Norman Rush - Subtle Bodies

She said, “I learned some fascinating things about your friend Douglas.”

“Such as?”

“Such as this. Well, he was kind of a man of mystery. He took something called special commissions . Which means that he did work for the German Bundes-something and for the Israelis.”

“You mean verifying documents and that sort of thing?”

She was staring at the turkeys, who seemed reluctant to leave them behind. She said, “What in God’s name is the use of the disgusting ropey thing that big male has on his neck? You’d think it would get tangled in the underbrush and hinder escape from predators. Maybe the lady turkeys find it attractive, maybe because it suggests macho with regard to underbrush.”

Ned said, “That’s definitely it. So we can move on.”

She said, “Well verifying documents and maybe a lot more. Maybe helping his clients make perfect forgeries no one could detect.”

“Ah this is ridiculous. Who told you this?”

“A source! And why do you think the Israeli consul general from New York is expected?”

“I have no idea. I mean I’m sure the Israelis appreciate his work on the Dreyfus carnets . Anyway, it’s the consul from Newark , not New York.”

“Same thing.”

“No it is not.”

“Anyway, he did something for them. And he got money in odd ways. He was paid a huge amount for writing a screenplay for a movie called Tambov that was never produced. It was about a remote province in Russia during the revolution where all the defectors and deserters who were sick of killing fled to and formed their own army against all the others. It was a mélange. They were communists and monarchists, anarchists like you of course, anybody who was sick of war and killing — oh and they had a green flag. Just plain green.”

“So are you saying it was laundered money? Wait, I think I know who told you all this.”

He squinted back in the direction she’d come from to see if the culprit, the guy she had been talking to, was still there. He was. And Ned should have realized it earlier. His name was Jacques and he was wearing a signature matelot jersey, echt French.

“Oh God, you’ve been talking to that French guy, Jacques, I forget his last name.”

“I’m getting forgetful too. And oh, remind me to remember to tell Ma about my food adventures around here. When she figured out I was eating stuff I’ve never eaten in my life before, like, lobster roe, she said I had to remember everything and tell her …”

“Don’t you think I have enough on my mind? Get a memo book like I have. I don’t feel like writing down entries for your gourmet life list …”

“Lobster roe, and sticky toffee pudding and what was the other thing — mushroom strudel, and oh, flavored salt.”

“If the French guy comes over here I’m going to have to beat you.”

“You’re saying that like you hate the French or things French or something.”

“I am God damn not . Actually I’ve talked to the guy already. He snagged me after breakfast twice. And he’s okay.”

“And he’s jolly, Ned! At least compared to your friends. And he’s against the war, sorry, the invasion. And by the way he’s a squatter.”

“I’m not surprised. You mean he’s living in a squat commune in Lyon or someplace?”

“No no no. He’s squatting here . He isn’t official. He’s a stowaway here. He’s sleeping in one of the basements in the tower. And he’s against the war.”

Ned was annoyed. She was romanticizing her Frenchman, thinking Jacques was the real article, unlike some people she could name.

“I know he’s against the war. I had to tell him twice he couldn’t sign my petition because he wasn’t a U.S. citizen. Politically he’s fucking way off the left edge of the map. He works for an alternative FM station in Lyon called Diffusion Ravachol. He’s been searching for me to give me a book by his hero Thierry Meyssan that’s going to prove to me that the Pentagon was hit by a missile, not a plane …”

“But he’s on our side at least! I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a brother but …”

Ned said, “I am grinding my teeth, you may notice. It’s my own fault. I made the mistake of starting off with him in my New Chardenal French. So now he thinks I speak French when in fact I hardly know what I’m saying. Oh Christ descend! He’s coming to join us.”

“Salut!” Jacques shouted, arriving. He was a short, eager, muscular man probably in his late thirties although he might be younger and suffering the effects of a dissipated existence. That was just a guess. His face was pear shaped, heavy around the mouth. He had his graying blond hair in a ponytail. One wing of his very full gray moustache was stained amber. He chain-smoked Gitanes, was smoking one now, and in a moment Nina and Ned would both get the chance to appreciate the considerate way he had of carrying on conversations with declared nonsmokers like themselves: he would blow plumes of smoke out laterally from the corner of his mouth. It was something to see! And Ned wondered if Nina had already noticed that. He had the trait of lowering his voice and instantaneously looking left/right before conveying bits of information he thought were important, which so far, in Ned’s experience, they hadn’t seemed to be. Women would like his bright blue eyes, no doubt. Jacques was a Breton, if Ned had understood him in an earlier conversation.

Jacques embraced them, Nina first and more thoroughly.

Ned had an existential problem with the Frenchman he wanted to get across. It wasn’t that he didn’t like him. But there was an issue.

He patted Jacques’s shoulder. He turned to Nina and said, “Hey, can you help me? You took French. I want to explain something to this man. Don’t make a face, just do your best. And I know he claims he speaks English but give me a break. Now listen, here’s what I want to explain.” Ned kept a reassuring smile on his face and again patted Jacques on the shoulder.

“Okay,” Jacques said irrelevantly.

Ned said to Nina, “I want to explain up front that we differ on something. It’s important. His mindset is all over the antiwar movement. Here’s the thing. I see a shitty outcome of causative events I can mostly only guess at. I say we have to stop the outcome. Like the invasion. But au contraire he wants to root around in the causes, the conspirations , as they usually turn out to be in his opinion … the causes. I want to get across to him the concept of fait accompli if I can. We need to forget the conspiracies . Let history sort it out! … but stop the invasion.” Jacques had just said what sounded like “jolie” under his breath and he had winked at Nina. Ned said very softly, to Nina, “He just winked at you.”

“Oh do I know it. I’m going to France, mon ami. But you have to stop this, you’re acting like we’re talking in front of a horse. But I will say this, apparently they have tons of petite women stars over there. French movie stars I look like that I never heard of. He’s so acute .”

“I em a cute ?” Jacques said.

Seize power, Ned said to himself. “Jacques, listen to me. Okay, first, comment ça va tu?” He couldn’t help but notice Nina groaning loudly enough for Jacques to hear. He was going to proceed anyway and she could fuck herself.

“Bien. Bien.” Jacques had had to repeat himself because he had spoken crookedly, having had the need to stick his tongue out and pick a few wayward flecks of tobacco off it. His tongue furrow was black.

Ned said, “Secondaire, il y a deux visions entre nous au contraire. A la regard de les deux … towers — les neuf onze tours …”