The Civil Code

Pemulis was angry. Fuming mad, even. Many have sworn that they saw cartoon-like steam exhausting from his ears as if they were the dual-chimneys of a proud, classic locomotive barrelling down a twisting metal track. This wasn't the first time that he had been a victim of the civil law's extra-contractual obligation recognized as appropriation of personality, and sadly, it most probably wouldn't be the last. But it hit a nerve let me tell you, and dammit if we wasn't going to do something about it this time.

Since his fame had grown following the publication of his first short-story collection, "Rotel Doesn't Rhyme with Hotel", a handful of semi-autobiographical sketches detailing his time as a part-time student, part-time barley malter, full-time partier at the University of Edinburgh, he had all but forgotten what it was like to experience the beautiful semblance of privacy in his life. It had begun more or less during the course of the book's South American promotional tour where he would perform nightly readings in small cafés and bars over the course of about an hour while simultaneously drowning the better part of a bottle of single-malt Scotch (at this point any one of the Glens would do), a taste that he'd apparently acquired during his time as the fun-loving principal personage of the very collection of stories from which he would read during said sessions. The readings started innocuously enough, drawing a dearth of fans -- perhaps 10 or 20 on the best of nights -- all emerging from those strange corners of the seedy underbelly of the Internet where 512-bit encryption keys reign and fan faction based on the GrenobleWMD stories passes as currency. But one night a not-unknown Swedish photographer whose name happens to escape the author at the present moment stumbled into the right bar on the right night. It just so happened that coincidentally these two characters somehow knew each other from a long-forgotten Parisian past and photographer proceeded to snap some B&W's of Pemulis the author in action. These photos, for one reason or another, seized the imagination of the youth worldwide, and quickly, as they said back then, went viral, the photos that is. Every pretender, English major, screen writer, and angst-ridden artsy teenager from Buenos Aires to Constantinople to Saigon easily and firmly identified with Pemulis's Rotel stories and his whiskey bottle, and sales of the book exploded like a rear-ended Ford Pinto. It came as a bang; the publishing industry went nuts for a kid who looked, to them, like he may be their heavenly salvation in the face of video games, cell phones, and those drab filth-filled Internet blogs written by talentless hacks with too much time on their hands and too many stars in their eyes. Fame arrived over night with not so much as a duffle bag to support itself with and it wasn't going to settle for a place on the fold-out couch. It kicked Pemulis out of his bed, it trashed his kitchen, it ate his food, used his shampoo, got toothpaste all over the sink, and it didn't once even consider to take no for an answer. It arrived without warning and it laid its claim into his life, just like that.

Fame arriving fast, loose, and on fire was exhilarating though. Booze, women, drugs, nights flying by like swirling vivid colours. No responsibilities and being taken care of by hangers-on and handlers. Fast cars, expensive watches, glistening boats, private jets, private rooms, private clubs, but, alas, no private life. No way. With the Patek Philippe 1518 Perpetual Calendar pieces also came photographers, reporters, interview schedules, and worst of all, the fans. Deranged lunatics mobbing you in the street, women and young girls alike grabbing at you, every god damned kid with an iPhone taking videos, Instagrams, and whatever the hell else they did with those things. But Pemulis could handle the fans. He could handle the photographers, the reporters, and the promotional appearances. They were taxing. They were painful. But he could handle it. What shook him to his very core, though, was when one day, this day to be exact, somebody, somewhere, crossed the line. What he fully could not take or accept was the use of his personhood in the course of advertising to sell a product when he had not agreed to said appropriation of his personality, and worst of all, when he vehemently despised, in all ways, shapes, forms, and configurations, the product and/or service in question.

It was a calm Spring morning, and Pemulis was relaxingly sipping his morning whiskey-coffee in a chair by his window. While perusing his very favourite website, a blog devoted to the quintessentially Swiss industry of haute horology, he thought at first that, though it happened rarely, he may have indulged in one too many scotches during his weekly after-breakfast Thai massage. He gave his head a shake, rubbed his eyes, threw another gulp of extra-old, extra-rare down the hatch for good measure, and looked again, closely. Sure enough, however, there he was. He stared at himself staring back at himself, only in the picture on-screen he was not wearing one of his many Patek super-complications, a Rolex GMT Master II with classic Pepsi fluted bezel, or even his A. Lange and Söhne 1815 Rattrapante Perpetual Calendar (see below).

