by Jean Echenoz
On the day in question, they put on gloves. Entering the bank, Pognel immediately covered his head with a balaclava, while Louis-Charles thought it very smart to hide his identity behind a mask of a politician’s face: Georges Marchais, the incumbent secretary-general of the French Communist Party. Once they had burst into the building, drawing inspiration from the numerous movies they had analyzed, they unfortunately made two failed attempts before they were finally able to attract the attention of the staff and the few customers who were there. Even though their voices were hardly assured, even though they handled their weapons clumsily, the employees obeyed their orders and the customers lay on the floor. As Pognel headed toward the cashier’s desk (banks were less secure thirty years ago) and handed the cashier a gym bag, the employees followed the orders even more willingly because they had immediately noted the carelessness of the robbers’ method, its flagrant lack of maturity: they knew that everything was in place to deal with such a slack operation.
So, while the cashier obediently placed wad after wad of cash into the bag under Pognel’s wide, staring eyes, two security guards came out of nowhere and tried to apprehend Louis-Charles, who resisted them. As he did so, his mask slipped, and now his eyes were no longer level with the holes in Marchais’s face. Blindly, he pressed the trigger of his pistol. A bullet lodged in the gallbladder of one of the guards, who collapsed. But when Louis-Charles attempted to use his weapon again, he discovered that he was out of bullets. Luckily for him, the first gunshot had caused widespread panic, and amid the screaming, fleeing crowd he spotted his chance to escape. He tore off his mask, tossed the pistol, and ran frantically out of the bank and away down the street, leaving the car parked in Avenue de Bouvines. He didn’t know how to drive; Clément Pognel was the one with the license.
And Pognel, put out by the turn events had taken, finding himself alone and knowing perfectly well that his gun was harmless, did not even try to threaten anyone with it but simply let it hang from one hand as he took off his balaclava. I surrender, he didn’t have time to stammer idiotically, because the staff and customers immediately overcame their fear and joined the security guard in overpowering the bank robber, tearing his useless weapon from his hand before beating him to a pulp—except for one selfless soul who, reluctantly extricating himself from the carnage, sacrificed his pleasure in favor of calling the police. After that, the case followed the normal course of events and Pognel took the rap. Even though he didn’t fire the shot himself and even though the gallbladder is not a vital organ, the act was considered attempted homicide, which, combined with armed robbery, saw him sentenced to ten years in prison.
During the interrogations that followed the robbery, Pognel maintained a polite silence: he did not say a word about the preparation of the crime and firmly refused to name his accomplice. Maybe he thought himself solely to blame for the robbery’s failure and decided to sacrifice himself to protect Louis-Charles, whom he had never ceased to admire. Louis-Charles never once visited Pognel during his incarceration. And, after he had been released, Pognel did not attempt to get in touch with his former partner. It is not impossible that Clément Pognel ended up holding a grudge against Louis-Charles Coste for letting him take all the blame and then abandoning him. Even if the statute of limitations may apply to this case—something Louis-Charles has never attempted to find out—the fact remains that it was he who inspired the crime, he who shot the security guard. The whole thing is still a sensitive issue and overall it seems preferable not to get the police or the courts involved. In any case, now living as Lou Tausk, Louis-Charles Coste has no idea of Clément Pognel’s current situation. He doesn’t know—nor does he want to know—where he is, what he’s going through, or even if he’s still alive.
We, however, always better informed than anyone else, know perfectly well where Pognel is. We had no trouble locating him: at this very moment, he is walking next to a woman on the median strip of Boulevard de Charonne, heading toward Place de la Nation, not far from the bank where, thirty years earlier, he committed his criminal offense. As they approach the Avron metro station, the woman signals imperiously and Pognel follows her across the road to a supermarket. He is not a very tall man, not exactly ugly but not especially handsome either. He has a sparse red mustache through which his upper lip is visible, even though he seems to have deliberately avoided shaving his nose hair in an attempt to give the mustache more volume. He wears thick-lensed glasses, a canvas jacket, a cheap pair of jeans, and dirty yellow and brown sneakers. On his head is a gray cap emblazoned with the word DIAZEPAM in beige; the W-shaped scar on his cheekbone, seen through the cap’s transparent brown plastic visor, does not look quite so obvious. You can tell that he has a slight limp.
