Rouaud Jean - The World More Or Less

Also by Jean Rouaud in English translation

FIELDS OF GLORY
OF ILLUSTRIOUS MEN

Copyright 1996, 2012 by Les Editions de Minuit
English translation copyright 1998, 2012 by Barbara Wright

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-61145-669-1

I WHO DREAD THE COMPANY of men, whose conversations weary me, it was just my luck, after eight years of strict boarding-school discipline (the only feminine presence being provided by three old nuns with adolescent moustaches), to find myself now among the members of the Logrean Clubs reserve team, in the bleak rustic changing room erected alongside what you would have thought was a ploughed field, were it not for its chalk lines and goalposts. And this without any particular inclination on my part, unless, for want of anything better, as a time-honoured cure for Sunday boredom.

But the weather was fit to freeze the tail off a brass monkey. Hence the haste of most of the players, when the final whistle blew, to take refuge within the four jerry-built walls of the shack, everyone making a point of knocking the mud off his boots against the concrete doorstep, thus leaving the ground strewn with cakes of earth punched full of stud holes, before making his way to his place, indicated by the hunchbacked peg his clothes are hanging on, and sitting down more or less wearily, according to his real or suggested state of fatigue, on the communal bench running round the little room that reeks of the combined effluvia of camphorated oil and perspiration. A makeshift shelter: it has rectangular patches of cement between grooved uprights, a green metal door with wired glass which, with the little skylight in the corner over by the showers, allows in the feeble grey light of the winter afternoon, a single-sloping corrugated roof made of some composite material, but this provides sufficient protection against the Atlantics blend of wind, intense cold and rain, which paralyses the rare spectators now huddling under the awning of the refreshment bar, who make one wonder what pleasure they can possibly derive from such less than fascinating events. But it isnt only boredom, its also solitude that makes people do strange things. A handful of regulars, from Sunday to Sunday, line up along the guardrail surrounding the pitch (a white tube, with flaking paint, fixed along the top of concrete posts), hunched up, hands in pockets, conspicuously stamping their feet, the bottom of their trousers turned up to protect them from the mud - hence their delicate way of walking on tiptoe - some wearing caps, others with dripping wet hair, but its odd how in this region, where logically it should be a prerequisite, the raincoat is a rarity, as if its use, or that of an umbrella, would reduce the user to the status of a sissy, a wimp, which would do him no good at all in this all-male society. In any case, most of them are content to turn up the collar of their jacket, the same jacket all year round, the difference between the seasons being merely marked by the addition of a scarf in autumnal colours, even if not knotted, just loosely crossed under the buttoned-up sides of the garment and therefore practically superfluous, thus demonstrating the haughty indifference to the vagaries of the climate shown by those whose wallets have difficulty in adapting to it.

But they are connoisseurs - very much so. You hear them shouting pertinent instructions to the players from the touchline: pass, shoot, clear - easy to say, of course -groaning at a ball lost to an opponent as if at that instant the fate of the world depended on it, momentarily turning their backs as if they cant bear to see any more or have already seen too much. But the world isnt at stake, its simply a question of manifesting their vexation so as to show the crowd, which consists only of themselves, that they take an interest in the game, or at least that they are trying to convince each other that such is the case. Then why is that boy there keeping the ball to himself when his unmarked teammate has already dived through a breach in the defence and is provoking the first signs of panic in the opposing ranks? It was a heaven-sent opportunity, the ball would already be in the back of the net if that other idiot, me for instance, hadnt gone out of his way to hog the ball and try out unsuccessful body swerves, thats to say when you pretend youre going to turn right to make the defender think youre going to outflank him on the left, whereas in actual fact you are intending to pass him on the right, but your opponent, no doubt a descendant of those Vikings who used to sow terror in the Loire estuary in the IXth century before establishing themselves there, hence a big blond blood-drinker, doesnt bother his head with such strategic subtleties and unceremoniously shoulders you out of his way, calmly takes possession of the ball and boots it a long way back upfield with a feeling of having done his duty. The air of serene modesty he then adopts doesnt fool you: you can distinctly hear his head resounding with the cheers of a hundred-thousand-capacity stadium.

Thats enough to upset anybody. The artist swept aside by brute force. And as if that wasnt enough of a lesson, your teammate, the one who got through the gap, lambasts you and, suiting the action to the word, raises his arms up to heaven, then drops them and, pointing to a clod of earth between his feet which doesnt really seem to be the matter at issue, informs you that hed been there, on his own, simply waiting to be passed the ball so he could bury it -meaning, in the goal - and that hes fed up with all these splendid opportunites lost through your propensity to play solo, selfishly - thats the word - and that it really is a sign of extraordinary egotism when someone doesnt understand that a team game demands abnegation, cooperation, individuality subordinated to the group, and that in his opinion I would do better to spend my time playing darts, going fishing, or climbing a rope. But some murmurs, cutting short this all-against-one/all-for-one debate, inform you that the ball is already on its way back - it circulates at great speed in this type of game, from one end to the other like an undesirable stateless person -but now theyre going to see what theyre going to see, Im going to trap it, that idiotic spherical object, under my foot. Now, trapping is an exercise that is much appreciated by our handful of supporters; they wont be able to deny your irreproachable technique, and it will make them regret all the more your alleged lack of interest in teamwork.

Whereas normally a ball bounces, this time, watch carefully, its going to remain stuck to my boot. The foot, in suspension, gently accompanies the movement of the falling ball, thus reducing the force of resistance to zero. And the better to understand this physics problem, take two trains travelling in opposite directions on the same line. At the moment of the inevitable impact - horrible, but thats not the point - one of them begins to reverse and gradually halts the infuriated engine. Now, guess who plays the part of the virtuoso, the unflappable engine driver? You have only just solved this problem of the trains that cross without crossing when, taking advantage of your legitimate relaxation (you are mentally savouring the front page of the newspapers: he saves thousands of human lives, and the humble expression on your face in the full-page photo, eyelids lowered, I only did my duty), when suddenly and treacherously, from behind your back, up surges the blood-drinker and shoves his head between the ball and your boot. This time the two engines well and truly collide. Deafening sound of a shattered skull. But why doesnt he fall into a deep coma? For a moment you are petrified, your foot suspended above the ground juggling with an air bubble, amidst boos from the spectators and from the specialist of the gap: but whats he waiting for? The train? Your revenge will come shortly afterwards, your sweet consolation, the justification of your feeble effort: the vampires forehead is dripping with mud. A quick look around tells me that I am the only one in this quagmire who isnt covered in mud. Which, in view of the conditions, is something of a miracle.