Reif Larsen - I Am Radar

When no one filled the silence, she said, in a velvety French accent, “I like men who dress the same. It is why I married a lieutenant.”

“And why did you marry him and not me?” cried a round-faced man with long, sweaty hair.

“Parce que vous êtes une bête sauvage.”

Everyone seemed to think this was very funny.

“Yes, this bête sauvage is Fabien,” said Captain Daneri. “He runs the hotel. Or tries to run the hotel.”

“The hotel runs itself,” said Fabien. “I just complain.”

“Fabien’s family came here just after Lord Stanley, isn’t that right?”

“My great-great-grandfather was Camille Janssen, governor general of the Congo Free State. He was one of the first assholes from Belgium to arrive on African soil. And now I am one of the last Belgian assholes on African soil, at your service.”

“You give yourself too much credit, Fabien,” said the captain.

“It’s a common habit of an asshole.”

“Well, sit, sit,” the captain said to his guests. “Join us. We’re drinking sixty-year-old Courvoisier.”

“The cognac is older than the nation,” noted Fabien.

“Fabien also has a legendary cellar of French wine that would be the envy of any restaurant in Paris,” said Captain Daneri. “What would you like?”

“I’ll try the famous cognac, thank you,” said Lars.

“I will have water,” said Otik.

“Don’t be a fool,” said the captain.

“I will have cognac,” said Otik.

“Me as well,” said Radar.

He had never had cognac before. It had always sounded like a cleaning product to him, something to rid the bathtub of its rings. But if Lars was trying it, then he would, too.

“And some food, if you have any,” said Lars. “We didn’t get a chance to eat.”

“Of course!” said the captain. “Fabien, can we arrange un petit dîner for my guests?”

Fabien snapped at a waiter and gave him a series of rapid instructions in French.

“So tell me, what is with these outfits?” asked the captain, who was wearing his crisp commodore whites. “They make you look like American gangster rappers.”

“It’s not true,” said Yvette. “I think they’re very handsome.”

Daneri held up his hands. “I yield to her opinion on such matters, of course, but I think they are an odd choice to travel in. You are like a women’s volleyball team.”

“Are you really in the theater?” Yvette asked Lars, leaning forward.

Lars blinked. The question hung in the air. Radar braced himself. He wanted to run from the courtyard. Horeb could moto him to some faraway place so he would never have to see these people again. He was tired of not saying what he shouldn’t and guessing what others were thinking of him. He wanted to go back to his little radio station and tend his frequency, free from the burden of face-to-face contact.

“Yes,” said Lars. “We are performers.”

“And what do you perform?” asked Yvette.

It was clear that she expected answers to her questions. Radar could sense in her a lifetime of getting answers.

“We. .” Lars stopped.

Otik broke the silence.

“We,” he said, gesturing to the three of them, “are the most famous group you have never heard of and will never hear of.”

“Really?” said Yvette. “But I just heard of you.”

“After tonight you will never know us again,” said Otik.

“C’est une prédiction.”

The waiter arrived with a tray of snifter glasses. The cognac that was older than the nation was carefully poured into each, snifted, swirled. The scent of time’s density.

Captain Daneri raised his glass. “To the most famous group we have never heard of and will never hear of again.”

“Hear, hear,” said Fabien, sipping at the Courvoisier. “Eh bien, ça y est.”

“So may I ask how your adoring audience finds you?” asked Yvette.

“They don’t,” said Otik. “We have no audience. This is whole point.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s impossible for me to see one of your shows.”

“Correct.”

“But it’s a pity, isn’t it?”

Lars tapped Otik’s shoulder. “What Otik means is that our shows occur in a very particular time and space. The staging itself is the art form. They aren’t meant to be seen — they’re meant to happen.”

“If you ask me,” said Fabien, “it sounds like a lot of bullshit.”

“ Oh, chut, mon chéri . No one asked you,” intoned Yvette. She turned to face Lars. “Pardon me for asking — I have only been to the theater a very few times — but doesn’t a show depend upon the relationship between the actors and the audience? Like a connection . This is the whole reason for the performance, yes?”

“This is one school of philosophy,” said Lars. “That there must be a witness for a performance to exist in the first place. I think for us, the notion of audience is not limited to a group of people sitting in chairs, watching the stage. The universe can also be an observer. The atoms, the quarks, the elemental bonds — all of these can pay witness to the show. There are many ways to alter the course of time.”

“Tu entends ça? Quelles conneries!” said Fabien.

“La mécanique quantique sonne souvent comme des conneries pour les personnes sans instruction,” said Lars.

“You speak French well,” said Yvette.

“You speak English well,” said Lars.

“I learned it from watching Hollywood movies.” She smiled. “Bogart and Bacall are my teachers.”

The waiter returned with three steaming plates of food.

“This is grilled catfish with a local vegetable called tshitekutaku and cassava cakes, which they call fufu, ” said Fabien. “I thought you might like an introduction to native cuisine. If you don’t like it, I will have the chef killed instantly.”

“Thank you,” said Lars. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“We don’t do things softly in this country,” said Fabien. “It is either the best or the worst. There is no in-between.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Radar. “It looks wonderful. Please don’t kill the cook.”

“May I ask how many of these shows you have done so far?” said Yvette as the plates were served.

“Since 1944, there have been four,” said Lars. “This will be the fifth.”

“ Oh la! It is a true event!” She clapped her hands. “And I suppose you can’t tell me where you plan on performing?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Lars, taking a bite of his food. “If the show was expected by its viewers, this would change the nature of the performance, you see.”

“I do see.” She smiled. “Can you at least give me the title? That can’t hurt, can it? I promise I won’t tell. Will you tell, Fabien?”

Fabien made a fart sound with his mouth.

“This is delicious, by the way,” said Radar.

“Good. I’m glad you like it,” said Fabien. “I will spare the chef. This time only.”

Lars was chewing his fufu thoughtfully.

“It’s called The Conference of the Birds, ” he said finally.

This was news to Radar.

“Like Attar’s poem,” said Professor Funes, who had not said a word all evening.

“You know it?” said Lars.

“I’m familiar.”

“Professor Funes is familiar with most things,” said Captain Daneri.

“Well, do tell,” said Yvette. “What is it?”

Funes sipped at his cognac. He tilted his head, as if recalling a distant memory, and then began to speak in his peculiar, high-pitched lilt. “ Mantiq al-Tayr was written by Farid ud-Din Attar in 1177. Attar himself was not a Sufi. . but one could say he was heavily influenced by the non-dualistic transient spiritualism of Sufism, and this is reflected in his poem.”