Then Alex grabbed the first sketch and tore it up.
“You’d better not make an Identi-Kit portrait of me after the operation,” he said anxiously, “and give it to the cops.”
“Don’t be silly. The only thing I care about is getting Eve back.”
“That’s her name, Eve? Anyway, don’t get the idea I don’t have every angle covered.”
Lafargue had no illusions. This joker surely meant to kill him if ever the operation was performed. As for Eve…
“We have no time to lose, you understand. I must examine you before the operation can be done. Down in the cellar I have a small laboratory set up, so we can get started right away.”
Alex frowned.
“You mean here?”
“Well, yes.” Richard smiled. “I frequently work away from the hospital.”
They both stood up, and Richard led the way. The cellar was very large, and there were several doors. Lafargue opened one, switched on the light, and went in. Alex followed, his eyes widening at the sight of the long, fully equipped bench and the glass-fronted cabinet stuffed with surgical instruments. Colt in hand, he went slowly round the mini-operating room that Richard had set up. He stood in front of the table, examined the immense spotlight that presided over it, picked up an anesthesiologist’s mask, touched the carboys.
“What is all this?” he asked in astonishment.
“It’s my laboratory, of course.”
“You don’t operate on people down here, do you?” Alex gestured toward the bench and spotlight. He recognized much of the equipment from the medical television show.
“No, no. But, you know, we have to perform experiments. On animals and so on.”
Richard felt the sweat gathering at his brow, his heart beginning to pound, but strove to betray nothing of the fear that gripped him.
Alex nodded in bemusement. Of course, he told himself, everyone knew that doctors were always experimenting on monkeys and stuff like that.
“But then, what I think is, I won’t have to go to the clinic. You could just operate on me here, couldn’t you? You’ve got everything you need right here, don’t you?”
Lafargue’s hands were trembling. He thrust them into his pockets.
“Come on! You got a problem with that?”
“No, not really. I may require a few items.”
“How long will I have to stay in bed after the op?”
“Oh, not long at all. You are young and strong—and we are not talking about a particularly traumatizing procedure.”
“Can the bandages come off quickly?”
“Oh, no. They’ll have to stay on for about a week.”
Alex paced around the room, thinking it over, fingering the equipment.
“If you do it here, is it dangerous?”
Lafargue spread his arms: no, there was, as a matter of fact, no danger at all.
“You’ll be all on your own? No nurse?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that. I can handle everything. I just have to take my time.”
Alex burst out laughing and clapped the doctor heartily on the back.
“You know what we’ll do then? I’ll move in here, and you’ll do the job as soon as you can. What about tomorrow?”
“Yes, all right, tomorrow if you wish. But, while you are, um, convalescing, who will take care of Eve?”
“Don’t get hot and bothered. She’s in good hands.”
“But I thought you were alone?”
“Well, no, not exactly. Don’t bother about it—nobody is going to hurt her. You do the op tomorrow. We both stay here for a week. You can call your chauffeur and tell him not to come. We’ll go together and get the stuff you need. You’ll have to take time off from the hospital. Come on, let’s go.”
They went up to the ground floor. Alex got Richard to call Roger at his house. When Lafargue got off the phone, Alex pointed the way upstairs and steered him into Eve’s flat.
“She’s not right, your wife, is she? Why do you lock her up?”
“She… Well, she has odd attitudes.”
“Like your daughter?”
“In a way, sometimes.”
Alex drew the three bolts and bade Lafargue goodnight. After inspecting the other bedroom, he took a stroll round the grounds. This “Eve” must be beginning to find the time long out there in Livry-Gargan. But everything was going great. In ten days, once his bandages were off, he would kill Lafargue, and goodnight one and all. Wouldn’t Eve be dead in ten days’ time? But who cared?
The next morning, Alex woke Richard early. He found him lying fully clothed on the bed. Alex made breakfast, and they ate together.
“We’re going to your clinic to get the things you need. Can you operate on me this afternoon?”
