by Jean Echenoz
He is not exactly thrilled to call his half brother and has no desire at all to take the metro to Neuilly yet again, but this is a case of force majeure: Hubert or not, the content of the message demands prompt recourse to a lawyer. So it is a wonderful surprise to hear Hubert say: Perfect timing—I have to see a client near where you live, so I’ll drop by this afternoon. Seeing Hubert at home can be worse than going to see him in Neuilly, but at least it means one less metro journey. While he waits, Tausk paces around his apartment in his bathrobe. His only scheduled appointment for the day is a work meeting with Franck Pélestor around four o’clock. He goes to the bathroom to wash up and, in the mirror, notices that his hair is sticking up behind his ears and on the back of his neck, that he looks like he is receding around his temples, and that a lock of hair is drooping down into his eye as if it had suddenly grown much longer during the night. So he has to act, if only to take his mind off things.
Another phone call, and he has an appointment at the hairdresser’s in an hour. Tausk is looking forward to seeing his usual hairdresser—a very pretty girl, very lively and very chatty, not to mention very curvy—but when he gets there the salon manager informs him that she is on maternity leave, which vexes Tausk for at least two reasons. The manager points out her replacement, and Tausk feels a shiver run down his spine: her head is shaved almost to the scalp, she’s tattooed like a jailbird, she has two rings in her eyebrow and another in her nose, and her face and mannerisms are harsh, with not even the hint of a welcoming smile. Fearful of a collateral scissor cut, Tausk does not dare to specify the kind of haircut he wants, so, without a word, the girl starts cutting it any old how. During this operation, in an attempt to soften her up, Tausk asks what it’s of, that tattoo on her forearm, and she replies soberly that it’s her dog. Oh really, what kind of dog? he asks, and what’s his name? But this technique of using animals to forge a connection with people, which he seems very fond of, proves as fruitless now as it did with the owner of the Pensive Mandarin.
Around four o’clock, the conversation with Pélestor isn’t much better, with his musical partner as somber and silent as usual. The good weather has not incited him to undo a single button on his coat nor to loosen the knot of his scarf. Preoccupied by the phone call and still upset by his haircut, Tausk is in no mood to work either, so the two of them sit there saying nothing for a long while before Pélestor suggests in his wily manner, We could go for a drink, don’t you think? Or maybe you don’t feel like it.
The bar is reasonably lively, with people coming in and going out, walking away before disappearing. All these people going away, says Pélestor, it’s terrible . . . We don’t even know where they’re going. Pélestor ends up going away too, dragging his misery with him, without having made any progress whatsoever on—or even having mentioned—the concept-album project, and Hubert turns up later that afternoon. He is much better dressed than he was the other day: a ruinously expensive lawyer wearing a ruinously expensive suit, visiting his superwealthy clients. His tie and pocket-handkerchief match the shade of his shirt, and he wears appropriate English shoes. What on earth have you done to your hair? he exclaims immediately. Never mind that, Tausk says, almost annoyed, and hands him the phone: I want you to listen to this.
She’s got a nice voice anyway, the girl, is Hubert’s first reaction. I like that kind of delicate, slightly fragile voice. Girls with that kind of voice are often called Cécile, Estelle, Lucile, if you see what I mean. Really? says Tausk. Let me hear it again. And it’s true: the voice on the phone is gentle, fresh, not especially assured, almost soothing, in contrast to the words it is enunciating: a final demand, brutal and threatening. At the present moment, it is the content of this message, rather than its form, that interests Tausk. All right, he says, and what do I do?
Nothing at all, Hubert says. You let it happen. They’ll calm down in the end. But, Tausk objects, these are pretty serious threats, aren’t they? I already told you, Hubert reminded him, that’s just part of what they do, the threats. How else are they supposed to proceed? You could even consider them a confession of weakness. It’s the classic first stage. After that, we’ll see. Then, stepping back: Your pants are funny—where did you find them? Why? Tausk asks defensively, don’t you like them? Oh yes, I do, Hubert says. Of course I do. I like them a lot. Well, I mean, they’re kind of green, very green in fact, but I understand. Or I imagine that’s the idea, anyway.
