by Jean Echenoz
A few days later, Victor called them to inform them that the plan had changed, that they were going to free Constance, and that they ought to get ready. See you in a couple of weeks, then. Jean-Pierre and Christian appeared evasive and dilatory, acting as if nothing had changed, while Constance, still reasonably comfortable in spite of this precarious new location, was starting to get used to life in the wind turbine. She spent most of her time lying on the folding bed and reading, with the radio tuned permanently to a music station. Sometimes she would tape pictures cut out of the dictionary to the windows, while gazing out at the landscape and noting how it changed as summer grew to a close. Days passed. More days passed.
Only once did she examine the large control panel that occupied an entire wall of the room. Constance inspected it, hoping (though not really believing) that she might understand something about the electrical system. She quickly gave up this hope but, as a game, tried pressing a button just to see what would happen. As far as she could tell, nothing did. Without her noticing it, however, the blades of the turbine very gradually slowed down, stopped for a moment, and then began rotating in the opposite direction. Constance, unaware that the propeller was now turning clockwise, went back to her bed to lie down and opened her encyclopedia: letter P, for perfidy.
23
TWO WEEKS, VICTOR HAD SAID. So, okay, let’s be patient. But in the meantime, why don’t we quickly deal with the Pognel storyline.
Despite getting rid of Marie-Odile because there was a risk she might figure out too many details about his life, Clément Pognel did not leave her apartment on Rue de la Chine, continuing to live there for a while afterward. First, though, in the hours immediately following his act, he had to get busy. Before rigor mortis could set in, he had to drag the hairdresser’s corpse—heavier than you’d imagine—into a storeroom, where he folded it over so it would take up the least amount of space possible, before wrapping it in a bedspread, which he held in place with clothespins. Having accomplished this, under the intrigued gaze of Biscuit, Pognel gave the kitchen a brief cleanup, deciding that he would wash the dishes more carefully later on. Then he took Biscuit downstairs to piss, a task he carried out regularly over the next few days, using each of these little trips to acquire various acids and solvents, bottle by bottle, buying each one in a different supermarket or drugstore.
Because after a while, this body had to be made to disappear for reasons that we can easily imagine and that quickly made themselves known. After accumulating enough chemicals, which he arrayed close to the bathtub, Pognel carried out his task in accordance with tried and tested techniques, learned from professionals during his stay in prison, which there is really no point in describing here. In doing this, he took particular care not to damage the bathtub. After this long, laborious operation, he painstakingly cleaned the apartment, room by room, object by object, wiping all fingerprints and wearing rubber gloves whenever he had to touch anything. Biscuit observed all of this passively, probably aware that it was a good idea to watch its step: given what Pognel had done to its mistress, the dog was well-advised not to intervene for fear of receiving the same treatment itself.
So, to begin with, Biscuit limited itself to appearing unconcerned while concealing its nervousness around Pognel. The murderer, however, knowing that the animal was incapable of testifying against him, started feeling a certain affection for it. In an attempt to win it over, he began feeding it better, replacing its ordinary dog biscuits with a more expensive brand (86 percent poultry meat enriched with salmon oil for a good supply of omega-3 and omega-6), a tactic that, naturally opportunistic and driven primarily by its appetites, Biscuit was incapable of resisting. Attentively taking care of the animal—brushing it, delousing it, and washing it regularly—Pognel figured he could also wash its brain, if only by giving it a new name more to his taste, a more manly, serious name, before training it in new (and no less serious) exercises for which the beagle as a breed is well suited: guarding, attacking, hunting, fighting. The lavishing of all this attention had the desired effect—because, sadly, dogs are sometimes just as ungrateful and forgetful as people—and, pretty quickly, Pognel and the animal became as thick as thieves, even if it took Biscuit a while to get used to (and instantly react to) its new name: Faust.
