I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“But that’s dishonest!”
“We have to have an edge.”
“You publish false ads just to take care of the company’s image and make the share price go up? What about the candidates?”
“It makes absolutely no difference to them!”
“But they take the time to send their resumés, to fill out the application.”
He sighed by way of a reply.
I went on. “You’re not taking into consideration that the more they send applications that don’t get anywhere, the more their morale and self-confidence will drop!”
Dunker rolled his eyes. “Alan, have you ever considered going to work for a charity for the unemployed?”
I just stood there dumbstruck, flabbergasted by all I had just heard. How could anyone could be so uninterested in other people’s lives, even if they were strangers?
Finally, I got up and turned to go. Clearly, I wasn’t going to get anything from him. His decisions obeyed a skewed logic that left no place for ideas based on a sincere desire to improve things.
I took two steps and then stopped. It seemed inconceivable that anyone could be satisfied with a vision of life as empty of meaning as the one Dunker had just described. I wanted to be quite clear about it.
“Monsieur Dunker, does all this … does it really make you a happy man?”
A strange expression crossed his face, but he didn’t answer, still staring at his document. Perhaps it was the first time in his life that anyone had asked him that. I looked at him with curiosity and even a certain pity, then silently crossed the room, the thick carpet absorbing the sound of my steps. As I turned to close the door behind me, Dunker was still staring at the file on his desk and had probably already forgotten me. But he had the same strange expression on his face, as if he were lost in thought. Then slowly he moved his hand over to the glass and lifted it.
The fly immediately flew off and escaped through the window.
23
THAT EVENING, I took the bus to the château. I was of two minds: on the one hand, the strong desire to discover at last the contents of Dubreuil’s notebook, which I was convinced would tell me more about his motives; on the other, the fear of breaking into a place at night that had daunting security even in daytime and being caught red-handed.
The bus was far from empty, despite the late hour. There was a little old lady sitting on my right and a man with a moustache in the seat opposite me. I deposited at my feet a plastic bag containing an enormous leg of lamb I had bought at the local butcher’s. After a few minutes, the warm air inside the bus began to smell of raw meat. The odor, subtle at first, grew more pronounced, then frankly revolting. The little old lady began giving me sidelong glances, then turned away very conspicuously. The man with the moustache started staring at me with a look of disgust. I almost got up and changed seats, then thought again. The leg of lamb was today’s Closer. I had to stop worrying about the way other people saw me. After all, I told myself, life is extraordinary; at every moment, it gives us opportunities to grow.
So I stayed in my place, doing my best to relax and ignore the feeling of shame that had insinuated itself inside me. I was very proud of my decision, reminding myself that each day I had to write down three things I could feel good about. Let’s see, let’s see … what could I put down today? My interview with Dunker, of course! Admittedly, I hadn’t gotten anywhere, but I had had the courage to go and confront him, and I had managed not to justify myself under attack. It even seemed as if the questioning tactic suggested by Dubreuil had rattled Dunker somewhat. That was something to be proud of.
Now the man with the moustache was eyeing my plastic bag suspiciously, no doubt trying to guess its contents. Perhaps he thought I was carting body parts around Paris.
I got off at the stop before the château, in order to cover the last few hundred yards on foot. The bus set off again at once, the noise of its engine receding with it, and the neighborhood was quiet again. As I walked, I concentrated on my future mission, going over the sequence of events, minute by minute.
9:38 P.M.: Stage 1 would start in 22 minutes. I was dressed in dark sports clothes, to be free to move and go unnoticed in the night.
As I got closer to the mansion, I began to feel mounting apprehension, and a little chink opened up for doubt. Was I right to want to read the notebook at any price? Wasn’t it sheer madness to try such an expedition? Fear of getting caught was eating at me, but it was dominated by an even bigger fear, more worrying still: Dubreuil was hiding something from me. I was sure of it. Otherwise, why was he leaving everything so vague, when he was normally so frank? Why not answer my questions? I had to know for my peace of mind—my safety even.
