Right at the outset there is a kind of commotion, a confusion of bodies in jumbled movement, men in dark uniforms jostling one another as they advance, or more probably jostling someone else, dragging that person with them down an indistinct, pale-coloured, quite wide corridor or even a number of corridors with no features by which they might be differentiated, though of progressively narrower dimensions and succeeding one another at right angles with sudden changes of direction for no apparent reason, irregularly and in a manner impossible to predict.
The trampling, the flailing of arms or legs mingled in a shapeless mass moving forward rapidly if chaotically, the rustle of the black uniforms, the heavy breathing, all disappear from one second to the next—and all that is left afterwards is, again, the empty, almost abstract corridor, it too, one would think, about to fade away, painted an undistinguished, lustreless white—but it all reappears immediately in another, perpendicular corridor, narrower still in all probability, almost making it difficult for the milling group to pass. How many of them are there? The struggling and the over-animated gesturing make it impossible to say even approximately: five or six, perhaps, fifteen or so, or more, or far fewer.
The passage is so small at this point that the heavy boots are marking time; the throng of black tunics is compacted into what amounts to an elongated plug scratching the blind walls with its many gilt buttons, tabbed epaulettes, and stiff leather belts, each of which supports symmetrically a bulging cartridge pouch and a fat holster with its regulation pistol. Once past the corner, however, everything having dispersed as if by magic, the momentarily agitated space is once more white and empty. Afterwards, a little farther on, there is a fresh commotion of military uniforms rushing along in disarray, then the empty corridor once more, and again the violent, confused troop, the empty corridor, the troop surging forward, the empty corridor, etc.
And at last it all comes up against something, a door opening under the pressure of the first members of the group to reach it. The black boots laced up to the calf have gradually, over the space of several seconds, come to a halt; the jodhpurs in turn are still. A residue of movement continues to affect the mass above the patent-leather belts, the chests buttoned up in the straight tunics with little stand-up collars, the arms with their oblique braid stripe, the hands in black-leather gloves that appear to be driving out some foreign body located in the middle of the party, disturbing the surface—at the level of the stiff-looking flat caps—with an eddy whose centre moves forward in irregular meanderings, eventually expelling the intruder all of a sudden, like a pip being spat out or a cork being blown by too much pressure in the bottle. This too is a man, though very different from the others (he is wearing white pyjamas), and the door shuts behind him with a dull thud. Once again the dangerous stir has ceased completely; but for how long?
Yet nothing more occurs. The soldiers, however many there were of them, their faces empty, their loose-fitting garments lacking any distinguishing shape or markings, have vanished for good. Who said they were soldiers, even?
The man is alone in the silence, standing in the middle of the cell. And bit by bit, almost cautiously, I ascertain that it is probably myself. That apart, there is nothing to report except the two small windows, too high up and fitted with strong grilles, a wooden chair painted white, a broken mirror, nothing else. On reflection, the presence of the looking-glass is unusual in this type of locality. I go over to the wall and lean forward towards its clouded, greenish surface, which is roughly trapezoidal in shape: bounded on the top by two right angles with ground edges and by a slightly curved oblique line with a sharp edge forming the bottom. I have some trouble recognizing myself in the image framed there. My hair must have been shaved off, but several days ago already, and a uniform dark shadow covers my skull, cheeks, and chin.
