by Jean Echenoz
They had to wait a moment for a manager on call to arrive, accompanied by a driver who could take over from Hyacinth, after which the police would arrive. It was a very long moment. While Tausk remained in his seat, Hyacinth opened the door between the cab and the first carriage. He walked toward the passengers, and one of them pointed out that he had blood on his pants. Hyacinth, disoriented, said it was the blood of the man who had killed himself before realizing—when he saw the wound in his hand caused by hitting the emergency brake—that it was his own. Then the police arrived. The judiciary police officer told him: Come down with me, we’re going to take a look at the body. But again Hyacinth said no, he just couldn’t.
While the policeman began writing his report, Hyacinth went back into the cab and Tausk heard him talking to himself, the tears rolling down his handsome face: It’s over, whispered Hyacinth, it’s all over. A good hour must have passed before he called Geneviève to cancel their date at the Cintra.
18
CHRISTIAN GOT UP FIRST. Slumped over, dragging his heels, he silently left the lodging that had been set up inside the farmhouse for the two henchmen. Jean-Pierre, from his twin bed, watched him go with a frown. After that, he too got up, showered, combed his hair, shaved, then swapped his usual clothes—dusty old jeans, baggy shirt—for something that seemed to him more dressy: synthetic leather pants and a counterfeit Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Outside, he headed over to Constance’s flower bed, where he picked a few zinnias and tied them up with a bulrush. He grimaced when he saw his first attempt, then started over with another bulrush.
Back in the farmhouse, he walked through the shared living room—past Christian, who remained motionless on a low stool near the fireplace—went upstairs, grimacing once again as the steps creaked, and reached the tiny landing. In one corner was a green plastic bucket covered with a floorcloth, bleached white. He threw his head back and took two deep breaths before knocking lightly three times on the door.
It opened on Constance, who had not quite finished dressing—her blouse was still unbuttoned, her belt still unbuckled—a fact that did not make Jean-Pierre’s task any easier. So, speaking to the right side of the doorframe rather than to the young woman, fiddling with his bouquet without daring to hand it to her, as if it were a hat he’d just removed, he sighed: I am sorry for my colleague, madame. I don’t know what got into him the other day. He feels deeply ashamed of himself. The whole incident really disturbed him, and he doesn’t dare come up here to apologize in person. Don’t worry, Constance reassured him, it’s not a big deal. I would just like to say that I disapprove of what he did, Jean-Pierre made clear, still without managing to look the young woman in the eyes, and that I share his embarrassment. Forget it, said Constance. I understand perfectly. The isolation, the lack of women, the boredom . . . I’m sure it’s not easy. Hang on while I finish getting ready.
Jean-Pierre waited on the landing, lifting up the lid of the bucket for a moment; then—when Constance emerged—they went downstairs to see Christian, who, sitting in his corner, stared at the floor, too scared to look up at the young woman, and muttered: I am really sorry, madame. I don’t know what got into me. Please accept my apologies. It’s nothing, Constance reassured him, let’s just forget about it. No, it’s not nothing, Christian insisted. I behaved like a pathetic loser. In fact, I am a pathetic loser, I know that, and believe me—but, preferring to interrupt, Jean-Pierre coughed behind him.
Anyway, said Constance, let’s move on. I want to do the cooking. She looked lively and determined, suddenly keen to take things in hand in a manner—like that of a tourist guide, or a den mother, or a TV game show host—that did not seem to fit with her status as a captive. What can we make for dinner tonight? What would you like to eat? Jean-Pierre and Christian looked at each other without responding. I know a pretty good recipe for duck confit with lentils, she went on. How does that sound? Sounds very, very good to me, said Jean-Pierre, relaxing. I’m going to Bénévent to do the shopping now, said Christian eagerly. What do you need? It’s simple, replied Constance: a big can of duck confit and a packet of lentils. And if you can find some raspberry vinegar, that goes perfectly with it. I’ll find some, proclaimed Christian frantically, already headed toward the door.
