I’m not even entirely sure where we are. Charles frowns.
“Hold on!” he yells, pointing at the autoroute behind. “Back there! I saw it: Rouen, fourteen miles!”
Another twenty-five miles to Sarqueville, and the car has drunk its last drop.
Nicole.
Think.
I can’t thread two thoughts together. My brain stopped functioning with the image of Nicole and the sound of her voice on the telephone. I didn’t even notice Charles open the passenger door. He’s embarked on a roundabout route toward the service station.
Think.
Thumb a lift. Find another vehicle. There’s no other choice. I drag myself out of the car and run to catch up with Charles. He’s already in discussion with an enormous blond-haired man with a red face and a grubby cap. Charles motions toward me as I approach them.
“This is him, my pal . . .”
The guy looks at me. He looks at Charles. We must seem a funny pair.
“I’m going the other side of Rouen,” he says.
“Sarqueville?” I ask.
“Not far from there.”
“You can take my pal, then?” Charles says, rubbing his hands.
These words reveal where dear Charles’s strength lies. No one can resist him. His sincerity is so disarming, his generosity overwhelming.
“No problem,” the guy says.
“Well, no time to lose,” Charles says, still rubbing his hands.
The man is shuffling impatiently. Charles and I shake hands, and he senses my embarrassment.
“Don’t worry!” he says.
I rummage in my pockets and give him the four euros.
“Bah, what about you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he gives me back three.
“Share like brothers,” he chuckles.
The driver says:
“Look, gents, sorry but . . .”
I hug Charles. He barely touches me. He takes off his massive green fluorescent watch and hands it to me. I strap it to my wrist and squeeze his shoulder. He looks to one side and nods to indicate that the driver’s waiting.
As I watch him disappear in the side mirror, he gives his salute.
It’s a huge semi. He’s transporting stationery, a heavy load. We’re hardly going to be blasting down the autoroute. Is this turning into a suicide mission?
Nicole.
Throughout the journey, the guy respects my silence. I play back the image of Nicole over and over. At times, it’s like she’s already dead and I’m remembering her. I dispel this idea as forcefully as I can and try to focus on something else. A few headlines. This year’s unemployment forecasts of 639,000 are set to be exceeded, according to the Ministry of Labor. Good of them to be so honest.
When the truck drops me at the Sarqueville exit, it’s 5:30 p.m. One hour to go.
I have to call. I go into a telephone booth on the roadside that stinks of cigarettes and put in two coins.
Fontana picks up.
“I want to speak to my wife.”
“Have you done what you were supposed to?”
It’s like he’s here, standing in front of me. My heart’s pounding at a hundred thousand beats per minute.
“Everything’s underway. I want to speak to my wife!”
My eyes fall on the plastic-covered sheet with all the international dialing codes and user instructions, and immediately I realize my error.
“Where are you calling from?”
It doubles: two hundred thousand beats per minute.
“From an online connection, why?”
Silence. Then:
“I’m handing you over.”
“Alain, where are you?”
The anxiety in her voice sums up her distress. She starts crying.
“Don’t cry, Nicole, I’m coming to get you.”
“When?”
What am I supposed to reply to that . . .
“It’ll be over soon, I promise.”
But my tone is too harsh for her. I shouldn’t have called. She starts screaming:
“Where are you, Alain, where the fuck are you! Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?”
The last bit gets lost in her sobbing. She breaks down, overcome by her tears. I feel desolate.
“I’m coming, my love, I’ll be there soon.”
I say that, but I’m light years away from her.
Fontana comes back:
“My client still hasn’t received anything. What stage are you at exactly?”
I feel feverish. The screen in front of me is flashing. I put in another coin. My credit’s being guzzled as quickly as the fuel in the Renault 25. The cost of living is crazy now. I’ve had enough.
“I’ve already explained: nothing can be done in under three hours.”
I hang up. He’s going to run a search on the number that came up. In five minutes he’ll know I’m near Rouen. Will he make the link? Definitely. Will he realize the significance? I don’t think so.
