Amélie Nothomb - Fear and Trembling

People with menial jobs conjure up what Nietzsche calls a background world, forcing themselves to believe in an earthly or heavenly paradise. Their mental Eden is as seductive as their job is repugnant.

I would walk over to the bay window and look down upon the eleven subway stops, trying to see that journey’s end. But from there, no house was visible or even imaginable. You see? I told myself. You only dreamed that life.

Then, once again, I pressed my forehead against the glass, and once again imagined my trajectory through space. Throwing myself into the view outside of that window saved me.

There must be pieces of my body all over Tokyo to this very day.

THE MONTHS PASSED. Every day, the block of my time at Yumimoto was chipped away, though I had no sense whether it was happening quickly or slowly. My memory was beginning to work like a toilet bowl. I would flush it in the evening. A mental brush would eliminate the remains of the day.

This ritual cleaning served no real purpose, of course, since it was only smeared again the following day.

Most people know that bathrooms are conducive to monastic meditation; they are places designed for pondering. In the quiet of the rest rooms on the forty-fourth floor, I came to understand something profound about the country in which I was living: existence, in Japan, is an extension of The Company.

That is an observation already expounded upon in countless economic and sociological studies. However, there is a world of difference between reading a study and living the reality. I saw quite clearly exactly what this meant for the employees of the Yumimoto Corporation—and for myself.

My suffering was no worse than theirs; it was just more degrading. And yet I did not envy them. They were as miserable as I.

The accountants who spent ten hours a day copying out numbers were, to my mind, victims sacrificed on the altar of a divinity wholly bereft of either greatness or mystery. These humble creatures were devoting their entire lives to a reality beyond their grasp. In days gone by they might have at least believed there was some purpose to their servitude. Now they no longer had any illusions. They were giving up their lives for nothing, and they knew it.

Everyone knows that Japan has the highest suicide rate of any country in the world. What surprised me was that suicides were not more common.

What awaited these poor number-crunchers outside The Company? The obligatory beer with colleagues undergoing the same kind of gradual lobotomy, hours spent stuffed into an overcrowded subway, a dozing wife, exhausted children, sleep that sucked them down into it like the vortex of a flushing toilet, the occasional day off they never took full advantage of. Nothing that deserved to be called a life.

The worst part of it all was that they were considered lucky.

DECEMBER CAME. THE month of my resignation. The word “resignation” might come as a surprise. I was, after all, coming to the end of my one-year contract; it therefore should not have been a question of my having to resign. And yet it was. In a country in which until very recently, contract or no contract, you were always hired forever, you did not leave a job without following certain traditions.

To respect those tradition, I was to tender my resignation to every level of the hierarchy, starting at the bottom: first to Fubuki, then to Mister Saito, then to Mister Omochi, and finally to Mister Haneda.

I prepared myself for this duty. I was determined to observe the most important rule of all: not complain.

Moreover, my father had given me some firm instructions in the matter. He was concerned that nothing should threaten the good relations between Belgium and Japan. I was therefore not even remotely to suggest that any Yumimoto employee had mistreated me. Any motives for resignation—I would have to explain my reasons for wanting to leave such a promising position—were to be presented in the first person singular.

This did not leave me with much choice: I had to place full responsibility for leaving on myself. Still, I proceeded under the assumption that Yumimoto would be grateful if I helped them save face, and might even protest that I was being too hard on myself, and that despite it all I was a good person.

I requested an interview with my superior. Fubuki told me to meet her in an empty office at the end of the day. As I was about to meet her, a demon whispered in my ear: “Tell her that you can make more money working as a bathroom attendant somewhere else.” I had difficulty resisting the temptation. In fact, I was on the brink of hysterical laughter when I was face to face with Miss Mori.

The demon came back. “Tell her you’ll only stay if they charge anyone who uses the bathrooms fifty yen.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Stifling my laughter was such a consuming effort that at first I couldn’t actually speak.

Fubuki sighed.

“Well? You wanted to tell me something?”

To hide my mouth’s contortions, I lowered my head as much as possible, conferring upon me an apparent humility that must have delighted my superior.

“I am coming to the end of my contract and it is with very great regret that I announce that I cannot renew it.”

My voice was meek and tremulous—that of the archetypal underling.

“Ah? And why is that?” she asked crisply.

I realized I wasn’t the only one doing the acting. I followed her lead by reciting my prepared lines.

“The Yumimoto Corporation has offered me many wonderful opportunities to prove myself. I will be eternally grateful for that. Sadly, I have not proven myself worthy of the honor.”

I again bit the inside of my cheek. Fubuki, on the other hand, had no trouble staying in character.

“Quite so. Why do you think you were not worthy?”

This took me by surprise. Was she really asking me why I had not proven myself worthy of scrubbing toilets? Was her need to humiliate me really so great? Had even I underestimated her feelings toward me?

I composed myself, looked straight into her eyes, and took up her challenge.

“Because I do not have the intellectual capabilities.”

I was deeply curious whether such grotesque submission would please her. Her expression remained impassive. It would have taken a highly sensitive seismograph to detect any tensing of the jaw. But I knew she was enjoying her part.

“I agree. Why do you think you lack these capabilities?”

“Because the Western brain is inferior to the Japanese brain.”

Fubuki seemed both delighted by and prepared for this.

“That is certainly part of it. And yet we shouldn’t exaggerate the inferiority of the average Western brain. Don’t you think that this incapability derives primarily from a deficiency specific to your own brain?”

“Without a doubt.”

“At first I thought that you intended to sabotage Yumimoto. Can you swear to me that you weren’t being deliberately stupid?”

“I swear it.”

“Are you aware of your handicap?”

“Yes. The Yumimoto Corporation has helped me to realize its existence.”

Fubuki’s expression remained impassive, but I could tell from her voice that her mouth was getting dry. I was making her deliriously happy.

“So the company has done you a great favor.”

“I will be eternally grateful to it.”

This somewhat surreal twist that our conversation was taking lifted Fubuki to unforeseen heights of ecstasy. Despite myself, I found it deeply moving.

I suddenly wanted to tell her how delighted I was at being the instrument of her pleasure. I wanted to tell her to be the snowstorm of her name, to bombard me with bitterly cold blasts of wind, flint-sharp icy rain. I accepted that I was a mortal lost in the mountains on which her clouds were unleashing their unmerciful fury.