The Sleepworker Page 2

  Since novel production didn’t stop growing in New York New York, since everyone wanted to do the young-novelist thing as new novelists popped up every day, and since each new novelist exercised his right to housing, the Writers’ Quarter became saturated. There wasn’t a single apartment available, not even a cellar or a tiny room to sublet. Even if you were an established writer (with more than ten books officially published, including paperback editions, translations, adaptations, reviews, quotations, exegeses, congresses, conferences, symposiums, prizes, grants, residencies), you would be told: sorry, we don’t have anything at this time, the demand exceeds the supply, too much literature, not enough housing.

  Rents skyrocketed. The Writers’ Quarter became completely unaffordable, among the most expensive neighbourhoods in the city. It got to the point that living in the Writers’ Quarter became inaccessible to the majority of them. The writers who’d been there from the beginning, its founders in a way, the first writers to inhabit the quarter, were also the first to leave it. They sold their writers’ lofts to guys from television, to actors, journalists and other finance types who had moved on to writing novels. After settling down in the Writers’ Quarter, guys from television, actors, finance types and journalists persisted in the writing and publishing of books. They said: We’re the writers now. We know the formula for a bestseller. It was a smash hit in bookstores.

  2

  The future parents of John and of Andy have this in common: they aren’t native New Yorker New Yorkers. It’s what they became. From godforsaken places in the middle of nowhere where they were starving and bingeing on films, they applied for naturalization. Within a few weeks, they’d gathered the necessary pieces to compile their dossiers, completed the appropriate forms, appended their signatures to the official documents and addressed the whole thing To Whom It May Concern. After reviewing their cases, the Commission for the Study of Migratory Flow summoned them to undergo a medical examination, as well as to enlighten the authorities about their motivations and political convictions and to inform them of their skills and professional qualities that could benefit the city. Finally, one hand over their hearts, the other raised with the palm open, they swore they would settle in the big city with, certainly, the goal of living there, but above all, to work there.

  It was the glorious era when the arrival of migrants still gave rise to public ceremony. The goal was to welcome you and to wow you. On that day, it was nice out like summertime – it wasn’t actually summer, but it was just like it. The weather was nice, hot, conducive to a general euphoria. A system of heat-producing streetlights by Scialytic covered the public space with the lighting of an operation table, eliminating any shadows and generating an artificial warmth.

  Everything was hot, everything was illuminated. No shadowy areas, no dark streets, no way to escape the reign of the all-illuminated.

  Crime, which as we all know likes to do its dirty work in the shadows, was to take a hit.

  Maximal lighting, security for all. Now that’s a slogan.

  So, on this first day, with a feeling of maximum security, the migrants celebrated their arrival to the city. They were invited to parade around on decorated floats typical of public revelry – it was like being at a carnival or a parade celebrating the homecoming of military or sports heroes. Except not. The heroes of the day were the new arrivals.

  In front of the floats, a freelance actor bustled about. For a fee (the amount of which would forever remain confidential), it was his duty to set the mood. An operation that came down to three points: 1) chanting into a megaphone, 2) encouraging the passengers to repeat in unison, 3) waving at people.

  Strange waving, intransitive waving. But what human could receive these waves, and if need be, respond, since the city was empty, given it was Sunday and its inhabitants had stayed home to watch the game or left for the weekend to get some fresh air? Empty city, no one on the streets, no one in the buildings, miles of deserted sidewalks, a spectacle without spectators, and everyone on these floats waving their hands.

  What is the meaning of this ceremony? How can these gestures be interpreted? Why all the waving? What good does waving do when there’s no one to see you wave?

  Nevertheless, even with insanity looming on this hot afternoon, John’s and Andy’s future parents executed their waving with an enthusiasm worth mentioning. They were waving for the sake of waving. Because it was part of the protocol. Because these waves carried with them an ­inaugural force that it was proper to deploy before living in this great city. And, to accompany their waving, they blew kisses.

