I'm Gone Read online

  “Right, fine,” said Ferrer (and anyway, deep down, I don’t give a shit). But after a cold night alone in the back room of the gallery, he was up early the next morning, walking through the door of the nearest real estate office. That miserable studio had lasted long enough. They offered to show him a very different apartment on Rue d’Amsterdam. “It’s typical Haussmann, you know?” the agent said. “Moldings on the ceiling, herringbone floors, double living room and large foyer, double glass doors, tall mirrors on the marble mantelpiece, huge hallways, maid’s room, three months’ security.” “Right, fine,” said Ferrer (I’ll take it).

  He moved in; by the end of the week he had bought some furniture and had the plumbing fixed. One evening, as he was finally feeling at home in one of his brand-new armchairs, glass in hand, eye on television, there was a knock at his door and there stood Delahaye, uninvited.

  “I was just passing by,” said Delahaye. “I just wanted to have a word with you about something. I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Delahaye’s diminutive height and weight would normally preclude his hiding anything or anyone behind him, yet it indeed seemed that this time there was a presence at his back, in the shadows of the landing. Ferrer rose slightly on tiptoe. “Oh, right,” said Delahaye, turning around, “excuse me. I’m with a friend. She’s a bit shy. May we come in?”

  There are, as anyone can tell you, people with botanical features. Some make you think of leaves, trees, or flowers: heliotrope, jonquil, baobab. As for Delahaye, always ill dressed, he called to mind those anonymous, grayish plants that grow in cities, between the exposed pavements of an abandoned warehouse yard, in the heart of a crack corrupting a ruined facade. Bony, atonal, discreet but tenacious, they know they have but a small role to play in life, but they know how to play it.

  If Delahaye’s anatomy, his behavior, his confused elocution evoked fearful weeds, then the friend who accompanied him fell under a different vegetal style. Christened Victoire and at first sight a beautiful but silent plant, she seemed more wild than ornamental or for pleasure, more datura than mimosa, not so much blooming as thorny, in short, not so easy to care for. Regardless, Ferrer knew right away that he would not lose sight of her. “Of course,” he said, “come in.” Then, lending only a distant ear to Delahaye’s muddled statements, he did everything, as casually as you please, to make himself attractive to her and meet her gaze as often as possible. To little effect, at first glance; the battle seemed far from won, but who can ever say? Still, if told better, what Delahaye was relating that evening might not have been uninteresting.

  On September 11, 1957, he explained, in Canada’s extreme north, a small commercial vessel named the Nechilik had found itself stuck off the coast of the District of Mackenzie, at a place that remained undetermined to this day. As it was sailing between Cambridge Bay and Tuktoyaktuk, the Nechilik had been caught in an ice floe, carrying on board a load of fox, bear, and seal pelts, as well as a cargo of regional antiquities reputed to be extremely rare. Floundering after striking an uncharted rock, she was immediately engulfed by rapid-forming ice. The crew, who fled the paralyzed ship on foot at the cost of several frozen limbs, had had enormous trouble reaching the nearest base, where several of these limbs had to be amputated. In the following weeks, although the vessel’s freight was of high commercial value, the region’s isolation had dissuaded the Hudson Bay Company from trying to recover it.

  Delahaye reported these facts, which he himself had just learned. He had even been led to understand that one could, if one looked hard enough, procure more detailed information regarding the exact coordinates of the Nechilik. There was of course some risk involved, but if more precise information could be had, the endeavor might prove highly worthwhile. Classically, there are four or five steps in the discovery of an ethnic or antique art object. Usually some pathetic local discovers the object; then there’s the area big shot who oversees this kind of activity in the sector; then the middleman who specializes in that particular kind of art; then finally the gallery owner, followed by the collector, who form the last links in the chain. Each member of this little group, obviously, gets progressively richer, the object at least doubling in value at each step. Now, in the case of the Nechilik, if it were somehow possible to intervene directly, they could cut out all those middlemen by going on site themselves, thereby saving much time and money.

