Special Envoy

by Jean Echenoz

ELEVEN IN THE MORNING, Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis: in his kitchen, wearing a bathrobe and rubber gloves, Lessertisseur washes the dishes while listening to the radio, before taking a shower, shampooing his bald pate, and putting foundation over his New Guinea birthmark.

  Lessertisseur piles a good week’s worth of dirty plates and dishes into the sink, in order of decreasing diameter. Various contours—dry splinters and frozen sludges—are stuck to the surfaces of these plates. The telephone rings every five minutes, distracting Lessertisseur from the radio. Each time, the caller ID shows Lucile’s number, but he does not pick up: Lucile has played her role, and that’s all for now. She needs to stop bothering him. He keeps having to turn up the volume on the radio, which is not very practical—the glove slips off the knob—but he is determined to listen to this program until the end, when the presenter concludes: We have been talking today to Marie-José Sureau, whose book Palimpsest of Shadow is published by Éditions du Frein.

  Later, washed, shaved, made up, and dressed, Lessertisseur types a number into the phone that he must know by heart, having been ordered not to write it down anywhere. Using a classic code, he lets it ring twice before hanging up, lets it ring twice more, hangs up, calls again, and waits for it to be answered—and after eight rings, a voice responds. It is the voice of the silent partner. What? asks the harsh voice. We’re not making progress, Lessertisseur complains. The target isn’t reacting. I’ve told you a hundred times, the silent partner says angrily, only to call me if you’re making progress. I know, says Lessertisseur, but we’re really not making progress at all. It just seems to be dragging on forever. It’s stagnating, you see. Silence from the silent partner. I was thinking, says Lessertisseur. Go on, the silent partner condescends. Well, it’s just my point of view, coughs Lessertisseur. But that point of view is as follows.

  Bearing in mind that it’s been going on for months now, that the project is not advancing, and that Tausk—No names on the phone, grunts the silent partner—is not reacting to any stimulation, Lessertisseur suggests they start another project. Without increasing his own commission, he offers to make his staff—presumably Jean-Pierre and Christian—available for another, more profitable operation. There are lots of vulnerable rich people on the market. We could get ten times more out of them than out of Tausk. Especially as he’s really not budging, that guy Tausk. I said no names, the silent partner sighs, exasperated. And we are not going to change the target. I have my reasons. All right, says Lessertisseur resignedly, it was just a suggestion. And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, obviously, adds the silent partner. I never tell anyone anything, claims Lessertisseur. Compared to me, the grave is positively chatty.

  Lessertisseur hangs up, then dials Jean-Pierre’s number. Everything’s fine, answers Jean-Pierre. We have the situation in hand. The young lady is very calm. And Victor? asks Lessertisseur anxiously. Does he still drop by occasionally? Victor is unreachable, complains Jean-Pierre. We haven’t seen him for quite a while. All right, let me speak to Christian, says Lessertisseur. Christian, listen to me, he warns Christian in similar terms to the warning Victor already gave to Christian. I know you, Christian. I’m aware of your qualities, but I’m also aware of your weak points. So behave properly with this lady, you understand? I’m counting on you. I mean it, I’m really counting on you. Okay, grumbles Christian evasively into the phone, while with his other hand he flicks through the handbook for a DVD player.

  To pass the time—the life of a hostage taker leaves quite a bit of leisure time—Jean-Pierre and Christian have brought this DVD player with them, along with about twenty cases containing, on the one hand, American crime series that sometimes include kidnapping scenes, which they obviously identify with very enthusiastically, and on the other hand, works in a genre that involves very little dialogue, presided over by flimsily dressed and impressively endowed creatures with names such as Jewel De Nyle, Chloé Dior, and Karma Rosenberg, or even Bolivia Samsonite.

  That day’s movie stars Miss Samsonite, who accomplishes everything an artist accustomed to such roles can accomplish: in other words, always the same thing, in varying degrees of excellence. But Bolivia Samsonite accomplishes all these things very well indeed, and, watching her, Jean-Pierre and Christian both find themselves admiring her as much as they envy her partners. Christian gets very hard while he watches, Jean-Pierre slightly less so.