They ate lunch on the go and, all afternoon, the three of them worked in a relaxed atmosphere to prepare the evening meal. Having unearthed a rusty candlestick in the barn, Jean-Pierre furiously cleaned it so that this dinner could be candlelit. After another expedition to Bénévent-l’Abbaye to buy a paper tablecloth, a dessert, some wine, and a can of Miror to get the candlestick really sparkling, Christian arranged a new bouquet of flowers and, at around six o’clock, Constance got started in the kitchen. Dinner went very well. They laughed a lot, drank quite a bit, told lots of stories in a soothing eurythmy that, over the following days, was constantly added to by little acts of kindness and consideration from all sides. Things were changing.
19
OFTEN PEOPLE EXASPERATE US during their lifetime and it is only when they are dead that we see the extent of our loss: that is how it was for Tausk after the suicide of his lyricist. Pélestor had not been without his faults, but not only could he create impossibly catchy words that fitted as tightly as a snake’s skin to a bass line; he could also suggest orchestral or rhythmic nuances to that melody that its composer would never have imagined. He was no ordinary wordsmith.
Three fruitless solo sessions at the studio on Rue de Pali-Kao were enough for Tausk to realize the scale of his loss, and, deprived of Pélestorian inspiration, he did not think he could make any progress at all without help. He even, very quickly, had the feeling that he was only a shadow of his former self, a shadow that was rapidly fading. In fact, this feeling was so strong that he was compelled to consider, before it was too late, canceling his latest commitments, tearing up his contracts, breaking with his record label, selling his back catalogue, and forgetting the whole thing. Having considered this, he decided to do it. He should plan to speak with Hubert about it.
There was nothing very audacious about this plan, nothing very risky. Tausk is, as we have already mentioned, in a very comfortable financial position, a position that allows him to live without taking care of anything at all—except for Nadine Alcover, who is now living in his apartment. It all happened very fast with her, and now the two of them are practically inseparable. They talk a lot, mostly in bed, where they are drawing up the classic plan of fleeing to the end of the world to live happily ever after. But where to flee to? Well, we’ll see. In the meantime, they are enjoying coming up with a list of possible world’s ends. There’s no rush to make a decision. So, as I said, they are mostly inseparable except that, every day, Nadine Alcover has to keep going to work for Hubert in Neuilly. And soon, every day seems too much. So they decide that she won’t go to work there anymore. One morning, they prepare to call Hubert. Better to talk on the telephone than in person; that way, he won’t be able to dust off our jackets, point out a new wrinkle, or inform us that one of our eyebrows is too bushy. Yes, we’ll call him.
In Neuilly, at that very moment, after typing the code into his fireproof safe, Hubert comes back behind his desk and collapses into his chair, which is swiveled toward the window overlooking the interior courtyard. Using his index finger to lift up one of the slats on the Venetian blinds that cover this view, Hubert watches as his last visitors walk over to a large cardinal-red Infiniti sedan. Those visitors comprise a small, neat man (belt, laces, tie, all tightly knotted) followed by a tall man in sports clothing who is carrying an empty canvas bag over his shoulder. The small man—serrated hair, bowlegs, rolling gait, frowning at his smartphone—stops and puts on a pair of sunglasses whose mirror lenses, as he turns around for a moment, shoot a dazzling reflection at Hubert’s eyes. His tooth-filled mouth cracks into an amphibological smile; then he signals to the tall man to open the Infiniti’s passenger door and dives inside, before the tall one, after tossing the bag in the sedan’s trunk, sits behind
the wheel. The Infiniti sets off and the office telephone rings. Hubert picks up without taking his eyes off the vehicle. It’s me, announces Tausk. Louis.
My dear Louis, how wonderful to hear from you, exclaims Hubert, exaggerating his enthusiasm, though not by much. He seems to be in a good mood and Tausk takes advantage of this by getting straight to the heart of the matter. He has made the decision to put an end to his career. Age, fatigue, money put aside . . . basically, his argument is: I can stop, so I’m stopping. He is, he says, going to retire, in a way, if you see what I mean. He wants to cancel all previously concluded contracts, agreements, and other arrangements—you’re the one who has all the papers, how do we go about this? Nothing could be simpler, declares Hubert. I just saw your dossier in the safe. We’ll just invent some amendments and termination clauses; I know exactly what to do. So don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it all and it’ll be wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Tausk raises an eyebrow at this. All you need to do, Hubert continues, is drop by here to sign a few papers one of these days. Whenever you want. As you like. He swings back and forth in his chair as he says this. He really does appear to be in a very good mood indeed.