“No, you have to be examined, have a blood test.”
“Oh, yeah. Urine test and all that.”
“When I have the results, we can proceed. Tomorrow morning, all being well.”
Alex was satisfied. The doc seemed straight. It was Alex who took the wheel of the Mercedes for the trip to Boulogne. He let Lafargue off outside the clinic.
“Don’t be long. I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Never fear. I’ll just be a minute.”
Richard went into his office. His secretary was surprised to see him so early. He asked her to let the hospital know that he would not be there for morning consultations. He delved in a drawer and chose two bottles of medicine at random. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he went and got a box of scalpels, which he thought would impress Alex and strengthen his belief that he was genuinely part of the process.
Sure enough, once Lafargue was back in the car, Alex studied the labels on the bottles, opened the case containing the blades, and then put everything away carefully in the glove compartment. On arriving at Le Vésinet, they went straight down to the laboratory. Lafargue drew blood from the felon, crouched over a microscope, vaguely examined the slide using any old reagents, and then took Alex’s medical history.
“Good. We won’t have to wait until tomorrow. You are in excellent health. You’ll rest all day. No food at lunchtime. And then, this evening, I’ll operate on you.”
He went over to Alex and felt his nose, then his neck. From his pocket, Alex produced the sketch of his new face and unfolded it.
“Just like this?”
“Yes, just like that.”
On Lafargue’s bed, with Lafargue safely locked in the wife’s rooms, Alex lounged for several hours. He would have liked a drink, but that was not allowed. About six o’clock, he went to get the surgeon. He was tense: the idea of being on an operating table had always frightened him. Richard reassured him and got him to undress. Reluctantly, Alex parted with his Colt.
“Don’t forget your wife, Doc,” muttered Alex as he lay down.
Richard turned the large spotlight on. Its white light was dazzling. Alex blinked. After a moment, Lafargue appeared at his side in white coat and surgical mask. Alex smiled with relief.
“Are we ready?” asked Lafargue.
“Ready. And no tricks—or you’ll never see your wife again.”
Richard went and closed the door of the operating room, took a syringe, and came back over to Alex.
“This injection will make you relax. Then, in about fifteen minutes, I’m going to put you to sleep.”
“Yeah. But no tricks!”
The tip of the needle slid delicately into a vein. Alex saw the surgeon above him, smiling.
“I said no tricks, okay?”
Suddenly, he was asleep. In his last second of consciousness, Alex sensed that something was not quite right.
Richard tore off the mask, extinguished the spotlight, and hoisted the inert Alex onto his shoulder. Opening the door to the operating room, he went out into the passage and staggered under the weight to another cellar door.
After turning the key in the lock, he carried Alex over to the moss-covered wall. The sofa and armchairs were still in place, along wit
h various belongings of Vincent’s. He chained Alex to the wall, tightening the shackles by a few links. He went back to the operating room for a needle and catheter, which he attached to a vein in Alex’s forearm; he knew that once Alex woke up he would still be able, chained as he was, to wriggle enough to prevent him from administering another shot. Lafargue was quite sure that this guy, desperate and wanted by the police, would find the strength to resist “classic” forms of torture, at least for a time. And time was something Richard did not have. For now, he waited.
Tossing his scrubs on the floor, he went upstairs for a bottle of scotch and a glass. Then he came back down and settled into an armchair facing Alex. He had administered a low dose of the anesthetic, and his prisoner was bound to awake before long.
2
Alex was slow to come around. Lafargue waited, watching his reactions. He got up and slapped him hard to hasten the return of consciousness.
Alex saw his chains, the cellar cluttered with furniture, the weird trompe-l’oeil windows, sea, and mountains. He sniggered. It was all over. He wouldn’t ever say where that bitch was. Not even if he was tortured. Death didn’t matter to him now.
The doctor watched him from the armchair, sipping from a glass. It was whisky—the bottle was by him on the floor. The bastard! He had made a complete fool of him; he’d been laughing at him all along. But you had to say it—he was quite a guy, he had never lost his cool—a real con artist. And, yes, Alex had to admit it, he himself was truly pathetic.
