by Jean Echenoz
The only clue is the nail, and God knows there are almost infinite varieties of fingernails: mandarin nails, clawlike or spiraling; porn-star nails, white painted and square cut; newborn nails, as fragile as eyelids; mechanics’ nails, charcoal gray and short; old people’s nails, thick, hard, ribbed like corrugated iron; Tausk’s freshly clipped nails, and so on and so forth. But this one is instantly identifiable because of its Chanel 599 Provocation varnish, which was always Constance’s favorite color. Tausk pauses, short of breath, and slowly approaches the phalanx, examining it more and more closely before finally picking it up: it seems to have been cleanly cut but cauterized in haste, a somewhat casual modus operandi, the way you might treat any old Baron Empain.
The large, gleaming fly returns at that moment. Having carried out its bailiff’s duties, methodically explored the apartment like a surveyor, a real estate agent, and then an antiquarian bookseller, it now proposes to visit the American kitchen. It is common knowledge and self-evident, after all, that flies love kitchens. As for Tausk, reflecting on what he should do with this finger, he puts it on the countertop, between the open dishwasher and the refrigerator. Seeing the fly reappear, he opens a window in the kitchen, folds a newspaper in four, and shakes it about to chase away the insect, which seems unfazed but bumps into the closed windows for form’s sake while avoiding the open one, then nose-dives toward the countertop, naturally attracted by this piece of fresh meat.
No, absolutely not. Tausk absolutely refuses to let this fly land on that pinkie—you don’t joke around with this kind of thing—so he has to act and he does act: just as the dipteran, changing course, takes a walk along the edge of the dishwasher then goes inside, thinking that it will just have a quick look around to complete its inspection of the premises before taking care of the finger, Tausk instantly slams the dishwasher door shut and presses firmly on the economy setting, to seal the fly’s fate at a more reasonable cost.
So now what? Well, first of all, put the phalanx in the freezer. Next, take advice. And in terms of advice, I can see only Hubert. Which means another trip to Neuilly. Too distressed to take the metro, Tausk calls for a taxi, whose African driver, having typed Hubert’s address into his GPS, returns to a conversation in his native language on the telephone grafted to his ear. Though barely more knowledgeable about linguistics than he is about anatomy, struggling to distinguish Fula from Lingala, Tausk nevertheless wonders whether “Excessif” was adapted into one or two or—why not—maybe even more of those two thousand documented African idioms. Not impossible. He’ll have to check the archives. And the accounts.
When he reached Hubert’s mansion, he was announced by Hubert’s assistant, whose body Tausk discreetly admired from behind as she walked into her boss’s office: nice legs, nice neck, nice ass. He looked at his reflection in the entrance hall mirror as he waited—that hairdresser really did overdo it; he’ll have to go back to the salon to get it fixed—and then Hubert arrived, this time dressed midway between professional and relaxed, his tie loosened, blue jacket and pants artfully mismatched. I’d better tell you right away, he warned Tausk as he followed him into his office, I’m really snowed under. I can give you five minutes, but that’s all. Then, glancing at him sideways: You’re looking a bit pale, aren’t you?
Never mind that, said Tausk, before briefly outlining the story of the phalanx. Hubert frowned with one eyebrow: This case is starting to get on my nerves. Are you sure it’s her finger? Tausk advanced as evidence the presence, on this fingernail, of varnish number 599, but Hubert seemed unconvinced: Sure, but anyone could knock up a nail varnish. They’re going to continue, Tausk predicted. Next time I’ll receive an eye. No, no, Hubert soothed him, they won’t go that far. But this is getting more serious; are you sure you couldn’t pay? When I say pay, I mean pay a little bit, not necessarily the whole ransom. Just to see. No, you don’t understand, Tausk sighed, she’s already cost me so much.