No, it was not the thing of beauty that you see floating in the space above these words. It was something that can only be described in the English language by a word like the following: hideous. Or how about this one: nightmarish. What appeared on the screen on that fateful morning was a photograph of Pemulis performing a reading from Rotel in a bar in São Paulo, a bottle of Glenfidich 18 immediately to his right, and, astonishingly, in the foreground, a floating Rolex Vintage Rainbow Daytona. Ahh!!! The agony! He flung his computer aside in a knee-jerk reaction so swift and powerful that the machine flew off his lap and crashed in two as it forcefully struck the ground in a magnificent impact. The screen lay in the middle of the room, disconnected, slowly fading to black with a ghosting image of the evil rainbow jewels gently pulsating, and Pemulis's vacant stare becoming nothing but an outline and then, before his eyes, nothing.

Living in Montreal at the time, Pemulis turned to his trusted avocat, Maitre Solange Sorel, and gave her an earful. She, in turn, quoted to him Articles 3 and 36 of the Civil Code of Quebec:

3. Every person is the holder of personality rights, such as the right to life, the right to the inviolability and integrity of his person, and the right to the respect of his name, reputation and privacy. These rights are inalienable.

[...]

36. The following acts, in particular, may be considered as invasions of the privacy of a person:

(1) entering or taking anything in his dwelling;

(2) intentionally intercepting or using his private communications;

(3) appropriating or using his image or voice while he is in private premises;

(4) keeping his private life under observation by any means;

(5) using his name, image, likeness or voice for a purpose other than the legitimate information of the public;

(6) using his correspondence, manuscripts or other personal documents.

Bam! Articles 3, 36(3) and 36(5), thank you so very kindly. And a special thank you to you, M. Bonaparte, for creating such a beautiful, ordered set of logical codes that we can run a functioning legal society on top of. Sorel just as soon had one of her articling student underlings fire off a terse infringement notice addressed to one Rolex SA of Geneva, Legal Department, and they were then swiftly off to the Plateau to celebrate their hasty action with a case of Glenlaurel and a box of Montecristos. Later that night, in a haze of Cuban cigar smoke and notes of pungent peaty moss with hints of vanilla, Pemulis swore that he would never be the victim of such a heinous civil crime again.

Justice came quickly. As he emerged from his stupor on the floor of a warehouse apartment not far from the South shore the following morning, Pemulis's phone was buzzing with a call from none other than Mr. Gian Riccardo Marini himself, the recently newly appointed CEO of the famed Rolex watch company.

"Good morning George, how are things in Montreal?"

"You tell me", Pemulis said dryly.

"The sun is shining here in Geneva and I just came out of an interesting discussion with both our legal department and the boys down in advertising."

"Interesting, you say?"

"Well," Marini began as he smiled, pushed his chair back from his desk, and gazed out the window at Mont Blanc which could be seen in the distance, "I'm going to be completely honest with you, George."

"I hope so Gian."

"Well the truth is that we screwed up. Everyone knows you like our watches and the boys just got a little carried away with things. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but when I take a step back, well... So, what I'm trying to say is, we made a mistake and we'd like to make it up to you."

"How so?" Pemulis asked.

"First things first: I've talked to Solange and we want to offer you three things. Number one, we've already pulled the ad. Number two, we'll be running print and online retraction notices for the following three weeks confirming that you never allowed your image to be used in the course of our advertising and that you never endorsed the Rainbow Daytona, and most importantly I think, number three, we would like to offer you an original 4113 Split-Seconds Chronograph straight from our vault here in Geneva."

"Sounds generous", Pemulis was able to offer while suppressing his excitement.

"Well what do you say, George? I personally believe that it's more than fair."

"You've got yourself a deal."

Pemulis hung up the phone (so to speak) and called a taxi to bring him home. He stepped inside and walked straight to his fine oak bar. He poured himself at least five fingers of one of his favourite Scotches, a rare 1967 Glenlivet Cellar Collection. He sat down in a chair by the window of his Mile End apartment, and took a long deep drink. The sun was shining, lighting up the trees on the mountain, and making the streets sparkle from last night's rain. He grabbed a notebook from his side table and a Mont Blanc pen, and he began to write.