by Jean Echenoz
He immediately spotted his silent partner at the back of the bar—slender, pale, fashionably dressed—and Lessertisseur snickered inwardly at the fact that the man had thought it necessary to wear dark glasses. I’m very annoyed, the silent partner warned him as soon as he reached the table. What are you drinking? A club soda for Lessertisseur and, for Lucile, a cup of tea. The silent partner considerately asked if she would like it with milk, sugar, lemon? No, nothing, said Lucile, just au naturel. Thank you, that’s kind of you. Yes, agreed the silent partner. When I am especially annoyed, I can be especially kind.
Anyway, he said, let’s get to the point. This whole thing is taking way too long. We’re not getting anywhere. You’re not doing your job properly. Lowering his eyes at this observation, and instead of again suggesting that they drop the job in favor of something more profitable, Lessertisseur had to admit that, yes, it did seem to be stuck in a rut. Although, he went on, from another point of view, strategically it’s not so bad. It might be a good idea to let the subject stew. That could produce results. It’s happened before. Drumming his fingers on the table as he listened to this, the silent partner—who seemed until this point to be staring at Lessertisseur behind his dark glasses—ended up turning them (they were slowly sliding down his nose toward the cusp of his nostrils) on the fingerstall covering the bandage at the end of Lucile’s little finger.
Appearing to immediately grasp what must have happened regarding the phalanx sent to Tausk, he slowly pushed his glasses back up his nose. Well, now, he articulated. What the hell kind of a trick are you trying to play on me with that story of the finger? he shouted, and Lessertisseur was forced to acknowledge that it wasn’t the correct finger but, frankly, what difference did it make? The effect was bound to be the same, he argued, and this subterfuge even has the advantage of allowing us to hold more fingers in reserve, just in case. Do you take me for a fool? the silent partner barked, turning pale—which strengthened the contrast between his dark glasses and his white skin. He took a breath and then: You don’t really think that’s how it works, do you? he yelled quietly (technically, this is possible) as he got to his feet, knocking over the club soda and the unsweetened black tea.
We’re going outside so you can give me a better explanation, he said, dropping some cash on the table before pushing and dragging Lessertisseur toward the door: an entertaining spectacle for the other customers, who, imagining a drunkards’ brawl, despite the nature of the drinks that had been spilled on their table, were above all surprised that the disproportion between the two men’s morphologies (Lessertisseur sturdy, the silent partner frail) did not prevent the latter from expelling the former from the premises. Seeing this, Lucile said in a panicked voice: I think I’ll leave you to it, before running off and almost being hit by a car as she blindly fled across Rue de Maubeuge, then disappearing out of sight in Rue Condorcet.
With Lucile and her fingerstall now offscreen, the silent partner unceremoniously guided Lessertisseur toward the end of Rue d’Abbeville, where, at number 5, there was a large parking garage, open 24/7, which had two underground floors. The silent partner, however, did not bother going down to the lowest level before shoving Lessertisseur between two parked cars, in a space hidden from prying eyes. And there, visibly furious, he violently whispered (again, this is technically possible) that, at the risk of repeating himself, he really had the feeling that Lessertisseur took him for a fool. And, matching his words with actions, he took an object from his pocket.
At some point, too, a gun had to appear in our story: this one is an Astra Cub .25 ACP and it is a very attractive semiautomatic pocket pistol, hardly any bigger than a pack of cigarettes, manufactured in Guernica by the company Astra-Unceta y Cia S.A. and easily available through specialist dealers, or even via a simple ad on the Internet, for a sum not exceeding U200.
Intending to use this weapon purely in an intimidatory fashion, the silent partner had taken care to secure the safety, situated to the left, behind the trigger guard. Unfortunately, in his agitation, his thumb clumsily turned off said safety and, as his index finger was, at that moment, quivering on the trigger (pretty sensitive on the Astra Cub), a projectile unexpectedly shot out and pierced Lessertisseur’s anatomy, close to his groin. Seeing the big man collapse, the silent partner fled in a panic toward the nearest crossroads—at Place Franz-Liszt—where, by chance, an unoccupied taxi was passing. The driver stopped, picked him up, and took him to his current residence, near the Gambetta metro station.
