I sound like I wanna leave? I’ll talk to you later. Be good,” he said and hung up. I trudged up the hill, picturing Bunny with a cocktail on a sunny terrace. He was probably asking the locals what the longest palindrome was in Italian. Or humming arias from obscure operas to waitresses half his age.

I remembered something he’d said a long time ago, when I’d known him only a couple of months. We’d been discussing my travel plans in a café in a boat on the Seine.

“Never go to Italy,” he’d intoned in his wise and dolorous sage voice.

“But it’s such a beautiful country!” I’d exclaimed.

“Never go to Italy,” he’d repeated.

“Why, Bunny, why?” I’d asked, sensing a punch line, and happy to set him up.

“Because you’ll never want to leave,” he’d replied.

At Editions Laveau, Bernard and an elderly gentleman in a homburg and a double-breasted coat were deep in a discussion of medieval poetry. With a nod from Bernard, I walked past them and went into his office to wait for him. It was the first time I’d been in there alone, and I studied his bookshelves and the art on the walls, particularly a framed piece of parchment paper, written in elaborate brown calligraphy with oddly shaped accents. I was trying to decipher it when he came in.

“C’est beau, n’est ce pas?”
he asked. “It is Latin, a legal document from the thirteenth century, something to do with property deeds, very
boring. I found it at my favorite
antiquaire
in Blois.” He measured out coffee and turned on the machine.

“What are all the accents?” I asked.

“Abbreviations,” he said, beaming, as if the dear little things were precocious grandchildren. “Each one is a word.”

“How curious,” I said. He handed me a cup, passed me the sugar bowl, and calmly plucked a cube himself. There was a fat little silence as we drank our coffees.

“Puis-je vous poser une question?”
I asked. “Why did you hire me? Is there something I should know?” I didn’t know where the questions came from; they just tumbled out, and then it was too late to take them back.

“Mais pourquoi vous me demandez ça?”
he asked, with a suspicious look.

“I’m not a professional translator—” I began. Bernard made an impatient, spluttering sound. “Let me finish. I’m not a professional translator. I know nothing about translation theory. Until this week, I didn’t even know there were theories. I speak both languages well enough to know I’m doing a decent job, but I’m betting there are other people who could do better. Maybe they cost more, but I’m not so sure.”

He didn’t say anything. “There’s also the matter of the secrecy, this chapter-by-chapter thing,” I continued, putting my cup down. “If I knew the whole story, I’d have a better, global sense of it. But it started as erotica, now it’s a doomed love story—who knows, it could turn into a mystery or tragedy or even science fiction—” I said.

Bernard exhaled a scornful gust of air.

“Or revert back to erotica,” I said, persevering. “Not knowing is feeling my way through the dark. There are issues of tone to consider, shifts in vocabulary, but I don’t know what it’s laying the groundwork for, because
I don’t know what happens
. That second chapter read like an ending! Is it?”

He shook his head in a noncommittal fashion, but before he could speak, I added, “Don’t get me wrong, I like the work. I don’t want to give it up. But I could do it better if I knew more. That’s all.” I sat back, anxious to hear his response.

Bernard turned his silver letter opener over in his hands. “You’re right, of course,” he began, giving me a sly look. I wondered if one of Sun Tzu’s strategies was to agree with your opponent. “But as I have already explained, this is an unusual project, subject to constraints that may well impede its progress. But you have kept up, the author is satisfied, and as long as the arrangement suits all parties, it shall continue,” he said. Pleased with himself, he put the letter opener down.

“That’s it?” I asked. He tilted his head in assent. “At least can you tell me how it ends?” I asked, making a last attempt. He splayed his hands and bounced his fingertips against one another, pursing his lips.

“Alors, là. Je ne sais pas,”
he said.

I gaped at him. He looked back, poker-faced over steepled fingers.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I asked, queasy. Bernard toyed with his letter opener again. I sensed he was making a decision, though not about how much to tell me: about how much to leave out.

“
Enfin
. I don’t know precisely. He’s still writing it,” he admitted.

“I’m translating a first draft?” I asked, outraged. I wasn’t a professional translator, but I was a copywriter, and I knew it was ridiculous to translate a first draft.

“It’s not a first draft,
voyons
. He’s been working on it
depuisune éternité
. I’ve read it in its entirety. It is merely the last chapter that isn’t finished, he is still refining it. Right now, there are four different endings. You’ve finished the first one. I don’t know which one he will use. Perhaps he will use all four. You will understand when you read them.” A faint smile hovered around his lips. It sounded good. But it felt like bullshit.

“A novel can’t have four good endings,” I snapped. He raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” I said, waving my hands in the air, “maybe a post
modern novelist could get away with it, but your guy ain’t that guy. There’s nothing pomo about him. This thing needs one right ending, the thing that the story has been leading up to.”

