Authors: Georges Perec
guiba shot down in Frankfurt, ditto an African militant in Saint-
Moritz, Yazid in Louvain, Gabon's consul in Madrid! So, to
maintain in his position a cowardly tyrant, his waning authority
totally, and notoriously, in pawn to a major Parisian bank (Capi-
tal Fran^ais), Foccard had a rag-tag-and-bobtail gang of thugs,
good-for-nothings, gold, contraband and drugs Mafiosi, join up
with his battalion of bullyboys, all working hand in hand! It was
a squalid affair all right. Discussions would go on out of sight
in smoky back rooms. Though any small fry not up to scratch, any
moron placing his organisation at risk, was instandy (in gangland
lingo) "put out of harm's way", nothing and nobody could touch
its instigators, its VIPs, its "big boys" . . .
"Ho hum," murmurs Ottaviani, gulping down his Munich and
wiping its froth from his lips. 'Talk of a can of worms . . ."
5 8
It's his last word. Amaury sighs and, though Anton Vowl's
abduction has at first sight nothing at all to do with Ibn Barka's,
informs Ottaviani of visiting a zoo, running into Olga, and
Hassan Ibn Abbou, who was also trying to find his companion.
"Aha!" laughs Ottaviani. "So Vowl had a champion you didn't
know about!"
"Why . . . that's right," says Amaury, curious as to why Ottavi-
ani thought that important. Continuing, though: "Now look at
what you and I know. This morning I saw Hassan Ibn Abbou
in a zoo. But what was it that Anton Vowl said: 'A solicitor who
lights up his cigar in a zoo". So I rush off to this city's only zoo.
And what do I find? A solicitor lighting up a cigar. All right.
But what if said solicitor thought to turn up at said zoo and light
said cigar simply to conform to Anton's portrait of him, hoping
by so doing that Olga or I would contact him?"
"So," Ottaviani succincdy sums up, "it was possibly not for-
tuitous?"
"Fortuitous or calculating, who can say? But what I plan to
find out on Monday is what, if anything, was significant about
Anton's allusion to 10 tots of whisky. First, though, it's worth
studying a factor that's not as crucial but still apropos. To wit:
do you know Karamazov?"
"Dmitri of Karamazov Bros Inc. ?"
"No, his cousin Arnaud, who runs a taxi out of Clignancourt
and who would occasionally do odd jobs for Vowl. You could
find out for us if this Karamazov also knows of Anton's kid-
napping. Do that on Monday morning, will you, whilst I'm at
Longchamp."
"Just as you say, boss," grunts Ottaviani, snoozing into his
glass.
It's suffocatingly cold. So cold, in fact, no duck would think of
putting a foot outdoors, nor would a chimp (with brass balls or
not). But Ottavio Ottaviani is robustly striding along, as though
that night's thick, damp fog simply hasn't got through to him.
5 9
Arriving at Alma, Ottaviani mounts a bus that drops him at
Paris's famous Quai d'Orsay, stops an instant to catch his wind
and consult his watch. It's 11.40. Longchamp is still a long way
off.
"Off I go," says Ottaviani, mumbling inaudibly to nobody in
particular.
Not far from Orsay, only yards away from Iran's consular build-
ing, is a small snack bar with which our Corsican is familiar from
having had an occasional ham or salami sandwich in it. Ottaviani
walks in, dusty, haggard, worn out. A crowd of individuals is
propping up its bar.
"Ciao," says Ottaviani.
"Hullo, hullo," says Romuald, a barman who, though always
at work, is always smiling: "ain't a fit night out for man nor
animal."
"You can say that again," murmurs Ottaviani, vigorously blow-
ing into his hands. "Brrrr . . ."
"Only minus two, though," Romuald points out. "Not as cold
as all that."
"P'raps so, but it's blowing up a fair old storm," says Ottaviani.
"Can I bring you a sandwich? Parma ham, York ham, Italian
salami, Danish salami, bacon, black pudding, chipolata, cold
roast, tuna fish, Stilton, Cantal, Port-Salut, Gorgonzola? Or what
about a hot dog?"
"No thanks. A grog's all I want. I think I'm catching a cold."
"A grog for M. Ottaviani!" Romuald calls back to his assistant
who is busy cooking a plat du jour of osso bucco with
artichauts
au romarin.
"Coming up!"
In an instant Ottaviani's drink plops down in front of him.