You seem very happy, says Tausk. What’s going on? How could I not be? Hubert smiles. My clientele is evolving and I am diversifying. I am opening myself up to new perspectives, accumulating excellent commissions, and I’m using the money to buy new works. I’ve been enriching my collection of art from the 1910s, you remember. And indeed he is, through the open door of his office, watching a factotum on a stepladder who is at this moment hanging a recently acquired work on the wall of the waiting room: a very large nude with a very long neck by Jean-Gabriel Domergue, intended to form a pair—same epoch, same school, same style—with the Tancrède Synave in the entrance hall. I’m pleased for you, says Tausk, but there is something else I wanted to talk to you about. Hang on two seconds, says Hubert, swiveling the chair back to face the window.
A massive black Hummer H2 with jacked-up wheels and tinted windows has just entered the interior courtyard. A man who looks like an accountant gets out. With his heavy eyelids and frameless glasses, he resembles the French actor Jean Bouise. He is followed by two guys who look like loss-prevention officers: dark suits, tinted sunglasses covering the kind of eyes you wouldn’t want to meet. As he walks, the supposed accountant opens a slender briefcase from which he extracts some stapled sheets of paper; behind him, each security guard carries two voluminous, apparently very heavy beige leather bags, and Hubert smiles again at their weight. Okay, go ahead, he tells Tausk, who in turn says, Hang on. Then: Here’s Nadine.
Like someone tiptoeing through a minefield, Nadine Alcover loses herself in fearful circumlocutions as she attempts to express her desire to quit her job at Hubert’s office, anxious as she is that her employer will take the news badly. But no, not at all: I understand completely, Nadine, the lawyer interrupts her. You have your own life to lead. Even going so far as to offer her a severance payment, he implies that replacing her will not pose any difficulties: I have someone else in mind, in fact, a blonde, quite attractive, not as pretty as you, Nadine, obviously, but she works very well, so don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Could you pass me back to Louis? I wanted to ask you something. Go ahead, says Tausk. Tell me, Louis, says Hubert, have you had any news about Constance? No, replies Tausk. Then they hang up without further comment. What did he want? asks Nadine Alcover. Nothing, says Tausk.
Hey, suggests Nadine Alcover, why don’t I organize a dinner party to celebrate? Celebrate what? asks Tausk. Well, you, says Nadine Alcover, me. You know, us. To mark the occasion. With guests. I’ll invite a friend of mine. She’s a bit unusual, but you’ll like her. And she’s in love with an older guy too. What do you mean by that? Lou Tausk says, frowning. He touches one of his cheeks and, without replying, Nadine Alcover brushes her fingers against his temple, which is, let’s be honest, graying. Ah yes, Tausk admits, I’ll take care of it. I have plenty of time now, after all. It is ten in the morning.
At about eleven, he returns to the hairdressing salon, where the employee, wriggling excitedly at the sight of him, expresses her surprise at seeing him again so soon after his last visit. It’s for my temples, says Tausk, pressing his fingers against them as if he had a headache, to color them. First time? asks Marie-Odile. First time, confirms Tausk, sitting down. I’m going to start by opening up your cuticles a little bit, explains the hairdresser as she picks up a bottle of peroxide, to help the dye get into the roots. She applies the product to his hair, first with a brush and then with a tail comb. I’m going to put you under a dryer for a little while now. Under a dryer? Tausk panics. Well, yeah, she says, it helps to even out the pre-softening. Would you like some magazines to read while you wait?
Once the lengths and tips are dry, Tausk returns to the chair and Marie-Odile picks up her brush again. Tongue sticking out sideways from her mouth as she coats each hair in turn with dye, she brings up a few obvious topics of conversation: the weather, the places they live, the vacations they’re planning. Then, venturing into more intimate terrain: And are you married? Tausk avoids the question. We’re going to pause for a little while again, decides Marie-Odile, to give the pigments time to take.