The lawyer shot him a brief reproving glance—as do we all, for that matter, not having imagined, before now, this unpleasant aspect of his personality—then he went on: Listen, I don’t have a second to spare right now, but my assistant can deal with this case perfectly well. She’s putting together a dossier—she’s good at that—and afterward I’ll take care of it. Make an appointment with her. You’ll see, she’s very good. They were back in the entrance hall now: Nadine, allow me to introduce you to my half brother. Louis Coste, Nadine Alcover. It was true, the assistant did look very good, and from the front this time: nice eyes, nice hands, nice breasts. Well, said Hubert, I’ll leave you to sort things out, and let’s keep in touch. I’ll call you, you call me, we’ll call each other. He headed back to his office then, turning for an instant toward Tausk: In fact, you have a little white thing in your eye, there. No, just there, in the corner of the left eye. You should take it out.
12
CLÉMENT POGNEL HAD BEEN SHARING his life with Marie-Odile Zwang for more than a month now, and nothing was going as we might have expected. One of them appearing to us an abulic wreck, the other an implacable harpy, it was hard to imagine any other common existence for the two of them than a basic S&M lifestyle: a daily diet of insults and bruises, black eyes and smashed teeth, a bowl of Pedigree for lunch and a dash of Clorox in the coffee.
But not at all. Seriously. Right away, their relationship was tender and full of mutual respect. They lived in the one-bedroom apartment near the Gambetta metro station that Marie-Odile rented from a public housing agency. Located on the fourth floor, the apartment was not very big, but it was calm and well-lit, the living room overlooking the quiet, one-way street Rue de la Chine and the Tenon hospital, the bedroom with a view of a courtyard lined with old artists’ studios, planted with sweet gums and lilacs. The furniture was very plain and simple, picked up from wherever, but none of it was truly ugly. It was really not bad at all.
It was fine for two, and even for three if you counted the dog whose tattoo Marie-Odile wore on her forearm, born from a beagle mother and an unknown father, named Biscuit, with whom Pognel immediately got along. Biscuit took after his mother’s breed: small build, well-proportioned, affectionate character, docile temperament, no health problems . . . basically all the traits that make that type of dog the ideal pet, as well as the perfect guinea pig for laboratories.
The harmony of their cohabitation was aided by the fact that they both worked only in the mornings. Pognel took Biscuit downstairs for a piss after Marie-Odile had fed them both; then they had another coffee and the two of them walked arm in arm to Place Gambetta, where they entered the metro station. As she had to continue her journey all the way to République, near where the hairdressing salon was located, they kissed tenderly at Père Lachaise, where Pognel changed for Nation. His journey, as he described it to Marie-Odile, was on the long side: the suburban train RER A with a change at the Gare de Lyon–Banlieue, RER D to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, then another ten-minute walk to Titan-Guss, the superdiscount electrical goods store, wholesale and retail. It was long, but that was how it was; he had to do it and he did do it. Clément Pognel explained that he had obtained that job as a shelf stacker as part of a reintegration program after serving his sentence; he was initially hired for a trial period and then given a permanent contract. About his life before prison—as with the causes of his detention—Pognel, who was not very chatty anyway, never really went into details with Marie-Odile Zwang. She accepted this, returning to the subject discreetly at times, but never insisting. So, yes, everything was going very well indeed.
Around one thirty, Pognel returned to Rue de la Chine, where Marie-Odile, who got back before him, had already cooked lunch, a task made much easier as he had, in Villeneuve-Saint-Georges—in accordance with her desire—found her a new combination convection microwave. Contrary to her initial suggestion, Pognel assured her, he had not swiped it from the back room. As he was on staff at Titan-Guss, he was entitled to a discount on the discount, so that even an oven such as this—which Marie-Odi
le planned to use to make all sorts of gratins—had not, he implied, cost him very much money.
During lunch, while Pognel never found anything to say about his working day, Marie-Odile was positively loquacious regarding her mornings at the hairdressing salon. And so, by chance, she happened to tell him about having cut the hair, that morning, of a new client whose photograph, she felt sure, she had seen in the celebrity gossip pages of a magazine. Or maybe on TV, probably a variety show hosted by Michel Drucker, she wasn’t sure, it was such a long time ago. A pop star of some kind, anyway, she was almost certain of that. She described him in enough detail for Pognel to be able to identify—or at least be reminded of—Lou Tausk’s appearance, before he became known under that ridiculous pseudonym. Faced with this description, Pognel might have blushed—let’s skip the list of other possible reactions—but no, he sat there impassively and went back to eating his gratin.