I arrived at 13 minutes before the key moment. I sat down on the bench on the other side of the avenue, my plastic bag next to me. The area was deserted. In the heart of summer, most of its inhabitants were far away on vacation, no doubt. I was trying hard to take deep breaths to relax.
The façade of the mansion was dark. The weak light from the nearest streetlight gave it a gloomy air. A haunted castle. Only the windows of the great drawing room were lit up.
At 9:52, I got up. Eight minutes to go. With a knot in my stomach, I started crossing the avenue diagonally, taking my time. I needed to stay close to the door, without seeming to be on the lookout if a neighbor saw me.
9:58 P.M.: It would be soon now. I walked past the gate, then stopped, pretending to tie my shoelaces, and then turned around. 10:00 P.M. Nothing. I was beginning to count the seconds when the electric lock sounded. My heart began to beat faster as I picked up the pace, looking around to make sure I was alone. Less than ten seconds later, I was outside the black door. I took out the little metal plate I had bought the day before and pushed the door. It opened. Bending down, I put the metal piece on the ground, propped against the doorframe. I released the door and anxiously watched as it slowly closed. It hit my rectangle, the two metals knocking together with a characteristic ping that seemed close enough to the normal sound the door made when it closed. I pushed the door again, and to my great relief, it opened. The metal plate was just thick enough to stop it from closing all the way and locking. I released the door and took a few steps back, then crossed the avenue again. I hadn’t reached my bench when I could hear voices coming from the steps outside the front door. The servants were leaving the house. They didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. They came out into the street and separated, one heading as usual for the bus stop. 10:06 P.M. For the time being, everything was going perfectly. The bus was due in four minutes.
A lady with a little dog on a leash appeared on the sidewalk across the street. At a distance, I could see the end of her cigarette weaving circles in the darkness. Her companion, a wheezy Pekinese, followed her very slowly, stopping every few inches to sniff something, his long hair sweeping the ground. Every time he stopped, the woman took a drag on her cigarette and waited patiently for the dog to finish delighting in the smell it had detected.
10:09 P.M. The bus was due any second, but the dog walker would prevent me from entering the grounds. Rotten luck. The only person in the area had to walk right to the spot where I needed to be alone. She was now in front of the mansion gate. She seemed to be growing impatient with the dog’s dallying and gently tugged on the leash. The Pekinese, far from obeying his mistress’s wishes, pulled against the leash, his grumpy little head sinking into his shoulders as he refused to move. The mistress gave in and took another drag on her cigarette.
10:11 P.M.: The bus was late. The servant was still waiting. So was I. But even if the bus arrived now, it would take at least five minutes for the lady with the little dog to move away. I wouldn’t have enough time left. I was going to have to postpone my mission.
I was thinking my leg of lamb would smell even worse the next day when I recognized the humming of a motor. As the bus stopped, a miracle happened. The lady picked up the d
og and started running for the bus. The peke’s head nodded like those plastic bobblehead dogs that people used to put on the back shelves of their cars in the 1970s. The woman made it to the bus in time and got on. The doors closed behind her, and the bus pulled away.
Now I had a choice, but I had to decide right away. It was 10:13 P.M. Dubreuil would release his hound in 17 minutes. I ought to have enough time.
I leapt up and crossed the avenue. I paused briefly outside the door, my senses alert, then pushed it open and slipped inside. At once, Stalin stood up and ran toward me, barking. I took up a position slightly beyond the point where I knew his chain would grow taut and reached inside the plastic bag. My fingers slipped as I tried to get hold of the raw meat. I finally managed to grab the leg of lamb and get it out of the bag, brandishing it like an enormous club. I crouched down as a sign of peace and held the meat out to Stalin. Instantly, he stopped barking and closed his mouth over the leg, his fangs sinking into the flesh. I had figured he would accept this irresistible bribe; even dogs are corruptible. I crumpled up the bag and stuffed it in my pocket, then wiped my greasy hand on my trousers.
I couldn’t walk close to the building without risking being seen as I passed in front of the drawing room windows. So I dodged behind the bushes bordering the garden and ran around to the back of the house at top speed. As I arrived, out of breath, an unpleasant surprise awaited me: All the first floor windows were shut, despite the mildness of the evening and the heat that had no doubt built up inside. Only a few of the windows on the ground floor were open, including the one in the entrance hall. It was a lot riskier. 10:19 P.M. Only 11 minutes left. It was still worth a try.