“So that’s it, is it? Eve is in a cellar, chained to a radiator. Alone.”
“She’s going to croak. You’ll never find out where she is.” Alex was jabbering.
“Did you brutalize her?”
“No. I wanted to jump her bones, but I decided to put it off till later. I guess I should have done it, huh? Mind you, nobody will ever fuck her now. Never. Where she is, no one will show up for at least two weeks. She’s bound to die of hunger and thirst. And it’s your fault. Maybe one day you’ll see her skeleton. Was she a good lay, at least?”
“Be quiet,” said Lafargue softly, through clenched teeth. “You’re going to tell me where she is.”
“No way, asshole. Cut me up into little pieces if you want. I won’t tell you a thing. I’m for it, I know that. If you don’t kill me, the cops will get me. I’ve had it, and I don’t give a shit.”
“How wrong you are, you poor fool. You’ll talk, I promise you.”
Richard went over to Alex, who spat in his face. The surgeon had fastened Alex’s arm to the wall, palm facing outward; the wrist was chained, and long strips of extra-strong packing tape stuck to the concrete prevented the slightest movement of the limb.
“Look here,” said Richard.
He pointed to the catheter already inserted into Alex’s vein. Alex began to sweat and to sob. The bastard was going to get the better of him after all. By using a drug.
Richard showed him a syringe, which he attached to the catheter. Gently, he pressed the plunger. Alex screamed, and tugged vainly on his chains.
The fluid was inside him, flowing through his veins. A wave of nausea washed over him, then his mind grew more and more fuzzy. He stopped shouting and wriggling. As his eyes glazed over, he could still see Lafargue’s smiling face and mean expression.
“What’s your name?”
Alex’s head had subsided onto his chest, but Richard grabbed his matted hair and wrenched it upright again.
“Barny. Alex Barny.”
“Do you remember my wife?”
“Yes.”
A very few minutes later, Alex gave up the address of the house in Livry-Gargan.
A breath of air is making its way across the floor. You twist, and turn on your side, and press your cheek to the ground so as to relish this trace of coolness. Your throat is painful, dry. The adhesive tape across your lips tugs at the skin.
The door opens. The light goes on. It is Mygale. He rushes to you. Why does he seem so stricken? He takes you in his arms, gently pulls the tape from your mouth, covers your face with kisses. He calls you “my baby” and sets to work on the cord, untying it. Your swollen limbs hurt, but your circulation is quickly restored once the restraints are gone.
Mygale holds you tight, pressing himself against you. He runs his fingers through your hair, strokes your head, the nape of your neck. He picks you up from the floor and bears you out of the room.
You are not at Le Vésinet but in some other house. What does it all mean? Mygale kicks a door open. You are in a kitchen now. Without putting you down, he takes a glass, fills it with water and has you drink it slowly, in tiny sips.
You feel as though you have swallowed kilos of dust, and nothing has ever given you such a delightful sensation as this water in your mouth.
Mygale carries you into a crudely furnished living room. He sets you down in an armchair, kneels in front of you, places his head against your belly and his arms about your waist.
You follow all this with detachment, like the spectator of some meaningless game. Mygale disappears, only to return with the bedspread, which has been left behind. He wraps you in it and carries you outside. It is night.
The Mercedes is waiting in the street. Mygale puts you in the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel.
He talks to you. He is telling a crazy, completely unbelievable tale. You hardly listen. A criminal is supposed to have kidnapped you so as to have a hold over Mygale. Poor Mygale: he has gone mad; he can no longer tell reality from his fantasy world. As for the tenderness he is showing you, you are certain that he will make you pay for it in suffering. At a stop light he turns to you, smiles, strokes your hair once more.
At Le Vésinet, he carries you into the drawing room and sits you on a sofa. He runs up to your room and fetches a robe. He helps you into it, then vanishes again. This time he reappears with a tray laden with food and drink. He hands you a few pills; you don’t know what they are, and you don’t care.