After lunch, Marie-Odile warmed up—thanks be to the microwave—the morning’s coffee. They relaxed a little bit, they exchanged a few words, they smiled at each other, sometimes they kissed each other on the neck, under the ear, and so on. Do you feel happy here? inquired Marie-Odile with emotion. Oh yeah, definitely, said Pognel. Where did you live, before? she still asked him, from time to time. Pognel always answered evasively. As she had often asked about his pre-prison life, the question recurring regularly during their first weeks together, Pognel had ended up inventing a classic abandoned kid’s childhood: social workers, specialized institutions, high school dropout, homeless shelters, crappy temporary jobs, then the spell behind bars, followed at last by a stable situation at Titan-Guss. Marie-Odile, moved by this unhappy childhood, soon resigned herself to not touching on this question anymore, out of respect for her boyfriend’s feelings. Likewise, on days when she wasn’t working at the salon, she obeyed Pognel’s order that she not come to pick him up after his shift in Villeneuve-Saint-Georges.
In the afternoons, three metro stations from Gambetta, they often went to the nearest swimming pool, in Tourelles, which was right next to the vast and very well-guarded offices of the DGSE, located at 141 Boulevard Mortier, home to the French external security services, though this has nothing to do, for the moment, with what concerns us. They had gone swimming together from the first days of their shared life, and that was where Pognel discovered, on Marie-Odile Zwang’s shoulder blade, another tattoo that he had not seen (because the lights were off) during their first nights together. It was a polychrome image whose original bright colors had faded—red gone pinkish, green and blue turned gray—diluted in what becomes of the skin with age. (“Visit the skin! Its wrinkles, its bulges, its varicosities, its rosaceas! An unforgettable experience!”) It was no longer easy to tell whether the subject of this tattoo was a classic mermaid, a customized dolphin, or something else entirely, but without doubt it was the work of a qualified tattoo artist—the profile of Biscuit, on Marie-Odile’s forearm, giving an indication of what an amateur tattoo looked like.
Mermaid or dolphin, this image had faded to the point of appearing almost abstract, vaguely resembling an old label on an old, baggy shirt that no longer suits you and that you never wear anymore, or an old sticker on the back window of a used car, a vanished brand of lubricant or anti-theft system. But its presence allowed Pognel to imagine that Marie-Odile must have had fun in her younger days, given that the vogue for tattooing behind the shoulder—taking into account her age—dated from an era when girls who did it tended to be on the brazen side. Anyway, the idea came to Pognel that, back then, Marie-Odile must have been what some call a bonne vivante, others a high-spirited girl, and still others, less distinguished than us, a dirty little slut.
They spent their afternoons reading the newspaper, doing the crosswords, taking a nap, or playing video games. When it got dark, Pognel took Biscuit downstairs to piss again. They ate dinner together and then they would sometimes go out to see a movie at the Gambetta multiplex or—without ever arguing over the choice of what to watch—stay at home to see a film on TV, unless they chose to watch one on the computer, with Biscuit snoring loudly at their feet. As for their nights of love, they were fantastic. There too, against all expectations, Marie-Odile proved herself capable of playing various roles in bed: protective mother figure, innocent little girl, imaginative whore. Clément Pognel, whose only experience of sex prior to this was the services he provided—in a passive role—while in prison, felt a little apprehensive to begin with. But he managed to face up to this new situation and to take care of his responsibilities: and he did very well, surprisingly. As a lover, Pognel was highly active, thorough, attentive, and eager to accomplish his task: extremely virile, in short. So yes, everything was going just swimmingly for the moment.
13
AS FOR CONSTANCE . . . well, things weren’t too bad for her either. Who would have thought she would get used to this reclusive existence to the point where she no longer thought of it that way? It’s true that she was very well treated: she was looked after as well as she would have been at a luxury spa, vacation resort, artists’ residence, or nursing home.
