I quickly dressed and went back over to H2’s summer house for coffee. Now that I was sober, I wanted to hear more about the insane idea for his novel. Once again, I was disappointed.
Regarding this supposed immortal pigeon of yours, I said.
I don’t want to talk any more about it, H2 said. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything.
But how—
That is the part of the process in which I am most interested, he said. How. How can you translate a book that has not yet been written? Or before it has been written. By telling you the general idea, I have, I fear, already impeded the process. Please don’t ask me anything else.
Fine by me.
I shrugged, already falling back into Gallic habits, shrugging when presented with the slightest obstacle. I tore a piece of bread from the baguette on the kitchen table. The table was covered in a blue-and-white checked oilcloth that had not been wiped down since breakfast, judging from the blear lemniscate of coffee rings near the basket of baguettes.
Did you know that the Sanskrit word anus can be translated as ‘atom’ in the latter’s classical Greek sense of ‘uncut’ or ‘indivisible’? H2 said.
Yup, I said, my mouth full of baguette. I chewed and swallowed. The question is, how do you know that?
I read it in a book. It’s interesting. Perhaps you know it, a biography of—
I held up my hand to stop him.
I don’t care. The biography of I Don’t Care is a firm fave in my house.
You’re out of sorts this morning.
You’re an anus.
Thank you.
The ungentle sun pouring through both open windows enveloped the kitchen in a citrusy gauze through which I was having trouble seeing. I put on sunglasses.
I had trouble sleeping last night, so I went to a café.
Ah. Café Maximilian, no doubt?
No, Café Rudolph. On the south-west corner of Place de l’Opéra.
I don’t know this place. Café Maximilian is excellent. I am good friends with the owner.
This place was fine. On my way there, I saw an unusual house. It was on a little side street called Rue Mouchette. It didn’t have a street number, but it was between numbers 9 and 11.
Then it was 9 bis.
You’d think, but, as I said, there was no number. There was however an insignia carved in stone next to the door. An upside-down eye in an upside-down triangle.
That is curious, he said.
No chance you’ve noticed it?
I don’t spend time exploring. I’m too busy.
Did you remember to get me the Rhodia notebooks I asked for? I had not asked H2 to get me any notebooks. I was toying with him.
Did you ask for that? I’m sorry. My memory has been letting me down lately. I forget the simplest things.
I hear prickly ash is good for that.
Good for the memory?
No. I just like saying the words prickly ash.
Tell me, he said.
He leaned closer, his halcyon smile disguising, no doubt, baleful intent.
Have you made much progress?
You mean have I made much progress on the translation?
Yes. He was eager to know. I was as eager to disappoint him.
Naturally, he replied, swallowing his disappointment. You’ve barely had time to settle in, he said. You understand I’m excited.
I do. But if we’re not going to discuss the plot, we’re going to have to cover some basic principles in order for me to proceed.
Of course.
Basic principle one: stop asking me how I’m progressing. It checks rather than spurs me. Basic principle two: I will show you what I’ve done when I’m ready to show you what I’ve done. That said, I will show you pages as I go, both as a gesture of good faith and so that I don’t go too far in a particular direction without your oversight. Basic principle three: while your input at any stage is welcome, I alone will make the primary creative decisions as I go, and I will decide when my work is finished.
That is acceptable to me.
Good. This way we’ll avoid wasting time. Some people believe no time is wasted, ever; but I don’t hold those people in high esteem.
I’m inclined to agree with you.
Though there’s something to be said for a way of looking at things that discounts past, present and future, and concentrates on the between points. Have you read the Bardo thos grol?
I don’t think so.
More commonly known as the Tibetan Book of the Dead, though that’s a misleading and incorrect translation.
I’ve heard of the Book of the Dead, but I’ve never read it. Hippy nonsense.
Yeah, well, it’s not.
I would not care to argue the point.
It’s a foundational text of human civilisation. But, OK, even I’ve never read it in the original, because I could never be arsed with the Tibetan-Burmese languages. An exact translation of the title would be something like Liberation through Understanding the Between, I’m told. That’s an ungainly, rough rendering. The Tibetans believed in a panoply of between-states of existence, but the one I’m interested in is that between present and future, or between past and present. In other words the instant right now, which is never right now because as soon as it happens it’s gone. The instant between instances is where the action is, but there’s no time for action. It’s where thought resides, but there’s no time for thought. It’s the what of all decisions but those decisions have been predetermined by the past, or some version of the past. Do you know much about decision trees? They’re an integral part of machine learning, which scares some people, but in my opinion the sooner machines take over the better.
H2 thought that over. Or was at a loss for words. Or was giving me a moment to collect myself.
Would you like some more coffee? he asked after a while.