21
HE WAS A NERVOUS WRECK by the time he turned into Rue de la Chine. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by the smell of an onion omelet—and also by a dog, which—standing on its hind legs, panting and drooling, its forelegs resting on the silent partner’s knees—guided him toward the kitchen, where a woman in a flower-patterned apron stood in front of the gas stove and refrained from smiling at him. Oh, it’s you, she observed. We didn’t see much of you last night. I had things to do, claimed the silent partner, removing the dog’s paws from his pant legs before dusting them off. Well, I have a few things to tell you about yesterday, she told him. I had a strange kind of day. This news came as a relief to the silent partner, who, having no desire to describe his own day, was able simply to listen instead. Turning off the gas cooktop, at the risk of letting the omelet (currently being ogled by the quadruped) congeal, the woman sat down and looked at the silent partner with an expression on her face that meant that he, too, should sit down. Which he did.
They stayed like that for a moment, in the kitchen, sitting on either side of the red Formica table with its black metal tube legs, looking at each other. Well, first of all, said the woman at last, with a tense smile, guess who I saw again in the salon, yesterday? That guy. What guy? the silent partner asked, mechanically, still feeling soothed by the beginning of what seemed like a distractingly banal conversation. You know, she said, the guy who’s a pop star, Lou something, I can’t remember now if I’ve told you about him already. That was the third time he’s come, and we’re starting to tell each other things. I remember, said the silent partner, stiffening. So? So he said that he used to know you, back in the old days! That’s pretty funny, don’t you think? And when I say back in the old days, I get the feeling it was a long time ago. Yeah, that’s funny, the silent partner forced himself to reply, without seeming very keen to go into further details.
At that, the woman stood up and carefully poured the omelet onto a plate, gradually increasing the angle of the frying pan until the omelet curled elegantly over itself. As for the tense, vexed silent partner, he started nervously scratching at an imaginary stain on the tabletop. As for the dog, torn between its desire for the omelet, which was urging it to stay in the kitchen, and its perception of the oppressive atmosphere, which was urging it to flee, it no longer knew what to do with itself. As for any readers who have not yet understood that the silent partner’s name is Clément Pognel, we are happy to inform them of that fact now.
Marie-Odile sat down again and her expression changed. So, you see, there’s something else I’d like to understand. And the tone of her voice, too, seemed to have changed. Go on, muttered Pognel. So it was that she recounted the rest of her morning, after she had dyed the temples of that guy, Lou what’s his name. As she did not have any other customers, she had decided to use her spare time to go and pick Pognel up from his workplace. I know you told me that you didn’t like that, she acknowledged, but I thought it would make you happy. Just a little surprise, if you like.
Following the directions that Pognel had given her regarding his journey on the metro and then the RER, she had gone to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, where, after wandering all over the neighborhood, then asking various people for help, she had concluded it wasn’t possible that Pognel worked for Titan-Guss as he had assured her, not only because that business was completely unknown in Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, but even more so because a quick Google search had allowed her to discover that the firm Titan-Guss simpl
y did not exist. And I would really like to understand that, she said. Really, I would like you to explain it to me.
We can, and must, admit that, from the point of view of Clément Pognel, this is quite a lot to deal with in a single day. He might just about be able to cope with his meeting with Lessertisseur, and what he did to him in the parking garage on Rue d’Abbeville, as well as what he learned about Lucile’s little finger . . . he might. None of that changes very much, and he could probably deal with it. But, first of all, it is highly embarrassing that Tausk should have met Marie-Odile. And then her discovery of the nonexistence of Titan-Guss leads Pognel beyond the realm of embarrassment. There is the very real feeling that he is done for. He could take some time to think, to come up with another tale to cover himself, even if only temporarily. He could—he’s seen it done before—but he doesn’t think about it, never even considers it, because he sees himself backed against a wall, trapped in a dark passageway, with nothing to cling to, with no way out but to rid himself of his present danger.