But all of that will be developed later because, as a precaution, we are not going to outstay our welcome at Rue de la Chine. So, after ridding the apartment of all traces of his presence, Pognel left, slamming the door behind him, with Faust on a leash. But that was his big mistake. Because, even if Marie-Odile had no family, her colleagues at the hairdressing salon would eventually worry about her prolonged absence; they would call her phone, they would ring her doorbell, and, getting no reply and seeing the mailbox overflowing, they would decide to inform the police, who, forcing open her apartment, would initially find nothing at all. But they would not give up that easily, and, despite Pognel’s meticulous cleaning job and cunning mind, the forensics team ended up finding a DNA trace—on the handle of the door that he banged shut when he was leaving. Well, you can’t think of everything . . .
So Clément Pognel disappeared, accompanied by Faust. Although we were boasting not so long ago about being better informed than everyone else, in this case we are forced to admit that, at this moment in time, we don’t know where he’s gone. But let’s trust our informers to keep us in the loop: they’ve been alerted, so we should hear something soon. In the meantime, as Pognel was—given his past—well-known to the police department, the DNA trace enabled him to be quickly identified. Very soon, the case came to the attention of Objat, who immediately organized a meeting with the general: I’ll expect you in an hour, said Bourgeaud—and three-quarters of an hour later, fondling a Panter Silhouette as Objat entered his office, he inquired: So what’s going on?
The man I found to play the role of the silent partner, Objat reminded him, well, he’s gone berserk. First he shot a guy who was working for him. For us, you mean? the general asked with a frown. Of course, Objat reassured him, like all the others, but that wasn’t enough for him. I managed to locate him at a woman’s apartment and, well, quite simply, he killed her. Was she one of ours too? the general asked. No, said Objat, she was nothing to do with it. Well, that’s something, Bourgeaud sighed, taking a Bic lighter from his pocket, but still, it’s very unfortunate. And this man, do you know him well? I always took care, Objat said, to keep my distance. I only communicate with him from a distance. The general played with the wheel of the lighter, then changed his mind, put it back in his pocket, and put the Panter back in its box.
Well, those are the risks, he observed. As a general rule, this is probably a good thing. A few less links in the chain . . . it simplifies the picture. All the same, it’s very distressing. But anyway, we still need to recuperate the girl—do you think she’s ripe now? After three months of treatment, mused Objat, I would say she could be operational. We’ll have to see. Indeed, indeed, nodded the general. Do your best. Take your time. These things mustn’t be rushed. See the process through and keep me informed. At your command, declared Objat.
24
AS FAR AS LOU TAUSK and Nadine Alcover were concerned, nothing much had happened recently, except that they had become slightly less enthusiastic about the idea of going off to the end of the world. The thing was, when they thought about this world with its wars (active or dormant), its entrenched divisions (ethnic, political, religious, tribal, racial, clannish), its conflicts over nuclear testing, its systematic bleeding of natural resources, its terrorism and its tourism and its identical stores everywhere you go, well, they decided they could talk about it later because, after all, they were happy together and things were not too bad here at home, so let’s just fuck. However, the idea of that dinner, suggested by Nadine Alcover, had not been dropped, so she tried to call Lucile to invite her.
But Lucile, for the moment, is not in a position to speak to anyone because she is, once again, in her slow, deep way, taking care of Maur
ice Lessertisseur as he lies on his hospital bed, arms covered in bandages and perfusions. Lucile is attentive, methodical, devoted: no sooner has the wounded man suggested it than she immediately gets her head down. This should reassure us on many levels about this man’s state: beyond his current genital contentment, Lessertisseur has clearly not been badly wounded enough to rule out such treatment. Moreover, there are flowers to brighten up his nightstand, the window overlooks a park, and the fact that he has an individual room in a private clinic in west Paris suggests he must have very good health insurance. Lessertisseur is happy. He is thinking about nothing. And he has no desire to hear anything, for the moment, about his mission or his bosses.
