“Tell me when. I want to know the settlement date.”
“You’ll know when you’re ready.”
“Stop playing cat and mouse. I want to know now. After all, I’m the main person concerned by this thing.”
“You’re not concerned, you’re involved.”
“You see, you’re still playing with words. Concerned, involved. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“No, not at all.”
“Come on! What’s the difference, then, according to you?”
“It’s the bacon omelet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone knows that in a bacon omelet, the hen is concerned and the pig is involved.”
18
Dear Sir:
I am writing to you to tell you of my extreme annoyance at the exercise you conducted a few days ago, in the presence of the Recruitment Department teams from your company. With all the respect I have for your position, I am nonetheless obliged to tell you of my feelings since the event: I hate you. You’re a schmuck! A big schmuck! I hate people like you. You’re a loser, a bastard, a shitty, lowlife moron.
Thank you for taking the trouble to read my letter.
Yours sincerely, Alan Greenmor
19
NINE P.M. I OPENED the door to my apartment building, my letter in my hand. The lime trees on the street perfumed the evening air. I walked down the steps past Étienne. Propped against the wall, he was looking up at the sky with an inspired air.
“It’s mild tonight,” I said.
“It is what it is, lad.”
I walked along the curb and slipped my letter into the first open drain I came across. “There we are: home delivery.”
I headed for the Métro, calmly walking along the streets. Montmartre has the advantage of being situated on a hill, so that you can have the special feeling of being in Paris without being in the city. You don’t feel buried in the noise and pollution of a megalopolis whose borders you can’t even see. In Montmartre, the sky is everywhere, and you can breathe. The Butte is a village and when, at the corner of some winding street, you catch sight of the city below, it seems so distant that you feel closer to the clouds than to the hustle and bustle of Paris.
I arrived outside Dubreuil’s at 9:40 P.M. and sat down on my familiar bench. I had been coming for three nights now to stake out the mansion. I had given up lying down but had taken the precaution of putting on a knit cap that came down to my eyebrows. From a distance, it should be enough to make me unrecognizable.
I had barely sat down when the lord of the manor’s long black Mercedes appeared. It stopped outside the gate, and Vladi nimbly jumped out. He went around the car and opened the back door. I saw a young woman get out, immediately followed by Dubreuil, who put his arm around her waist. She had short, dark hair that revealed a pretty neck. A very short skirt and infinitely long legs. She had a particularly feminine walk, probably as a result of her high heels, but wasn’t she slightly … unsteady? She hung around Dubreuil’s neck. I heard laughter that revealed the number of glasses she must have drunk.
They went into the yard, climbed the steps to the entrance, and disappeared into the house. Lights came on one after the other at the windows.
Nothing more happened for a good ten minutes, then I heard the vibration of the lock on the little gate, just as on the previous days. One minute past ten. My eyes were riveted to the entrance, waiting for the servants to come out. They appeared 55 seconds later. To within 20 seconds, that was the same lapse of time as on the previous nights. There was the same ritual of separation on the pavement, with a few words exchanged before the group broke up. The bus-taker crossed the avenue. The bus arrived at 10:09, a minute in advance of the official timetable. We were getting to the crucial moment: How long would it be before Dubreuil came to let Stalin out? I crossed my fingers that he would keep to the schedule of the previous days: 10:30 P.M. precisely.
I kept looking from the door to the château to my watch, each minute as it passed simultaneously reinforcing my hope and my fears. At 10:18, the light in the entrance hall came on, and my heart contracted. I waited, tensely, for the door to open. My eyes were glued to it. Nothing. Then another light appeared, in the library this time, and I began to breathe again. It was 10:21. The bus had left 12 minutes earlier. I relaxed. Nothing more happened. At 10:24, again nothing. At 10:28 and 10:30, still nothing. Now I wanted Dubreuil to appear as quickly as possible. My peace of mind for D-day depended on the regularity of his timetable for releasing Stalin. It was 10:31 P.M. when the door finally opened, and I gave a sigh of relief. For the third consecutive day, Dubreuil had released his dog to within a minute of the same time. The habit seemed firmly rooted.
I wouldn’t check the next day. It was Friday, and it was probable that things changed on the weekend. I had to stick to the weekday timetable.
I got up to go to the Métro. I walked in silence, looking at the ground, lost in thought. A brief ring on my mobile brought me out of my reverie. A text message. It was him. Even in good company, he didn’t forget me. I took out the prescribed cigarette and lit up as I walked. I would have preferred to breathe in the mild evening air. I was beginning to be fed up with having to smoke when I didn’t want to.
I thought back over the events of the day. What could I be proud of today? Let’s see. I needed to come up with three things. Well, first of all, I was proud of having had the courage to leave the office at 6 P.M. Before, I would have felt obliged to stay till 7 like everyone else. Then let’s see, oh yes, I was proud of having given up my seat to a pregnant woman on the Métro. Finally, I was proud of the irrevocable decision I had just taken to bring to an end my incessant questioning about Dubreuil’s famous notebook: On Monday evening, in precisely 108 hours, I would know what it contained.