He gets you to eat, coaxing you into swallowing yogurt and fruit.
Once you finish eating, your eyes close all by themselves: you are all in. He carries you upstairs, lays you in your bed; before falling asleep, you notice that he has sat down next to you and taken your hand.
You wake up. There is a pale radiance: it must be early morning. Mygale is there, close to you, asleep in an armchair, and your bedroom door is wide open.
Your legs are still sore: the cord was tied very tight. You turn onto your side to see Mygale better. You think back to the preposterous story he told you in the car. Something about a gangster? Yes, a criminal on the lam who wanted Mygale to alter his face. And you were the hostage!
You are not sure about it anymore. Sleep is returning. A sleep punctuated by nightmares. Always the same images: Mygale is cackling; you are laid out on a long table beneath a blinding spotlight. Mygale wears a white surgeon’s smock and hat, and he laughs wildly.
In your perception his laugh is amplified, and it hurts your ears; you wish you could sleep longer, but no, the anesthesia has worn off. You are coming back from elsewhere, the dream images are still vivid, and Mygale is laughing. You turn your head, and see that your arm—no, both arms, are restrained. A needle is sticking in the crook of one arm, attached to a tube through which liquid falls drop by drop from a flask of serum waving gently way up above your head. You feel dizzy, and then, little by little, you are assailed by violent shooting pains from farther down, from your lower belly. And Mygale laughs.
Your thighs are parted, and you are hurting. Your knees are clamped into supports of tubular steel, as though you were on one of those tables used by gynecologists to examine…God, it hurts! The pain spreads from your genitals into your abdomen; you try to lift your head, to see what is happening to you—and Mygale is still laughing.
“Hold on, little Vincent. Let me help you.”
Mygale has picked up a mirror and, grasping you by the nape of the neck, he holds it between your legs. All you can see in the glass is a
mass of bloody dressings, and two tubes hooked up to bottles.
“Soon, very soon, you’ll see everything better.” Mygale is apoplectic with laughter.
But you understand what he has done to you. First the injections, the developing breasts—and now this.
When all trace of the anesthetic’s effect was gone and you were fully conscious, you screamed and screamed for a very long while. He had left you there in his operating room, flat on your back, bound to the bench.
He came back at last. Leaned over you, still laughing. Would he ever stop laughing?
He had brought a cake, a little cake with a candle on it. Just one.
“My dear Vincent, we are going to celebrate the first birthday of someone you are going to know very well: Eve.”
He gestured toward your belly.
“There’s nothing there anymore. I’ll explain everything. But you are not Vincent anymore. You are Eve.”
He cut the cake, took a slice, and mashed it into your face. You hadn’t the strength even to cry out. Grinning, Mygale ate his own piece. Then he uncorked a bottle of champagne, filled two flutes, drank his, and flung the contents of the other over your head.
“So, my little Eve, have you nothing else to say for yourself?”
You asked him what he had done to you. It was very simple, he told you. He proceeded to push the examining table into the other cellar room, the room where you had been imprisoned for so long.
“My dear girl, I’m afraid I was not able to take photographs of the surgery I have just performed on you. But since it is a very common procedure, I can explain it to you by means of a short film.”
He started a projector, and on a screen hung on one wall an operating room soon appeared. An off-screen voice, not Mygale’s, delivered a commentary.
“Following a hormonal treatment lasting two years, we are able to perform a vaginoplasty on Monsieur X, with whom we have had numerous preparatory consultations.
“We begin, after anesthesia, by cutting away a flap of the glans penis 1.2 centimeters in length, then we detach the entirety of the skin of the shaft of the penis down to the root. Next we dissect the pedicle, likewise to the root. We proceed in an identical manner with respect to the dorsal vasculo-nervous pedicle of the penis. The aim is to bring the anterior layer of the corpora cavernosa down over the root of the penis.”
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