Amélie Nothomb - Fear and Trembling

Giving her such satisfaction cost me so little, and her need to torture me was so great. Looking into her eyes, I read signs of pure joy. How long I had been waiting to see in those eyes the smallest glimmer of pleasure.

“What do you plan to do next?” she asked simply.

I had no intention of telling her that I was doing some writing.

“Perhaps I could teach French,” I replied blandly.

My superior burst into a scornful laugh.

“You think you’re capable of teaching?!”

I realized that she wanted something more, so I instantly decided against telling her that I already had a teacher certification. I lowered my head.

“You’re right. I still haven’t understood my limitations.”

“Obviously not. Tell me honestly what job you think you are capable of.”

Ancient Japanese protocol stipulated that the Emperor be addressed with “fear and trembling.” I’ve always loved the expression, which so perfectly describes the way actors in Samurai films speak to their leader, their voices tremulous with almost superhuman reverence.

So I put on the mask of terror and started to tremble. I looked into Fubuki’s eyes.

“Perhaps… I… perhaps the garbage collectors would hire me.”

“Yes!” she replied, a little too enthusiastically.

She took a deep breath. I had succeeded.

I THEN TENDERED my resignation to Mister Saito. He too arranged to meet me in an empty office but, unlike Fubuki, he seemed uncomfortable when I sat down opposite him.

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

Mister Saito’s face broke into a multitude of nervous tics. As I was unable to interpret their meaning, I went on with my 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.”

Mister Saito’s body twitched convulsively. He looked profoundly embarrassed.

“Amélie-san…”

His eyes searched every corner of the room, as if looking for the right words to say. I felt sorry for him.

“Saito-san?”

“I… we… I’m so sorry. I didn’t want all this to happen.

A Japanese person genuinely apologizing happens about once every century. I was horrified that Mister Saito should have consented to such humiliation for my sake. It was all the more unfair because he had had no part in my successive demotions.

“Please don’t apologize. Everything has happened for the best. My time in your company has taught me a great deal.”

At least that was the truth.

“Do you have plans?” he asked me with a kind but appallingly tense smile.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll find something.”

Poor Mister Saito. I was the one comforting him. Despite his status and position, he was both a slave to and an inept torturer in a system that he almost certainly didn’t like, but which—out of weakness and lack of imagination—he would never question.

IT WAS MISTER Omochi’s turn. I was paralyzed with fear at the idea of being alone with him in his office. The vice-president, however, was in an excellent mood.

“Amélie-san!”

He pronounced my name in that wonderful and very Japanese way that somehow confirms a person’s existence by throwing their name in the air.

He had spoken with his mouth full, but it was difficult to figure out what he was eating from the sound of his voice. It must have been gooey and sticky, the sort of thing it takes your tongue a long time to clean off your teeth. It didn’t adhere to the roof of the mouth enough to be caramel. Too fatty to be liquorice. Too dense to be marshmallow. A mystery.

I threw myself into my well-rehearsed litany.

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

Whatever delicacy it was he was devouring was on his knee, hidden from me by the desk. He put a new portion of it into his mouth, but his fleshy fingers hid their cargo before I could see what color it was. That was maddening.

The Obsese One must have realized I was curious about what he was eating because he threw it on his desk. It looked like pale-green chocolate.

“Is that chocolate from the planet Mars?” I asked, perplexed.

He roared with laughter, then was convulsed with hiccups.

Kassey no chokoreto! Kassey no chokoreto!”

This meant “Chocolate from Mars! Chocolate from Mars!”

I thought this was a pretty extraordinary way of greeting my resignation. His high-cholesterol hilarity was making me uncomfortable. I was suddenly worried he might have a heart attack right in front of me. How would I have explained it to the police? “I offered him my resignation and the shock must have killed him.” No one at the Yumimoto Corporation would have believed that. I was the kind of employee whose departure could only ever be very welcome news.

No one would believe the green chocolate did him in. You don’t die from chocolate, even if it is green. Murder was more likely. I would have had my share of motives.

In short, I had to hope that Mister Omochi didn’t die, because I would have been the ideal suspect.

The typhoon of laughter finally ended, and I was about to deliver my second recitation when he interrupted me.

“It’s melon-flavored white chocolate, a specialty from Hokkaido. Exquisite. They have perfectly re-created the taste of a Japanese melon. Here, try some.”

“No, thank you.”

I liked Japanese melon, but found the idea of it mixed with white chocolate repulsive.

For some reason my refusal irritated the vice-president. He asked again, in the form of a polite order.

“Meshiagatte kudasai.”

Which means, “Please, do me the kindness of eating.”

I refused again, as politely as I could.

He started to hurtle through the levels of language.

“Tabete.”

Which means: “Eat.”

I refused.

He shouted:

“Taheru!”

Which means: “Swallow it!”

I refused.

He exploded with rage.

“Now you listen to me! Until your contract is terminated you will obey my orders!”

“Mister Omochi, what difference does it make to you whether or not I eat some of this green chocolate?”

“Stop being insolent! It’s not for you to ask me questions! You will do as I tell you!”

“What do I risk if I don’t obey? Getting fired? That would be just fine.”

Once again, after the fact, I realized that I had gone too far. A glance at Mister Omochi’s expression told me that good relations between Belgium and Japan had come to a serious pass. His coronary now seemed imminent. So was my arrest.

“I’m so sorry.”

He found enough breath to roar, “Swallow it!”

This was my punishment. Who would have believed that eating green chocolate would be a matter of international diplomacy?

I moved my hand toward the packet, thinking that this was perhaps what had happened in the Garden of Eden. Eve had had absolutely no desire to bite into the apple, but a great fat serpent, in the grips of a sudden and inexplicable excess of sadism, had forced her to.

I broke off one of the greenish squares and brought it to my mouth. The color more than anything else was what had put me off. I put it in my mouth, bit into it, and to my great shame, discovered that its taste was far from unpleasant.

“It’s delicious,” I said grudgingly.

“Ha! Ha! Good, isn’t it, this Martian chocolate?”

He was triumphant. International relations were back on an even keel.

Once I had swallowed the casus belli, I started into the next part of my recitation.