Authors: Mathias Énard
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Espionage, #Literary, #Psychological
Zone (48 page)
Inferno
, drunk the day before I shouted the
Marseillaise
, I think of it as I see her, I shouted
qu’un sang impur
and the genius of Berlioz, who did everything he could to rescue this military tune, Berlioz loved
poor Ophelia
as I love you, those are the thoughts of men still drunk in the morning, those are embassy celebrations, full of alcohol drunkards and cheap patriotism, the gardens were large, beautiful, there was champagne, wine, anise, and uniforms, the ambassador shouted
long live France!
Berlioz rang out and with him Rouget de Lisle and I heard
Harold in Italy
, I saw Harold,
Romeo and Juliet
, and the little Roman wood where Hector went to shoot at crows with a pistol to dispel the boredom of the Academy, of France, while now I’m crossing the Tiburtina train station, Berlioz describes the suffering of the proud Trojans and the wanderings of Aeneas, Berlioz despaired of Rome, he preferred the mountains of the Abruzzi and the brigands you find there, you needed a few days on horse to reach that region, I didn’t know what to say to Stéphanie I was still drunk I should have spoken to her about Berlioz and his Ophelia about his Trojans today what would I say to her I would say to her I loved you more than anything don’t be mad at me I would tell her the story of Intissar the Palestinian saved by Marwan’s ghost, all that is very far away, Stéphanie is very far away the child we didn’t have is very far away in limbo Astyanax thrown from the ramparts of Troy, Hector is dead, Hector tamer of mares is dead and it’s already Rome, it’s already Rome, in the midst of the beautiful gardens of the French Embassy in Lebanon I was lost, lost between worlds, floating in space without knowing it, already departed for Rome, for the missed plane, the documents, the databases, the lists in my briefcase, the cardinals and laymen the secretaries of the dicastery who are waiting for me, I am in the same state as when I left Beirut or when I arrived in Paris before the woman who opened the door to me, drunk from so much train-travel from so many kilometers and from the dead heaped up on the roads, the tracks, the memories of war, of Trieste, of Paris where Stéphanie opened to me, I had just awakened her, I could see her breasts under her T-shirt, her legs were bare, like Marianne’s in the hotel in Alexandria, like those of the Dutch women in Harmen Gerbens’s photos, like those of the corpses in the river in Jasenovac, those of Andrija covered with shit, the spread filthy legs of the girls in Bosnia, the legs of Intissar under Ahmad’s violence hundreds of bare legs, we’re already in Rome the last meters before Termini, the train is moving at a walking pace over the thousands of bodies placed one after the other, the wood of crossties, bodies are wood that’s what Stangl said in Treblinka, that’s what my father said too in Algeria, wood duty, crossbeam duty, noble wood that you make icons from with the logs of funeral pyres, line up the memories in a ditch to burn them, like goat thighs whose smoke makes the gods salivate, Stéphanie’s curves make me salivate in the early morning hours of Paris: it’s the beginning of the century, of the millennium, you have to rebuild everything and ride, ride with a train exhausted tense trembling aching swaying from shunt to shunt, revenge consummated, the dead accumulated and neatly lined up, Stéphanie’s legs were bare in the early Paris morning it was my turn to arrive at her place unannounced, back from a quick mission to Beirut, a few days before that she had informed me that I was a monster and that she never wanted to see me again, I’m trying my luck, I present myself at her place in the early morning with my eyes burning from sleep and alcohol, drunk and dangerous like Lowry in Taormina, like Joyce in Trieste, she looks at me, she looks at me without saying anything there’s no need she doesn’t sigh she just has to look at me in silence and I understand, I understand that the door is going to close, that Stéphanie’s legs are going to disappear behind it, farewell, the tomb closes again, farewell, I didn’t know what to say to her, didn’t know what to ask her, it was up to me to hold out my hand, now we’re going alongside the Roman aqueduct we are penetrating the walls then the dead end of the Termini station the travelers are thrown into turmoil, animals disturbed in their sleep, they all get up at the same time recover their luggage put away the books and newspapers I discreetly get out the little key I free the briefcase the suitcase that’s so light and so heavy, the train is coming up to the platform, it’s wheezing, it’s taking its time, I grab my bag now I’m standing in the aisle between my traveling companions we are going to separate, each will pursue his own fate, Yvan Deroy too I am going to go on foot to the hotel life is new life is alive I know it now, farewell wise Sashka, I can stand up all on my own, I don’t need this suitcase any more, don’t need the Vatican’s pieces of silver, I’m going to throw it all into the water, the wood accumulated for Hector’s pyre, on the tenth day, on the tenth day I will go by foot to the fatal Tiber right next to the Sixtus Bridge to throw these dead into the river, so it will take them to the sea, the blue cemetery, so everyone will go away, names and photographs will be eaten by the salt, then evaporated they will join the clouds, and farewell, Yvan Deroy will join the sky too, the New World, farewell Rome too eternal, by plane, in the Fiumicino airport I’ll wait for the last call for my flight, the passengers, the destination, I will be sitting there on my deluxe seat without being able to move anywhere there is no one else I belong to the space between to the world of the living-dead finally I have no more weight no more ties no more attachments I am in my tent near the hollow vessels I have given up I am in the universe of grey carpets of television screens and that will last everything will last there are no more wrathful gods no more warriors next to me the planes are resting the seagulls I live in the Zone where women are made up and wear a navy blue uniform beautiful
