guessed it had been Léa’s old jacket. A frayed lining, leather curves molded to the shape of her body . . . The intense sadness that overcame him surprised him. Now, at last, he felt capable of putting into words the fleeting images that were the only truth in his life: that old jacket, Léa’s arm flung out across the covers in her sleep . . . She came back in the evening clutching a parcel to her chest. Shutov’s latest manuscript. Returned by a publisher. They ate supper in silence, then very quickly he flew into a rage against the “pygmyism,” as he called it, of the current literary world. Léa must have taken pity on him because she murmured in a less brittle voice, yes, her old voice: “Don’t be silly, Ivan. You’re not a failure at all. You’re like a . . . Yes, an explosion still waiting to be heard.”
From that evening onward she became even more remote.
But amid this waning of their love affair, an impressive recovery occurred. Shutov was invited to appear on a television program! Bizarrely, for a novel he had published three years previously, which had enjoyed no success. The publicist resolved the mystery: “You talked about Afghanistan in it: and now, with everything that’s happening there . . .” It was the book in which a young soldier burst into tears at the sight of an old woman and her dog killed in an artillery bombardment.
In telling Léa about the invitation Shutov chose to feign indifference and even made one or two mocking remarks (“Just you wait. I’ll torpedo their ratings . . .”). But in reality he felt as if he were making his last throw. In this young woman’s eyes he could once again become the writer who initiated her knowledgeably into the secrets of the profession.
He bought a plain blue shirt, because “stripes cause strobing on the screen,” he explained. Léa went with him, made up as if she were taking part in the broadcast herself.
This was due to go out around midnight. “After the game shows, the football, and the rest. That’s their scale of values.” Shutov quickly resolved not to allow himself any rancor. On television one must smile, be a little simplistic, no nuances. “Break a leg,” whispered Léa, and, tense as he was, Shutov gave a start before remembering this strange custom. From that moment onward it all felt quite surreal to him.
Dreamlike, too, was the late-night scheduling, which made the participants seem like conspirators (or spirits) gathered, ironically, around a garishly lit table. But above all, this obligation to be a smiling idiot. Nobody demanded it, yet a mysterious force clamped these foolish grins onto their faces, made them ogle like prostitutes soliciting customers.
Perched on a high stool (“just like the ones in a pickup joint,” thought Shutov), he studied the “panel.” There was a young black francophone writer, with a grin like in the Uncle Ben advertisement. A Chinese man, with a sly air, his gaze shifty behind his thin glasses. And, for good measure, himself, Shutov, a Russian. Three living proofs of the globalization of French literature. Just across from Shutov the makeup girl was giving the finishing touches to the face of a . . . What could one call him? Journalist, writer, editor, member of several prize juries, a well-known mediacrat whom Shutov used to refer to as “one of the literary mafia,” and at whom he must now smile. On this man’s left they had just seated a psychologist who specialized in happiness, a state of mind rare in rich countries. The psychologist was talking to his neighbor, a young woman dressed like a Halloween witch. Finally a latecomer appeared, a woman in her fifties with graying hair and a handsome, faded face. Blinded by the lights, she wandered this way and that around the table until an assistant showed her to her seat, next to Shutov. He met her gaze, the intelligence of which was at odds with the smooth pink of her makeup. She was the only one not
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