20
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT was eventful. Four times, I was woken up by the order to have a cigarette. The worst was the one at 5:00 A.M. I smoked it at the window, half asleep and numb with cold, in order not to let the smell invade the apartment. It was violently disgusting. Dubreuil prescribed a cigarette some 30 times a day, and I was beginning to find smoking unbearable. I anticipated with a certain dread the text message that was going to inflict it on me. At meals, I found myself eating faster and faster, for fear of being interrupted to go and smoke. When the alarm announcing the chore went off, I immediately felt a wave of nausea, before my hand reluctantly dived into my pocket to get the cursed packet.
As it was Saturday, I slept until 11:00, catching up on my sleep deficit. Saturday had always been my favorite day, the only day off that was followed by another day off. But today was a special day. I had stage fright—a latent, underlying fear that even when I wasn’t thinking about what was causing it, continued to tie a knot in my stomach. Today was the day I had chosen to carry out the mission involving Madame Blanchard that Dubreuil had assigned. I had to get it over with and the sooner the better. In an hour, I would have already forgotten about it. So before that I had to summon up all my courage.
Finally, I got up and crossed the room barefoot to my mini stereo. I nearly removed the headphones that were permanently plugged in but then changed my mind. Above all, I didn’t want to give Madame Blanchard a valid reason for complaining. I could have dispensed with music altogether, but I felt I needed it to get me in the right frame of mind. I needed something a bit … freaky. Let’s see, let’s see. What could I put on? No, not that, not that. There we are: a cover of My Way by the former bass player from the Sex Pistols—Frank Sinatra revised and updated via hard rock. I picked up my headphones—big headphones with earpieces that really covered the ears—and put them on. Sid Vicious’s deep voice sprang from the beyond, breaking into the first verse. I turned the volume up, moving with the headphone cord in my hands like a singer holding the wire of his microphone. Suddenly, the electric guitars sped up with a vengeance. I began to move in time, my bare feet slapping the floor. The singer’s voice exploded in every direction, as
though he was vomiting up the song. Forget the neighbor, I thought. Turn the sound up higher. Higher. Let go. Close my eyes. Come on. Melt into the music. The music is in me, in my body. Move, vibrate, dance. All the way. Freedom from everything. Jump, feel everything.
It must have been several minutes before I realized that the drums didn’t seem to be keeping time with the song. The repeated beats must be coming from somewhere else, and in spite of the trance into which I had slipped, I knew where they were coming from.
I pulled off the headphones, my ears still throbbing, and the banging on my door started again, this time louder. She wasn’t knocking now; she was pounding.
“Monsieur Greenmor!”
The moment I had dreaded was finally here.
Push him, he’ll push you back, Dubreuil had said. And the opposite was true as well: The more you push him away, the more he’ll insist.
“Monsieur Greenmor! Open the door!”
I remained frozen, suddenly seized by doubt. Suppose Dubreuil was wrong?
The blows doubled in strength. How could anyone be so odious? I may have jumped five or six times on the floor as I danced. She couldn’t have heard much in her apartment. She really wanted to ruin my life. What a horrid woman!
Anger pushed me to act. I tore off my pullover, then my T-shirt. Now I was bare-chested, bare-footed, in jeans.
“Monsieur Greenmor, I know you’re there!”
I started to walk to the door and then stopped. I felt my heart beating faster. Come on. I unzipped my jeans and let them slide to the floor. Dubreuil was really a madman …
“Open that door!”
Her voice was full of hate. I took the few steps that separated me from the door. I had massive stage fright.
Now.
Holding my breath, I slid down my boxers, stepped out of them, and threw them across the room. It was horrible being naked in such circumstances.
“I know you can hear me, Monsieur Greenmor!”
Courage.
I reached for the door handle. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I was no longer quite myself.
She gave three final knocks as I turned the handle. I had the feeling I was working my own guillotine. I pulled the door toward me, and, as soon as it was half-open, I felt a cool draft, as if to remind me I was naked. Torture.
The sentence. I must say the sentence. With enthusiasm. Go on, it’s too late to back out.
I opened the door wide.
“Madame Blanchard! How lovely to see you!”
Clearly, she got the shock of her life. She must have been pushing against my door to be able to hit it with such force, because when it opened, she nearly lost her balance. She jerked back with a start and then froze, her eyes bulging, her face flushing violently. Her mouth opened, but no noise came out.
“Come on in!” I said cheerily.
She remained rooted to the spot, her mouth still agape, staring at my nakedness, unable to say a word.
It was dreadful finding myself naked in front of my old neighbor, but I was encouraged by her reaction. It almost made me want to lay it on even thicker.
“Come on, I’m sure you’d like to have something to drink with me,” I cajoled.
“I … I … no … I … Mon … Mon … Monsieur … I … but … I …”
It was as if she had turned to stone, as she mumbled incomprehensibly, her eyes riveted to my penis. It took her several minutes to come back to her senses, then stammer an excuse and back away.
She never came to complain about the noise again.
21
SUNDAY, 6:00 A.M. The ringing brought me out of a deep sleep. There’s nothing more annoying than being woken in the middle of a dream. An immense weariness came over me. It was the third text message that night. I could take no more. I didn’t even have the strength to get up. I remained lying down for a long time, forcing myself to keep my eyes open, fighting not to go back to sleep. What a nightmare!