“You make rather grand pronouncements for someone who hasn’t read the entire book. That is a limited way of thinking about stories. Perhaps there are four good endings to every novel! Perhaps the author merely chooses? Don’t forget,” he added,
“la bêtise consiste à vouloir conclure.”
Stupidity consists of wanting to conclude. His face was impassive, his voice silky, but I could hear the worn groove in the vinyl, the snap and hiss of a line uttered a few too many times. Just because he could cite Flaubert’s famous line didn’t mean he wasn’t dodging me.

I fidgeted, cracking my thumbs, noticing the deep lines down his cheeks and across his forehead. His whole demeanor seemed like a false front, a trick wall. If I was clever or stealthy enough, I might find a hollow catch that would make a door swing open, but I had to think fast. Any second, the cowbell would peal, or the phone would ring, and the moment would be lost.

“I’m not going to sit here and discuss theories of novel endings. That’s just arguing for the sake of arguing,” I said, but it was a feeble attempt.

He separated his hands and said
“ah,”
giving the “h” a glottal stop so sharp it backfired like a car. Combined with the amused look on his face, it meant “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, cookie.”

I tried another tack. “It’s disappointing. I’d thought of it as a real novel, and now it sounds like a toy the writer tinkers with from time to time.”

Bad move. Bernard drew himself up and took a haughty tone.

“
Pourquoi vous dites ça?
You insisted you were happy with our arrangement. You are not consistent,
mademoiselle,
” he chided. Hobgoblins, my mind raced, something about hobgoblins, consistency, little minds, but I couldn’t think of the quotation fast enough to parry. It would probably come to me as soon as I left,
l’esprit de l’escalier
on the
sidewalk. “I must warn you, it is possible this work may not get published,” he added, lobbing a new bombshell.

“Ever?” I asked.

“
Mademoiselle,
my client is a prolific writer—”

“You mean he’s actually managed to finish
other
books?” I asked, sarcastic. Bernard was no longer amused. He clipped my check to an envelope.

“As you may have noticed, this is a personal work, drawing on his life and memories. It’s not timely, so he’s not as concerned with getting it out as he was with his latest—” Bernard stopped.

“His latest?” I prompted, but he’d caught himself.

“Œuvre,”
he said. “Here is the next chapter, or second ending, if you will.”

“D’accord,”
I muttered and took the envelope.

“Ne le prenez pas si mal,”
he said. But I was taking it badly, despite his warmer tone. In fact, I was peeved.

The wind delivered a crisp slap to my face as I stepped outside. At Saint-Germain, I turned left, walking past revamped cafés, with neon signs and techno music, past storefronts riotous with fall colors, even past Ben & Jerry’s and the promise of Chubby Hubby. I didn’t stop until I got to La Hune, the intellectual, smarty-pants bookstore wedged between the Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots.

Yeah, I wasn’t supposed to know who the author was, but all the rules had changed. Besides, I was curious and I felt prescient, gut feelings on caffeine. For some strange reason that had nothing to do with reason, I thought I might be able to identify him through his style. After all, I knew about idiolects, didn’t I?

I knew my writer was male, a famous intellectual, and I’d gotten the sense from Bernard that he’d published recently. I also suspected that he was not Rémi Le Jaa. I wondered whether Bernard was deliberately misleading Olivier, or whether that was just Olivier’s fertile imagination.

To be sure, I went to fiction and skimmed the first few pages of Le
Jaa’s
La Vie de bateau.
His style was spartan, the language elegant and minimalist, full of words I didn’t know. No way was he Monsieur X. This was going to be easier than I thought.

I parked myself in front of Recent Arrivals and contemplated genres. I ruled out fiction. My author didn’t know how to structure a novel, and apparently, he didn’t know how to end one either. I sensed he was better at writing about real events, or maybe essays or analyses. And I remembered again: when I’d first met him, Bernard had said the author wrote about politics and sociology.

My eyes swept over the nonfiction table, a four-foot-wide, eight-foot-long ocean of titles. There was only one possible course of action: pick up each book written by a man, read the back cover, study any photographs, read the first page, and see if the style sounded familiar.

I tied my coat arms around my waist and began with a book on Mitterrand’s political policy. I read the back cover: no author photo. I read the first page. No spark of recognition. Next were books on Sarkozy, Chirac, Dominique de Villepin, Jospin, Ségolène Royal, and half a dozen other French politicians. Nothing.

I moved to international politics: the “special relationship” between the United States and Britain, the relationship between France and America, the role of France in the twenty-first century, the European Union, the impact of immigration on the European Union, the impact of America on the European Union, the relationship between France and Algeria.

Still nothing. My back hurt from standing for almost an hour with locked knees. A young man corralled a wheeled, black stool, the kind that sinks to the floor when weighted, and sat on it to peruse the Sarkozy book. I was so jealous I wanted to bite him.