This is how Paul Gaudin heard of Quentin for the first time. He thought to himself that this Quentin would need help finding someplace to live. And that something had to be done to soundproof these offices. He then mused that he had never been to any city called Saint-Quentin, or if he had, it was a long while ago, yes, maybe before he had met Jeanne in any case, and he had forgotten.
Quentin Corval. The name itself conjured up a medieval castle in black stone, somewhere in Ireland or Scotland, in an untamed landscape of gray rock and peat bogs. (A cold, spumeladen wind whistling across the weathered vegetation.) But the report open on his desk prevented him from pursuing this vision any further, and he stopped thinking about Quentin Corval altogether.
A few weeks after his arrival, Quentin still knew very little of Tahas. Force of habit had already blunted his earlier curiosity, and he sensed he most likely wouldn’t be learning much more about the place.
The city was enormous. When seen from the panoramic restaurant, The Himalaya, it stretched as far as the eye could see. The horizon was always drowned in a variably thick layer of smog depending on how strong the winds were, and there were days when he could hardly make out the Grand Hotel from his place, a mere three hundred meters away. Beneath this haze, the city appeared without structure or boundary, like a human swamp. What was called “downtown”—actually, just a neighborhood like many others—was located inside the Ring, that wide boulevard which described a perfect circle on the city map. Twenty years ago, all foreign residents in Tahas were obliged to live on the Ring and nowhere else. With the new regime, that rule was relaxed, along with many others, but the curious custom remained, and foreigners went on living there, even now, with a few rare exceptions. What had been established as a constraint, and felt like one by those it affected, gradually turned out to be more convenient than they had thought. It in no way impeded their ability to get around; on the contrary, it spared them getting caught in traffic jams. What’s more, the Ring had the rather peculiar feature of being raised several meters above ground level, like a big circular slide. The buildings that lined it had their entrance at street level, but what looked like the ground floor was in fact one story up. The illusion was further reinforced by the presence of meager gardens out front. On closer inspection, what looked like little gardens were in fact hedges of potted shrubs lined up behind the iron grills.
This distribution of the foreign colony along the same boulevard was particularly advantageous for diplomats in that it simplified their contacts. In any other capital, managing in one evening to attend a holiday gathering, one or two cocktail parties, and then a dinner, would be inconceivable. In Tahas, it was perfectly feasible. Since all the homes holding the events were located on the Ring, one had only to make a succession of stops at the appointed places. The return trip consisted quite naturally of coming full circle, arriving conveniently back home without having to wander through unfamiliar neighborhoods, attempting to decipher dimly lit street names written in foreign lettering, losing one’s way under the combined effects of fatigue, disorientation, and alcohol.
But Quentin was not a diplomat, thank God, and his utterly subaltern position at the consulate spared him the need to make the nightly thirteen-kilometer circuit. He preferred to stay at home most evenings, reading or watching local television shows of which he understood not a word, but which relaxed him for that very reason.
He liked his new apartment. He had almost settled in, though he lacked the will to address certain details and be done with them. The apartment already suited him just as it was, and he knew very well that the last things which remained to be done—hanging a few pictures, having some curtains made, or changing the glass tabletop he had broken the first day by setting a hot pan on it—would never get done. Louise used to enjoy making all-day projects out of rearranging something that was perfectly fine to start with, or fixing things that weren’t broken. She was one of those people who got passionate about having faucets changed or heaters serviced. If she had been there, she would have taken charge, not resting until she had hung the engravings, ordered the curtains, and had the glass tabletop replaced. Not doing any of this felt a little like revenge, which he found gratifying.
It all worked out well in the end. At the consulate, he was off by two and had his afternoons free. In the morning, he began much earlier than he had at his previous job, but since his colleagues had no qualms about arriving late and leaving on time, it wasn’t long before he was doing the same.
When he first arrived, the wing where he was supposed to work was under repair, so they put him temporarily in a little prefab annex located behind the main building, back in a kind of garden.
There was a restroom and sink, a refrigerator, and an electric kettle and cups for making coffee, allowing him to stay holed up in his little hideout all day. Hardly anyone ever came out to bother him, and soon they simply forgot he was there. The time came when he was dealing with no one but the office boy, who brought him papers from time to time, or a new ration of passports to be stamped.
From the start, he kept his distance from the redhead who was handling his own paperwork, the one he’d given his passport to on the first day. The milky flab of her fat arms aroused in him both disgust and fascination, as did her name, which he found a bit sickening to pronounce. Rosemonde Goult talked incessantly, broadcasting a misfortune, predicting a fall from grace, tracking a marriage on the rocks. She was the herald of love affairs and secret flaws, the standard-bearer of rumor. The three other secretaries, markedly younger than she, were much less talkative. Since they all wore their hair more or less the same, it took Quentin a while to tell them apart. For the first few days, they assumed the aspect of a three-headed feminine being, pleasant enough to look at, but without leaving any particular impression on him. It was only gradually that the tricephalous creature broke into three persons who, apart from frequenting the same hair salon, were quite distinct from each other. While he was still living at the Hotel de l’Étoile (far less sumptuous than the Grand Hotel, where he’d ended up having to foot the bill himself), part friendly and part curious, they invited him to dinner. Punctual and wearing a tie, he arrived at their place bearing three strictly identical bouquets, which each in her heart of hearts found charming. But nothing further was to come of the evening.
As for the men, most of them his superiors, he had no relationship with any, save for Gaudin, the only one who took any interest in his welfare. He was the one who showed him around when he first got to Tahas, and suggested places to shop. He was also very helpful when it came to finding an apartment. He alone had thought to give him a map of Tahas, an item that was unavailable locally for some reason, and that had to be ordered abroad from specialized bookstores. Quentin didn’t forget these courtesies, and they remained somewhat friendly—but only somewhat, for Paul Gaudin was a naturally reserved man.
Every so often they went out together for a drink. Gaudin had a little goatee. He had prominent eyes, always a little woeful, and the first time Quentin saw him, he thought he did indeed look like a goat. That resemblance later disappeared, however, and Quentin found the now familiar face bore no trace of that first impression.
It was Gaudin again who took him the