I emerged from the shrubbery and raced across the garden to the house, my heart beating. As I got close, I could hear music. Dubreuil was listening to Rachmaninoff’s Piano Sonata no. 1. He had turned it up loud. Luck was with me again.
I paused to catch my breath and then, my stomach in a knot, slipped inside the window.
A heady perfume, a woman’s perfume, entrancing, floated in the air. The lord of the manor was not alone tonight.
The piano sounded loud, even as far away as the entrance hall. The monumental chandelier had been switched off, but the prisms reflected narrow rays of light in every direction. I realized the door to the drawing room must be open because a beam of light shot across the marble floor in a wide yellow band. There was a high risk I would be seen passing the drawing room to get to the staircase. Was I going to have to give up so close to the goal, after going to all this trouble?
At that moment, an astonishing thing happened: a wrong note followed by a curse in a foreign language. Dubreuil’s voice. Two seconds later, the music started again. It wasn’t a recording; he was playing the piano! It was an unhoped-for break.
The perfume …
There remained his probable guest, who might see me crossing the hall. Yet, if Dubreuil was playing for a woman, there was a good chance she was looking at him.
It was a risk to be taken.
I took it without really thinking, obeying instinct and perhaps also under the influence of the enchanting perfume, which made me burn with desire to see the person wearing it.
I felt my way toward the staircase, each step bringing me closer to the open door that was as threatening as it was alluring. Rachmaninoff’s tormented music, tumultuous, deafening, filled the space, forcing itself deep inside me. With each step, I could see into more of the drawing room. My pulse accelerated in time with the wild chords issuing from the piano.
I crept forward, staying in the shadows. From where I stood, I could see that the drawing room was a vast space with high ceilings and Persian rugs on the floor. Everything was enormous: red velvet sofas, settees as deep as beds, gilt consoles with extravagantly carved legs, tall baroque mirrors. On every surface there seemed to be candlesticks with immense candles. As I took another step forward, peering deeper into the room, I could see the light from the flickering flames dancing on the black surface of the piano.
Dubreuil, wearing a dark suit, was seated at the piano with his back to me. I watched his hands moving up and down the keyboard as the Rachmaninoff sonata rang out. And there in front of him, stretched out across the top of the immense grand piano, was a woman with long blond hair … entirely naked. She was propped up on one elbow with her head resting on the palm of her hand, looking at the pianist with a detached air. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her grace, her beauty, her refinement, her extreme femininity.
Time stood still, and it took me a while to realize that the woman was looking straight at me. Alarmed, I was overcome by the situation, at once terrified at having been spotted and fascinated by those eyes that had taken possession of mine and wouldn’t release them. I stood there, like a statue, looking at her, unable to move.
Having done everything in order not to be seen, having put on dark clothes to disappear into the night, here I was being looked at with an intensity unlike any I had ever before experienced. She was in no way embarrassed by her nudity in the presence of a stranger; quite the opposite. Displaying a disturbing composure, she fixed me with eyes tinged with defiance. I would have given all I possessed just to smell her perfume on her skin.
While Dubreuil’s fingers continued their wild adventures on the keys, filling the house with sound, I had the feeling, then the conviction, that the woman wouldn’t betray me. Even though she seemed rooted to the present, fully inhabiting her body, at the same time I felt her to be completely detached from whatever might transpire.
Struggling terribly with myself, I finally stepped back slowly, very slowly, until no doubt judging herself beaten, she looked away.
I silently climbed the great staircase, her image fixed in my mind. Gradually coming back to my senses, I glanced at my watch. 10:24 P.M.! There was a risk Stalin would be let loose in six minutes.
I went along the corridor, plunged in semidarkness, as quickly as the need to remain silent allowed. The unlit chandeliers cast their weak reflection on the walls, outlining dismal shapes on the tapestries.
Another wrong note, followed by another curse, and the music started again. The office! I opened the door and slipped inside, my heart in my mouth.
