Three percent are what I call the Tupamaros--in homage to the former Uruguayan guerrilla group. They have managed to infiltrate this party and are mad for any kind of contact; they're not sure whether to stay or to go on to another party that is taking place at the same time; they are anxious; they want to show how talented they are, but they weren't invited, they haven't scaled the first mountains, and as soon as the other guests figure this out, they immediately withdraw any attention they have been paying them.
The last eighty-five percent are the Trays. I call them this because, just as no party can exist without that particular utensil, so no event can exist without these guests. The Trays don't really know what is going on, but they know it's important to be there; they are on the guest list drawn up by the promoters because the success of something like this also depends on the number of people who come. They are all ex-something-or-other-important--ex-bankers, ex-directors, the ex-husband of some famous woman, the ex-wife of some man now in a position of power. They are counts in a country where the monarchy no longer exists, princesses and marchionesses who live by renting out their castles. They go from one party to the next, from one supper to the next--don't they ever get sick of it, I wonder?
When I commented on this recently to Marie, she said that just as some people are addicted to work, so others are addicted to fun. Both groups are equally unhappy, convinced that they are missing something, but unable to give up their particular vice.
A pretty young blonde comes over while I'm talking to one of the organizers of a conference on cinema and literature and tells me how much she enjoyed A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew. She's from one of the Baltic countries, she says, and works in film. She is immediately identified by the group as a Tupamaro, because while appearing to be interested in one thing (me), she is, in fact, interested in something else (the organizers of the conference). Despite having made this almost unforgivable gaffe, there is still a chance that she might be an inexperienced Talent. The organizer of the conference asks what she means by "working in film." The young woman explains that she writes film reviews for a newspaper and has published a book (About cinema? No, about her life--her short, dull life, I imagine).
She then commits the cardinal sin of jumping the gun and asking if she could be invited to this year's event. The organizer explains that the woman who publishes my books in that same Baltic country, an influential and hardworking woman (and very pretty too, I think to myself), has already been invited. They continue talking to me; the Tupamaro lingers for a few more minutes, not knowing what to say, then moves off.
Given that it's a literary prize, most of the guests tonight--Tupamaros, Talents, and Trays--belong to the world of the arts. The Members, on the other hand, are either sponsors or people connected with foundations that support museums, classical music concerts, and promising young artists. After various conversations about which of the candidates for the prize that night had applied most pressure in order to win, the master of ceremonies mounts the stage, asks everyone to take their places at the tables (we all sit down), makes a few jokes (it's part of the ritual, and we all laugh), and says that the winners will be announced between the entree and the first course.
I am at the head table; this allows me to keep the Trays at a safe distance, and also means that I don't have to bother with any enthusiastic and self-interested Talents. I am seated between the female director of a car-manufacturing firm, which is sponsoring the party, and an heiress who has decided to invest in art. To my surprise, neither of them is wearing a dress with a provocative decolletage. The other guests at our table are the director of a perfumery; an Arab prince (who was doubtless passing through Paris and was pounced on by one of the promoters to add luster to the event); an Israeli banker who collects fourteenth-century manuscripts; the main organizer of tonight's event; the French consul to Monaco; and a blonde woman whose presence here I can't quite fathom, although I suspect she might be the organizer's next mistress.
I have to keep putting on my glasses and surreptitiously reading the names of the people on either side of me (I ought to be marooned on that imaginary ship and invited to this same party dozens of times until I have memorized the names of all the guests). Marie, as protocol demands, has been placed at another table; someone, at some point in history, decided that at formal suppers couples should always be seated separately, thus leaving it open to doubt whether the person beside us is married, single, or married but available. Or perhaps someone thought that if a couple were seated together, they would simply talk to each other; but, in that case, why go out--why take a taxi and go to the supper in the first place?
As foreseen in my list of possible conversational topics, we begin with cultural small talk--isn't that a marvelous exhibition, wasn't that an intelligent review.... I would like to concentrate on the entree--caviar with salmon and egg--but I am constantly interrupted by the usual questions about how my new book is doing, where I find my inspiration, whether I'm working on a new project. Everyone seems very cultured, everyone manages to mention--as if by chance, of course--some famous person who also happens to be a close friend. Everyone can speak cogently about the current state of politics or about the problems facing culture.
"Why don't we talk about something else?"
The question slips out inadvertently. Everyone at the table goes quiet. After all, it is extremely rude to interrupt other people and worse still to draw attention to oneself. It seems, however, that last night's tour of the streets of Paris in the guise of a beggar has caused some irreparable damage, which means that I can no longer stand such conversations.
"We could talk about the acomodador: the moment in our lives when we decide to abandon our desires and make do, instead, with what we have."
No one seems very interested. I decide to change the subject.
"We could talk about the importance of forgetting the story we've been told and trying to live an entirely different story. Try doing something different every day--like talking to the person at the next table to you in a restaurant, visiting a hospital, putting your foot in a puddle, listening to what another person has to say, allowing the energy of love to flow freely, instead of putting it in a jug and standing it in a corner."
"Are you talking about adultery?" asks the director of the perfumery.
