singer, a millionaire, a politician, a member of the royal family, a model. They'll even murder an acquaintance or a stranger in the most gruesome, complicated way, in a particularly cruel or striking or spine-chilling fashion, a child killing a much younger child, an adolescent killing his parents, a young woman killing a weaker colleague, an adult staging a massacre in a public place or secretly doing in seven people, one after the other, hoping to be discovered at last and to amaze the world. Because anyone-even the most stupid person-can kill someone. And they don't know that all they have to do is carry on with their lives until someone finds them interesting and adopts the appropriate point of view and decides to tell their story, or at least takes an interest and pays them some attention. As long as there is in that life some shameful, untold episode, a stain or an anomaly. And that's not so very difficult, Jack, because we all have something of the sort in our past, possibly without even knowing that we do or without being able to put our finger on it. It depends on who's looking at us. And the worst that can happen to anyone is for no one to look at them. People can't bear it and go into a decline. Some people die of it or kill.'
And he paused long enough for me to think: 'Tupra has adopted my theory, or snippets of it. He has the delicacy not to use my exact words or, when he does, to acknowledge that he has done so, 'as you called it' or 'to use your term,' he says when he's quoting me verbatim. He has the good taste not to appropriate, at least not in my presence, the idea that people hate being left out or passed over and prefer always to be seen and judged, for good or ill or even for worse, and even need this and yearn for it; the idea that they still cannot do without the supposed eye of God that observed and watched us for centuries, without that companionable belief that some being is aware of us at all times and knows everything about us and follows every detail of our trajectory like someone following a story of which we are the protagonist; what they can't bear and won't allow is to remain unobserved by anyone, to be neither approved nor disapproved of, neither rewarded nor punished nor threatened, to be unable to count on any spectator or witness regardless of whether they are for us or against us; and they seek out or invent substitutes for that eye, which is now closed or wounded, or weary or inert, or bored or blind, or which has simply looked away from what I am doing; perhaps that's why people today care so little about being spied on and filmed, and often even provoke it, through exhibitionism, although that can prove detrimental and draw down upon them precisely the thing they most dread, the conversion of their story into a disaster. It's a contradictory double need: I want it to be known that I exist and have existed, and I want my deeds to be known, but that frightens me too, because it might ruin forever the picture I'm painting of myself. And so when I'm not there, Tupra will probably have no qualms about appropriating wholesale everything I said to him when I talked about Dick Dearlove or indeed on other occasions, and he'll think he thought of it himself (in that regard he'll be like any other boss). Perhaps Perez Nuix was right and I do have more influence over him than I think, perhaps I do stimulate and amuse him. Maybe that's why he has a soft spot for me and invites or drags me to his house and shows me this collection of horrible videos, and is so patient with me, and lets me get away with so many things, even letting me cover my eyes and not look at what he's generous enough to show me, in an act of great trust, or to watch it with only one eye open.'
And I immediately went on to think: 'But everything has its end, and banks will only honor your checks while there's still cash in your account, so I mustn't take anything for granted.' And then I said:
'All right, show me what you've got to show me and let's get it over with. It's very late and I want to go home.'
'Ah, of course,' he replied ironically. 'Those lights. Do you think she'll still be waiting for you? If so, it won't be easy for you to get away afterwards, she'll be very insistent.' He glanced at his watch and added: 'You've certainly kept her hanging around. Do give her my deepest apologies.'
He was the kind of man who feels excited by the mere thought of women, by the idea of them, whoever they may be, and still more by the thought of his friends' wives or girlfriends and of sending messages to those female strangers through their husbands or boyfriends. That way, he thinks, they'll find out about him, they'll at least know of his existence and perhaps feel curious and imagine what he might be like, and thus indulge in a form of aimless, imaginary flirtation.
'I've told you already, Bertram, no one is waiting for me and no one has my keys.' I downed my drink in one, as if to show that at least something had been concluded. 'Come on, get on with it, what else do you want me to see?' And I indicated the TV with a lift of my chin.