5:35 p.m.
I sprint toward the tollbooth. I make for the right-hand side of the first car. It’s a woman. I crouch down and knock on the window. Alarmed, she gathers her change and drives off like a shot.
“What are you doing?” asks the girl in the booth.
Twenty-five, at a guess. Big girl.
“I ran out of gas,” I say, pointing back down the autoroute.
She makes an ambiguous sound.
Two more cars turn me down. Where are you? The words are still ringing in my ears. I sense the girl’s irritation increasing as I hassle the drivers. Can hardly blame her . . .
A van. A big, dog-like face. A setter, perhaps. The man’s about forty. He leans across and opens the door. I glance at my watch.
Where are you?
“In a hurry?”
“Yes, yes I am.”
“Typical. Always happens when you’re in a hurry . . .”
I don’t listen to the rest. I say: “Sarqueville . . . The refinery . . . Five miles.”
We arrive in the town.
“I’ll drop you off,” offers the setter.
The town’s deserted. No one in the streets. Shops closed and banners everywhere: NO TO THE CLOSURE! . . . VIVE SARQUEVILLE! . . . YES TO SARQUEVILLE! NO TO SARKOVILLE!
No wonder Paul Cousin’s not in the office—his work is already done.
“The town’s dead. Everyone’s getting ready for the march tomorrow.”
It’s really not my day. Where will Cousin be? I remember the secretary’s hesitation on the phone.
“When is it?”
“The march? On the radio they said four o’clock,” the guy answers as he drops me at the barrier. “They’re aiming to be outside the refinery in time for the seven o’clock news on France 3.”
“Thank you,” I say.
The refinery is a monstrosity, all cylinders, overhead tubes, giant ducts, and pipes of every size. Never-ending smokestacks tower into the sky. Red and green lights flash away on the sides of vats. The whole thing takes your breath away. It’s like the site is dormant. Operations on hold. Banners beat in the breeze. Same slogans as in town, but here, engulfed in the vastness of the factory, they seem pitiful. Everything is dominated by the pipe work. The defiant words spray-painted on the flags are a rallying cry for a struggle that seems over before it’s even begun.
Paul Cousin’s done a fine job: all the baying, the blustering, the howls of indignation are happening down the road, out of sight. At the refinery, there’s not a single burning tire, no barricades or vehicles blocking the way, no picket lines of protesters stoking empty oil drums to grill their sausages. Not even a leaflet littering the ground.
I hesitate for a split second before walking past the barrier as confidently as possible. I don’t get away with it.
“Excuse me!”
I turn to the guard.
Alain? Where are you?
It’s true: What the fuck am I doing here? I walk up to the booth, go around the side, and climb two ste
ps. The guard scrutinizes my suit, which by now has certainly seen better days.
“Sorry. I have a meeting with Monsieur Cousin.”
“And you are . . . ?” he says, picking up his telephone.
“Alain Delambre.”
If Cousin hears my name he might think twice, but he’ll definitely see me. I look at Charles’s watch. So does the guard. Between my tattered suit and my fluorescent timepiece, I seem an unlikely candidate for a meeting with the boss. Time passes at an alarming rate. I pace about next to the booth, trying to look relaxed.
“His secretary says that you don’t have an appointment. I’m sorry.”
“That must be a mistake.”
The way the guard spreads his arms and looks at me leaves no room for doubt—I’m dealing with a stubborn bastard. The sort who really believes in his job. The worst sort. If I keep pestering him, it’s only going one way.