  But that evening, to tell the truth, Ferrer had not paid too much attention to Delahaye’s story, too preoccupied by Victoire, whom he never could have imagined would move into his place within a week. Had someone told him, he would have been delighted, though also no doubt a little concerned. But had someone also informed him that, of the three people gathered there that evening, each would disappear in one way or another before the end of the month, himself included, he would have been supremely concerned.

  6

  Normally, on the day they were due to cross the Arctic Circle, they would celebrate this passage. Ferrer was told of this allusively, in a mocking and vaguely intimidating tone colored with initiatory predestination. Still, he ignored the threat, assuming the ritual to be reserved for the equator, for the tropics. Not so: such celebrations are also held in the cold.

  That morning, then, three sailors disguised as succubi burst screaming into his cabin and blindfolded him, after which they dragged him in a forced march through a maze of passageways up to the gym, which had been draped in black for the occasion. They removed his blindfold: on a central throne sat Neptune in the presence of the commander and several lesser-ranking officers. Crown, toga, and trident, wearing diving fins, Neptune as played by the chief steward was flanked by the nail-biter in the role of Amphitrite. The water god, rolling his eyes, commanded Ferrer to prostrate himself, to repeat after him various idiocies, to measure the gym to the sixteenth of an inch, to retrieve a ring of keys with his teeth from a tub of ketchup, and other harmless pranks. All the time Ferrer was complying, it seemed to him that Neptune was quietly insulting Amphitrite. After which the commander delivered a little speech and handed Ferrer his certificate of passage.

  That done, after the Arctic Circle had been crossed, they began to notice several icebergs. But only from afar: in general, ships prefer to avoid icebergs. Some were aimlessly scattered and others were in groups, immobile, in anchored armadas; some were smooth and glistening, all immaculate ice, while others were soiled, blackened, yellowed by moraine. Their outlines suggested animal or geometrical shapes, their sizes ranged from the Place Vendôme to the Champ-de-Mars. They nonetheless seemed more discreet, more worn-out than their Antarctic counterparts, which glided pensively in large tabular blocks. They were also more angular, asymmetrical, and ornate, as if they had twisted and turned several times in troubled sleep.

  At night, when Ferrer, too, had trouble sleeping, he got up to pass his time on the bridge with the men on watch. The entire periphery of the bridge was glassed in, huge and empty like a waiting room at dawn. Under the sleepy supervision of an officer, two helmsmen swapped places every four hours before the consoles, sonar and radar, eyes riveted on the sight rule. Ferrer sat in a corner on the thick carpet. He looked at the fathomless landscape lit by powerful searchlights, even though when you got down to it there was nothing to see, nothing but infinite white in the blackness, so little to see that sometimes it was too much. To keep busy, he studied the charts, the GPS readings, and the weather faxes. Quickly initiated by the men on watch, he sometimes killed time by scanning all the radio frequencies: the whole thing took a good fifteen minutes, which was something, at least.

  In the end, there was only one event worth noting, when for technical reasons they stopped in the middle of the ice floe. Since they had thrown over a ladder, on whose rungs the ice formed mountain profiles in miniature, Ferrer climbed down to have a look around. Infinite silence. No sound but that of his steps muffled by the snow and the exhalations of the wind, and once or twice the cry of a cormorant. Heading off a little way despite orders, Ferrer spotted a family of sleepin
g walruses, huddled against each other on a floating ice cube. Flanked by their companions, they were old monogamous walruses, bald and mustached, worn-out by fighting. Opening an eye now and again, a female fanned herself with the tips of her flippers before falling back asleep. Ferrer went back on board.

  Then the usual course of things took over again, endlessly. There was nonetheless one way to combat boredom: slice up time like a sausage. Divide it into days (D minus 7, D minus 6, D minus 5 until arrival), but also into hours (I’m starting to get hungry: H minus 2 before lunch), into minutes (I’ve had my morning coffee: normally M minus 7 or 8 before hitting the toilet), and even into seconds (I take a spin around deck: approximately S minus 30; between the time spent deciding to take this spin and the time spent thinking about it afterward, I’ve gained a minute). In short, as in prison, you have to count, quantify the time for everything you do—meals, videos, crosswords or comic books—to nip boredom in the bud. Although you could also do nothing at all, spend a morning reading on your bunk in the T-shirt and underwear from the night before, putting off washing and getting dressed. As the ice floe projects through the open hatchway a blinding, brutal whiteness that invades the entire cabin, the sinumbra effect leaving no room for even the slightest shadow, you hang a bath towel over the opening; you wait.