He is grocery shopping in the company of this woman, who, apparently the dominant one, brusquely points at food items on the shelves, which Clément Pognel unquestioningly grabs and places in the cart that he is pushing. About forty years old, the woman is dark-haired, plump, and robust, her hair cut very short, eyebrows and nostrils pierced, an amateurish tattoo (which she must have done herself) vaguely resembling a dog on her forearm, tight black top and pants, fat thighs, large breasts, aggressive voice, belligerent expression.
Clément Pognel can’t have known her very long—perhaps he’s just met her—because, between the transfer of two cans from shelf to cart, she asks him what his name is and he replies. His voice is soft and immature, making him seem younger than the woman, whereas the truth is that he must be six or seven years older. And why do you limp like that? she asks in a harsh voice. It’s from when I was in prison, he says.
He remembers how, thirty years ago, when he first entered prison, he had been beaten up after he took exception to the idea of becoming a sexual servant: his knee was broken against a washstand to give him a clear understanding of the ambient culture. Everything went more smoothly once he had made his orifices available to a protector, then to several protectors, then to an indeterminate number of these protectors’ clients, who hired Clément Pognel by the half hour. And as he gave full satisfaction to all, they wanted to keep him, to guarantee his services for as long as possible, so that each time the possibility of his early release for good behavior came up, they created all sorts of trouble for him. In that way, Pognel served his full term and his protectors and their clients were able to eke maximum enjoyment from him.
The fortysomething woman, far from appearing shocked by this etiological account of his limp, actually seems to take pleasure in it. She gazes lustfully at Clément Pognel and he, in return, manages a wretched little smile. We can imagine, given their developing relationship and the satisfaction they apparently hope to glean from it, that the woman must have a penchant for dominance and submission, and that Pognel—who enjoyed his submissive relationship with Louis-Charles—must have developed this taste during his spell in prison.
And apart from that, she asks him, what do you do? Pognel replies that he is a shelf stacker in a discount electrical goods store named Titan-Guss, in Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. That’s handy, says the woman, my microwave’s just died. Is it still under warranty? Pognel asks. I’m not sure, she says; I’d be surprised. They’ve got some pretty good offers on microwaves, he informs her, at the store where I work. I’m not talking about buying one, she makes clear to him, I’m talking about you stealing one for me. And as this sounds more like an order than a mere suggestion, Pognel says that he will see what he can do.
And what about you? he asks. What about me? the woman replies aggressively. Well, what’s your name? Pognel asks. Marie-Odile, replies the woman. That’s a pretty name, Pognel ventures. Yeah, agrees Marie-Odile, it’s okay.
7
WHEN THE DOOR OPENED to reveal the three men from the corner of Rue Pétrarque, Constance closed her eyes, the memories of that moment suddenly rushing back en masse. It would have taken her five seconds to organize those memories in order, but she didn’t have that long. One of the three leaned over her bed, saying to her in a gentle, almo
st affectionate voice that he was sorry he had woken her. When she opened her eyes, she recognized the handsome man who, standing in the street in overalls, had introduced her to his drill. Now dressed differently, he stroked her forehead with two fingers and said his name was Victor.
Behind this Victor, Constance could see the two others who had taken her into the utility vehicle. They stood back at a slight distance and smiled, waving to her in a friendly, relieved way, as if they were watching her recover consciousness after an operation in the hospital. I can see that everything’s fine, Victor declared; then, turning around and raising his voice—since the volume of the trucks’ roar outside the window had suddenly increased—he confirmed that everything was fine to the others, whose smiles grew wider. They moved closer to Constance’s bed and Victor introduced them: the ostrich was Jean-Pierre, the sea cow Christian. Jean-Pierre and Christian were not dressed the same way as they had been the other day either; they were now wearing jackets and pants, the kind you see all the time, with Jean-Pierre in an open-neck shirt and Christian in a diamond-pattern tie.