I run the tips of three outstretched fingers slowly over the chief features of the proffered face: the chin, the right half of the mouth (the lower lip from the middle to the corner, then the upper lip back to the middle), the inner rim of the right nostril, the wing and bridge of the nose, the superciliary arch. They are my features, without doubt. But the face as a whole seems to me to have lost all character and identity; it's a standard face, an anonymous shape; it makes me look like that identikit portrait of the murderer that was in the papers and that made me laugh so much not so very long ago as, clean-shaven and with my hair freshly groomed, dressed in grey with that discreet and confidence-inspiring elegance I have always had occasion to congratulate myself on, having left my car in a space where parking is “permitted for a few moments during off-peak periods” and crossed the promenade with the stiff, springy gait of the seriously disabled, which I now execute to perfection leaning on a special ivory-handled stick, and having subsequently, and with much deliberation, picked out a table on its own but exposed to the morning sun on the almost deserted terrace of one of the many establishments lining the sea-front, been met by a black waiter dressed in immaculate white who took upon himself to offer in the most accommodating manner the seat selected by this wealthy, crippled customer, and ordered from him a large white coffee and two brioches, I settled myself more comfortably in my cane armchair with my left leg stretched out in front of me and a little to one side, preparatory to perusing in detail, with the scrupulous care I invest in this sort of thing as in many others, the article in the latest, nine-o'clock edition of The Globe.
I spot the first anomaly immediately: the face, which is drawn in a black line on a grey background, is distinctly asymmetrical, yet this not insignificant fact is mentioned neither in the consequent general description nor in any of the various statements taken from witnesses. Going on to read the text, I see that the position of the body is not right either, nor its location in the vast workshop of the derelict factory. It is difficult to draw any definite conclusions at this stage since, to explain these changes, at least three solutions appear possible (although, to tell the truth, none of them is entirely convincing): misreporting by the journalist concerned, moving of the body by someone else subsequently to the crime, deliberate lying by the police with a view to misleading or hoodwinking or un-nerving the criminal or criminals.
Nevertheless I experience a mild feeling of excitement at reading about one detail of the setting attributed wrongly to the killer and furnishing evidence of an interesting fancy on the part of the person who turned up afterwards, or the writer of the article, or a crafty policeman. But there I sense the trap straight away . . . Wanting once more to take stock of the question of a possible return to the scene, I raise my eyes towards the bright line of the horizon marking the upper limit of a flat, blue sea that is also bordered, down below, by the shimmering fringe produced by tiny wavelets; the beach has an absent air at this time of day, whereas around noon it is suddenly teeming with people, a protected hunting-ground where I have only to lie down in the sand—this time with no disability and no stick—to take my pick entirely at my leisure from the endless procession of bronzed and more than half-naked beach girls: that one, for example, a fine specimen, unusually fair for these parts, today playing ball with two other girls without appearing to be bothered by the crowd's unpredictable interventions in the game, which on the contrary provoke endless cries of delight, I've been watching her for several weeks now, on and off, noting her lithe contortions, the gorgeous swirl of her hair, her deep-throated laugh.
At this point, however, while returning my gaze to the folded page held stiffly in front of me with both hands, I find that a customer on her own—a student, it seems—has without my noticing the fact sat down at a table not far from my own, evidently while I was absorbed in my meticulous examination of the newspaper. She has placed a book and a notebook, both closed and covered with black paper, on the white tablecloth that four metal clips secure in place against sudden gusts of wind. Here I narrowly avoid branching off in the direction of the short-lived miniature tornado that convulses the crowded beach and go on to observe that, also in front of the young stud
ent, placed to one side near the edge of the circular table, there are a glass and a bottle (opened but still full) of the red soft drink containing stimulants that universities consume in large quantities at examination time. How can this last-minute arrival have been served already when I have been aware of no comings and goings by staff on the terrace and have not yet seen the black waiter return with my own order?