"A boiling hot grog," proclaims Romuald. "No cold can with-
stand it."
Ottaviani sips his grog.
"Mmmm, yummy."
"Not too sugary?"
6 0
"No, it's just right. Fit for a king."
'That's 23 francs 20 all told."
Ottaviani throws down a handful of coins, for which Romuald
thanks him.
Noticing, half out of sight, his boss, Aloysius Swann, idly
picking at a bowl of fruit, Ottaviani, cautiously balancing his
grog in his hand, thrusts his way through a crowd of drunks and,
still panting, sits down facing him.
"Hullo, boss."
"Hullo, Ottaviani," says Swann. "You okay?"
"Just so-so. I'm coming down with a cold."
"You want a yoghurt?"
"No, I'm not at all hungry."
"So?"
"So what?"
"Amaury Conson?"
"Conson still thinks it was a kidnapping."
"Sounds as if that's what it was," murmurs Swann.
"You think so too, but why?"
Without saying a word, Swann pulls a photocopy from his bag
and hands it to his adjutant.
"Good Lord!" Ottaviani almost shouts, "this is straight from
GHQ!"
And this is what it said:
Analysis of Consul Alain Gu. rin
to Royal G - P.R.C.
(Distribution S A C L A N T - "cosmic"
N A T O - S AG - G/PRC - 3.28.23)
A month ago an analysis from Orrouy's GHQ-NATO Comman-
dant, with corroboration from HCI Andilly, which midshipman
3/6.26 of Cp. Horn's straggling group thought to pass on to us
for confirmation, told us what was about to occur to Anton
6 1
Vowl. That month's K. Count was instantly put in by Mission
"NATO-cosmic" 5/28-Z.5. Anton Vowl was not on it. In
addition, an anti-abduction plan, joindy drawn up by Mission
"off days" 8/28-Z.5, instruction L 18, and by "cosmic 1A", was
soon circulating to all GRCs, SR assistants, SM assistants, HCIs,
ONIs, CICs, "G.3"s, BNDs, SIDs and "Prima 2"s - all, that is,
saving MI5, but including stimuli to various unorthodox com-
mando units.
Without wishing to imply that this information, of an A. 3 or
B.I rating, is not crucial, it is worth noting that, 18 days ago,
our organisation got virtually nothing out of placing all its
apparatus at point "3". Why was it such a thorough fiasco? HCI
Arlington claims to know: CIA infiltrations? but also SIS in our
staffs within NATO jurisdiction. It is said, in addition, that, by
compromising a
soi-disant
Bushy Man from Ankara, an Albanian
SR assistant had sought (and not, as it turns out, in vain) to gain
total control of his group.
Thus, to sum up this difficult situation, our organisation may
opt for (a) abandoning Anton Vowl to his doom or (b) instigat-
ing a
casus
- not a
casus violationis
, at most a
casus damni
: in my opinion, only our PM could find a solution to such an unusual
affair. Which is why I submit this analysis (in flagrant violation
of SR norms), advising you against consultation but in favour
of a global opinion plus instructions.
"God, it's got so many ramifications!" says Swann. "What did
Hassan Ibn Abbou say?"
"Oh, Hassan wasn't talking, but I'm going to confront him
tonight at midnight; with a bit of luck I might just find out
what's what. As for Olga, softly, softly. That's a young lady who
knows a lot but isn't giving too much of it away."
"You think so?"
"I know so. Talking of which, I saw Karamazov."
"And?"
6 2
"Karamazov saw Vowl on 3 occasions a month ago: (1) taking
him, by night, to a vacant, run-down bungalow in Aulnay-sous-
Bois; (2) by day, to play whist at Augustin Lippmann's club
(Karamazov won about 20 points off Vowl); and (3), most sig-
nificandy, just 20 days ago, Vowl had Karamazov fit an anti-
burglary contraption to his, that's to say to Vowl's, Fiat."
"Vowl had him fit an anti-burglary contraption to his
Fiat?"
"Yup."
"You don't say! But why?"
Ottaviani has simply no notion why and is hoping that Swann,
who has, it's said, a flair for a hunch worthy of a Sioux or an
Iroquois, will furnish him with a motivation. His boss, though,
lacking that crucial spark of inspiration, is not on form today.
"Why fit an anti-burglar}' contraption to his car?" murmurs
Swann, adding grumpily, "And to think that you and I at first
thought this affair was a cinch . . ."