  Don’t you think she looks a bit like the girl? Christian eventually asks. What girl? mutters Jean-Pierre. The one we’re guarding, specifies Christian. You’re right, acknowledges Jean-Pierre. Maybe she does the same kind of thing, daydreams Christian. Maybe, Jean-Pierre nods. We should find out, insinuates Christian. Then, without any further comments, they watch the movie until its happy ending. After which, to kill time, they play a game of dice. An hour later, Christian wins.

  What if we tried? he starts to daydream again. Tried what? asks Jean-Pierre. Well, the girl, you know, if we tried our luck? We could try, couldn’t we? I don’t know, muses Jean-Pierre. Not all three at the same time, he qualifies, at least not right away. I agree completely, says Christian. You’re right, we should take things gradually. So, to start with, it’s either you or me. How do we decide? No idea, declares Jean-Pierre. We could play dice for it, Christian smiles slyly. That’s kind of shocking, protests Jean-Pierre. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Christian reminds him, taking the dice from his pocket. Another game? If you want, sighs Jean-Pierre. Christian wins again and says triumphantly: It’s me! I get to screw the idiot’s wife.

  As it is also getting chilly in Creuse that day, Constance has not gone out to her sun lounger under the lime tree, preferring to stay in her room, which has been summarily moved upstairs, above the shared living room. It has to be said that she really quite likes it here, peacefully reading on her bed, shunning the bestsellers bought by her guards in order to devote herself to the Quillet encyclopedia. She is currently in the middle of volume F–K. You might think she is advancing very quickly. You might also suspect her of skipping quite a few entries.

  Constance puts the book down and gets up to make a cup of tea. Opening the window, she sees some picturesque fog enveloping and enshrouding the landscape, including the lime tree, like a special effect intended to conceal while revealing all the outlines. Then she lies on her back with her legs up and knees bent, the encyclopedia resting heavily on her thighs, turning the pages with her right hand, holding her cup in her left, her pinkie finger pointing outward and—as we have surmised by now—perfectly unharmed.

  Constance is leafing through the book when Christian knocks at the door, opens without awaiting a response, and enters like a conqueror, absolutely cocksure, before immediately making some rather heavy-handed advances—I’ll spare you the details—on the young woman. Although she obviously understands the nature and aim of these advances, Constance prefers to ignore them while smiling faintly—the indulgent smile of a distracted mother, a nun interrupted while praying, a social worker well versed in children acting out. Christian, who is not as dumb as we might think, very quickly realizes the futility of his actions, which, lacking in patience and subtlety, are doomed to failure. Blaming himself for his inadequate strategy, he forces himself to put on a brave face.

  Now, you remember that we mentioned the unusually large number of butterflies in Creuse this summer? Well, one of them just entered through the window. Triangular in shape and enormous in wingspan, swooping and gliding around the room, it is a splendid specimen of an Old World swallowtail with straw-colored wings edged with scarlet and cobalt markings, decorated with fringes and dark stripes. While it floats, quivering, toward the bed where Constance lies, eyes wide as she watches it in silence, Christian can contain himself no longer. Probably jealous of the admiration she seems to feel for this new arrival, and wanting to justify his own presence by his concern for the young woman’s comfort, he starts waving his hand at the swallowtail to shoo it away, as if it were a mere pest. But as the swallowtail haughtily ignores him, C
hristian grabs hold of the butterfly and crushes its body in the hollow of his palm, tearing its vast wings to pieces with a faint, fabric-like rustle. There you go, he says proudly, it won’t bother you anymore. Get out, Constance says angrily. Fuck off.

  She starts to tremble. It’s the first time since she was captured, but it’s over quickly. When it’s over, Constance heads toward the window. Just as she is about to close it, a helix of fog enters the room. It, too, dissipates pretty quickly, dissolving almost instantly above the oil radiator.

  17

  ON THURSDAY MORNING, Lou Tausk is at his apartment on Rue Claude-Pouillet, detained there by maintenance work. He hasn’t been back to the studio on Rue de Pali-Kao in quite some time. As Pélestor is going through an even darker tunnel than usual, the two men have postponed their partnership until the lyricist’s mood has stabilized. The maintenance work consists in checking the electrical circuit: the outage the other day led Tausk to call up a handyman he often uses who goes by the name of Hyacinth.