That particular late morning, as they always did when the weather allowed—which it did more and more often with the approach of summer—Jean-Pierre and Christian had arranged a sun lounger for her under the lime tree, with some light reading arranged on a coffee table: women’s magazines, movie magazines, magazines full of puzzles and brainteasers, with some randomly bought bestsellers that might distract her from the Quillet. They went all the way to Bénévent-l’Abbaye to fetch them, as there was no newspaper store in Châtelus-le-Marcheix. Since Victor had given strict instructions that Constance must not be allowed to read any publication—be it daily, weekly, or monthly—featuring news, particularly crime stories, it was up to Jean-Pierre to read and censor anything in Elle, Cosmopolitan, and Grazia that might contravene these rules, before passing the magazines on to Constance. Over time, in these magazines, she would read articles on summer fashion and advice on tanning, makeup, and looking elegant on the beach, before awaiting the fall trends in August and September. At this time of day, the coffee table was also loaded with pre-lunch snacks—cold drinks and bowls containing pistachios, almonds, and peanuts—prepared by Christian. No, she couldn’t complain about the way she was being treated.
Christian and Jean-Pierre were the ones she saw most of the time. Lessertisseur dropped by occasionally, sometimes with Lucile, sometimes not, to ensure that the logistics were taken care of. As for Victor, who seemed to be a sort of technical adviser, he appeared much more rarely, to Constance’s disappointment. So it’s true that there were not many distractions—no radio or television, and obviously no Internet connection—but, as her life before this had mostly been spent in a city, she found it quite pleasant to discover a more rural area, with its flora and fauna, about which she knew nothing at all. Just as she still knew nothing about where exactly she was.
A few major clues did exist in this regard, but they were contradictory. Over the fireplace hung a colorful relief map of the Mayenne département, suggesting that this was where they were, but near the dresser was a wall thermometer advertising a butcher’s store located in the center of a neighboring village with a name unknown to Constance. These clues were the work of the sophisticated Lessertisseur, intended to further disorientate his hostage—the village of Saint-Affrique, site of the aforementioned butcher’s, was a good four hundred miles from the département of Mayenne—but they had no effect on Constance, whose grasp of geography was hardly any better than her knowledge of natural history.
Anyway, wherever they were, the farm must have been occupied just before being taken over by her kidnappers. Various floral and faunistic clues attested to this. In terms of flora, other than the distant views of grassy fields and trees, where Constance couldn’t venture, her study was confined to a nearby patch of well-known flowers—zinnias, cosmos, anemones, all of them now untended—whose blossoming she followed with interest, looking after them
and discovering other species that she couldn’t name or even differentiate, as her knowledge of flowers up to this point had generally been restricted to conical clusters wrapped in transparent plastic.
In terms of fauna, out by the barn a condescending rooster ruled over six twitchy hens, not far from three rabbits, which lived, more relaxed than the chickens, in the skeleton of an old piano. You sometimes find pianos where you least expect them. This one—a worm-eaten upright, its varnish eroded, without a manufacturer’s name, standing in the entrance of the barn—was used primarily as shelving for various empty recipients that had once contained agricultural products. Constance, having lifted its lid—with a sticky noise like a dry mouth opening—found a keyboard with almost all its teeth remaining, albeit very yellowed, the sharps and flats decayed. There was no way to get a sound out of it: the cords must have been recycled for gardening, its soundboard used for kindling, and wire fencing wrapped around its metal frame and its feet to transform it into a hutch.
As for the less domesticated animals, at least one of them showed a bit of life. As the sun grew low, after an afternoon of reading and gardening, Constance would return to her sun lounger under the lime tree and an evening bird would regularly serenade her. To judge from the sound, it might have been an improved prototype of a merle. Whatever bird it was, it sat at the top of this tree in all weathers, singing its heart out, repeating ad libitum a melody that seemed more human than avian: tonal and composed of fourteen clearly articulated, well-balanced notes, it could have been the chorus of a pop song that—with the addition of a few appropriate, easy-to-write couplets—would have enabled the pseudo-merle to make a fortune. Maybe it repeated itself like this because it hoped to catch the ear of a passing impresario, agent, or producer who, sensing a hit, would climb straight up the lime tree and grab a feather from the bird’s back to make it sign a contract in its own blood.