9
SO HERE WE ARE AGAIN in the French département named Creuse. Second to last in the national population density rankings, Creuse includes vast swathes of unoccupied land, particularly in the south. Here, moorland alternates with high plateaus, forests, and peat bogs. There’s no one here, and nothing to eat for anyone who is here, except mushrooms in the fall. But this isn’t the fall and we’re wary of mushrooms, which—as is also true of berries—only survivalists and extreme nature lovers know how to choose correctly. In the forests, apart from a few wild animals—emotionless wolves, oversensitive stags, haughty wild boar—who are also looking for something to eat—you, in certain cases—it is even rarer to come across a human being, as the region is depopulating before your very eyes. And the fewer people there are, as we know, the more forest there is.
Such a wild and isolated environment is ideal for the illegal confinement of a person in an open space. This person, if the location of her confinement is well chosen, need hardly be guarded at all; in fact, you could leave her alone without bothering too much about surveillance. If the idea of escape enters her head, she will—without someone to guide her—end up dying of solitude, fear, despair, or hunger. So it can save you quite a lot of money in security.
In Creuse, then, it is not uncommon to have to go several dozen miles to procure food. Hence the necessity of a car to make the trip between the place where Constance is being illegally confined and the nearest town. Jean-Pierre is, at this moment, behind the wheel of this car, while Christian sits beside him admiring the landscape. It is a simple, discreet vehicle: a gray Renault Scénic. Seeing these forests, this shade, those hills, says Christian, I have a feeling for beauty again. Raw nature, clear air, hardly any pollution . . . It almost makes me want to live here. We could live here together, don’t you think? We could grow our own vegetables, rear chickens. We don’t know anything about those things, Jean-Pierre pointed out. We’d learn, Christian enthused. It can’t be that complicated. And anyway, we know about guns, so we’d probably be fine for the hunting. And then there’s fishing and all that stuff—this place is full of rivers, I saw them on the map. We could grow beards too. You’re just saying that because the weather’s good, Jean-Pierre objected. The climate is harsh here in winter, very cold and wet. It’s extremely tough. Doesn’t matter, argued Christian. Have you read Thoreau? He couldn’t care less about climate, Thoreau; it’s part of the whole thing. He lives his life and that’s all. He’s happy, Thoreau. Let’s talk about this later, said Jean-Pierre. We’ve arrived.
Indeed, little by little, after a long time of seeing nobody on these winding byways and back roads, a few portents of civilization had appeared: rows of crops, pastureland, even the odd warehouse. One time, they saw—back turned to the road, standing in the middle of a field of protein peas—a farmer in a cap, pissing. There he was, holding his member in both hands, eyes fixed on his plot of land as he attempted to estimate how much it would fetch after the notary’s fees. In the distance, on more wide-open land, they noted the presence of a wind farm: slowly beating the pure air, the tall machines gave a hint of movement to the landscape. Did you see the wind turbines? Christian asked. Did you see how they turned? Counterclockwise! Funny, eh? Yes, Jean-Pierre replied.
The beginnings of a village named Châtelus-le-Marcheix soon appeared. Two or three prefabs, a gas station, a traffic circle followed by a church, a café / newspaper store, and a convenience store. They had no problem finding a bakery. So I shouldn’t get anything, Christian asked, apart from bread? Maybe some wine? We’ve got what
we need, Jean-Pierre reminded him, and besides you know we have to take it easy when we’re on duty. And I know you’re a nice guy, but please make sure you’re discreet with the storekeepers. Oh, give me a break, Christian said, irritated, I know my job.
Inside the bakery, having sculpted his face into an impassive mask, Christian soberly pointed with his index finger to a pyramid of French sticks behind the checkout and then, still without uttering a word, used his thumb and his middle finger, on either side of said index finger, to communicate the figure 3. The employee handed him his baguettes wrapped in a brown paper packet with a transparent plastic window, bearing the name and address of the bakery. Christian paid with Constance’s money, then left the store without saying anything. No hello, no good-bye, grumbled the baker after he had gone, not even a simple thank-you. And people complain about youngsters.