A mutual sigh.
"It's all a ghasdy hotchpotch, particularly as I still don't know
who is hiding Anton Vowl."
With his hand Swann signals to Romuald, who says to him:
"A mocha? A cappuccino?"
"Thanks but no thanks. Just my bill, if you wouldn't mind."
"Righty-ho, I'll tot it up for you in a jiffy."
Scribbling on his pad with a Bic, Romuald murmurs:
"Tuna, plat du jour, Stilton, fruit, drink . . . that's 18 francs,
including tip."
"18 francs!" complains Swann. "Isn't that a bit stiff for what
I had?"
Romuald puts it down to VAT, whilst, for his part, Aloysius
actually calls him a crook. It all risks coming to fisticuffs, but
Ottaviani finally calms Swann, who, furious but compliant, if still
not brought round to Romuald's way of thinking, pays up.
On his way out, though, Swann is caught in a draught, dis-
charging a sonorous "Atishoooo!"
6 3
"Don't go looking for sympathy!" laughs a now jovial Romu-
ald. "You had that coming to you. What a lark - catching your
pal's cold!"
Vigorously shaking hands with Aloysius Swann, who has to rush
off to his commissariat, Ottavio Ottaviani hails a taxi to go to
Longchamp, which today, and Paris's ominous political situation
notwithstanding, holds its annual Grand Prix du Touring-Club,
an arduous handicap that will award its victor with not just a
gold trophy but a million francs, or so it's said, a donation from
a racing-mad nabob. And, with
tout-Paris
jostiing Paris tout, all
go parading through Longchamp's lavish paddocks.
Most conspicuous by far is Italy's top film star, Amanda von
Comodoro-Rivadavia, soon to fly out to Hollywood to sign a
six-million-dollar contract with Francis Ford Coppola for a tril-
ogy of Mafia dramas with Marlon Brando and A1 Pacino. Vol-
uptuous Amanda is clad
(o sancta simplicitas
) in a pair of bouffant
pink slacks as billowy as a Turkish Ottoman's, a coral polo shirt,
a bright crimson cardigan, an ivory sash, a maroon scarf, a shock-
ing pink mink coat, ruby stockings, a damask muff and purplish
bootikins. Accompanying this lurid apparition is Urbain d'Agos-
tino (inamorato or simply sugar daddy, who knows?), sporting
a lacy jabot, an Ungaro tail coat with a Mao collar, a top hat and
an ambassadorial gold chain. And milling around, with much
aristocratic ado, is a host of Maharajahs and moguls, Kronprinz,
Paladins and Hospodars, pillars all of
Who's Who.
Grooms, spivs and turf officials stroll to and fro; at a kiosk a
young lad is shouting
"Paris-Turf.
Git your
Paris-Turf.
"; touts offload dubious dps and long columns start forming in front of
casinos and gambling halls.
Having sought him high and low among this cosmopolitan
crowd, Ottaviani at last finds Amaury Conson sitting on a stair-
way with Olga, a vision of Pariso-colonial chic in a viridian Arab
tunic.
Through a pair of binoculars, Amaury is scrutinising Long-
6 4
champ's world-famous track lap by lap, practically inch by inch:
"I think that ground is just a bit too soft."
A boorish individual standing at his right affirms (though, in
truth, nobody had sought his opinion) that Conson is a total
ignoramus on track sports. Amaury starts blushing furiously but
backs off from, so to say, standing his own ground. And, in
actual fact, Longchamp had not known a track so icy and of such
volatility: no rainfall for a month or so, no mist hanging about,
but a hard, nippy frost all around.
"Why hasn't Whisky 10 shown up?" asks Olga, squinting
through Amaury's binoculars.
"It's dropping out. It was just this instant broadcast on a
Tannoy."
"Why?"
"Nobody knows."
"So why stay on?" murmurs a thoroughly downcast Ottaviani.
"Olga wants to know how it turns out."
"You said it!" laughs Olga. "I put 25 francs on Scribouillard."
Out of 26 original nominations, only 25 now stand at Long-
champ's starting-post, Whisky 10 (No. 5) having withdrawn.
Initially, Whisky 10 was thought a cinch to win, although, sur-
prisingly, at official odds of 18 to 1. With it scratching, most
touts had a good opinion of Scribouillard III; Schola Cantorum,