"No, I mean allowing yourself to be the instrument of love, not its master, being with someone because you really want to be, not because convention obliges you to be."
With great delicacy, and just a touch of irony, the French consul to Monaco assures me that all the people around our table are, of course, exercising that right and freedom. Everyone agrees, although no one believes that it's true.
"Sex!" cries the blonde woman whose role that evening no one has quite identified. "Why don't we talk about sex? It's much more interesting and much less complicated!"
At least her remark is spontaneous. One of the women sitting next to me gives a wry laugh, but I applaud.
"Sex is certainly more interesting, but I'm not sure it's a different topic of conversation. Besides, it's no longer forbidden to talk about sex."
"It's also in extremely bad taste," says one of my neighbors.
"May we know what is forbidden?" asks the organizer, who is starting to feel uncomfortable.
"Well, money, for example. All of us around this table have money, or pretend that we do. We assume we've been invited here because we're rich, famous, and influential. But have any of us ever thought of using this kind of event to find out what everyone actually earns? Since we're all so sure of ourselves, so important, why don't we look at our world as it is and not as we imagine it to be?"
"What are you getting at?" asks the director of the car-manufacturing firm.
"It's a long story. I could start by talking about Hans and Fritz sitting in a bar in Tokyo and go on to mention a Mongolian nomad who says we need to forget who we think we are in order to become who we really are."
"You've lost me."
/> "That's my fault. I didn't really explain. But let's get down to the nitty-gritty: I'd like to know how much everyone here earns, what it means, in money terms, to be sitting at the head table."
There is a momentary silence--my gamble is not paying off. The other people around the table are looking at me with startled eyes: asking about someone's financial situation is a bigger taboo than sex, more frowned upon than asking about betrayals, corruption, or parliamentary intrigues.
However, the Arab prince--perhaps because he's bored by all these receptions and banquets with their empty chatter, perhaps because that very day he has been told by his doctor that he is going to die, or perhaps for some other reason--decides to answer my question:
"I earn about twenty thousand euros a month, depending on the amount approved by the parliament in my country. That bears no relation to what I spend, though, because I have an unlimited so-called entertainment allowance. In other words, I am here courtesy of the embassy's car and chauffeur; the clothes I'm wearing belong to the government; and tomorrow I will be traveling to another European country in a private jet, with the cost of pilot, fuel, and airport taxes deducted from that allowance."
And he concludes:
"Apparent reality is not an exact science."
If the prince can speak so frankly, and given that he is, hierarchically, the most important person at the table, the others cannot possibly embarrass him by remaining silent. They are going to have to participate in the game, the question, and the embarrassment.
"I don't know exactly how much I earn," says the organizer, one of the Favor Bank's classic representatives, known to some as a lobbyist. "Somewhere in the region of ten thousand euros a month, but I, too, have an entertainment allowance from the various organizations I head. I can deduct everything--suppers, lunches, hotels, air tickets, sometimes even clothes--although I don't have a private jet."
The wine has run out; he signals to a waiter and our glasses are refilled. Now it was the turn of the director of the car-manufacturing firm, who, initially, had hated the idea of talking about money, but who now seems to be rather enjoying herself.
"I reckon I earn about the same, and have the same unlimited entertainment allowance."
One by one, everyone confessed how much they earned. The banker was the richest of them all, with ten million euros a year, as well as shares in his bank that were constantly increasing in value.
When it came to the turn of the young blonde woman who had not been introduced to anyone, she refused to answer:
"That's part of my secret garden. It's nobody's business but mine."
"Of course it isn't, but we're just playing a game," said the organizer.
The woman refused to join in, and by doing so, placed herself on a higher level than everyone else: after all, she was the only one in the group who had secrets. However, by placing herself on a higher level, she only succeeded in earning everyone else's scorn. Afraid of feeling humiliated by her miserable salary, she had, by acting all mysterious, managed to humiliate everyone else, not realizing that most of the people there lived permanently poised on the edge of the abyss, utterly dependent on those entertainment allowances that could vanish overnight.
The question inevitably came around to me.
"It depends. In a year when I publish a new book, I could earn five million euros. If I don't publish a book, then I earn about two million from royalties on existing titles."
"You only asked the question so that you could say how much you earned," said the young woman with the "secret garden." "No one's impressed."
She had realized that she had made a wrong move earlier on and was now trying to correct the situation by going on the attack.
"On the contrary," said the prince. "I would have expected a leading author like yourself to be far wealthier."
A point to me. The blonde woman would not open her mouth again all night.
The conversation about money broke a series of taboos, given that how much people earn was the biggest of them all. The waiter began to appear more frequently, the bottles of wine began to be emptied with incredible speed, the emcee-cum-organizer rather tipsily mounted the stage, announced the winner, presented the prize, and immediately rejoined the conversation, which had carried on even though politeness demands that we keep quiet when someone else is talking. We discussed what we did with our money (this consisted mostly of buying "free time," traveling, or practicing a sport).
I thought of changing tack and asking them what kind of funeral they would like--death was as big a taboo as money--but the atmosphere was so buoyant and everyone was so full of talk that I decided to say nothing.