And so it was that Clément Pognel, without any premeditation, without really thinking about it at all, took his Astra Cub from his pocket and, not really aiming at anything in particular, simply fired at what was directly in front of him: this time, the .25 ACP projectile entering Marie-Odile Zwang’s skull through her right eye, his victim died instantly, watched placidly by Biscuit, who did not even jump at the sound of the gunshot. After that, Pognel sat for a long time on his chair, staring blankly at Marie-Odile’s corpse. Then he went to look for the dead woman’s cell phone on the kitchen countertop, where the omelet was going cold, and dialed a number. While he waited for it to start ringing, he put a piece of omelet in his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. Biscuit began to sniff his owner’s dead body, hesitating before tasting, out of curiosity, the blood that dripped from her eye socket.
Three seconds later, on Boulevard Mortier: I hope you don’t mind if I answer that, General, said Paul Objat, his hand reaching into his pocket. You know perfectly well, Objat, grumbled Bourgeaud, that I don’t like it when you answer your phone in my office. I know, General, Objat acknowledged, and I’m terribly sorry, but something tells me that maybe—and he pressed the green button on his phone. The general pouted, but in fact Objat was on the phone for only a very short time, not more than thirty seconds, before he pressed the red button, without having spoken a single word. So, was it worth it? Bourgeaud asked sarcastically. Barely, said Objat. There was some news, but it was nothing too serious. It’s just that guy Pognel—I have the feeling he’s going soft. The general shuddered. Do you think this might compromise our plans? I don’t think so, Objat reassured him. He didn’t say much, but I can tell he’s tired, a bit stressed. He’s a moody guy. He’s going to take a few days off, but that doesn’t make much difference to us. I think everything will be fine.
Good, condescended Bourgeaud. So where exactly are we at the moment, in terms of the operation? Well, said Objat, I would say we’re ready. This first phase of the treatment should be coming to an end. I believe we can move on to phase two. Although there is also some news from Creuse. Do you remember, General, about Stockholm and Lima? Well, I fear that’s where we are. What on earth are you talking about? the general frowned.
22
EVERYONE REMEMBERS HOW in August 1973, in the Swedish capital, Jan-Erik Olsson, having just escaped prison, held up a branch of the Kreditbanken, took four hostages, and coerced the police into allowing his fellow prisoner Clark Olofsson to join him in the bank. It was difficult to liberate their captives because they were essentially sympathetic to Olsson and Olofsson and didn’t want to leave them. Not only did they refuse to testify against them at the trial; they even defended them and—once the verdict had been delivered, and Jan-Erik and Clark were back behind bars—went to visit them regularly. This is what has become known as Stockholm syndrome. It is a classic psychological response, but it is not the only one.
Fewer people remember how, twenty-three years later, in the Peruvian capital, a heavily armed guerrilla commando invaded the Japanese embassy and used the staff members as human shields. Pretty soon, however, developing an affection for their hostages, charmed as they were by their good manners and polite objections, the revolutionaries freed the majority of them. Then, sympathy blossoming into true friendship, the guerrillas who were supposed to liquidate the last hostages in the event of a police intervention admitted that they were incapable of going through with it. This phenomenon became known as Lima syndrome.
A combination of these two syndromes—a coexistence, even a fusion, of the two clinically opposed scenarios—could be designated Creuse syndrome, because, after the evening of the lentil confit, a reciprocal feeling began to grow between Constance and her guards. It reached unprecedented levels of empathy when Jean-Pierre and Christian—not having seen Victor or Lessertisseur for some time—started worrying about what fate those men might have in store for Constance when they did eventually return. Fearing that this event would fracture the new harmony between them and Constance, they decided to steal her away somewhere. In other words, they were going to protect their captive from their own bosses.