Talking of which, Paul Objat is on his way to Creuse. The current experiment on Constance has, in his view, gone on long enough that he can, with the general’s approval, recuperate the young woman. So he is driving to the farm in an unmarked car, taking minor roads rather than highways since he is not in a rush; in fact, taking slightly longer to get there, he thinks, will be to his advantage. The trip from Paris to Châtelus-le-Marcheix, if you take these smaller roads, is a pretty and more or less vertical ride through France of roughly 250 miles. Some of the landscapes you pass through aren’t bad—I mean, they’re not always wonderful either, but sometimes they’re really not bad at all. After leaving the barracks quite early, Objat even allowed himself a detour about two-thirds of the way through his journey to eat lunch in a Michelin-starred restaurant he spotted in the Red Guide.
Around five o’clock, after crossing the border between Indre and Creuse without incident, as the autumn sun went down in the west, Objat took the small, winding forest road that, in a bend to the left just before Châtelus-le-Marcheix, splits off into a byroad that heads to the farm. He followed this path—asphalted, then rocky, with its fair share of ruts and potholes—until it led him to the building, in front of which not one single vehicle was parked. Objat raised an eyebrow. After getting out of his car, he walked to the door—unlocked—and, entering, found out just how things stood now.
Because not only was the farm apparently unoccupied, but it had been completely renovated: repainted, refurbished, relieved of all its former contents. The old furniture had been replaced by some basic new models, probably purchased in discount stores like But or Super U rather than Ikea. The table was new, and so were the chairs. There was even a plastic ring where the label had been held hanging from the metal bars of one of those chairs. The kitchenette had also been renovated, in a simple but practical way: three induction hobs in place of the camping stove, a microwave, a mini-refrigerator (empty). In front of the old fireplace was an energy-efficient electric radiator on wheels. There were no longer any decorations on the walls, which still gave off a strong paint smell. Upstairs, Objat found a similar scene: nothing remained of the old bedroom occupied by Constance, which was now fitted out with the same kind of cheap, minimalist furniture as before, but all of it brand-new: polypropylene closet and nightstand, single bed with synthetic bedding folded on top of it.
Objat shook his head, a thin smile playing on his face as he went downstairs. Out in the yard, despite his self-control, he could not help staring wide-eyed: they had not confined themselves to transforming the interior of the farm but had worked on its surroundings too, notably—the zenith of the metamorphosis—even the big lime tree was no longer there. It had vanished. Or rather, what had gone was the peaceful, scented shade offered by its branches and leaves. The tree itself was still there, in the same place, but in another form: cut up into regular-length logs and assembled in a rectangular parallelepiped (13 by 8.2 by 4 feet), it now offered its interstitial shade only to insects, lizards, rodents, and other little creatures—and, even then, not all the time, mostly just early in the morning and late in the evening when the sun was low in the sky. Which was, at that moment, increasingly the case.
Night would soon fall. Paul Objat took a travel bag containing a few belongings from the trunk of the car. He preferred to stay here rather than look for a hotel in the area. True, they (Jean-Pierre and Christian, presumably—who else?) had made the place neutral and impersonal but, all in all, it was now more comfortable than it had been before. He’d bought two sandwiches during the trip, and he sat down to eat them now. He heard the sound of his own chewing and smelled the aroma of paint. He regretted the absence of a radio. He went upstairs to make the bed.
The next morning, and over the days that followed, Objat began roaming the surrounding area with the aid of a 1/25,000 map. Something told him that Constance—vanished without trace from the farm—could not be far away, so he systematically explored the perimeter, road by road, field by field, for almost a week, crossing off each place one after another, without result. Until the moment when these investigations seemed futile, until he was close to giving up—and wondering how he would explain things to General Bourgeaud.