peplos
of a starry night there is no more desire no more flight no more anything a great floating a dead time where my name is repeated invades the air it’s the last call the last call for the last passengers for the last flight I won’t move from that airport seat, I won’t move anymore that’s it for journeys, for wars, next to me the guy with the sincere look will smile at me I will return his smile he’s been there for years suspended him too chained to his seat years he’s been there since long before the discovery of aviation he has a nice face, he’s dark-skinned, a giant, a giant from Chaldea who looks like he has carried the world on his shoulders, for centuries and centuries he has been between planes, between trains, as they are dispossessing me of my new name by breathing it into the loudspeakers, I think of the arms of the steel bird waiting for me, 150 companions in limbo have already boarded but I refuse, I am Achilles quieted the first man the last I have found a tent for myself it is mine now it’s this fireproof rug and this red plush it’s my name they’re shouting my space I won’t get up my neighbor is with me he’s the priest of Apollo he’s a demiurge he has seen war too he has seen war and the blinding sun of cut necks, he is waiting calmly for the end of the world, if I dared, if I dared I would perch on his shoulders like a ridiculous kid, I would ask him to take me across rivers, rivers three times three times round and other Scamanders lined with corpses, I would ask him to be my last train, my last plane my last weapon, the last glimmer of violence goes out of me and I turn to him to ask him, to beg him to carry me away he looks at me with infinite compassion, he looks at me, he suddenly offers me a cigarette he says so my friend one last smoke before the end? one last smoke before the end of the world.
Acknowledgements
This book is full of all those who have entrusted me with their stories, Vlaho C., Ghassan D., Imad el-Haddad, Youssef Bazzi, Sandra Balsells, Sylvain Estibal, Igor Marojević, Alexandra Petrova, David Blumberg, Patrick Deville, Alviero Lippi, Hugo Orlandini, Ahmet Riyahi, the late Eduardo Rózsa, Yasmina Belhaj, Hans B., Mirjam Fruttiger, Manos Demetrios and all the others, witnesses, victims, or killers, in Barcelona, Beirut, Damascus, Zagreb, Algiers, Sarajevo, Belgrade, Rome, Trieste, Istanbul. I also have an immense debt to journalists, historians, filmmakers, and documentary makers whose work I have used, during the years spent in the Zone, as well as to those who have accompanied me on those long journeys. Thank you to Jean Rolin for having generously allowed me to entitle this book Zone, as I had planned. Thank you to Barbara, to Peter the Great, to the whole Rat Pack, and to Claro who, along with friendship, shelter and food, offered me the two pages of the discovered journal by Francesc Boix.
To confess wrong without losing rightness: Charity
have I had sometimes, I cannot make it flow thru.
A little light, like a rushlight
To lead back to splendour.
—Ezra Pound
About the Author
M
athias Énard studied Persian and Arabic and spent long periods in the Middle East. A professor of Arabic at the University of Barcelona, he won the Prix des Cinq Continents de la Francophonie and the Prix Edmée de la Rochefoucault for his first novel,
La perfection du tir
. He has been awarded many prizes for
Zone
, including the Prix du Livre Inter and the Prix Décembre.
About the Translator
C
harlotte Mandell has translated fiction, poetry, and philosophy from the French, including works by Proust, Flaubert, Genet, Maupassant, Blanchot, and many other distinguished authors. She has received many accolades and awards for her translations, including a Literature Translation Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts for
Zone
.
About Open Letter
O
pen Letter—the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press—is one of only a handful of publishing houses dedicated to increasing access to world literature for English readers. Publishing ten titles in translation each year, Open Letter searches for works that are extraordinary and influential, works that we hope will become the classics of tomorrow.
Making world literature available in English is crucial to opening our cultural borders, and its availability plays a vital role in maintaining a healthy and vibrant book culture. Open Letter strives to cultivate an audience for these works by helping readers discover imaginative, stunning works of fiction and by creating a constellation of international writing that is engaging, stimulating, and enduring.
Current and forthcoming titles from Open Letter include works from Argentina, Catalonia, Peru, Poland, South Africa, and numerous other countries.
www.openletterbooks.org
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