The fact that they were not attempting to cover their faces or distort their voices, that they were using their first names—even if they turned out to be false—and acting in an affable, considerate way, all of this was on the face of it reassuring, even if the idea that it might not be—I’ve seen their faces, so maybe they’ll kill me—did cross Constance’s mind briefly, before she pushed the thought away. I brought you a cup of coffee, Victor announced. We’re all going to have coffee together. They drank it; it wasn’t bad; they commented on this; then Victor said that they’d better get started. Jean-Pierre and Christian turned back toward the door, went out onto a sort of landing, then began transporting what sounded like a very heavy object. Constance heard them giving brief instructions, the kind of practical advice you’d expect from men accustomed to such work. Watch out on the left, it won’t get through. No, a bit higher. There. Now lift. Their voices were calm. They proceeded patiently and methodically, like piano movers. She almost expected to see Victor holding a delivery slip.
The heavy object consisted of a very bulky box that sounded simultaneously clunky and hollow. It was a trunk the size of a human being, a bit like a coffin, and Victor must have seen Constance’s face tense up because he reassured her in a kind voice, advising her not to worry as he handed her a plastic tumbler decorated with little red and yellow dancing flowers and asked her to swallow the contents. She obeyed—the drink tasted of sage and verbena, synthetic but not too bad—and she quickly felt more relaxed. Holding her under the arms and by the ankles, Jean-Pierre and Christian laid her gently inside the box, arranging her bag next to her. Victor smiled at her again, stroked her cheek, and asked her how she felt. Constance wanted to say fine, but as the drink was rapidly taking effect, all she managed to utter was f.
Then, after Victor had fitted the lid in place above her, everything went black. Constance kept her eyes open and a dribble of spit hung from her open mouth, but she still felt fine; in fact, she was feeling better and better. When she realized that the lid, once in place, was now being nailed shut, it was less agreeable, though still not really frightening, even if the sound of the hammer gave her a headache and even if each nail seemed to barely miss her body.
Constance still had enough presence of mind to worry that she might suffocate inside this box, but her new friends must have thought about that too because they had brought along a drill—the same one as the other day, presumably—and they used it to pierce holes in the wood just above her face (she had to close her mouth and eyes so she didn’t get sawdust in them) so she could breathe. She sensed the box being lifted and then carried, without hearing any groans or grunts of effort from the bearers. The only sounds: the narrow echoes of a corridor; the vibration of an elevator; the cavernous resonance of a garage; the thuds of the box being loaded into a trunk; the roar of a diesel engine; and then she fell asleep.
The next time she woke, she was lying on an adjustable canvas sun lounger. The rubber straps that held the canvas to the metal tubing were eaten away, hollowed out, worn almost completely through. Her bag lay at the foot of the sun lounger, and beyond it Constance gradually distinguished a soot-filled fireplace containing mismatched firedogs, a yellowed sink with oxidized utensils, and an ancient butane gas stove whose pipes were not connected to anything. Aslant on the walls were two or three flaking frames containing faded chromos featuring scenes from the 1970 war and a sticky opal glass globe hung over a table scattered with the leftovers of a meal on which—the only sign of life—a congregation of flies were busy feeding, a two-thirds majority of them large greenbottles. Probably the product of decades of absence or negligence, covered with layers of coagulated, melded, coalesced goo and dust, this entire scene was barely visible in a half-light that excluded all notions of color. Turning around on her sun lounger, Constance also noticed a set of shelves behind her, robust enough to hold—lined up in order—the ten volumes of the Quillet encyclopedia. But there were no other works that might—like a phone directory or a local guidebook—have given some indication which region, which country, she was in.
In terms of luminosity, some daylight was coming through a half-open French door, which did not seem a good sign to Constance. The fact that they had not bothered to lock her in, that she was apparently free to move around as she wished; these things suggested that any attempt to escape would be futile. The glass panes of the French doors were encrusted with the shit and cobwebs of dynasties of bugs and spiders, from before the latter devoured the former, but through the opening Constance was able to glimpse some undergrowth by the side of a meadow. The grass in the meadow was tall, but a slightly beaten path led through it to a sort of clearing converted into a terrace, filled with some lawn chairs and loungers and a tray of glasses on a table shaded by a lime tree.
In terms of sonority, there wasn’t much to report: insect buzz and birdsong, interspersed with moments of silence that helped to create an overall impression of rural peace and quiet. This calm was suddenly disturbed by the distant howl of an animal, a powerful, harrowing cry that affected Constance like a splash of acid, a razor slash, or an antipersonnel mine. She had no idea what kind of beast—onager or glyptodont—could have emitted it. And, as if making their entrance onstage, Victor and his co-workers appeared at that moment on the doorstep.
