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Authors: Roberto Bolaño
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couldn’t stand being alone in the apartment a
minute longer, etc. What we can’t imagine (or justify) in any way at all is
Marie-Thérèse’s presence in the office. She is Guyotat’s partner, she doesn’t
work for
Tel Quel
and she has no reason to be there. And yet there she
is and that is where she meets the young Central American. Is she there on that
day because of Carla Devade? Has Carla arranged to meet Marie-Thérèse at the
office because she knows that Marc will not be coming home with her? Or has
Marie-Thérèse come to meet someone else? Let’s return, discreetly, to the
afternoon when the Central American came to the office on Rue Jacob to pay his
respects.
It’s the end of the working day. The secretary has already gone home,
and when the bell rings it’s Marc Devade who opens the door and lets the visitor
in without meeting his eye. The Central American crosses the threshold and
follows Marc Devade to an office at the end of the corridor. He leaves a trail
of drops on the wooden floor behind him, although it stopped raining quite some
time ago. Devade is, of course, oblivious to this detail; he walks ahead talking
about something or other — the weather, money, chores — with that elegance that
only certain Frenchmen seem to possess. In the office, which is spacious, and
contains a desk, several chairs, two armchairs, and shelves full of books and
magazines, Sollers is waiting, and as soon as the introductions are over the
Central American hails him as a genius, one of the century’s most brilliant
minds, a compliment that would be par for the course in certain tropical nations
on the far side of the Atlantic but which, in the
Tel Quel
office and
the ears of Philippe Sollers, verges on the preposterous. In fact, as soon as
the Central American makes his declaration, Sollers catches Devade’s eye and
both of them are wondering whether they’ve let a madman in. Deep down, however,
Sollers is eighty per cent in agreement with the Central American’s appraisal,
so once he has set aside the idea that the visitor might be mocking him, the
conversation proceeds in an amicable fashion, at least for a start. The Central
American speaks of Julia Kristeva (and winks at Sollers as he mentions that
eminent Bulgarian), he speaks of Marcelin Pleynet (whom he has already met), and
of Denis Roche (whose work he claims to be translating). Devade listens to him
with a slightly wry smile. Sollers listens, nodding from time to time, his
boredom increasing with every passing second. Suddenly, a sound of steps in the
corridor. The door opens. Carla Devade appears, wearing tight corduroy trousers,
flat shoes and a disconsolate smile on her pretty Mediterranean face. Marc
Devade gets up from his chair; for a moment the couple whisper questions and
answers. The Central American has fallen silent; Sollers is mechanically
flipping through an English magazine. Then Carla and Marc walk across the room
(Carla taking tentative little steps, holding her husband’s arm), the Central
American stands up, is introduced, and obsequiously greets the newcomer. The
conversation is immediately resumed, but the Central American’s chatter veers
off in a new direction, unfortunately for him (he changes the subject from
literature to the matchless beauty and grace of French women), at which point
Sollers completely loses interest. Shortly afterward, the visit is brought to a
close: Sollers looks at his watch, says it’s late; Devade shows the Central
American to the door, shakes his hand, and the visitor, instead of waiting for
the elevator, rushes down the stairs. On the second-floor landing he runs into
Marie-Thérèse Réveillé. The Central American is talking to himself in Spanish,
not under his breath but out loud. As their paths cross, Marie-Thérèse notices a
fierce look in his eyes. They bump into each other. Both apologize. They look at
each other again (and this is surprising, the way their eyes meet again
after
the apology),
minute longer, etc. What we can’t imagine (or justify) in any way at all is
Marie-Thérèse’s presence in the office. She is Guyotat’s partner, she doesn’t
work for
Tel Quel
and she has no reason to be there. And yet there she
is and that is where she meets the young Central American. Is she there on that
day because of Carla Devade? Has Carla arranged to meet Marie-Thérèse at the
office because she knows that Marc will not be coming home with her? Or has
Marie-Thérèse come to meet someone else? Let’s return, discreetly, to the
afternoon when the Central American came to the office on Rue Jacob to pay his
respects.
It’s the end of the working day. The secretary has already gone home,
and when the bell rings it’s Marc Devade who opens the door and lets the visitor
in without meeting his eye. The Central American crosses the threshold and
follows Marc Devade to an office at the end of the corridor. He leaves a trail
of drops on the wooden floor behind him, although it stopped raining quite some
time ago. Devade is, of course, oblivious to this detail; he walks ahead talking
about something or other — the weather, money, chores — with that elegance that
only certain Frenchmen seem to possess. In the office, which is spacious, and
contains a desk, several chairs, two armchairs, and shelves full of books and
magazines, Sollers is waiting, and as soon as the introductions are over the
Central American hails him as a genius, one of the century’s most brilliant
minds, a compliment that would be par for the course in certain tropical nations
on the far side of the Atlantic but which, in the
Tel Quel
office and
the ears of Philippe Sollers, verges on the preposterous. In fact, as soon as
the Central American makes his declaration, Sollers catches Devade’s eye and
both of them are wondering whether they’ve let a madman in. Deep down, however,
Sollers is eighty per cent in agreement with the Central American’s appraisal,
so once he has set aside the idea that the visitor might be mocking him, the
conversation proceeds in an amicable fashion, at least for a start. The Central
American speaks of Julia Kristeva (and winks at Sollers as he mentions that
eminent Bulgarian), he speaks of Marcelin Pleynet (whom he has already met), and
of Denis Roche (whose work he claims to be translating). Devade listens to him
with a slightly wry smile. Sollers listens, nodding from time to time, his
boredom increasing with every passing second. Suddenly, a sound of steps in the
corridor. The door opens. Carla Devade appears, wearing tight corduroy trousers,
flat shoes and a disconsolate smile on her pretty Mediterranean face. Marc
Devade gets up from his chair; for a moment the couple whisper questions and
answers. The Central American has fallen silent; Sollers is mechanically
flipping through an English magazine. Then Carla and Marc walk across the room
(Carla taking tentative little steps, holding her husband’s arm), the Central
American stands up, is introduced, and obsequiously greets the newcomer. The
conversation is immediately resumed, but the Central American’s chatter veers
off in a new direction, unfortunately for him (he changes the subject from
literature to the matchless beauty and grace of French women), at which point
Sollers completely loses interest. Shortly afterward, the visit is brought to a
close: Sollers looks at his watch, says it’s late; Devade shows the Central
American to the door, shakes his hand, and the visitor, instead of waiting for
the elevator, rushes down the stairs. On the second-floor landing he runs into
Marie-Thérèse Réveillé. The Central American is talking to himself in Spanish,
not under his breath but out loud. As their paths cross, Marie-Thérèse notices a
fierce look in his eyes. They bump into each other. Both apologize. They look at
each other again (and this is surprising, the way their eyes meet again
after
the apology),
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