La Maison de Rendez-Vous and Djinn Read online

  * * *

  DJINN

  and

  LA MAISON DE RENDEZ-VOUS

  * * *

  OTHER WORKS BY ALAIN ROBBE-GRILLET

  Published by Grove Press

  The Erasers

  For a New Novel

  In the Labyrinth

  Jealousy

  Last Year at Marienbad

  Project for a Revolution in New York

  Recollections of the Golden Triangle

  Topology of a Phantom City

  The Voyeur

  ALAIN ROBBE-GRILLET

  * * *

  DJINN

  TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY YVONE LENARD AND WALTER WELLS

  and

  LA MAISON DE RENDEZ-VOUS

  TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH

  BY RICHARD HOWARD

  * * *

  GROVE PRESS

  NEW YORK

  Djinn: Copyright © 1981 by Les Editions de Minuit. English translation . copyright © 1982 by Yvone Lenard and Walter Wells. First published in French by Les Editions de Minuit, Paris, France, 1981.

  La Maison de Rendez-vous: Copyright © 1965 by Les Editions de Minuit. English translation copyright © 1966 by Grove Press, Inc. First published in French by Les Editions de Minuit, Paris, France, 1965.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Robbe-Grillet, Alain, 1922–

  La maison de rendez-vous; & Djinn.

  1. Robbe-Grillet, Alain, 1922– —Translations, English. I. Robbe-Grillet, Alain, 1922– . Djinn. English. 1987. II. Title. III. Title: Maison de rendez-vous. IV. Title: Djinn.

  PQ2635.O117A241987843’.91487-7387

  ISBN 0-8021-3017-8

  eISBN 978-0-8021-9059-8

  Cover design by Cindy LaBreacht

  Cover art: Rock Composition III, 1947 by William Brice. Private Collection. Oil on canvas, 11 x 16 inches.

  Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  00 01 02 03 04 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  Djinn

  La Maison de Rendez-vons

  * * *

  DJINN

  * * *

  PROLOGUE

  There is nothing—I mean no incontrovertible evidence—that might allow anyone to place Simon Lecoeur’s story among tales of pure fiction. In the contrary, one can observe that numerous and important elements of that unstable, incomplete text, fissured as it seems, coincide with facts (commonly known facts) with a strange recurrence that is therefore disconcerting. And, while other elements of the narrative stray deliberately away from those facts, they always do so in so suspicious a manner that one is forced to see there a systematic intent on the part of the narrator, as though some secret motive had dictated those changes and those inventions.

  Such motive, of course, escapes us, at least for the time being. Were we to discover it, it would shed light on the whole affair. It is permissible, in any case, to think so.

  About the author himself, little is known. His true identity is itself open to question. Nobody knew any of his relatives, distant or close. After his disappearance, a French passport was found at his home, in the name of Boris Koershimen, an electronics engineer, born in Kiev. But the police in charge of the investigation claim that document to be a crude fake, probably manufactured abroad. Yet, the photograph it bears, according to all witnesses, seems indeed to be that of the young man.

  As for the officially listed last name, it hardly sounds Ukrainian. Besides, it is under a different spelling and a different first name that he had been employed at the American School of the rue de Passy,* where, for the last few months, he had been teaching contemporary literary French: “Robin Körsimos, known as Simon Lecoeur.” The name would seem to indicate, this time, rather a Hungarian, or a Finn, perhaps yet even a Greek; but this last guess would be given the lie by the looks of that tall and slender young man, with light blond hair and pale green eyes. Finally, one must note that his colleagues at school, as well as his students (girls for the most part) called him only “Yann,” which they spelled Ján when they wrote him brief memos; none of them could ever say why.

  The text that concerns us—ninety-nine pages, typed double spaced—had been prominently placed on his desk (in the modest furnished room he rented at 21, rue d’Amsterdam), next to an ancient type-writer, which, according to experts, was indeed the one on which it had been typed. Yet, the date on that typescript was several weeks, probably even several months, old; and there again, the proximity of the typewriter to the papers could have been the product of some staging, a falsification invented by that elusive character in order to cover his tracks.

  Reading that narrative, your first impression is that you are dealing with material for a textbook, meant for the teaching of language, such as there must be hundreds. The regular progression of the grammatical difficulties of the language appears clearly, in the course of eight chapters of increasing length, which would roughly correspond to the eight* weeks of an American university quarter.

  Nevertheless, the story told in these pages remains quite far removed from the resolutely innocuous texts generally found in works of that type. As a matter of fact, the ratio of probability of the reported events is almost always too low, in relation to the laws of traditional realism. Thus, it is not ruled out to see a mere guise in this pretense of a pedagogical intent. Behind that guise, something else must be concealed. But what?

  Here, in its entirety, is the text in question. At the top of the page appears this simple title: The Rendez-vous.

  * The Franco-American School in Paris (E.F.A.P.) 56, rue de Passy 75016 Paris

  * There are actually ten weeks in a quarter (Translator’s note).

