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sked:
"Why do you think the critics are so hard on your work?"
My automatic pilot would normally reply: "You just have to read the biography of any writer from the past who is now considered a classic--not that I'm comparing myself with them, you understand--to see how implacable their critics were then. The reason is simple: Critics are extremely insecure, they don't really know what's going on, they're democrats when it comes to politics, but fascists when it comes to culture. They believe that people are perfectly capable of choosing who governs them, but have no idea when it comes to choosing films, books, music."
I had abandoned my automatic pilot again, knowing full well that the journalist was unlikely to publish my response.
"Have you ever heard of the law of Jante?"
"No, I haven't," he said.
"Well, it's been in existence since the beginning of civilization, but it was only officially set down in 1933 by a Danish writer. In the small town of Jante, the powers that be came up with ten commandments telling people how they should behave, and it seems to exist not only in Jante, but everywhere else too. If I had to sum it up in one sentence, I'd say: 'Mediocrity and anonymity are the safest choice. If you opt for them, you'll never face any major problems in life. But if you try to be different...'"
"I'd like to know what these Jante commandments are," said the journalist, who seemed genuinely interested.
"I don't have them here, but I can summarize if you like."
I went over to my computer and printed out a condensed and edited version.
"You are nobody, never even dare to think that you know more than we do. You are of no importance, you can do nothing right, your work is of no significance, but as long as you never challenge us, you will live a happy life. Always take what we say seriously and never laugh at our opinions."
The journalist folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.
"You're right. If you're a nobody, if your work has no impact, then it deserves to be praised. If, however, you climb out of that state of mediocrity and are a success, then you're defying the law and deserve to be punished."
I was so pleased that he had reached this conclusion on his own.
"And it isn't only the critics who say that," I added. "More people, far more people than you might think, say exactly the same thing."
Later that afternoon, I rang Mikhail's cell phone number:
"Let's travel to Kazakhstan together."
He didn't seem in the least surprised; he merely thanked me and asked what had made me change my mind.
"For two years, my life has consisted of nothing but the Zahir. Since I met you, I've been following a long-forgotten path, an abandoned railway track with grass growing between the rails, but which can still be used by trains. I haven't yet reached the final station, so I have no way of stopping along the way."
He asked me if I had managed to get a visa. I explained that the Favor Bank had once again come to my aid: a Russian friend had phoned his girlfriend, who was the director of a major newspaper company in Kazakhstan. She had phoned the ambassador in Paris, and the visa would be ready that afternoon.
"When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow. In order to buy the tickets, I just need to know your real name; the travel agent is on the other line now."
"Before you hang up, I'd just like to say one thing: I really liked what you said about the distance between the tracks and what you said just now about the abandoned railway line, but I don't think that's why you're asking me to come with you. I think it's because of something you wrote once, and which I know by heart. Your wife was always quoting these lines, and what they say is far more romantic than that business about the Favor Bank:
A warrior of light knows that he has much to be grateful for.
He was helped in his struggle by the angels; celestial forces placed each thing in its place, thus allowing him to give of his best. That is why, at sunset, he kneels and gives thanks for the Protective Cloak surrounding him.
His companions say: "He's so lucky!" But he knows that "luck" is knowing to look around him and to see where his friends are, because it was through their words that the angels were able to make themselves heard.
"I don't always remember what I wrote, but thank you for that. Now I just need your name to give to the travel agent."
It takes twenty minutes for the taxi company to answer the phone. An irritated voice tells me I'll have to wait another half an hour. Marie seems happy in her exuberantly sexy black dress, and I think of the Armenian restaurant and the man who admitted to feeling aroused by the thought that his wife was desired by other men. I know that all the women at the gala supper will be wearing outfits designed to make their breasts and curves the center of attention, and that their husbands or boyfriends, knowing that their wives or girlfriends are desired by other men, will think: "All right, have a good look, but keep your distance, because she's with me, she's mine. I'm better than you are, because I have something you'd all like to have."
I'm not going to be doing any business, I'm not going to be signing contracts or giving interviews; I am merely attending a ceremony, to repay a deposit made into my account at the Favor Bank. I will sit next to someone boring at supper, someone who will ask me where I find the inspiration for my books. Next to me, on the other side, a pair of breasts will perhaps be on show, possibly belonging to the wife of a friend, and I will constantly have to stop myself glancing down because, if I do, even for a second, she will tell her husband that I was coming on to her. While we wait for the taxi, I draw up a list of possible topics of conversation:
(a) Comments about people's appearance: "You're looking very elegant." "What a beautiful dress." "Your skin's looking fabulous." When they go back home, they'll say how badly dressed everyone was and how ill they looked.