"You're all talking about money, but you don't know what money is," said the banker. "Why do people think that a bit of colored paper, a plastic card, or a coin made out of fifth-rate metal has any value? Worse still, did you know that your money, your millions of dollars, are nothing but electronic impulses?"
Of course we did.
"Once, wealth was what these ladies are wearing," he went on. "Ornaments made from rare materials that were easy to transport, count, and share out. Pearls, nuggets of gold, precious stones. We all carried our wealth in a visible place. Such things were, in turn, exchanged for cattle or grain, because no one walks down the street carrying cattle or sacks of grain. The funny thing is that we still behave like some primitive tribe--we wear our ornaments to show how rich we are, even though we often have more ornaments than money."
"It's the tribal code," I said. "In my day, young people wore their hair long, whereas nowadays they all go in for body piercing. It helps them identify like-minded people, even though it can't buy anything."
"Can our electronic impulses buy one extra hour of life? No. Can they buy back those loved ones who have departed? No. Can they buy love?"
"They can certainly buy love," said the director of the car-manufacturing firm in an amused tone of voice.
Her eyes, however, betrayed a terrible sadness. I thought of Esther and of what I had said to the journalist in the interview I had given that morning. We rich, powerful, intelligent people knew that, deep down, we had acquired all these ornaments and credit cards only in order to find love and affection and to be with someone who loved us.
"Not always," said the director of the perfumery, turning to look at me.
"No, you're right, not always. After all, my wife left me, and I'm a wealthy man. But almost always. By the way, does anyone at this table know how many cats and how many lampposts there are on the back of a ten-dollar bill?"
No one knew and no one was interested. The comment about love had completely spoiled the jolly atmosphere, and we went back to talking about literary prizes, exhibitions, the latest film, and the play that was proving to be such an unexpected success.
How was it on your table?"
"Oh, the usual."
"Well, I managed to spark an interesting discussion about money, but, alas, it ended in tragedy."
"When do you leave?"
"I have to leave here at half past seven in the morning. Since you're flying to Berlin, we could share a taxi."
"Where are you going?"
"You know where I'm going. You haven't asked me, but you know."
"Yes, I know."
"Just as you know that we're saying goodbye at this very moment."
"We could go back to the time when we first met: a man in emotional tatters over someone who had left him, and a woman madly in love with her neighbor. I could repeat what I said to you once: 'I'm going to fight to the bitter end.' Well, I fought and I lost, and now I'll just have to lick my wounds and leave."
"I fought and lost as well. I'm not trying to sew up what was rent. Like you, I want to fight to the bitter end."
"I suffer every day, did you know that? I've been suffering for months now, trying to show you how much I love you, how things are only important when you're by my side. But now, whether I suffer or not, I've decided that enough is enough. It's over. I'm tired.
After that night in Zagreb, I lowered my guard and said to myself: If the blow comes, it comes. It can lay me out on the canvas, it can knock me out cold, but one day I'll recover."
"You'll find someone else."
"Of course I will: I'm young, pretty, intelligent, desirable, but will I experience all the things I experienced with you?"
"You'll experience different emotions and, you know, although you may not believe it, I loved you while we were together."
"I'm sure you did, but that doesn't make it any the less painful. We'll leave in separate taxis tomorrow. I hate goodbyes, especially at airports or train stations."
THE RETURN TO ITHACA
We'll sleep here tonight and, tomorrow, we'll continue on horseback. My car can't cope with the sand of the steppes."
We were in a kind of bunker, which looked like a relic from the Second World War. A man, with his wife and his granddaughter, welcomed us and showed us a simple, but spotlessly clean room.
Dos went on:
"And don't forget to choose a name."
"I don't think that's necessary," said Mikhail.
"Of course it is," insisted Dos. "I was with his wife recently. I know how she thinks, I know what she has learned, I know what she expects."
Dos's voice was simultaneously firm and gentle. Yes, I would choose a name, I would do exactly as he suggested; I would continue to discard my personal history and, instead, embark on my personal legend--even if only out of sheer tiredness.
I was exhausted. The previous night I had slept for two hours at most: my body had still not adjusted to the enormous time difference. I had arrived in Almaty at about eleven o'clock at night local time, when in France it was only six o'clock in the evening. Mikhail had left me at the hotel and I had dozed for a bit, then woken up in the small hours. I had looked out at the lights below and thought how in Paris it would just be time to go out to supper. I was hungry and asked room service if they could send me up something to eat: "Of course we can, sir, but you really must try to sleep; if you don't, your body will stay stuck on its European timetable."
For me, the worst possible torture is not being able to sleep. I ate a sandwich and decided to go for a walk. I asked the receptionist my usual question: "Is it dangerous to go walking at this hour?" He told me it wasn't, and so I set off down the empty streets, narrow alleyways, broad avenues; it was a city like any other, with its neon signs, the occasional passing police car, a beggar here, a prostitute there. I had to keep repeating out loud: "I'm in Kazakhstan!" If I didn't, I would end up thinking I was merely in some unfamiliar quarter of Paris.