  CHAPTER ONE

  I arrive exactly at the appointed hour: it is six-thirty. It is almost dark already. The hangar is not locked. I walk in, pushing the door, which no longer has a lock.

  Inside, all is silent. Listening more attentively, the straining ear registers only a faint sound, clear and steady, fairly close by: water dripping from some loose faucet, into a tank, a basin, or just a puddle on the ground.

  Under the dim light that filters through the large windows with dirt encrusted, partly broken panes, I can barely make out the objects that surround me, piled on all sides in great disarray, no doubt cast off: ancient discarded machinery, metallic carcasses, and assorted old hardware, which dust and rust darken to a blackish and uniformly dull tint.

  When my eyes become somewhat accustomed to the semidarkness, I finally notice the man, facing me. Standing, motionless, both hands in the pockets of his trench coat, he watches me without saying a word, without so much as the slightest greeting in my direction. The character is wearing dark glasses, and the thought crosses my mind: he is perhaps blind. . . .

  Tall and slender, young by all appearances, he leans a casual shoulder against a pile of oddly shaped crates. His face is not quite visible, because of the glasses, between the turned-up collar of the trench coat and the brim
of the hat pulled down over his forehead. The whole figure brings irresistibly to mind some old detective movie of the thirties.

  Having now myself stopped five or six steps away from the man who remains as motionless as a bronze statue, I enunciate clearly (but: in a low voice) the coded message of recognition: “Monsieur Jean, I presume? My name is Boris. I come about the ad.”

  And all I hear again is the steady dripping of water in the silence. Is that blind man a deaf mute as well?

  After several minutes, the answer finally comes: “Do not pronounce it Jean, but Djinn. I am an American.”

  My surprise is so great that I can barely hide it. The voice is, indeed, that of a young woman: lilting and warm, with husky undertones that give it a hint of senuous intimacy; yet, she does not correct the title Monsieur, which she therefore seems to accept.

  A half smile plays upon her lips. She asks: “It bothers you to work for a girl?”

  There is a challenge in the tone of her words. But I promptly decide to play the game: “No, sir,” I say, “on the contrary.” In any case, I have no choice.

  Djinn does not seem in a hurry to speak any more. She is watching me carefully and without kindness. She is, perhaps, forming an unfavorable judgment of my abilities. I dread the verdict, which falls at the end of her examination: “You are a rather good-looking guy,” she says, “but you are too tall for a Frenchman.”

  I feel like laughing. This young foreigner hasn’t been in France long, I guess, and she has come with ready-made ideas. “I am French,” I say by way of justification. “That is not the question,” she answers after a silence.

  She speaks French with a slight accent, which carries a lot of charm. Her lilting voice and her androgynous looks evoke, for me, the actress Jane Frank. I love Jane Frank. I go to see every single one of her movies. Unfortunately, as “Monsieur” Djinn says, that is not the question.

  We remain that way, watching each other, for a few minutes more. But it is getting darker and darker. To hide my embarrassment, I ask: “So, what is the question?”

  Relaxing for the first time, or so it seems, Djinn smiles the delightful smile of Jane. “You are going to have to pass unnoticed in the crowd,” she says.

  I am very much tempted to return her smile, accompanied by a compliment on her looks. I don’t dare: she is the boss. I fall back on apologies: “I am not a giant.” As a matter of fact, I am barely six one, and she herself is not short.

  She wants me to move forward. I take five steps toward her. At closer range, her face has a strange pallor, a waxen immobility. I am almost afraid to move closer. I stare at her mouth. . . .

  “Closer,” she says. This time, there is no doubt: her lips do not move when she speaks. I take one more step and I place my hand on her chest.

  This is not a woman, nor a man. What I have in front of me is a plastic mannequin for display windows. The dim light explains my mistake. The lovely smile of Jane Frank must be credited to my imagination alone.

  “Touch again, if you like,” says the seductive voice of Monsieur Djinn ironically, underlining the ridiculousness of my situation. Where does that voice come from? The sounds do not issue from the mannequin itself, most likely, but from a loud-speaker hidden nearby.

  So, I am being watched by someone invisible. This is most unpleasant. It makes me feel clumsy, threatened, guilty. The girl who is talking to me probably happens to be sitting several miles away; and she is watching me, as though I were some bug caught in a trap, on her television screen. I am sure she is making fun of me.

  “At the end of the center aisle,” says the voice, “there are some stairs. Walk up to the second floor. The steps do not go any farther.” Happy to part company with my lifeless doll, I am relieved to carry out these instructions.

  Arriving at the first floor, I see the stairs stop there. This is therefore a second floor American style. This confirms my opinion: Djinn does not reside in France.

  I am now in some sort of a vast attic, which quite resembles the ground floor: same dirty panes, and same arrangement of aisles between piles of assorted junk. There is only a little more light.

  I glance left and right, seeking a human presence in this mess of cardboard, wood and iron.