  But there are a few distractions, even so, even if insignificant: the regular inspection of the cabins by the chief engineer and the security man, lifeboat and fire drills, drills in timed donning of the floatation survival suit with thermostat. You could also, as often as possible, visit nurse Brigitte; you could risk courting her a little when the radioman is at his post; you could compliment her on her abilities, her beautiful appearance, her tan that is so paradoxical in this climate. And so you could learn that, to combat depression or worse, a collective agreement prescribed that in areas without sun the female crew are allowed to enjoy ultraviolet rays four hours a week.

  The rest of the time it’s Sunday, a perpetual Sunday whose felt silence inserts a gap between sounds, things, even instants: the whiteness contracts space and the cold slows down time. It’s enough to make you go numb in the amniotic warmth of the windowpane. You no longer even think of moving in that ankylosis; since crossing the Arctic Circle, you no longer set foot in the gymnasium. Basically, you just concentrate on mealtimes.

  7

  Pointed pupil on an electric green iris, like the eye on an old radio, cold smile but a smile all the same, Victoire had thus moved into Rue d’Amsterdam.

  She had come without bringing much, just a small valise and a bag that she had left near the door, as if in a train station locker for an hour. And in the bathroom, apart from her toothbrush, a minuscule case contained three foldable accessories and three travel-size beauty products.

  She remained there, spending most of her time reading in an armchair, facing the muted television. At first she spoke little, at least as little as possible for her, answering each question with another question. She always seemed on her guard, even when no outside threat justified it, though sometimes her distrustful air in fact threatened to inspire hostile ideas. When Ferrer had company, she always seemed to be one of the guests; he almost expected to see her leave at midnight with the others, but she stayed, she stayed.

  Among the consequences of Victoire’s presence at Ferrer’s were more frequent visits from Delahaye, still as negligent as ever about his appearance. One evening when he showed up at Rue d’Amsterdam, even more shockingly dressed than usual—shapeless parka with sides flapping against green jogging pants—Ferrer decided to say something just as he was about to go, and pulled him aside for a moment on the landing: Don’t take this the wrong way, Delahaye. He explained that it would be preferable for his associate to dress a little better when he was at the gallery, that an art dealer had to take care of his appearance. Delahaye looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Put yourself in the collector’s shoes,” Ferrer had persisted in a low voice, again pressing the timer switch of the hall light. “He’s come to buy a painting from you, this collector. He’s hesitant. And you know what it means to him, buying a painting, you know how afraid he is of wasting his money, of missing his big chance, of passing up the next Van Gogh, of what his wife might say, all of that. He’s so afraid that he doesn’t even see the painting anymore, you see what I mean? The only thing he sees is you, the dealer, you in your dealer clothes. So it’s your appearance that gets put in the picture, you get me? If you’re wearing pauper’s clothes, it’s your poverty he’ll put up there. Whereas if you’re dressed impeccably, it’s just the opposite, and so it’s good for the painting, so that’s good for everyone and especially for us. You see?”

  “Yes,” Delahaye said, “I think I see.”

  “Good,” said Ferrer, “well, see you tomorrow.”

  “You think he understood?” he asked a moment later, without expecting a reply; but Victoire had already gone to bed. Turning off the lights one by one, Ferrer entered the dark room and, the following afternoon, he appeared at the gallery wearing a chestnut-colored tweed suit, striped shirt (navy on sky), knitted brown-and-gold tie. Having arrived earlier, the ill-shaven Delahaye was still wearing the same outfit, still more frayed than the night before—enough to make you think he’d slept in it, just look at that shirt!

  “I think things are moving forward with the Nechilik,” said Delahaye.