Everything go okay? Jean-Pierre asked when Christian had climbed back in the car and slammed the door shut. Fine, said Christian. The woman behind the counter wasn’t bad-looking. Have we got time for a drink? Jean-Pierre shrugged without responding and they drove back to the farm. Christian sulked for a while, then took one of the baguettes from the packet, broke a piece off the end, and bit into it. And give me that packet, Jean-Pierre ordered. It’s got the address on it and they said she mustn’t know where she is. Christian blew into the packet like a balloon, then popped it. Jean-Pierre jumped. Christian snickered. God, you’re a dick sometimes, Jean-Pierre said.
The farm, nearly twenty miles from Châtelus-le-Marcheix, was flanked by a pretty big barn. You could park three vehicles in it side by side, with nothing to indicate that it was inhabited. Located at the end of a twisting path, invisible from the road, it was surrounded by tightly planted broadleaf trees, their foliage partly covering the house’s roof, a camouflage that made it difficult to spot even in a helicopter. As Constance had observed, a short beaten path separated the building from a lime tree. A fast-growing tree, 130 feet tall, two hundred years old, and with a life-span of close to a thousand: under the vast, spreading branches of this lime tree, they could meet up in privacy, and in an atmosphere of calm ensured by the antispasmodic qualities of its sapwood.
It was in the shade of this tree that Victor, having made a kir in a mustard glass decorated with a peeling decal of Space Pirate Captain Harlock, sat next to the table while he waited for his subordinates to return. After they joined him, we heard the growl of an engine, signaling the arrival of new characters. A navy-blue Audi A3 Ambition appeared, containing a mature man accompanied by a young woman.
The mature man is the same one we saw earlier with the wine-stain birthmark in the shape of New Guinea on his forehead, first on Rue de Pali-Kao, and then here, more recently. He looked preoccupied, a tough man whose sour mood was deepening a vertical wrinkle that ran through his birthmark, like the border that—on maps of the island, in a dotted line as is customary—separates the eastern Indonesian provinces from Papua New Guinea itself.
With regard to the young woman who is accompanying the New Guinea man—very fine if nicely styled blond hair (though perhaps a little sparse, running the risk that her scalp will, in the long term, one day become visible), not very tall or muscular, somewhat chlorotic and very quiet, quick to blush—we can also say that she responds (albeit rarely, given that hardly anyone ever speaks to her) to the name of Lucile. So Hubert, it has to be said, does not lack discernment. She is dressed in an inexpensive but fairly stylish beige suit, and her handbag consists of an oblong zip-up case redolent of a manicure kit. Her colorless eyes rarely stray from the tall, bulky, big-boned New Guinea man, whom she seems to regard as if he is on a pedestal.
So what’s new, the New Guinea man inquired anxiously, the wrinkle on his forehead deepening a little more. Not much, Victor replied with a grimace that produced furrows in his own forehead, arrowing diagonally from his eyebrows, a phenomenon known to aestheticians as pillow wrinkles. Behind them, Jean-Pierre went to fetch a seat for the newcomer, a large camping-style folding chair more solid than the others, while Lucile remained standing until someone noticed her presence and Jean-Pierre went to find her a stool. We’ve still got the girl, said Victor, making a gesture with his thumb over his shoulder. She’s over there. She’s doing fine, but the husband doesn’t seem to be reacting; that’s the problem. He doesn’t respond to anything. We wrote to him, we called him, we gave signs . . . nothing. Maybe he doesn’t understand your signs, the New Guinea man suggested. Maybe he thinks she left of her own accord or that she’s arranged all this to get money out of him. Or maybe he just doesn’t care that much about this girl. Deep down, you know.