Considering various retreats, searching for the most discreet they could find, Jean-Pierre and Christian absented themselves more and more often on scouting missions. Naturally this meant that Constance was left alone, that she was free to flee, but a tacit agreement seemed to exclude this possibility: in fact, it never even entered Constance’s head. She actually found there were plenty of things to do here—looking after the garden, helping with the cooking or housecleaning, playing dice or card games, a quick game of badminton with Christian while Jean-Pierre cooked spaghetti, continuing her perusal of the Quillet encyclopedia (she was currently on volume L–O).
At last, Jean-Pierre and Christian thought they had found the perfect spot. In the middle of the night, they put Constance in the back of the gray Renault. They did not do this briskly or roughly as they had during her previous transfer; on the contrary, they treated her with the utmost consideration. They had to drive a dozen miles or so, the landscape invisible in the absolute darkness, before parking the car by the side of a minor road. Getting out of the car and quietly closing the doors, they crossed what appeared to be a field, finding their way with the aid of flashlights. They reached a building and opened a narrow door into an empty, circular, windowless room, only a few feet across but very tall: it turned out to be a vertical tube with a metal ladder rising through it. They climbed this ladder together, Jean-Pierre going first, lighting up the darkness ahead of him with his flashlight, Constance following, and Christian below her, shining his flashlight beam anywhere but up so he wouldn’t see her legs.
At the top of this tube was a tiny space, a sort of glass-walled cockpit with a control panel (whose function Constance did not grasp) that filled most of the room. Jean-Pierre and Christian had done their best to turn this space into an efficiency apartment: a folding bed, a tiny storage unit containing a few belongings, a shelf where volumes P–R and S–Z of the Quillet—not yet read by Constance—were arranged. Well, Jean-Pierre admitted, I know it’s not very spacious, but at least you’ll have plenty of light. And I’ve heard that in Japan there are capsule hotels with even less space.
Before leaving her, that night, he pointed out to Constance that her only difficulty would be bathroom-related activities. As far as drinking water was concerned, he had brought up two big bottles, but when it came to her ablutions she would have to go back down the ladder. Christian’s fixed it so that, when the water arrives, you will be able to use this faucet—protected by a screen made of reeds—behind which, if you will forgive this detail, we’ve set up a composting toilet. Unfortunately there’s no hot water, but the weather’s still warm enough for that to be okay. And at least here, no one will bother you. We’ll drop by every day to bring you some food. We’ll never be far away. And, if you ever have a problem, he concluded—contravening the hostage taker’s most basic
protocol—here’s a cell phone so you can get in touch with us. The charger is here. And the power outlet’s over there.
The two men left so she could go to sleep, and the next day, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Constance was able to enjoy an uninterrupted 180-degree view of a landscape whose geographic location she still knew nothing (and cared even less) about. At regular intervals, the countryside was briefly blacked out by what looked like gigantic clock hands, until she finally realized that they were the blades of a huge propeller and that she was living at the top of one of those wind turbines that you often see as you are driving down a highway. Most people are not aware that, in addition to their function in transforming wind into energy, the latest models are also (in a rudimentary fashion, admittedly) residential.
Jean-Pierre and Christian went back to the farm, apparently doing some kind of work there during the day and at night abandoning all idea of staying there. As there was no hotel in Châtelus-le-Marcheix, they took two rooms at the Campanile in Bénévent-l’Abbaye, knowing that they were abusing their employers and well aware of the consequences of this, but it was Constance’s fate that mattered most to them now. They drove to the wind turbine every day. Jean-Pierre took charge of carrying up her food, a battery-powered radio, an old illustrated Larousse dictionary, and an old Encyclopedia Universalis that he’d ordered on Amazon but which he had to bring back down because there wasn’t enough space for it in the room. Christian, meanwhile, preferred to wait in the car so as not to disturb the young woman’s privacy, and also to avoid the risk that he would once again fall victim to his urges.