At this moment, as if sensing that she is being watched, although my position is some way behind her own, the girl slowly turns her head in my direction; the perfection, the assurance of her movement immediately convince me that she knew in advance the whereabouts of the object on which her eyes would come to rest; she stares at me for an instant, then, without a flicker of expression, she calmly rotates her shoulders and neck back to gaze once more at the almost artificial stillness of the sunlit sea, straight ahead of her. Full, well-defined lips, large pale eyes, a very long neck, small ears, smooth, warm skin, the curves of her body firm and without heaviness, altogether she corresponds pretty closely to the type of entry headed “ripe-fleshed adolescent”. The better, it would seem, to show off a bosom whose roundness—seen in profile—appears to owe nothing to a bra, she proceeds to execute an elaborate and unpredictable gesture with her two bare arms, which rise slowly in the shape of an amphora above her thick black hair with its russet highlights, touching wrists for a moment and afterwards separating them again in a double revolution of the hands such as oriental dancing-girls perform, the elbows then starting to fall forward and down, lower and lower, until they land softly on the tablecloth, where the forearms remain extended on either side of the black notebook. In its affected complexity this graceful movement, which moreover—since there is no one else around—may have been aimed at the stranger with the greying temples, whose delicate hands and steel-rimmed spectacles suggest the surgeon, with a view to exciting his interest (message received, aha!), though purely in fun rather than in a spirit of calculation, this movement strikes me as a sign that will probably decide the girl's fate. I now have to see her standing and also study the way she walks. It's my move, then. Meanwhile the girl again turns in my direction; and for the second time I feel myself become the one subjected to petrifying observation.
There is a square judas measuring about twenty centimetres each way in the door of my cell. The warders outside can either open the whole thing in order to pass a bowl or some other object in to the prisoner or they can simply operate—to greater or lesser effect—the shutter system with which the hinged leaf is fitted: five heavy iron slats pivoting on themselves about their horizontal axes. Between the second and third of these slats, which at present are slanting at forty-five degrees (without my having seen them move or heard the least sound of footsteps in the corridor), framed in the darkness beneath the little metal visor, are the two bright, expressionless, staring eyes of someone looking in.
Surveillance must be part of the overall plan here for changing the prisoners, together with the injections, the incomprehensible questioning, and the jostling along the corridors. Now, though, we have the iron slats closing soundlessly with a slow, smooth movement until eventually they overlap one another by eight or ten millimetres. When there is no longer the least interstice (the sharpest knife would not find the tiny crack to prise it open), the whole flap swings open to admit a man's arm holding a sort of small register covered with black paper. Instead of being dressed in the sleeve of a uniform with gilt buttons, the arm is bare, quite pale but very muscular, and covered with hair. After a second's hesitation over how to behave in these unforeseen circumstances, I take two steps towards the closed door and seize the black book. The arm is immediately withdrawn and the judas shuts again, this time with a sharp bang. After that we have the shutter slats slowly opening once more.
I recognize the book: outwardly at least it is the one that the false student placed near her in the centre of the small, circular table on the café terrace and on the cover of which five slim fingers with pink fingernails play nonchalantly as, still looking behind her in my direction, she continues her critical, searching, interested, at any rate probably attentive examination of me. Although I sustain her gaze without difficulty (which is not to say without impatience), the girl is slow to turn away, being to all appearances unimpressed by my diagnosis as a practitioner contemplating her already quartered on the polished-steel operating-table, where thin straps of black leather hold her motionless.
Decision taken. Keeping my eyes on her, I point with my right hand, still in its black-leather glove, towards my outstretched stiff leg and my polished-steel walking-stick. I say, “Excuse me. I have difficulty in getting about, and I have left my cigarettes in the car.” I then indicate the gleaming Cadillac parked along the promenade. The student, without a feature of her glossy sex-magazine face moving, without a hint of a smile twisting her mouth with its pinky-brown rims or the long, curved lashes batting even once over the light green of her large eyes, the false student directs her translucent gaze successively at my orthopaedic stick, at the big black car, and finally back at myself; likewise avoiding the smallest unnecessary gesture, I carry my hand to the right pocket of my jacket and, with the slowness of the butterfly hunter who is fearful of alarming a rare Vanessa, a gorgeous, downy creature, by over-hasty handling of his net, extract from it a bunch of keys that I hold out to the stranger suspended between thumb and forefinger by the smallest one of all, the one that opens the off-side front door. “Would you be so kind as to fetch them for me?”
