Portrait of a Man by Georges Perec, David Bellos Page B
Authors: Georges Perec, David Bellos
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circuitry, to what could have been his definitive, immediate, indisputable victory over the world ⦠BâAâBâ1â5â6â3 â Everything became possible again, for the second time, one more time, beyond the clumsiness of the action, simply because at Rue dâAssas Geneviève had woken up, Geneviève had heard. But she was not the person he should have called.
He had driven from Gstaad to Lausanne then flew in a taxi-planefrom Lausanne to Paris, and another taxi from Orly to Avenue de Lamballe. He had arrived at three in the morning. He had put his case in the hall. He had taken off his coat. He had gone up to the telephone. He had wanted to call Rufus first to explain why heâd left. Then Madera, to say that he was not going to go on, that he didnât want to be a forger anymore. But the number he had dialled â why? â was Genevièveâs â¦
Was it really for her sake that you left Gstaad? Answer, no lying now: what were you after? You waited a long time. At each unanswered ring the world collapsed anew. Whole continents smashed to smithereens. Torrents of lava. Tidal waves. What was left? She had not answered. You hung up. You took off your jacket. You loosened your necktie. You looked at the time. You went to the kitchen. You drank a glass of water ⦠You lay down, you woke up, you called Rufus in Gstaad. You got dressed â¦
He had taken a taxi to Gare Montparnasse. Another taxi from Dreux to Dampierre. Otto had opened the door, and he had not looked surprised. Madera had seen him in his study. He had told the older man that heâd had enough rest and had come back to finish the
Portrait of a Man
, and that he would have it completed in a week. He had gone down to the laboratory. He had taken off the piece of canvas that protected the panel. He had looked at the Condottiere â¦
You did all of those things, you lived all of those moments. Do you remember? That was three days ago. Everything was possible, you remember, you wanted it. You were waiting and at each ringyou swore you would hang up after the next one, and still you waited, and you promised yourself that she only had to pick up, even if she cut you off straight away without saying anything to you, for you to call Madera. But she kept you hanging on to the end. She didnât lift a finger. Nor did you. It was so simple. A mere telephone call â¦
Hello, I want Dampierre 15, in the Eure-et-Loire. Hello. You can talk now. This is Winckler. Good morning, sir. Good morning, Otto, can I speak to Madera, please. Certainly, sir, one moment, sir. Those kilometres of wires weaving all around the globe their soothing web of a potential release. Madera Iâm not coming back Iâll never come back. You can all get stuffed, you and your clique. Click. Clunk.
Was there nothing? Nothing but his admitted weakness. The counter-truth of a dead end. What to do? Where to go? Carry on. Why carry on? Carry on for whom? Why accept? What difference could it possibly make whether she picked up the phone or not? What difference could it possibly make that he had decided to complete the Condottiere? What difference could it possibly make if the Dampierre studio, after the studio at Place du Cirque, after the one in Gstaad and the one in Split and the one before that in Paris, had become a prison, the vicious circle of his contradictions, the eloquent symbol of his pointless life?
Pointless. Now he had said it. In Geneva, Rotterdam, Hamburg, Paris, London, Tangier, Belgrade, Lucerne, Split, Dampierre, Trieste, Berlin, Rio, The Hague, Athens, Algiers, Naples, Cremona, Zurich, Brussels â what had he done? What image would he leave in the whole wide world?
Which framework would he walk out on? None. The void. And yet at all times a way out had been available. And yet at all times he had thought he could say no â¦
That was wrong, wasnât it? You could not say no. You never did say no. All you
He had driven from Gstaad to Lausanne then flew in a taxi-planefrom Lausanne to Paris, and another taxi from Orly to Avenue de Lamballe. He had arrived at three in the morning. He had put his case in the hall. He had taken off his coat. He had gone up to the telephone. He had wanted to call Rufus first to explain why heâd left. Then Madera, to say that he was not going to go on, that he didnât want to be a forger anymore. But the number he had dialled â why? â was Genevièveâs â¦
Was it really for her sake that you left Gstaad? Answer, no lying now: what were you after? You waited a long time. At each unanswered ring the world collapsed anew. Whole continents smashed to smithereens. Torrents of lava. Tidal waves. What was left? She had not answered. You hung up. You took off your jacket. You loosened your necktie. You looked at the time. You went to the kitchen. You drank a glass of water ⦠You lay down, you woke up, you called Rufus in Gstaad. You got dressed â¦
He had taken a taxi to Gare Montparnasse. Another taxi from Dreux to Dampierre. Otto had opened the door, and he had not looked surprised. Madera had seen him in his study. He had told the older man that heâd had enough rest and had come back to finish the
Portrait of a Man
, and that he would have it completed in a week. He had gone down to the laboratory. He had taken off the piece of canvas that protected the panel. He had looked at the Condottiere â¦
You did all of those things, you lived all of those moments. Do you remember? That was three days ago. Everything was possible, you remember, you wanted it. You were waiting and at each ringyou swore you would hang up after the next one, and still you waited, and you promised yourself that she only had to pick up, even if she cut you off straight away without saying anything to you, for you to call Madera. But she kept you hanging on to the end. She didnât lift a finger. Nor did you. It was so simple. A mere telephone call â¦
Hello, I want Dampierre 15, in the Eure-et-Loire. Hello. You can talk now. This is Winckler. Good morning, sir. Good morning, Otto, can I speak to Madera, please. Certainly, sir, one moment, sir. Those kilometres of wires weaving all around the globe their soothing web of a potential release. Madera Iâm not coming back Iâll never come back. You can all get stuffed, you and your clique. Click. Clunk.
Was there nothing? Nothing but his admitted weakness. The counter-truth of a dead end. What to do? Where to go? Carry on. Why carry on? Carry on for whom? Why accept? What difference could it possibly make whether she picked up the phone or not? What difference could it possibly make that he had decided to complete the Condottiere? What difference could it possibly make if the Dampierre studio, after the studio at Place du Cirque, after the one in Gstaad and the one in Split and the one before that in Paris, had become a prison, the vicious circle of his contradictions, the eloquent symbol of his pointless life?
Pointless. Now he had said it. In Geneva, Rotterdam, Hamburg, Paris, London, Tangier, Belgrade, Lucerne, Split, Dampierre, Trieste, Berlin, Rio, The Hague, Athens, Algiers, Naples, Cremona, Zurich, Brussels â what had he done? What image would he leave in the whole wide world?
Which framework would he walk out on? None. The void. And yet at all times a way out had been available. And yet at all times he had thought he could say no â¦
That was wrong, wasnât it? You could not say no. You never did say no. All you
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