  Though his day job is a driver on the Paris metro, Hyacinth is indeed very handy when it comes to working around the house, and he is also pretty quick and not very expensive. A likable, extremely attractive man, he is faithful to the origins of his name, the Hyacinth having driven the entire Greek pantheon alphabetically mad with love, from Apollo to Zephyr. So, a bit like him, only preferring girls, Hyacinth could indeed seduce practically anyone he wanted: he was always flanked by an attractive woman in his driver’s cab, never the same one, and their presence never disturbing the smooth running of the network. As he is busy, for the moment, reorganizing the fuse box in Tausk’s home before leaving for his next shift on Line 2, the telephone rings. It’s Nadine Alcover, who asks Tausk if he’d like to have lunch with her. Okay, says Tausk, and maybe we can do something afterward? Yes, promises Nadine Alcover.

  Excited by this prospect, Tausk goes to the bathroom to inspect himself. Staring into the mirror, he pushes back his hair, then calls the hairdressing salon: a slot open in an hour . . . Good, I’ll take it, he says. On the off chance, he tries to get hold of Pélestor, and—after it rings six times without response—leaves a basic message on his voice mail: Hope you’re feeling better, call me back when you get a chance, etcetera. There is a very good reason why Pélestor does not answer his cell phone: because it is, at that moment, lost under an unmade bed, surrounded by crumbs, fruit peelings, abundant dust bunnies, ancient tissues, and stray pills and capsules with their crumpled package inserts, while Pélestor himself, dressed in pajamas, is avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he sorts into categories (anxiolytics and antidepressants, narcotics and other sedatives) his opulent collection of psychotropic drugs.

  And so, leaving Hyacinth to his fuses—and agreeing that they will meet up later—Tausk goes out to get his hair cut. He is assigned the same woman he saw the other day—pierced, tattooed, rugged and muscular, cold-eyed and unsmiling—but this time opts to keep his mouth shut and wait for it to be over. After a robust hair wash, however, once he is in the chair, immobilized under a towel, half-strangled by the string of the apron, blinded by an interrogation-style spotlight, he hears: Don’t I know you from somewhere? The hairdresser stares at him while she rubs her hands. Well, yeah, says Tausk warily, I came here last month. No, it’s not that, she replies, dismissing this possibility with a sinister swish of scissors, I’m sure I’ve seen your face somewhere else. Tensed in his seat, frowning at the scissor blades, Tausk says, Oh? Well, I guess it’s possible. Could I have seen you in a magazine? the hairdresser suggests, choosing a razor. Uh, says Tausk, growing even tenser, I suppose you could have. I even wonder if I’ve seen you on TV, she insists. Maybe, acknowledges Tausk, sweating profusely now, but if so it was a long, long time ago. The hairdresser is silent for a moment as the clippers attack his temples; then she offers a hypothesis. You wouldn’t be a pop star by any chance, would you?

  And that is how Tausk comes, quickly and unexpectedly, to get on friendly terms with this hairdresser, who, having identified her client, completely changes in terms of her behavior and attitude. Not only does she easily remember the artist’s name; she recalls some of his hits (Ah, “Excessif,” of course, she says, clearly moved, how many times have I danced to that . . .), even the less successful “Dent de Sagesse,” which, she admits, made her cry more than once. She seems keen to prolong their time together almost indefinitely, and Tausk has to step in to avoid finding himself with a shaved head. He leaves a magisterial tip and dashes off.

  Having finished her shift, the hairdresser dreamily swept up the scattered locks of hair before going home, where she was preparing lunch and listening to the radio—it was Georges Aspern this time, who had just played “Oublions” by Bradoc & Bradoc—when she heard a key turn in the lock and Clément Pognel walked into the room: Did you have a good morning, my darling?

  Just the usual, replied Pognel, how about you? Oh, pretty normal too, she answered. Ah, except I saw that guy again. That guy? Pognel repeated. The one whose hair I cut the other day, Marie-Odile elaborated. I told you about him. Well, he came back. I thought he reminded me of someone, and I was right. He’s a pop star, can you believe it? I’m sure you’ve heard some of his stuff. Really? said Pognel, stiffening. What does he look like? How can I put this? Marie-Odile wondered. And what’s his name? insisted Pognel.