  Suddenly, I have the disturbing feeling that a scene is being repeated, as in a mirror: facing me, five or six steps away, stands the same motionless figure, in a trench coat with turned-up collar, dark glasses and felt hat with a turned-down brim, that is to say a second mannequin, the exact reproduction of the first, in an identical posture.

  I approach, this time without hesitation; and I reach forward. . . . Fortunately, I stop my gesture in time: the thing has just smiled, and this time, beyond any doubt, unless I am crazy. This fake wax mannequin is a real woman.

  She withdraws her hand from her pocket, and very slowly, she raises her arm to push away mine, which remains half raised, paralyzed by surprise.

  “Don’t touch, boy,” she says, “danger zone!” The voice is the same indeed, with the same sensuous allure, and the same Boston accent; except that, from now on, she speaks to me with patronizing impertinence.

  “Sorry, baby,” I say, “I am an idiot.” In the same severe and final tone, she replies: “According to regulations, you must always speak to me courteously.”

  “Okay,” I say, without abandoning my apparent good humor. Yet, all this staginess is beginning to get on my nerves. Djinn is probably acting that way on purpose, because she adds, after a moment’s reflection: “And don’t say okay, that’s very vulgar, especially in French.”

  I am anxious to terminate this unpleasant interview: I have nothing to hope for, after such a welcome. Yet, at the same time, this insolent girl fascinates me in some disconcerting way. “Thank you,” I say, “I appreciate the language lessons.”

  As though she had guessed my thoughts, she adds then: “Impossible for you to leave us. It is too late, the exit is guarded. Meet Laura, she is armed.”

  I turn around, toward the stairs. Another girl, wearing exactly the same costume, with dark glasses and slouch brim hat is there, at the top of the stairs, hands pushed deep into the pockets of her raincoat.

  The position of her right arm and the bulge in her pocket give some likelihood to the threat: that young lady is aiming a heavy-gauge revolver at me, hidden by the fabric. . . . Or else, she is pretending to.

  “Hello, Laura, how are you?” I say in my coolest thriller-diller style. “How are you,” she affirms in an echo, Anglo-Saxon style. She must be without rank in the organization, since she speaks that politely.

  An absurd thought crosses my mind: Laura is nothing but the inanimate mannequin from the ground floor, who, having climbed the steps behind me, faces me again.

  To tell the truth, girls are no longer the way they used to be. They play gangsters, nowadays, just like boys. They organize rackets. They plan holdups and practice karate. They will rape defenseless adolescents. They wear pants. . . . Life has become impossible.

  Djinn probably feels that explanations are in order, for she breaks, at this point, into a longer speech: “I hope that you’ll forgive our methods. We absolutely have to work this way: keep on the look-out for possible enemies, and watch over the loyalty of our new friends: in short, we must operate with the greatest precautions, as you have just seen.”

  Then, after a pause, she goes on: “Our action is secret, by necessity. It carries major risks for us. You are going to help us. We will give you precise instructions. But we prefer (at least at first) not to reveal to you the exact purpose of your mission nor the general goal of our undertaking. That is for reasons of security, but also of efficiency.”

  I ask her what will happen should I refuse. But she leaves me no choice: “You need money, we pay. Therefore, you accept without an argument. It is useless to ask questions or to make comments. You do what we ask of you, and that’s all there is to it.”

  I like my freedom. I like to feel responsible for my own actions. I like to understand
what I am doing. . . . And, yet, I agree to this weird deal.

  It is not the fear of that imaginary gun that motivates me, nor such a great need for money. . . . There are many other ways to earn a living, when you are young. Why, then? Curiosity? Bravado? Or a more obscure motivation?

  In any case, if I am free, I have the right to do what I feel like doing, even against my own good sense.

  “You’ve got something on your mind that you are not telling,” says Djinn. “Yes,” I say. “And what is it?” “It has nothing to do with the job.”

  Djinn then removes her dark glasses, allowing me to gaze upon her lovely pale eyes. And finally, she smiles at me, the enchanting smile I have been hoping for all along, and giving up the superior tone of her position, she whispers in her warm and sweet voice: “Now, you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “The struggle of the sexes,” I say, “is the motor of history.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alone again, walking briskly along the streets, now brightly lit by streetlights and shop windows, I find that my mood has radically changed: a brand new exhilaration quickens my body, churns my thoughts, colors every little thing around me. It is no longer the mindless indifference of this morning, but a sort of happiness, and even enthusiasm, without precise cause. . . .

  Without cause, indeed? Why not admit it? My meeting with Djinn is the obvious cause of this sudden and remarkable transformation. At every moment, for any reason or for no reason at all, I think of her. Her image, her silhouette, her face, her gestures, the way she moves, above all her smile are much too present in my mind; my job certainly does not require that I pay that much attention to the person of my employer.

  I look at the shops (rather unattractive in this part of town), the passersby, the dogs (usually I hate dogs), with benevolence. I want to sing, to run. I see smiles on every face. Ordinarily, people look dumb and sad. Today, they have been touched by some inexplicable grace.