Don't you know Redl, Alfred Redl?

In *Vert et Florissant…*, translated by Peter Brabenec, Slovak national author Pavel Vilikovský recounts the wild and action-packed adventures of a secret agent—with an unconventional and zany 007-style—who travels across early 20th-century Europe^th century and recounts his adventures in espionage and counterespionage.

Haven’t you heard of Alfred Redl? He was a colonel who headed the Austro-Hungarian secret service and a notorious homosexual who became a double agent to support his lover. A lover of gadgets of the era—like any self-respecting secret agent—he fell victim to several blackmailers who beat him at his own carnal game. For Alfred Redl was an ideal target for foreign intelligence services, which blackmailed him by exploiting his Achilles’ heel: his passion for the finer things in life. Historically, it would appear that through lovers introduced to him, the agent came to sell Austro-Hungarian military secrets to the French, Russian, and Italian intelligence services. These secrets made him immensely wealthy, but when summoned by the authorities, he was forced to investigate and identify the culprit (none other than himself) behind these leaks within his own agency. He was forced to betray his country and lead a turbulent life until the day he took his own life in his hotel room in Vienna, after being exposed by the police.

But the author draws very loosely on this spy story, which serves merely as a narrative pretext or backdrop. True, an atypical and zany 007 travels across Europe, recounting his adventures in espionage and counterespionage as well as his encounter with Alfred Redl. However, one could say that what matters most to the author is to highlight, to weave into this context, or to sketch onto this canvas the themes that recur frequently in his work—like migratory birds drawn back by his writing—namely, Slovak identity, the complexities of love, the joys and setbacks of life, and the history of nations and peoples.

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This book is not the story of a secret agent from the early 20th^th century, who is said to have had a relationship with Alfred Redl, but once again, just as in her novel A dog on the road, a way for Pavel Vilikovský to write about subjects that must be weighing on his mind and conscience. A miracle then takes place, and the author, reconnecting with the fact that writing has the power to convey themes, a message, an obsession, a concern, or a dream to a reader, sets his migratory birds and his pen soaring—as is the case with Slovak identity, this small country scarred by the branding iron of communism, by its various abrupt changes in political systems, and by its erasure.

«One of the most psychologically and physically demanding missions awaited me in some remote corner of the world. Have you ever heard of Slovakia? I’m not surprised. A country forgotten by God, I’d say—though that would assume God ever knew it existed in the first place.»

As for the author’s other recurring themes—namely, the complexities of love, the joys and setbacks of life—examples abound. There are all kinds of literary turns of phrase. Some are cut and dried; some contradict each other; some spark brilliance from those contradictions; some make us laugh, and others make us blush in ways that take us by surprise. Pavel Vilikovský kneads the clay of words as much as he can, producing quotes we might share with our next-door neighbor—depending on our rapport—such as this one: «To master one’s sensuality is to resist temptation,» or «Pain—if one can speak of the delicate in indelicate terms—is the colic of the soul.» And to convey his favorite themes, Pavel Vilikovský has chosen the monologue.

The writer’s style—rigorous in its simplicity, irregular in its digressions—achieves a rare clarity and an unshakable literary naturalness, the most formidable of which for writers is the passage of time, which, over generations, separates the literary wheat from the chaff. The chapters are a pleasure to read, and the phrases, turns of phrase, and metaphors that emerge from the numerous digressions clink together like crystal glasses, only serving to whet the reader’s appetite and make them want to read more. And to truly master the art of writing, vocabulary is key. Whether it’s the pronunciation of names, unexpected—or even invented—onomatopoeia, the etymology of words, or the interpretations we make of them, the author highlights his passion for language, wherever it comes from—whether Slovak, French, or German.

«A French writer commented on the word figure: the word figure is crude; it perfectly captures the feelings evoked by the numbers. It took a Slovak linguist, in a self-published book […], to respond to him promptly and aptly, and I’ll say this on my own behalf as well: Crude, my foot! The word figure is as innocent as an angel. The harshness that Faguet attributes to him stems from bills—especially when they’re steep and we can’t afford to pay them. Numbers and dry accounting inspire horror and resistance among those devoted to politics. I would not wish to get involved in fruitless linguistic disputes. When linguists cannot agree, it is the state that ultimately imposes its authority. How much energy and how much time would the Germans have wasted in fruitless disputes over whether to write in Gothic or Latin script—how much paper would they have squandered!—without ever finding a solution. The Führer gave the order to write in Latin script—it is well known that Gothic script posed problems for him—and the disputes died down. Here is a fine example of the role of the individual in history.»

This effervescent monologue and this literary naturalness—the author’s distinctive style—are rooted in a stripped-down irony, reduced to the essentials in simple sentences, cleansed of their sins and all their rough edges or imperfections. Irony is a delicate form of humor to handle in literature. It could be compared to handling explosives, for the writer who masters irony possesses the same talent as one who masters the explosion—whether a pyrotechnician or a suicide bomber— that is, the rare ability to control the delay, the refined gift of knowing how to wait for the right moment and to choose the exact length of the fuse that will set the powder alight in the reader’s eyes.

«But I can tell you—and I’m telling you this man to man—though I do wonder what you’re worth as a man; but it’s not for your sake that we’re going to transform proverbs, set phrases, and even less so time-honored comparisons… have you noticed that the term used for comparison is always richer, deeper, more vivid than the thing being compared? For example: You stink like Napoleon upon his return from the Russian campaign. What a wealth of historical twists and turns, what vastness—the vast Russian steppes…—and you? You’re a nobody, and not just in this comparison. Now it’s your turn, and if you respond to my attack with an attack of your own, I won’t take offense, I assure you. That I caw like a raven? That’s trite, my dear friend, and untrue; you certainly don’t know that as a boy, I sang in a choir, and my angelic voice… All right. Now it’s my turn, and to show you my virtuosity, I’ll take the same starting point: You stink like the Olympic marathon champion’s sock broth. Excellent, isn’t it? Your turn now. »Yes, yes. I stink like shit, that’s it. Remarkable. It’s laconic, but so spot-on. I admit I envy you one thing: that sublimation.”

And what about the book itself in all of this? One might say that in literary criticism, we always place importance on content but little on form—and yet… The aesthetic uniqueness of this paperback published by Editions La Baconnière lies in all those keywords at the edges of the pages, extracted like precious stones from the rock of the text. It’s the word «tarte» in the margin of page 54 that highlights «Don’t be such a tarte—put your brain to work a little!» It’s the word «plop,» in the margin of page 38, that highlights «When I heard the faint plop! like two crows» beaks clattering together, I was already in a safe place, protected by the rocky outcrop.” And so on. It’s an original layout that makes for a unique reading experience.

Intertextuality, designed for the average Franco-Swiss reader, can teach them about Central European culture, Slavic geopolitics, and certain political figures, all with the aim of dispelling the ignorance that would otherwise prevent them from fully understanding the topics addressed by the author. Because in the end, only the reader matters. Moreover, as Pavel Vilikovský said in A dog on the road: «The reality of a book is the reader.» In other words, as long as a book hasn’t been read and is sitting on a shelf, it doesn’t exist. And isn’t it reassuring to know that the life of books is in our hands?

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Write to the author: [email protected]

Pavel Vilikovský
Green and Thriving...
Translated from Slovak by Peter Brabenec
Editions La Baconnière
2020
208 pages