After checking on the level of the liquids so that he could refill glasses as needed, Jean-Pierre brought over several slices of saucisson on a board while Christian, having set the table, cut one of the baguettes into slices. It looked as if they were about to eat lunch under the soothing shade of the lime tree: a Sunday afternoon kind of atmosphere, maybe even an Easter Sunday. We could have a barbecue, Christian suggested. I saw an old one in the barn. It’s nicer when it’s grilled, merguez, don’t you think? Merguez again? Jean-Pierre reacted. And what about the smoke? You can see it from far away, smoke. I thought you knew your job. Drop it, Jean-Pierre, said Victor. A barbecue, yeah, that’s a good idea, Christian.
This group, under this tree, around this table, does not give the impression of a conclave of dangerous gangsters. These characters seem likable, urbane, calm, in spite of a few linguistic lapses. They are capable of showing determination, however, as is demonstrated a little while later when they enter into a more serious discussion. They appear increasingly annoyed by Tausk’s attitude, by his lack of reaction to the messages they have sent him; as they eat the spicy sausages, they become indignant that he has not flown to the aid of his wife, and they exhort one another to find solutions that will make him bend to their will. Unable to find any solutions, they blame first themselves and then one another. The tension mounts, all the way up to the cheese course, the discussion growing more heated.
Let’s all calm down, the New Guinea man proposes. What can we do? he wonders, scratching his head northeast of the wine stain—in other words, in relation to New Guinea, somewhere near the Bismarck Archipelago. Let’s think logically, he continues. How can we pressure this guy? There is one solution. Experience has shown that, in general, it works. What solution? Victor asks, curious. Well, how can I explain this? The New Guinea man hesitates. We, uh, send him a sample, if you see what I mean. Ah, yeah, says Victor, I get it. I’m not sure I do, admits Christian. I fear I see what you’re getting at, Jean-Pierre worries. Yes, Victor confirms, we’ll have to send a bit of the girl to her husband. That’ll give him food for thought. We’ll have control over him then. That’s what Lessertisseur means.
And so now we know that the New Guinea man is, in fact, called Lessertisseur. It is not without regret that we will abandon our original designation—we liked calling him that—but we must respect people’s identities. And anyway, it’s true that Lessertisseur’s physique does not resemble the characteristics of the people from that far-off region; there is nothing Indonesian or Papuan about him; he seems more likely to come from Sarthe or Moselle, Charente-Maritime or Cher, somewhere like that.
What? Christian exclaimed. You mean cutting off her fingertip? I think that’s disgusting. Well, I refuse to be part of this. We’ll have to see, Jean-Pierre declared. Victor wiped his lips with a paper towel. Listen carefully, said Lessertisseur, I’m not suggesting anything savage. I’m not saying you should cut off a hand, for example. Nor am I saying you should remove an ear, an eye, or any other precious attribute. I’m just wondering if our approach might benefit from putting a little more pressure on the guy by sending him a very small fragment of the girl. But really, I’m talking about a tiny little bit of her, you understand?
It’s been done before, Christian pointed out. Personally, I’ve seen a thousand things like that in the newspapers, and it never ends well. And it h
urts, you know; it’ll hurt her a lot. Let’s not exaggerate, Jean-Pierre intervened. Let me finish, Christian snapped. We’d be causing her huge personal damage too. That’s the kind of thing that wrecks a person’s life. No, seriously, Lessertisseur reassured him, it wouldn’t be a major handicap. The very end of a pinkie finger, for example, you can live perfectly well without that. It doesn’t stop you living a normal existence; just look at the compensation figures in an insurance policy.
From that perspective, he isn’t wrong. Any intern at Lloyd’s would be able to confirm that in terms of anatomo-physiological deficiency, the excision of a phalanx of a little finger represents barely a 0.8 percent infirmity. You could even, suggested Lessertisseur, go a little further with that finger, knowing that three phalanges—in other words, the entirety of the digit—are not worth more than 2 percent, or, to put it another way, they are equal to one single phalanx of an index finger. Whereas a thumb phalanx is counted as 10 percent, two as 15 percent, and an entire hand is 55 percent. And on and on he went, the percentages rising as less and less remained of the body, all the way to a state of stupor or coma, which is worth 100.