Amélie Nothomb: Fear and Trembling

He called me back.

“Your photocopies are slightly crooked,” he said, holding up one sheet. “Start over.”

I went back to the photocopier, thinking I must have put the pages into the automatic feed at a slight angle. This time I gave the task my utmost attention. The results looked impeccable. I took my oeuvre back to Mister Saito.

“They’re crooked again,” he told me.

“That’s not true!” I cried.

“It’s extremely bad manners to say that to your superior.”

“I’m sorry. But I made sure that the photocopying was perfect.”

“It isn’t. Look.”

He showed me one page, which I thought irreproachably straight.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“The text is not absolutely parallel to the edge of the page.”

“Do you think so?”

“If I say so, yes!”

He threw the sheaf of paper into his wastepaper basket.

“Are you using the automatic feed?”

“Indeed I am.”

“That explains it. Don’t use the automatic feed. It’s not accurate enough.”

“Mister Saito, if I don’t use the automatic feed it’ll take me hours to get to through all this.”

“Where’s the problem?” He smiled. “You didn’t have enough to do as it was.”

I understood: this was my punishment for the business with the calendars.

I installed myself at the photocopier as if it were the galley of a ship. Each time I had to lift up the top, place the page face-down with minute precision, press the button, and check the results. It was three o’clock when I started on my treadmill. At seven o’clock I still had not finished. Employees came by from time to time. If they had more than ten copies to do, I would humbly ask them to consent to use the machine at the other end of the corridor.

I glanced at the contents of what I was photocopying. They were the rules of the golf club of which Mister Saito was a member. I started to laugh.

The next minute I felt more like crying, thinking about all the innocent trees that my superior was wasting to chastise me. I imagined the forests of the Japan of my childhood—maples, cedars, and ginkgoes—felled for the sole purpose of punishing a creature as insignificant as myself. I remembered, again, that Fubuki’s family name meant “forest.”

Then along came Mister Tenshi, director of the Dairy Products Department. He held the same position as Mister Saito, who was manager of the General Accounting Department. I looked at him in amazement. Surely someone in his position delegated his photocopying.

He answered my unspoken question.

“It’s eight o’clock. I’m the only person in my office. Tell me, why don’t you use the automatic feed?”

I told him with a humble smile that I was following specific instructions from Mister Saito.

“I see,” he said in a voice full of hidden meaning.

He seemed lost in thought for a while, then spoke.

“You’re from Belgium, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What a happy coincidence. I’ve got a very interesting project involving your country. Could you find the time to do a report for me?”

I gazed at him as one might the Messiah. He explained that a Belgian cooperative had developed a new process for removing the fat content of butter.

“I believe in low-fat butter,” he said. “It’s the future.”

“I’ve always thought so, too,” I replied, inventing an opinion on the spot.

“Come and see me in my office tomorrow.”

I finished my photocopying in a trance. A career opportunity was opening up before me. I put the sheaf of paper on Mister Saito’s table and left, triumphant.

WHEN I ARRIVED at work the next day, Fubuki looked at me with a frightened expression.

“Mister Saito wants you to start the photocopying again. He thinks the pages are crooked.”

I burst out laughing and told her about the little game in which our boss seemed to be indulging himself on my account.

“I’m sure that he hasn’t even looked at the latest photocopies. I did them one by one, calibrated to the nearest millimeter. I don’t know how many hours I spent on it—all this for his golf club’s rules and regulations.”

“He’s torturing you!”

I reassured her.

“Don’t worry. He’s keeping me amused.”

I went back to the photocopier, which I was beginning to know very well, and entrusted the work to the automatic feed. I was convinced that Mister Saito would announce his verdict without paying the least attention to my work. I felt a wave of emotion when I thought of Fubuki. She was so kind. Thank goodness she was there.

In the end, Mister Saito’s predictable reaction suited me perfectly. The day before, I had spent more than seven hours producing the thousand photocopies one by one. That gave me an excellent alibi for the hours that I would spend in Mister Tenshi’s office. The automatic feed did the job in about ten minutes. I picked up my tome and slipped away to the Dairy Products Department.

Mister Tenshi gave me contact numbers for the Belgian cooperative.

“I will need a full report, with as much detail as possible, on this new low-fat butter. You can sit at Mister Saitama’s desk. He’s away on business.”

“Tenshi” means “angel.” I thought he wore his name extremely well. Not only was he giving me a chance, he was leaving me carte blanche, which is exceptional in Japan. And he had taken this initiative without asking for anyone else’s opinion.

I was aware this meant he was running a considerable risk. I consequently felt an instant, boundless devotion to Mister Tenshi—the devotion that every Japanese worker owes to his boss, the devotion I had been unable to feel toward Mister Saito or Mister Omochi. Mister Tenshi had suddenly become my commander, my captain-in-arms. Like a samurai, I was prepared to fight to the death for him.

I threw myself into the battle of low-fat butter. The time difference meant that I could not call Belgium immediately, so I started by talking to Japanese consumer organizations and to people at the Department of Health, to learn what the dietary habits of the Japanese population were with respect to butter, and what effects they were having on average cholesterol levels. The average Japanese citizen, I discovered, was eating more and more butter. Obesity and cardiovascular diseases were gaining ground rapidly.

When the time of day permitted, I called the Belgian cooperative. The thick rural accent in my native tongue on the other end of the line moved me. My compatriot, flattered to be talking on the phone with someone in Japan, was extremely helpful. Ten minutes later, I received a ten-page fax, detailing the new process for removing the fat content of butter for which the cooperative held the patent.

I was compiling the report of the century. It opened with an overview of the Japanese butter market, its growth since 1950, and the parallel growth of health problems linked to excessive consumption of saturated fat. Next I outlined the current processes for removing fat from butter, the new Belgian technique, its considerable advantages, etc. As I had to write this in English, I took the work home with me. I needed my dictionary for the scientific terms. I stayed up all night.

I arrived at Yumimoto two hours early the following morning to type up the report and hand it to Mister Tenshi, so that I wouldn’t arrive late at Mister Saito’s office.

The latter called me in straightaway.

“I have inspected the photocopying that you left on my desk last night. You’re improving, but it is not yet perfect. Start over.”

And he threw the pile of paper into the trash.

I bowed my head and complied. I forced myself not to laugh.

Mister Tenshi joined me at the photocopier. He congratulated me with all the warmth that his respectful reserve would allow.