She looks at me, weighs my overbearingly paternal smile, considers what may lie behind such a mask (that of a harmless doctor of gynaecology, or a psycho-somatician), appraises the disturbing and confidence-inspiring car, assesses whether it is humanly possible to refuse an invalid this small service . . . I add, “From the glove compartment.”
Still failing to show any sign whatever of communication or intelligence, the girl gets up and comes towards me, takes my keys without a word, turns and winds her way between the tables and chairs to the wide pavement, walks straight over to the car, bends down to insert the key, etc.
Excellent postures, lithe, pleasing walk, perfect figure; a special mention for a pair of very long legs with bare thigh visible between the high white boots and a thin dress of bronzed silk, the lower part of which is reduced to the minimum in the fashion of that year. Having performed the various movements precisely and without embellishment, though aware, as she was bending over with one knee on the front seat to reach the glove compartment, of revealing a pair of apricot-coloured briefs enhanced by a scarcely indicated twist of the hips, she soon comes back holding out to me the shiny keys and the little blue packet, obviously already open.
“Thank you,” I say. And as if automatically, with great naturalness, I pull out several cigarettes, at the same time offering her the chance to take one. She hesitates. Her fate is in the balance. She takes a cigarette between two fingers. With a quick glance I check that it is not the one with a tiny red mark on the end of the filter, which I promptly select for myself, of course. And with the gold lighter that I have taken with my other hand from the left pocket of my jacket, where at the same time I stowed the packet, I light the two cigarettes one after the other. The girl bows and goes back to her seat. So shall I never know what her voice sounds like?
It's only then that I become aware of the mistake of which I have just taken the first step: as a general rule I ought never to limp in this type of scene. But it's too late. The effect is very swift, because the student inhales the smoke and holds it in her lungs for a long time before slowly expelling it. At the third puff she passes a hand across her forehead as if her head were spinning, which must be more or less what is happening. Not wasting a minute (knowing the very brief duration of the drug's action), I get up and with the aid of my stick—which it is now impossible for me to forget—go over to where my victim has slumped back in her chair, a vague, corpse-like smile hovering over lips that have parted at last, her arms hanging down at e
ither side, at random. The cigarette has fallen to the ground. A few furtive glances round about satisfy me that no one is taking any notice of us; I crush the glowing tip with the toe of my shoe and stoop—perhaps showing rather too much suppleness—to pick up this piece of incriminating evidence and slip it into a pocket, out of sight. Straightening up again, I see the waiter returning with my white coffee, his eyes on me, already quite close. Instead of completing my movement I grasp one of the student's hands in passing and pretend to be feeling the pulse, this time leaning ostentatiously on my stick. “This girl is feeling ill,” I say.
The waiter starts complaining in a low voice, speaking in a language that must be South-American Portuguese. The girl, her dreams disturbed by this commotion around her, manages to utter the word “smoke”. Before taking any action I wait to find out whether or not the other man has understood the meaning of this syllable, which may have been barely audible, especially to a foreigner.
“She said ‘smoke’,” the Negro gets out with difficulty after about ten seconds, in very uncertain English, staring at me in a vaguely fearful or suspicious manner. My response is immediate and brisk: “Yes, I thought as much. They all take it at the University now. But this one hasn't yet got the typical look of the regular user. Best to get her out of here as quickly as possible.” Particularly since here come two inquisitive spectators already.
“We need a doctor,” the waiter says.
“Has something happened?” the older of the new-comers asks. I must act firmly, leaving them no time to take any kind of personal initiative, otherwise all will be lost. “I'm a doctor,” I say, “and I have my car here. I'll take this young addict to the hospital as I have to go there anyway. Here, you'll have to carry her, the two of you, over to the Caddy there. It won't be the first time it's served as an ambulance!” If I may allow myself the metaphor! Aha! I add (and curiously it is this last argument that seems to persuade them to do as I say), “I'm unable to help you because of my leg.”
Recollections of the Golden Triangle Page 3