  “The what?” said Ferrer.

  “That boat,” said Delahaye, “you know, the boat with the antiques. I think I’ve found some good informants.”

  “Oh, right,” Ferrer said evasively, distracted by the bell at the entrance. “Look sharp,” he hissed, “someone’s here. Réparaz.”

  They know Réparaz. Réparaz is a regular. He earns enormous amounts of money in business, in which he gets enormously bored; it’s just that it’s not exhilarating every single day to have the world monopoly on Smartex. The only enjoyment he ever gets is when he comes to buy art. And he also likes being advised, told about the latest trends, brought around to meet the artists themselves. One Sunday when Ferrer took him to see the studio of an engraver near Porte de Montreuil, Réparaz, who never left the 7th arrondissement except to cross the Atlantic in his private jet, became positively giddy going through the 11th. Oh, what architecture, what an exotic population, incredible, I’d gladly do this with you every Sunday. Terrific. Had a great time, old Réparaz. But it didn’t keep him from belonging to the hesitant category. At the moment, he was sniffing around a fairly expensive large yellow acrylic by Martinov, moving closer, standing back, moving closer again, etc. “Hang on,” said Ferrer, still in a whisper, to Delahaye, “watch this. I’m going to give him the old downplay routine. They love it.”

  “So,” he went, sidling up to the Martinov, “you like it?”

  “There’s something there,” said Réparaz, “there’s really something there. I find it, you know, how can I put it.”

  “I know, I see what you mean,” said Ferrer. “But actually it’s not very good. Frankly it’s far from the best in the series (it’s a series, by the way), and besides it’s not entirely finished yet. Aside from the fact that, between you and me, Martinov is a bit pricey.”

  “Hmm. Really. Well,” said the other, “personally I find that there’s really something going on with that yellow.”

  “Of course,” Ferrer conceded, “I’m not saying it’s bad. But still, it is a little high-priced for what it is. If I were you, I’d have a look at this one instead,” he continued, indicating a work composed of juxtaposed aluminum squares painted light green, hanging in a corner of the gallery. “Now this one is interesting. It’s going to go fairly steep before long, but for now it’s still quite reasonable. See how light it is? It’s clear. Luminous.”

  “All the same, it’s not much,” said the captain of industry. “I mean, it doesn’t really show you much.”

  “You might think so at first glance,” said Ferrer. “But at least when you come home and find that on your wa
ll, you don’t feel attacked. There’s always that.”

  “Let me think about it,” said Réparaz, leaving. “I’ll be back with my wife.”

  “It’s all good,” Ferrer said to Delahaye, “you’ll see. He’s definitely going to buy the Martinov. You have to argue with them sometimes, give them the impression they’re thinking for themselves. Hm, here comes another one.”

  Forty-eight years old, tuft of hair clinging to his lower lip, velvet jacket, a frame wrapped in brown paper under one arm, smiling broadly and named Gourdel, the “other one” was a painter whom Ferrer had represented for ten years. Bearing a canvas, he came to get news.

  “It’s not going too well,” answered Ferrer in a weary voice. “You remember Baillenx, who bought one of your paintings? He brought it back, he doesn’t want it anymore. I had to take it back. There was also Kurdjian, you remember him, who was thinking of buying something. Well, he’s not thinking anymore, he’d rather buy an American. And then you have two big ones that were auctioned for practically nothing, so honestly it’s not going well at all.”

  “Right,” said Gourdel, who was smiling less broadly as he unwrapped the frame. “Well, I’ve brought you this.”

  “You have to realize it’s partly your fault,” Ferrer continued without even glancing at the object. “You screwed everything up when you decided to give up abstract and go representational on me. I had to change my whole strategy for your work. You know it causes a ton of problems when a painter changes all the time. People expect one thing, and then they get disappointed. You know as well as I do that everything gets labeled, it’s easier for me to promote something that doesn’t move around too much, otherwise it’s a disaster. You know perfectly well how fragile all this is. You don’t need me to tell you, you already know what I’m saying. Anyway, I can’t take this one right now, I have to unload the others first.”