  Positioned along the route, loudspeakers set the tempo of the party. It was a party with a lot of bass. A party without bass isn’t really a party anymore. There’s something missing: the bass is missing. The sound of full-on bass is good for slapping you with a migraine. For that matter, Mr. Andy, a man prone to the slightest little pains (which he will die of) couldn’t escape it. He endured the consequences of these boom-booms that make for the best migraines, which is unfortunate because the day was turning out to be very, very long.

  The hours came and went without the slightest sign of exhaustion from the freelance performers. Still so much bass and waving to generate. The parade dragged on. Enough is enough, for god’s sake, let’s get this over with, John’s future parents complained. We’re not going to go down all of the streets and all of the avenues, are we? Andy’s parents chimed in (as fate would have it, the two couples were occupying neighbouring spots). Can’t we just finish this parade, go home, and have some peace and quiet? all four said in unison.

  For a long time, they awaited a signal. Nightfall, for example, or a drop in luminous intensity – something to indicate the late hour and the beginning of the end. Alas, nothing came to slow down the parade or disrupt the protocol. Night didn’t fall.

  Or rather, under the effect of the Scialytic lamps, the night was lit up, and the moon and the stars were shoved behind a vault of artificial light.

  At the end of twenty-four hours of non-stop parading, the floats dropped the families off one by one at their assigned housing.

  I’m beat! sighed Mrs. John, plopping on the couch.

  I’ve had it! exclaimed Mrs. Andy, wondering if it was worth it to shampoo her hair.

  Finally home! Mr. John let out, cracking open a beer.

  I need a pill or I’ll die! Mr. Andy shouted, opening the medicine cabinet.

  At these words, without a fuss, John’s and Andy’s future parents crawled into bed, closed their eyes and crashed.

  And, no later than the next morning, each of them went to work.

  Like their new compatriots, John’s and Andy’s future parents dived into New York New York books, watched New York New York movies, listened to New York New York music, went around to museums and galleries in order to see art from New York New York.

  If they wanted to treat themselves to a book, their first priority was to purchase a book written by a New York New York writer. If they had to buy a CD, book a concert ticket or choose a film at the cinema, they opted for a CD, concert or film from New York New York.

  Artistically, culturally, they campaigned for their city.

  The only time Andy’s future parents considered buying a work of art, they decided on a mixed-media piece signed by an artist everyone said was the perfect incarnation of a New York New York artist. They checked their finances and (with their finances checked) went to the gallery that represented him.

  At the entrance of the gallery was a wood and resin reception desk whose seat and desktop had been merged into one single unit. It was the work of an artist whom the gallery had entrusted with designing the furniture. Its curved form allowed the public to immediately grasp its purpose. Behind this reception desk sat a young woman in front of a computer, on the back of which could be seen the logo of a cyanide-poisoned apple bearing the suicidal tooth marks of a homosexual mathematician. Following the persecutions the scientific community had made him suffer, the fag mathematic
ian bit into the apple and died. Unless, as his mother tells it, it was an accident owing to his propensity for storing chemical products all over his room. Unless we are supposed to see a morbid remake of Snow White in this gesture, which, according to legend, was his favourite film.

  It was with complete indifference to this story involving chemistry, Snow White and homosexuality that the young gallery assistant was using this piece of technology. She paid hardly any attention to Andy’s future parents, despite them standing there, hands behind their backs, hands in pockets, arms crossed, waiting to get someone’s attention. With his fingers, Andy’s future father started tapping in double and triple time on the desk’s varnish. That infernal, rhythmic, plastic sound demanded only one thing: the attention of the girl behind the computer. Don’t give a damn, she seemed to say. (This translation of young girl’s thoughts is of interest only to the author.) She was completely absorbed in her computer screen.

  At last, she raised her eyes. Yes? she said to Andy’s future parents. This unexpected ‘yes’ began an exchange. In which they learned that this young woman, with her thoughts linked to her computer, was not the gallerist, and – get this – the gallerist wasn’t a woman quite so young, but she was still quite a woman. A gallerista. Briefed over the telephone about the intentions of Andy’s future parents, the gallerista (we’ll call her Suzanne) came down from her office up in the mezzanine and thus Suzanne, being the gallerista that she was, had them tour the exhibit while going on about the work of this young artist whose youth did not prevent him from having international fame but in fact quite the opposite.