Normally speaking, a man in my position would look surprised, take out his cell phone and call his contact at the refinery to clarify matters. The guard eyes me closely. I figure he thinks I’m a tramp. He’s begging me to try and jump the barrier. I turn, take a couple of steps, pretend to dig around in my pocket and take out an imaginary phone. I look up at the sky as though I’m deep in thought, all the while getting farther and farther away. The refinery is served by a single S-shaped strip of blacktop. Over on the autoroute the traffic is getting thicker and thicker, but here there’s no one. Still engrossed in my pretend conversation, I end up in a spot where the guard can’t see me anymore. If there were any vehicles passing by I’d be able to hop aboard, but there’s zero movement on this side of the refinery. It’s 5:45 p.m. Barely forty-five minutes left. Whatever happens, it’s too late. Even if I wanted to reverse everything, I can’t.
Alain?
Nicole’s somewhere over there with the killers. She’s crying. They’re going to hurt her. Will they snap her fingers, too?
Can’t find Paul Cousin.
No cell phone and not a cent on me.
No car.
I’m alone. The wind picks up. It’s about to rain.
I have absolutely no idea what to do.
Alain?
Where are you?
43
What’s the point in coming all the way to Sarqueville only to wander aimlessly around the streets? It’s not like I’m going to bump into Paul Cousin in town, visiting the cemetery before the battle commences. I stay put, shifting from one foot to the other.
The autoroute runs all the way down one side of the refinery. The traffic’s mounting up. Ahead of tomorrow’s march, police vehicles are starting to pile into the area, followed by coachloads of riot police. They’re all converging on the town in preparation for the protests. On my side, the refinery side, everything’s dead calm. It starts drizzling a little after 6:00 p.m.
A few minutes later, it’s pouring.
I’m in no-man’s-land. I have to speak to Nicole. No, to Fontana. I have to come up with a reason to push back the deadline.
I can’t. Nothing.
The rain gets even harder. I flip up my jacket collar and walk toward the refinery once more, racking my brains as I go. I draw on every last weapon from my arsenal of management-speak. Hypothesis after hypothesis, what-if after what-if, but nothing works. I attempt to run through the list of possibilities, but still nothing comes.
My brain is refusing to function. I’m back in front of the booth, pummeled by the rain. I look like an unemployed man fresh out of prison. I’m Jean Valjean.
The guard looks at me through the water running down his window. He doesn’t even flinch. I go up on my tiptoes and knock on the glass. Still no movement. He’s just standing there. This can’t be happening . . . I tap again. He makes up his mind and opens the door. Not a word. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s about my age. More or less my height. He’s got a tummy on him, a belt propping it up from underneath. Apart from that and his mustache, we look more or less alike. Give or take. The rain is dripping down the collar of my drenched jacket and pouring down my face. I have to screw up my eyes to make out the guard, who’s still standing in the open door, looking at me without moving.
“Listen . . .”
The rain, my saturated suit, my stance, my bandaged hand tugging at my tieless collar, my humiliation . . . everything about me screams rock bottom. He cocks his head, a motion I am unable to decipher.
He’s a guard. About sixty. Same age as me.
Alain?
I’ve got less than half an hour left. I don’t know what else I can do to rescue the situation. All I know is it involves getting past him. He’s the only living being between me and my life.
The last one.
Where are you?
“Listen . . .” I repeat. “I really must make a call. It’s very urgent.”
I’ve just thought of something. Dead battery. My cell phone’s bust. He can’t hear me over the sound of the rain hammering on his booth. He moves closer to the door, leans his head out slightly and stoops down to me. A drop of water on his neck startles him. He recoils and angrily brings a hand to his collar. He looks at me again, before saying:
“Get the fuck out of here! Now!”
Those are his words as he slams the door violently. What really riled him up were those drops of water on his neck. That’s what tipped him over the edge.
So no help, no telephone, no nothing. Nicole might suffer, I might die, the refinery might fire everyone, the town might become a wasteland, the civilized world might disappear. But he—he has shut his door. Must be one of the few who kept his job.
It’s over. In a few minutes, Fontana will walk up to Nicole and fix his steely eyes on hers. I’m at a loss. I’m a hundred and fifty miles from her, and she’s going to suffer horribly.
The guard pretends to peer into the distance through his rain-spattered window, like the captain of a cargo ship. I reach a conclusion with absolute certainty: this man represents everything I abhor; he is my hatred in human form.
