Revenge of the Translator. Brice Matthieussent

      I am a mediocre chess player, nevertheless I know to anticipate a few basic moves of my opponent. You’re almost done with this room, my office.

      Simply look up.

      See you soon.

      Faithfully yours,

      Abel Prote

      P. S. Edward VII, son of Queen Victoria, king of England and Ireland between 1901 and 1910, “was especially interested in foreign policy and initiated the Entente Cordiale with France,” we learn from the Petit Larousse (100th edition, 2005). What the prude dictionary does not say is that at the beginning of the last century, the English king often came to Paris incognito. He would arrive at Gare du Nord by private train. Once he had disembarked from his car, he would take an aboveground walkway personally reserved for him that allowed the gallivanting king not only to escape from potential attacks, but most importantly to discreetly arrive at a luxury brothel where he was probably the only client during his very private visits. No doubt wearing a disguise, he would thus fortify certain carnal aspects of the famous “Entente Cordiale” by joining in himself, if I may say so.

      Why, David, am I sharing this historical anecdote with you? Because of the trip, the anonymity, the disguise, the implicit eroticism. Because as a translator, you are interested, like Edward VII, in “foreign policy,” you are striving for your own entente cordiale … Because traveling, the unknown, disguises—and perhaps even implicit eroticism—fit you like a glove, all you translators.

      And then also because, if the king of England formerly had the run of his private aboveground walkway, the subordinates like you, me, and so many others instead have the tendency to creep beneath the earth to quench our desire. You will understand soon enough.

      The tour continues, follow the guide …

      Agitated, under the disagreeable impression of having been hoodwinked and taken for a ride ever since the owner’s departure from his home, of having been led to the chessboard by a stronger player, David nevertheless obeys Prote’s instruction and looks up. The corkboard above the writer’s desk, between two windows, displays a mass of photos, postcards, press clippings, invitation cards, reminders—“call Doris,” “write to Doris,” “gift for D.”, “don’t back down on anything with Gris”—and, in the middle of this clutter, the neon green rectangle of a Post-it on which David, drawing closer, reads this quotation, copied down by Prote’s meticulous hand: “The translator will have to put it into one of those footnotes that are the rogue’s galleries of words.” Nabokov, Pale Fire. The murderous quotation is followed by this venomous commentary by the French writer: “Translator’s Night. I see from here my valiant D.G. add to the bottom of the page a fastidious ‘Untranslatable play on words’ before getting tangled up in one of his depressing explanations.” David then understands that the apparent disorder of the corkboard, that shelf of various scraps of paper, seemingly through pure accident, is the result of a meticulous staging. What was that earlier about an entente cordiale?

      Furious, vexed, he turns his back to the desk, to the corkboard and its multicolored patchwork, then takes off in big strides toward the hallway plunged into darkness. The entire apartment suddenly feels like a trap, filled with snares, as if Prote, the great chess player, had anticipated the every move of his American tenant. David briefly considers leaving to take refuge in a nearby hotel, but despite his mounting unease, the temptation to stay and continue his exploration is too strong, no matter the cost to his pride.

      For example, that large armoire, which seems to be installed purposefully in the middle of the hallway to keep people from moving. Hideous opulent-looking piece of furniture, also in dark wood, covered in overly ornate spirals and slightly ajar as if purposefully to provoke curiosity. But before taking a closer look, David goes back to the bar in the living room, opens the glass doors, takes out a bottle of port, and serves himself a large glass. He then notices the label depicts a man wearing a large cape and a big black hat that plunges his face into shadow, like Aristide Bruant. The brand is Sandeman, like “l’homme au sable.” The translator drains his glass in one go and turns back to the armoire obstructing the hallway. He pushes opens the heavy doors, then examines what’s inside by the dim light of the only weak light bulb illuminating the hallway.

      For just a moment, David raises his eyes towards the glimmering filament and, fascinated, discovers something he did not notice during his recent tour of the apartment, under Prote’s guidance: opposite the sinister armoire, the entire wall is covered in a fresco painted in a trompe l’oeil style, divided in two equal parts by a horizontal line at eye level. Beneath the horizon, the green, immobile waves of a marine landscape unfurl toward the ground; above and up to the ceiling stretches a stormy sky where a single bird is flying, perhaps a seagull or an albatross, which seems to be moving away as fast as it can. And in the middle of the hallway, just opposite him, right next to a tower covered in foliage, a dislocated puppet with a black braid protruding diagonally toward the lower left corner of the fresco seems to be flying toward the clouds or falling toward the sea. Suddenly dizzy, David turns back toward the gaping doors of the armoire.

      In the shadows of the nearly empty shelves, he thinks he hears Prote’s voice:

      “Easter is quickly approaching. I rather like that primarily Anglo-Saxon tradition of hiding painted eggs in the corners of an apartment or of a garden to excite the curiosity of children. I know you’re there. Now keep searching. There are still several eggs for you to discover.”

      David takes a step forward, then opens the wooden panels. Their interior is entirely covered in smooth purple velvet. An altarpiece, he thinks, it looks like an altarpiece. Ties striped with somber colors and patterns are lined up on the left panel, bowties are hanging from a horizontal string pinned up on the right side. These two parentheses, striped on the left, sprinkled with multicolored polka dots to the right, encase a few dark wooden shelves, which at first glance are nearly empty.

      A model Super Constellation sits in the middle of the top shelf. David picks up the thin fuselage carefully, squeezing the plastic tube interspersed with windows, just as at low tide one might catch a crab between the rocks: you have to close your thumb and index finger in a horseshoe shape just behind the pinchers to evade the crustacean’s hostility. The wings of the model come a bit unstuck, David handles it with caution. Like a connoisseur, he admires the silhouette of the machine, then, from front to back, the oval shape of the nose, the contours of the cabin, the roundness of the windows, the curve of the fragile wings, the ovular twin tail. Easter eggs. Hiding places. When he points the Super Constellation to the ground, a small hard object clinks around inside the long slender tube. Then David points the plane’s nose toward the ceiling, as if to make it take off at a twenty-degree angle, and the same invisible object rolls inside again, this time toward the tailplane. A hidden treasure? A chocolate egg several decades old? A clue of more things to discover? No. To chase away the thought, he blows on the model, which is immediately surrounded by a halo of thick dust, as if the 50s long-haul plane had crossed a thick layer of clouds above the Atlantic and was about to be swallowed up by those of the opposite wall. While sneezing, he thinks of Doris, who, at this hour, must be somewhere between New York and Paris, aboard a much less enticing plane.

      David sets the plane back on its tiny wooden runway, then next to the model he notices a worn but lavish hat, at the bottom of which he reads the initials M.-E. P., stitched on the midnight blue silk lining.

      He decides to explore the other shelves. At the very bottom of the armoire, pairs of shoes shine softly, arranged as though at a starting line. David imagines them dashing into the hallway and running through the apartment, moved by a hundred invisible men desperately searching for the exit or for their bandages. Incidentally, on the shelf immediately above the shoes, the presence of several Velpeau bandages lends itself to that fantasy.

      Higher up, on the next shelf, David finds a large painted egg, which sends a shiver down his spine, constricts his stomach. The egg is covered in a continuous pattern, an uneven border strip on a violet background tracing a labyrinth of black and crimson curls. The egg seems to be made for his palm and as, astonished, he separates the two strictly identical halves, David is surprised to find on the inside another egg identical to the first, apart from its size. Separating