I immediately saw the notebook, lying next to the threatening paper knife with its tip turned toward the visitor. I leapt toward it, my heart pounding. Only four minutes left. It was sheer madness.
I grabbed the notebook and going over to the window to take advantage of the weak moonlight, opened it in the middle, quite randomly. The notebook was in the form of a diary, handwritten, each new paragraph beginning with a date emphatically underlined. I hastily scanned bits here and there, frustrated at not being able to read it all.
21 July—Alan blames others for restricting his freedom and doesn’t realize he’s the one subjugating himself. He offers himself submissively because he thinks he’s obliged to respond to their expectations in order to feel accepted. He’s a voluntary slave who’s resentful toward his masters for his own slave mentality. Alan is subject to doubt as a form of mental fixation when he is governed by his compulsion to avoid being different.
Each paragraph was stuffed with comments about me and my personality. I felt like a laboratory animal under the microscope of some research scientist.
I flipped back to an earlier page. Suddenly my heart was in my mouth.
16 July—Alan hurriedly left the taxi in the middle of the road, slamming the door, a sign that he probably successfully carried out the prescribed mismatching task.
So I was being followed. My intuition was well-founded. But then the idea made me shudder. Perhaps he knew I was here now?
I rapidly scanned more pages. Suddenly, I became aware that the music had stopped playing. The house was now plunged into frightening silence.
One last time, I thumbed through 10 or 12 pages, still going backward in time. What my eyes saw next was a shock to my system. I had met Yves Dubreuil for the first time the day of my attempted suicide
at the Eiffel Tower. The date was unforgettable because it was so painful, charged with anxiety and shame: June 27.
The paragraph before my eyes was dated June 11.
24
I WAS STILL transfixed, the notebook in my hand, when I heard a slight creaking behind me. I turned around and, overcome with fright, saw the door handle move. Leaving the notebook on the desk, I slipped behind the thick curtains, afraid that this had all been a waste of time, that my presence here was already known.
Despite its thickness, the drapery material was loosely woven, so I could see through it, which made me afraid that I could be seen.
The door opened partway and a face looked in, peering into the darkness. It was the young woman. My heart was in my mouth. What she saw must have corresponded to what she expected, because she opened the door wide and came in, quite naked, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet.
She came straight toward me, and I held my breath. She stopped in front of the desk, and I started breathing again, half-relieved, half-disappointed. Her eyes were searching the darkness, looking for something. I was less than a yard away. She leaned over the desk, her breasts rippling delightfully, and reached out toward the notebook. Her perfume enveloped me in its sensuality, making me melt with desire. I only had to reach out to caress her skin, to lean forward to place my lips on it.
She pushed the notebook aside and leaned over farther toward a rectangular box. She opened it and took out an enormous cigar. She left the box open and, to my great regret, went straight back toward the door, her delicate fingers closed around the cigar she was taking back to the master of the house.
I waited 20 seconds before moving. 10:29 P.M. Suppose Dubreuil had taken advantage of the young woman’s absence to go and free his hound? What should I do? Try my luck, or hide in the house all night and leave when the dog was tied up early next morning?
The music started again. I felt a wave of relief. No time to lose. I would leave directly by the window. I opened it and hauled myself out. The air outside was cool compared with the stuffy air in the office. I was only on the first floor, but the height of the ceiling was such that I found myself balanced on a narrow ledge more than 12 feet above the ground. I inched forward, arms outstretched, trying to push out of my mind the painful memory that was surfacing. I made my way to the corner of the building, where I slid down the drainpipe. I charged back around the outside edge of the garden. When I arrived in sight of the kennels, I gave a sigh of relief: Stalin was still tied up, gnawing away at his bone. He saw me come out of the shrubbery and stood up at once, his ears pricked. I called him gently by name, trying to defuse his aggressiveness before he alarmed the whole neighborhood. He couldn’t help but growl nastily, his jowls aquiver, showing his threatening fangs before sitting back down with his bone. He never took his eyes off me. Ungrateful creature.
The Man Who Risked It All Page 18