They had changed their clothes since the last time she saw them. Given that they were now in the countryside, apparently in good weather, they had opted for a more relaxed weekend-type look. Christian had exchanged his shirt and tie for a pair of baby-pink jogging pants and a shapeless sweatshirt that made him look plumper, while Jean-Pierre had gone for cigarette jeans and a Lacoste shirt. Victor, the only one to retain his business clothes, asked Constance in his suave voice if she would prefer tea or coffee, but the only response she gave was to shake her head.
Okay, said Victor, as you like. We’ll be eating lunch pretty soon anyway. We’ve been shopping; there’s plenty to eat. Do you like merguez? We could even eat outside—we can open an umbrella—but I think we’re short of bread. Jean-Pierre and Christian will go and get us some bread, won’t you, Jean-Pierre? I don’t have my wallet, Jean-Pierre objected, while Christian pointed out the absence of pockets in his jogging pants. Ah, me neither, Victor said, tapping his empty jacket pocket. It’s stupid, I know, but I forgot it. I’m sorry, he said to Constance, I feel bad asking you, but do you happen to have a bit of cash you could lend us? Not much, just enough to buy two or three baguettes. Looking away, Constance rummaged around in her handbag and pulled a U5 note from her wallet. Thank you so much, Victor said apologetically. I’ll pay you back, of course. Don’t forget to remind me.
While they were busy preparing lunch, Constance’s eyes drifted toward the terrace in the meadow. There, an extremely fat man had just sat down on a striped deck chair, while next to him a slender, pale, frail-looking woman perched on the edge of a plastic folding chair and gazed at him de
votedly. As the canvas of the deck chair groaned beneath his weight, the fat man leaned back and Constance noticed a dark stain on his forehead—unless it was just the shadow of the lime tree. She watched as he took a folded piece of paper from one of his pockets, then a cell phone from another pocket; he typed a number into the phone, then handed it and the piece of paper to the young woman. After a moment’s hesitation, she appeared to read the contents of that document out over the phone. When she gave the phone back to the man, Constance was too far away to hear her tell him that she had not been able to get ahold of the person she was calling, that it was an answering machine, that the person would therefore hear the message when he returned, and that that should be fine, shouldn’t it?
8
THE RINGING OF HIS PHONE, in the living room where he left it, does not disturb Tausk’s sleep. After waking up late, he opens the windows of his bedroom to air it—one of the main disadvantages of sleep, apart from the crazy amount of time it wastes, is that nothing smells very good afterward—then cautiously tries to remember his dreams and is relieved to discover that he can’t. And thank goodness for that, eh, because there’s nothing duller than an account of someone’s dream. Even if they might initially appear funny, inventive, or prophetic, their Hollywood-style pretensions are illusory and their plots never hold up to scrutiny. Shooting one would cost a fortune in casting, extras, set construction, transportation, and equipment rental (even if it’s true that, these days, special effects make it possible to do many things at a fraction of the cost), and all this for what would undoubtedly be a tiny audience, with no return on the investment. A bad idea all around. In fact, on numerous levels, dreams are a scam.
In the living room, Tausk sees a red dot flashing on his phone. Date and origin of the missed call: one hour ago, number hidden. There is a message, though, which he listens to, frowning, then again, and then another six times, and soon he isn’t frowning anymore. He puts the phone down and opens a window in the living room, creating a draft with the window in his bedroom that makes the door slam shut. After a brief trip to his office to grab a Pall Mall cigarette (whatever happened to Pall Mall, by the way? Apart from Tausk, it’s a long time since we’ve seen anyone smoking one of those), he goes back to the living room and leans on the windowsill, smoking his cigarette, apparently deep in thought, without noticing that a bright morning sun is shining down on the almost deserted Rue Claude-Pouillet: not many people walking past, not many cars parked there. He tosses the butt of his Pall Mall out of the window and—bull’s-eye!—it lands dead in the center of the O in LIVRAISONS, painted on the pavement below. Not that Tausk notices this either. He picks up his phone again and calls Hubert.