I had immense trouble sitting up. I could no longer bear having to smoke at all hours of the day and night. It was a real ordeal. Annoyed, I reached out and pulled a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table. I couldn’t face getting up to go to the window. Never mind the smell. I’d roll up the butt and ashes in a handkerchief so I wouldn’t smell the foul stench of stale tobacco as I went back to sleep.
I grabbed my box of matches—a small box, decorated with a drawing of the Eiffel Tower. The first match broke in two in my numb fingers. The second one burst into flame with the characteristic sulfur smell. This was my only moment of pleasure before the dreaded chore. I brought the match to my cigarette. As the flame licked the end of it, I inhaled. The smoke invaded my mouth, attacking my palate, my tongue, and my throat, spreading its strong, acrid taste. I exhaled. My mouth felt like it was coated. Revolting.
I inhaled a second time. The smoke burned my throat, inflamed my lungs. I coughed, a dry cough that made the foul taste on my tongue worse. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t carry on like this. It just wasn’t possible. It was more than I could take. Stop. Have pity.
Frantic, I looked around for something that could give some relief and finally caught sight of the guilty messenger: my mobile phone. Dubreuil’s text messages. Dubreuil! I nervously reached out and grabbed the phone. Pressing the keys, I scrolled through the record of messages received. My eyes were stinging, and I had difficulty reading. Finally I found the number the messages were coming from. I hesitated a few seconds, and then pressed the Send key. With a beating heart, I lifted the phone to my ear and waited. A silence, then a ring tone. Two rings. Three rings. Someone answered.
“Hello.”
Dubreuil’s voice.
“It’s me, Alan.”
“I know.”
“I can’t take any more. Stop sending me text messages all the time. I’m … I’m at a breaking point.”
Silence. No answer.
“I beg you, let me stop. I don’t want to smoke anymore, do you hear? I can’t bear your cigarettes any longer. Let me stop!”
Silence again. Did he even understand the state I was in?
“I beg you.”
He broke the silence in a very calm voice. “Agreed. If that’s what you want, then you’re free to stop smoking.”
He hung up before I had the time to say thank you.
It was with a heart full of elation that I put the cigarette out, stubbing it directly on the bedside table, the last cigarette of my life.
22
DUBREUIL REFUSED TO help me prepare for my planned interview with Marc Dunker. “I don’t know your company, so how can I advise you what to say?” he told me when I asked. Finally, giving in to my insistence, he had offered me some tips.
“What’s difficult about it for you?” he asked.
“He’s shifty, he’s dishonest, and he’s always ready to make unjustified criticisms. As soon as you ask him something, or point to some malfunction, he tends to attack so he doesn’t have to reply.”
“I see. And what do you and your colleagues do when he criticizes?”
“We defend ourselves. We try to prove that he’s wrong, that the criticisms are unfair.”
“So you try to justify yourselves, is that right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So you’re the ones who do all the work!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Faced with unwarranted criticism, you absolutely mustn’t justify yourself; otherwise you’re playing his game!”
“Perhaps, but what else can I do?”
“Torture him.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re forgetting one little detail.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want to lose my job.”
“Be like the inquisitors in the Middle Ages. What did they call the unbearable torture they were about to inflict on someone?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’re going to put him to the question.”<
br />
“Put him to the question?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s the connection with my boss?”
“Faced with unfounded criticism, torture him by asking him questions.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Rather than justifying yourself, ask him questions to make him justify himself! And don’t let go. It’s for him to provide proof of his criticisms, not for you to prove they’re unfounded! In other words, make him sweat.”
“I see.”
“Push him into a corner. Ask him what right he has to assert what he’s saying, and don’t let him hide behind generalities. Ferret away, demanding details, facts. If he’s dishonest, he’ll have a hard time. And you know what? The best thing about all this is that you don’t even have to be aggressive. If you set about it carefully, you can bring him to his knees with great gentleness, in an apparently very respectful tone of voice. In short, you’ll force him to justify his criticisms while being above criticism yourself. And if you set about it carefully, there’s every chance he’ll never bug you again.”
I phoned Marc Dunker’s office and made an appointment with his secretary. Dunker’s secretary was male, a rarity in the business world. He was a very distinguished young Englishman named Andrew. His hiring had surprised everyone. Dunker clearly being the macho type, we would have imagined him going for a nymphet in a miniskirt and low-cut top, who would be at his beck and call, reassuring him of his superiority as a dominant male.
But no doubt Dunker’s choice was not random. I suspected him of having a secret complex about his humble origins. The English secretary, who went with him everywhere, compensated for Dunker’s lack of polish with his extreme elegance, courtesy, and—the icing on the cake—his refined French, spoken with a very British accent. With all the classiness of Her Majesty’s subject, Andrew by his mere presence ennobled his boss. The odd mistake in the gender of nouns only added a touch of charm.
That morning, I deliberately arrived five minutes late, just enough to send Dunker the message that I wasn’t his puppet. Andrew greeted me.
The Man Who Risked It All Page 16