  Advancing through the exhibition, Andy’s future parents stumbled upon the object of their desire. At a standstill in front of the piece, approaching it then stepping back in order to better comprehend it, they listened to Suzanne explain the intellectual approach the piece fit into, the visual-arts vocabulary it was based on, the artistic language it was an expression of, and above all the strength of the future work that would surely follow. After that, Andy’s future parents received practical information regarding the conditions of the piece’s production and the list of museums that had already solicited its loan. They felt the growing enthusiasm of those who are convinced of making the right choice. They laughed at the narration of anecdotes regarding the artist’s psychology, his compulsions, his failings, his anxieties – right up until the announcement of the piece’s price reduced them to silence. A fly buzzed around the gallery. Its vibrant trajectory monopolized our little trio. It’s amazing how, in certain circumstances, the flight of a fly can be captivating.

  The fly ate, vomited, ate what it had vomited, buzzed away, and Andy’s future parents didn’t say a word. Mrs. Andy puffed her cheeks, exhaled noisily, lowered her eyes and engaged in a meticulous examination of the state of her nails. Mr. Andy shuffled on the waxed cement, shifted his glance a bit to the right, a bit to the left, then into space. They cleared their throats in turn, for the sake of clearing them. As soon as they found sufficient resources to speak again, they announced to Suzanne, the gallerista, their intention to take some time to think about it.

  Suzanne nodded. Wise decision, a purchase needs to be thought about. All the same, she advised them to not wait too long – they weren’t the only ones interested. With a down payment, it was totally possible to reserve the piece for them.

  It’s funny, but as soon as Andy’s future parents left the gallery, they realized that they’d completely forgotten to leave their contact information.

  They had to face the facts: they didn’t have the means for art from New York New York.

  Despite this unfortunate episode, the future parents of John and Andy continued to identify with creations from New York New York. They sang, danced, read New Yorker New Yorkers. They saw New York New York everywhere. Anything that came from New York New York spoke loudly to them. They talked constantly to themselves about New York New York, and, better yet, they thought about it no less.

  They worked a lot and had children.

  John’s parents and Andy’s parents each had an only son, one named John, the other Andy. John and Andy were born in New York New York, received an exemplary schooling and completed a secondary education that was con­firmed by the procurement of a diploma.

  Andy began a career in visual communication. He drew shoes, boxes, vials, brushes, combs, pillowcases, washing machines, whips, toy-shaped weapons, weapon-shaped toys. You asked him for a toy, you got a toy. You asked him for a jewellery box, you got a jewellery box. Etc.

  But after working for a few months, Andy had a change of perspective. Was it the passing of time that persuaded Andy to change? Or, rather, was it that Andy, taking the measure of time that speeds by no matter what, told himself he might as well take advantage of this momentum and change. One thing is sure, Andy did some soul-searching. Too many vials, too many shoes? Did he feel his work was being restricted to orders, formats and reproductions that limited his perspective?

  If it’s true that an artist is someone who produces things people don’t need to have but that he (for some reason) thinks it would be a good idea to give them, then yes, what Andy made in his workplace was more art than visual communication.

  Andy began to make series.

  The first series bore the title New Cumbersomes. The principle of New Cumbersomes was to conceive of ­manufactured objects that all seemed to have been made in a factory but were all missing a piece vital to their proper function. They appeared to be in perfect working order, useful, functional, desirable, with no visual sign to betray their inadequacy. And yet . . .

  With this in mind, he drew a camera, from which he had a prototype made. The viewfinder worked correctly, it had a powerful zoom, multiple functionality, a perfect casing and was comfortable in hand. It wasn’t digital nor was it equipped with a slot for film. Consequently, it was incapable of producing an image. How did you take a photo with it? You took the photo in your head, memorizing the moment it was shot, and that was it.

