Portrait of a Man by Georges Perec, David Bellos

revenge!”
    â€œOn him?”
    â€œOn him. I had to take it out on someone. On him, because someone had to pay. Rufus and Madera had been propping me up for years and doing nothing to let me get away, quite the opposite, they had been doing all they could to ensure I had everything I needed and felt safe. And they were living off me, off my work and my illusions. They’d played along with me for years, cultivated my penchant forliving incognito, the absurd wish I had only to live behind multiple masks, to make a life out of hiding behind the remains of dead men. They’d been trying for years not to help me but to get me to sink deeper, they’d been watching me go under …”
    â€œWhy were you going under?”
    â€œI was living in a false world, Streten, I was living in a world without sense. I spent my time in galleries and studios. I spent my whole time making a precise study of acts that others had performed long before, and performed better, in the vain but well-paid belief that I could match them perfectly. Listen. I did not exist. Gaspard Winckler was a name without content. No police force was out to get me, nobody even knew who I was. I had no country, no friends, no aims. Once a year I did a genuine restoration job for the Art Museum in Geneva. I was supposed to be off sick for the rest of the time. Where my money came from nobody knew. I was allegedly on Rufus’s payroll as the picture restorer at his art gallery, but everyone knew that the Koenig Gallery hardly ever needed to do restoration work on its holdings. I was the world’s greatest forger because nobody knew I was a forger … That’s all. That’s enough …”
    â€œEnough to go under?”
    â€œEnough to be dead. I was guaranteed to get away with it provided no-one guessed that I existed. It went on for twelve years. Why twelve, I’ve no idea. Why twelve years instead of a whole life, like Jérôme’s, I don’t know. But after twelve years I’d had my fill. I couldn’t go on, you see. I could not keep going. I needed actions that were mine alone, I needed a life that belonged to me and to nobodyelse. But that was baloney; I’d set things up so that it could never come about, so that there was no exit. Do you see: caught in my own trap! There was no method for starting again, no way of saying no, of going back to square one.”
    â€œWhy not? You could easily have refused to work for Rufus and Madera …”
    â€œNo. I couldn’t refuse. I wanted to say no. At times I made up my mind to say no. But I couldn’t do it.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI don’t know …”
    â€œWhen did you make up your mind to say no more?”
    â€œThe first time was in September two years ago, straight after leaving your studio. I remember, I was in the plane en route for Paris. I was late going back, I hadn’t warned anyone, not even Geneviève, and I hadn’t even answered her when she’d asked me ten days earlier to come back as quickly as I could. The plane made a stop in Geneva and I sent a telegram to Geneviève and another one to Rufus. Geneviève wasn’t at the aerodrome. I went with Rufus. I should have told him that I’d just decided not to work anymore, but I didn’t. There was a party at Rufus’s place. He introduced me to Madera. It was the first time I’d met the man. I hadn’t even known of his existence, yet I later found out that he was in fact the prime mover of the entire business and that Rufus was only the implementer and the front man. Madera proposed a deal. I didn’t say anything. Rufus came over to me and asked me to accept. I nearly told him that I didn’t want to, but I wanted to talk to Geneviève first. She came, Istill don’t know why. She didn’t look at me. Nor I her. I couldn’t say anything to her. She went off after a few seconds. Next day I went to see