Until the moment when, driving for the tenth time along a minor road whose every derivation he had already inspected, he went past a large meadow with, in the distance, a field of wind turbines that his peripheral vision had already registered, their blades turning peacefully. But this time, something struck him as wrong. It was only a vague intuition, but he suddenly slammed on the brakes, put the car in reverse, and came to a halt again in the middle of the road, level with those aerogenerators, which he observed more attentively under the bright late-fall sun. It took him a little while to notice that the propeller of one of those turbines was turning in the opposite direction to all the others, but when he did, he smiled.
After he’d parked his car by the roadside and cut the engine, his smile grew wider as he noted that a wavy line ran across the yellowing grass between this shoulder and the wind turbine, probably created by numerous comings and goings. He got out of the car and followed this path, rummaging around in his pockets until he took out a thin metal rod, always useful in his line of work. At the bottom of the wind turbine, the rod allowed him to quickly pick the lock of the door. He went inside and climbed the ladder. At the top was a trapdoor, which Objat lifted without difficulty. Poking his head through the gap, he discovered a very small room filled with light, its rudimentary furnishings including a sort of Lilliputian bed on which—while listening to “Y’en a des Biens” by Didier Super on the radio—Constance was rereading the article on slaughter in her encyclopedia.
Oh, Victor, she exclaimed, at the sight of his head emerging from the floor. I haven’t seen you in a while. Where’ve you been?
25
THREE DAYS LATER, at the café in Limoges train station, Jean-Pierre and Christian sit side by side, in silence, under the icy glare of Paul Objat. Jean-Pierre lowers his head, using his right thumbnail to push back the little bits of skin that cover the lunula of his left thumbnail, while Christian squirms on the bench, staring into space. Well, I’m not going to congratulate you, Objat has just said to them.
Three days before this, returning from grocery shopping in Bénévent-l’Abbaye, Jean-Pierre had gone up the ladder to deliver the food to Constance and found the room empty. As the young woman had shown no desire to escape—on the contrary, he thought, she had seemed perfectly at ease up here in her cockpit—he had deduced that Objat must have come here and taken her away. Aware of their breach of duty and less fearful of Lessertisseur’s reaction (since he was in no fit state to punish anyone) than Objat’s (since he was generally stricter), he and Christian had decided to take off, to blend in with the crowd and flee their employers, first in their car and then by train.
But having recaptured Constance, Objat then turned his attention to finding his henchmen too. And as he is even better than us at that, he soon located them and trapped them at the station in Limoges. There, on platform number 4, they were waiting for the intercity train to Paris-Austerlitz, planning to go from there to Hazebrouck, where they would be able to lie low, get some fresh air, and think about the future while staying with Christian’s brother-in-law. Sadly for them, Objat arrived on the p
latform six minutes before the intercity train. He herded them toward the station café, where he admonished them and they sat in silence, looking pathetic. Ordering another sandwich, he asked them if they wanted anything and they assured him that they weren’t hungry anymore. No, thank you, Victor, said Jean-Pierre, thank you very much. We had a croque-monsieur earlier.
Professional misconduct, Objat emphasized. Serious professional misconduct. Exemplary punishment, he added, without going into details. They apologized again. They had become used to this exercise since Christian’s fiasco with Constance. You have to understand, muttered Jean-Pierre, she was a nice girl; we ended up growing fond of her. We didn’t really know what you wanted to do with her, pleaded Christian, and we started worrying about her. It seemed safer to take her out of harm’s way.
Well, Objat admitted, it wasn’t too serious, luckily for you. And in a way, unwittingly, what you did might not turn out so bad. But we are about to enter the second phase of this operation. That means new techniques to learn, new methods. If you want us to continue working together, you’re going to need some training. I’m going to send you an address in a few days, and you will go there. Okay, Victor, agreed Jean-Pierre, we’ll do whatever you want. Good, said Objat, paying for his sandwich. But where are we going? asked Christian in a frightened voice. And what about our train tickets—can we exchange them? How do we get reimbursed? Wait until you hear from me, said Objat, getting to his feet.