  Andy came up with an automobile that had clean lines, a comfortable interior, contemporary design, thousands of gadgets that increased its value for dealers, except that the absence of power and a gas tank made it incapable of ­locomotion. It was an immobile car, a piece of junk good for racking up tickets along the highway before being impounded. How could an immobile car even claim to be called an automobile? It’s about, Andy explained without losing composure, a car thinking like an automobile.

  The second series was entitled Surprise Objects.

  Look at this gun. Everything leads you to believe in its ability to hit the enemy; as you would expect, it’s equipped with a butt, a barrel, a chamber, a bolt, a cartridge. It can be primed. It produces a detonation. It releases a bullet. It’s blunt, it hurts, it kills. The shooter, god rest his soul, will learn upon using it that the shot is capable of turning against him. Until that final moment, you don’t know in which direction the bullet will go. By introducing a dose of uncertainty, this weapon is the first to offer a rebalancing of forces. Before firing, the owner of the weapon cannot do without asking certain questions. Will the bullet hurt the enemy? Will it explode in his own face? Who will end up winning the duel? Who is right? The shooter? Who is wrong? The one who’s shot?

  In the same vein, there was the Unwashing Machine. That is to say, a machine whose functions seemed to comply with those of a classic washing machine, but whose cycles, thanks to a suction system of used water, worked to soil the laundry rather than unsoil it. There is no dirtier laundry than that which goes through this cycle.

  Andy designed a stereo system whose aim was to be mistaken for a stereo system, the difference being . . . what difference? Precisely. Andy preferred to keep the surprise. By unveiling the basis for the Double-Murder Gun and the Unwashing Machine, he’s already said too much, and the same goes for we who report his intentions.

  Andy launched himself into the development of a toilet that, through an inversion of the sewer system . . . it was too much.
Some clients complained. The artistic director acted responsibly. He spoke to the boss about it. Who told the principal shareholder. Who duly signed a letter drafted by his otherwise very charming personal secretary. Her name was Lisa, and she was the personification of a New Yorker New Yorker: elegant, cold, distant, and you realized to what extent once you got to know her and knew how to handle her. But let’s move on.

  Fired for a lack of sensitivity and misappropriation of supplies for personal use, Andy found himself without work or resources overnight. Without that subsidy helping him to subsist, without his mother to supply food and housing, it seemed like a good idea for him to go job-hunting.

  Once out of school, John went wherever there was work. In an office located in the Business Quarter, which, for laughs, bore the name Wall Street, he put his knowledge of financial mathematics to use along with his ability to call the shots, his intuition for flow and his tremendous flair.

  John offset the idleness that very quickly came from evaluating derivatives all day by making more and more overt advances toward Paul, a hot co-worker who was, my word, rather attractive. Paul was kind of seeing Lisa. You know Lisa, we just talked about her a moment ago: beautiful, tall, thin as a rail, executive secretary. All that to say that Paul had no taste for male homosexuality, even if it was purely verbal.

  Bad luck: Paul’s warnings had the gift of exciting John’s desires. John abandoned symbols, forgot about metaphors and opted for more explicit words.

  Let’s take a closer look. John had sold his time to an employer, but all day during work he thought only about fucking. There’s a serious explanation for that: John has a secret. John has a dick in his head. John is a man with two dicks. One lives in his briefs, the other in his head. And his boss didn’t know that. The dick in his head worked for the dick in his briefs, and the least we can say is that when it came to working, this cranial dick worked. The dick in his head and the dick in his briefs understood each other perfectly, they agreed on the contents of their mission, they shared the same passion for a job well done, they did everything possible so that their projects worked out – they hadn’t completed any long-term studies but their know-how was complementary, they hardly spoke to one another yet always understood each other, their collaboration was based on efficacy and synergy. They formed an ideal partnership. The world has rarely known such an efficient duo of dicks. For its mission, the dick in his head had to send an alert when potential prey appeared, liable for feeding its briefs-bound colleague, and it was up to John to go in for the kill. And so Paul at work was targeted. And the dick in John’s head scrutinized his desirable body, devised situations and created possible schemes of ways for boys to love each other. Poor Paul. We won’t tell you what happened to him in John’s head.