After which, standing next to her customer and contemplating his reflection, she appears satisfied and starts coating the hairs again. As for me, she confides, I have a steady boyfriend now, and believe me, that changes everything. I’m pleased for you, Tausk responds politely. Is he good to you? Good to me? Oh, like you wouldn’t believe, the hairdresser exclaims before starting to list the virtues of her steady boyfriend, his habits, his tastes, his physical appearance down to the tiniest details, among them the fact that he has a W-shaped scar on his cheek. Tausk shivers. Don’t move like that, Marie-Odile orders him, or it’ll go everywhere. The word good doesn’t do him justice, she goes on. In fact, his name really suits him. Clément—it’s a nice name, don’t you think? Well anyway, that’s him, down to a tee. And this time, Tausk jumps as a flashback runs through his mind: thirty years earlier, Avenue de Bouvines, the bank, the security guard lying in a pool of blood, the desperate getaway. Pognel, he says, through gritted teeth. The name escapes his lips before he can prevent it. Instantly he regrets it, but it’s too late. She heard.
Do you know him? cries Marie-Odile. Not at all, blusters Tausk, it’s just what you said vaguely reminded me of someone. You know him, of course you do, Marie-Odile exclaims delightedly, you just said his name. No, he insists, no, but she is not listening anymore, too busy marveling over the vagaries of fate, the odds against such coincidences, and the smallness of the world. Hey, she decides, I’m finishing earlier than usual this morning. I’m going to pick him up from his job. He always says he doesn’t want me to meet him there, but I’m sure he’ll be happy. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him about this. Alas, it is too late for Tausk to say no. No. Absolutely not.
20
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, as we had nothing better to do and happened to be in the area, we discreetly slipped into Lessertisseur’s apartment, on the left-hand side of the third floor of a poorly maintained building on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. Closing the door silently behind us, we stood at one end of a corridor with a succession of rooms leading off to the right. From where we stood, we could make out a brightly lit kitchen, a dark bathroom, and a softly lit bedroom. Coming from the last of these, we could hear music: the volume was on low, but we instantly recognized the Boz Scaggs album Silk Degrees. The corridor—opaque or luminous depending on the radiance of the rooms leading off it—ended with what looked like a living room, though we could see only one corner of it from our vantage point: a tired armchair covered with a brown batik cloth, a wobbly shelf with an old-fashioned corded phone on it, a triangle of tatty carpet. Behind the armchair was a lamp with a dirty shade that gave a halo of light from an economy bulb.
So the corridor was strongly lit at the entrance to the kitchen, dark a little farther on
, dimly lit outside the bedroom, and brighter at the end, next to the living room: we moved forward. The kitchen, no bigger than a closet, was stuffed full of household electrical appliances, each with a digital clock displaying a different time, none of them correct. On the ceiling, the light dispensed by a large circular fluorescent tube, designed for a room six times bigger than this one, was dully reflected from the acrylic and Formica surfaces or from grubby pans and filthy plates. Three plastic bags overflowing with trash swayed on the tile floor. We continued on our way, passing the bathroom, and, as we came level with the bedroom, we glanced in to see what was happening there.
Well, at some point, there had to be a bit of explicit sex in this story. On his bed, at the far end of that bedroom, Lessertisseur was lying on his back, mostly dressed, while Lucile was crouched between his legs, administering what is sometimes known as a blow job. And as she was proceeding in a manner—slow and deep—particularly beloved of Maurice Lessertisseur, he was happy. But just as “What Do You Want the Girl to Do?” entered its final fade-out, the cell phone on the nightstand started to ring. Lessertisseur moved slowly so he could pick up the phone without causing Lucile to interrupt her action. In fact, he encouraged her to continue, whispering, Keep going, this makes it even sexier. And then, three seconds later, covering the lower part of the phone: Stop a minute, this is serious. It’s him. Lucile slid off to the side, sniffling, while Lessertisseur cleared his throat and said: I’m listening. This is dragging on too long, the voice of the silent partner announced bluntly. We have to meet, very soon. Of course, sighed Lessertisseur. Later this afternoon, for example? No, said his superior, now.
So a meeting was arranged in a bar located a ten-minute walk from Lessertisseur’s home, on the corner of Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière and Rue d’Abbeville, opposite an art nouveau corner building situated at number 14 featuring beautifully sculpted caryatids whose stirring breasts, exposed to the eyes of all, would perhaps, given how things are, be forbidden these days. In the meantime, Lessertisseur buttoned up his pants, informing Lucile that he had to leave and, as she insisted on accompanying him, he rashly said yes. And so they went there.