The only sensible course of action is to kill him.
I stretch my neck muscles, climb the two steps, and open the door. The guy takes a backward step as I pile into him.
This man is the Enemy: killing him will save us all.
My fist makes contact at the precise moment that the image of Nicole arrives. She’s sitting in a chair, tied up, a large piece of duct tape over her mouth. Someone’s holding her hand, preparing to break her fingers, and the guard falls back and cracks his head on the desk, his chair rolling toward the door. Fontana looks Nicole in the eye and says: “You do know that you can’t count on your husband,” and suddenly snaps back all her fingers. Nicole screams, a bestial, primordial cry, the same sound I make when the guard knees me in the balls. Nicole and I scream together. We’re being tortured together. We’re twisting in pain together. We’re going to die together, I’ve known it from the start. From the start. Death. I stagger back two paces toward the door and the guard’s back on his feet. Nicole has fainted. Alain? Where are you? Fontana slaps her cheek and says: “Wake up, time for the other hand,” and the guard hits me, I’m not sure what with, but it knocks me into the swivel chair, which tips over and sends me flying out of the booth, completely off-balance as I bounce down the steps, rolling backward, skidding down the slick concrete. Nicole can’t bear to look at her hands, the pain’s too much, and I’m floundering, battered by the rain. My head cracks into the ground first, and Nicole is in so much pain she can’t even scream, nothing comes from her throat and her eyes are bulging out, mesmerized by the agony—Alain? Where are you?—and my head bounces once, twice as I close my eyes and everything stops and I clutch my skull, feeling nothing.
I’m a body without a soul, from the start I’ve had no soul.
My hand covers my eyes and I try to figure out what position I’m in, try to turn over but I can’t—I might die here—car fumes hit my sinuses, and through squinting eyes I make out the edge of a chrome exhaust pipe, big tires, silv
er rims, then shoes, perfectly polished shoes, and a man is standing over me, and I rub my eyes as the figure towers above me, his legs firmly set, and I notice how very tall he is.
How thin he is.
It takes me two more seconds to recognize him.
Paul Cousin.
44
It’s really a deluge now, the rain coursing down the windshield and drowning the scenery in a milky blur. The daylight is fading. I think of the demonstrators on the far side of the autoroute who are preparing for tomorrow. They must be keeping a close eye on the gray sky. It looks leaden for another generation at least. Paul Cousin can rest easy: even the elements are working in his favor. It’s like a sign from heaven.
St. Cousin is at the wheel. He doesn’t bother with the wipers. Instead his severe, puritanical eyes are trained on my suit as it drips on the floor of his car. My whole body is shaking. I should be with Nicole. Nicole is with Fontana, and I’m here, lost. The back of my head’s bleeding. I’m struggling to breathe—must have cracked some ribs. Nicole’s right . . . I do screw up everything. I’ve taken off my jacket and I’m clutching the rolled-up sleeve against the top of my skull. Cousin’s not hiding his disgust.
He managed to calm the guard.
We’re in his parking space at the refinery. Swanky car. Cousin has both hands on the wheel. He is projecting a patient demeanor, but the underlying message is clear: don’t abuse the situation.
“Any chance of turning that off?” I ask.
The air conditioning is freezing. I’m chilled to the bone. It’s arctic, very much Cousin’s style. I picture him rubbing his torso with snow. His Reverend Dimmesdale side.
Luxury dashboard for a luxury car.
“Company wheels?”
Cousin doesn’t move. Of course it’s a company car. It’s only the second time I’ve seen him close up: the size of his head is simply astonishing. It gives me the creeps. All this is giving me time to focus. I compose myself, determined not to rush headlong into the fray. Only twenty minutes to go. The Patron Saint of Lost Causes has let me get away by the skin of my teeth. I can’t make the same mistake I did with the guard and blow my last chance. I take a deep breath. Nicole’s fear is at the forefront of my mind.
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