  On Thursday afternoon, after carefully categorizing his medications, Pélestor arranged them in order of effect, checked their quantities, and verified their expiration dates. Then he must have changed his mind because, suddenly removing them from their packaging, he threw the contents of each bottle down the toilet. After emptying all his vials down there too, he flushed everything away, put on his coat, and buttoned it up to his neck.

  Getting ready to go out, he checked four times that the windows were shut and that he hadn’t left the water running or the gas on. Then, dawdling on the landing outside his open door, he took his key from his pocket and examined it to make sure—even though it was the only key he possessed—that it was the right one. He double-locked the door and left his building, then started walking toward the closest metro station, Colonel Fabien. On the platform for the train heading to Porte Dauphine, Pélestor followed the countdown minute by minute on the liquid crystal display screen where the arrival of the next few trains are displayed (1ST TRAIN 02 MIN, 2ND TRAIN 06 MIN,) above the time (17:02).

  As for Tausk, at four thirty he was heading toward the Courcelles station to take the Line 2 train in the other direction. After eating lunch, he’d enjoyed a pleasant session with Nadine Alcover, which put him in a good enough mood that he decided to go and work in the studio. He stood at the end of the platform for the train going toward Nation, in line with the front car, and in his mind revisited the greatest hits of the afternoon’s session.

  When the train surged out of the tunnel, Tausk recognized Hyacinth in the driver’s cab, who signaled that he should join him. I don’t want to butt in, Tausk said as he smiled, gesturing with his chin at the latest attractive woman to be sitting next to Hyacinth. No problem, smiled Hyacinth in return. Get out here, Geneviève, he affectionately ordered the woman. I’ll see you later, eight o’clock at the Cintra, okay? Geneviève nodded, smiled at Tausk—what a smiley scene this is—and left him her place in the cabin. And so we set off toward Nation.

  In the tunnels, dotted with pale fluorescent lights, Hyacinth first brought up the fuse box, which should last a few years but will eventually have to be replaced by a new model that meets current standards. Then, after Anvers station, the train went aboveground and Tausk and Hyacinth talked about the city around them, the way this area was changing and its probable future—plans for renovation, the demolition and construction of buildings, whether or not to continue providing train lines from the Gare du Nord and the Gare de l’Est, the development of the Bassin de la Villette and the Nicolas Ledoux rotunda—before they plunged underground again after Jaurès. The station after Jaurès, if you are heading eastwa
rd, is called Colonel Fabien, and that is where things went horribly wrong.

  They were about to enter the station, watching as the yellowish vaulted ceiling grew clearer, as if through a zoom lens, against the black background, when they also saw a man at the end of the platform calmly descend onto the rails. The man lay down in front of the train, then turned his head to see it arrive, even attempting to look the driver in the eyes, and perhaps also the other occupant of the cabin: Tausk, recognizing Pélestor with horror, will never know if his former partner identified him before the impact. Hyacinth honked his horn for all it was worth, while punching the emergency brake so hard that he drew blood without even realizing it, and started screaming so he wouldn’t hear the sound of the collision, so that his voice would fill the cabin and drown out the dreadful thud of impact.

  As soon as the train came to a halt, Hyacinth followed the usual procedure for such cases, blocking the doors and making an announcement. We have just run over someone, he forced himself to declare. Would everyone please remain seated while we wait for the emergency services to arrive. As he was announcing this, he set off the alarms that would stop the next train coming in the other direction: the man under his train might not be completely dead, so better not to let him be finished off by the one coming the other way. After that, he called the dispatcher, who, surveying the traffic on the network, is the metro’s equivalent of a control tower.

  I’ve just run over a customer, stammered Hyacinth to the dispatcher. My train has stopped, so has the line next to mine, and we’re waiting for the emergency services. Without any audible emotion, the dispatcher asked Hyacinth to go and check that the other line was free: Make sure none of the pieces are on the other rails, he ordered the driver. Go down and take a look, and then at least we can let the other trains pass. But Hyacinth said, No, I can’t.