He pressed Play again and then the fast-forward button, although he put it on at its second fastest speed, not at maximum, so that I could still see the images fairly clearly, albeit without sound, and they were all of them unpleasant to a greater or lesser degree, the worst kept feeding the poison into me, while others were, at best, boring or sordid, two guys with grey hair and reddish skin lying on a bed in their underpants, sniffing cocaine (drugs really provide a lot of material, perhaps that's why no government wants to legalize them, it would mean reducing the number of possible offenses), people who were of no interest to me and made no impression whatsoever, so I abstained from asking who they were, they were probably well-known or important folk, perhaps British or Canadian or Australian, perhaps police officers, one of them had on an incongruous navy-blue peaked cap worn at a jaunty angle; I very nearly went back on my resolve and came close to giving in to jocular curiosity when there appeared on the screen a Spanish politician, a nationalist, whom we're all heartily sick of seeing (he, of course, would have objected to being described as Spanish), standing before a full-length mirror in the process of meticulously disguising himself as a lady or, rather, as an old-fashioned whore, it took him ages to get his stockings on straight, every time they became twisted or wrinkled he had to take them off and start again, he tore two pairs in the process and glumly flung them down, he was also wrestling with a kind of girdle, it was a half-comic, half-pathetic sight, for which someone in my country would have paid good money; anyway, as I say, I was tempted, but I stopped myself in time and succeeded in not asking Tupra to play it at its proper speed, I wanted to finish as quickly as possible; in a billiard hall, four sinister-looking men were beating up some poor man of advancing years and distinguished appearance, they flung him face down on the green baize and beat him with billiard cues, holding the thin ends and thrashing him with the thick ends, then they rolled him over and immediately set to smashing his glasses and continued hitting him in the face-with glass flying everywhere and doubtless embedding itself in his skin with each new blow-and then they beat him all over his body, his ribs and his hips and his legs and his testicles, yes, they even beat him there, with the cues held upright, they must have broken his kneecaps and his tibia, the man didn't know how best to protect himself, they must have broken his hands too as he tried in vain to cover himself, four billiard cues are a lot when they're raised and lowered and raised and lowered, again and again, like swords. Here, I couldn't help commenting:
'You're not going to tell me that one of these savages is now a prominent figure in some lofty position. I can hardly believe it of thugs like them.'
Tupra stopped the film for a moment, he wasn't going to let me miss any of those barbaric acts, even in fast- forward. The image remained frozen on the poor man, his castigators already withdrawn, lying motionless on the table, bleeding from his nose and eyebrows, possibly from his cheekbones and from other cuts, a swollen, wounded heap.
'That wouldn't be impossible, not at all. But no,' he replied from behind me, this time I hadn't turned round to look at him, just as well, I thought afterwards. 'The important figure here is the old man, who would feel deeply ashamed of this scene. Bear in mind that some people want to hide the fact that they have been the victim as much as or more than if they'd been the executioner. There are people who would do almost anything to keep people from knowing what happened to them, what barbarous, humiliating things have been done to them, and who would go to still greater lengths to prevent that being seen. So that their loved ones, for example, never see or know about it, because they would suffer and be heartbroken and be unable to ever forget it, I mean, imagine if this man were your father. But he's important in a different way from the others you've seen, he's another type altogether. He has little power or influence, at least not directly. Don't you know who he is? Really?' And without even giving me time to answer 'No,' he told me. 'It's Mr. Perez Nuix, our Patricia's father.' And he pronounced that double- barreled surname English-style, so that it sounded as if he'd said something like 'Pears-Nukes.'
It was then that I thought how glad I was he couldn't see my face. I felt a sudden wave of heat spreading over both face and neck and then throughout my body, just like when I'd been caught red-handed at school, with no possibility of arguing or lying my way out of the situation. 'I obviously didn't deceive him,' I thought at once, 'and he doubtless knows that I tried to do so deliberately. That I lied to him about Incompara, perhaps he realized this at once and so it was all pointless, useless, because he didn't take the bait, and Incompara didn't get what he wanted, and so the debt wasn't cancelled, or the man paid off his debt with this brutal beating, but filmed by whom, they must have arranged to meet the father at that billiard hall to sort things out, they set a trap, and probably Reresby knew about it beforehand, knew what was really awaiting the old man, ordered a hidden camera to be installed
