For how long have I today (when?) been shut up on my own in this cubical cell—already inventoried in detail several times—where, in the absence of any opening apart from the armour-plated door leading to the special interrogations and so-called clinical treatments along a narrow corridor that repeatedly bends at right angles in one direction or the other without any regularity, so that one can never manage to keep count of the multiple, inexplicable, unavailing detours . . . Where had I got to? . . . “Mistake! Penalty!” announces the cruel voice of the loudspeaker. Then, after a silence, the invisible corrector adds in a more neutral tone: “Go back to: where comma in the absence of any opening . . .”
. . . where, in the absence of any opening, it remains impossible to distinguish day from night. A uniform, wan light of which I have not yet managed to detect the source appears to diffuse from all directions simultaneously, reflected by the white walls, the white ceiling, and also by the floor, itself white like everything else with the sole exception of the armour-plated door, painted a very dark grey, beyond which begins the passage that gives access, after many right-angled turns, to the series of . . .
“Relapse!” shouts the loudspeaker voice, modulating the syllables so curiously that they appear devoid of sense as a result. And then there is silence, punctuated only by the regular (regular?) sound of what I had at first taken to be drops of water falling into a pool, an inmate's wash-basin, an underground cistern, but which turned out on examination to come from this ball, or bullet, or balloon, or pearl continually crossing the cubical interior of the cell in ever-changing directions.
To tell the truth this is an object of doubtful existence, perpetually in movement, too swift and difficult to grasp, on which I at any rate have never succeeded in laying hands, despite my efforts, as if it passed straight through them. Its size is approximately that of a tennis ball, but the material puts one more in mind of those—much smaller ones—used for playing ping-pong: a kind of white celluloid, opalescent, translucent, and very bright, which from a distance one would take for extremely thin glass. So it is not surprising that in a previous passage (if I recollect rightly) this fragile thing should have been confused with an electric light-bulb, and I myself feared initially that it would break on reaching the floor. On the contrary, it bounced easily back up towards the ceiling (in a few seconds reaching a height comparable to that of its point of departure) instead of strewing itself over the surface of the floor in smithereens, forming concentric circles extending as far as the walls, without even suffering the least little dent, as had happened a few moments earlier (when?) to the empty beer-can, which from now on cannot be seen as anything but a provisional, caricatural prefiguration . . .
Oh, my head, my poor, shaven head . . . In short, then, it is this big crystal bubble, this Christmas-tree globule that, each time it touches the ground, emits a limpid, musical sound, the pitch of which no doubt alters imperceptibly with each of its . . . (of its what?), rising perhaps by a few hundredths of a comma from one impact to the next, though without it being possible to confirm this impression with any degree of certainty, even after a period of . . . a period of . . . a period of . . . Once more I attempt—though vainly—to follow the luminous sphere's restless course with my eyes. And now, once more, she is in a great forest of straight, upright boles so tall that their tops are lost in the invisible sky. She is alone. She is eighteen. Her name is Natalie. She can hear barking that seems to be coming towards her, sustained, frenzied barking, probably by very large dogs. There must be three or four of them, possibly more. She takes fright and starts to run with long, lithe, thrusting strides between the parallel tree-trunks looming up on all sides, in front of her too, as far as the eye can see . . .
The barking draws nearer with terrifying rapidity. Turning to look round for a few seconds without slackening speed, she glimpses the three huge beasts with their gleaming black coats and red paws chasing her with all their might, gaining ground with every pace. In her panic Natalie is almost flying, still keeping the same straight course, moving faster than she would ever have believed herself capable of, not even heeding the whippy stems of undergrowth that lash her legs up to high on the thigh where the tender skin is no longer protected, the short cotton dress having ridden up during this wild chase. The barking, more and more raucous now and accompanied by low growling sounds and the steady rumble of the lumbering, headlong gallop, is right on her heels.
She turns round once again. The dogs are less than a metre away. She feels herself weakening. And as the breath from their scarlet throats, now howling louder than ever, brushes her skin with its scalding caress, she starts to scream in terror and distraction. The lead animal, having leapt on her, rips a great flap out of the little dress, exposing the bare hip above the white briefs. The girl tries a sudden side-step to escape. And immediately all three of the ferocious beasts are attacking her from all sides at once, tearing the last shreds of material from her body and biting into the very flesh to get at the skin-tight under-garments, which offer too little hold. Lacerated all ways by the deep gashes made by the sharp canines, her strength exhausted, her courage failing her, Natalie sinks down in the scrub. Her ragged breathing threatens to break off altogether. She is losing consciousness . . .
But it isn't the biggest of the black dogs crushing her like this with straining muscles. It's the hunter now who, leaning towards her face, is half-lying on her parted legs, which means she can no longer close them. His left hand, in its rough leather glove, is holding her by the throat in order to pin to the rubble floor this pretty face with its panting mouth and its upturned blue eyes, lost amid the blond tresses. In his right hand he has the large knife that he is about to plunge into her belly, slowly impaling her through her womanhood in order to finish off his vanquished prey without damaging her further in a stream of vermilion blood. Deep in the man's motionless gaze one can glimpse already the violent pleasure he will take in his crime. Higher still the midday sun, a dazzling ball of white through the treetops, falls on the broad, unsheathed blade with unbearable brightness.
Meanwhile, by dint of staring at it with this kind of exhausting concentration I think I see that this moving ball—which to all appearances is the sole light source in my cell—is not completely spherical but slightly ellipsoidal. There is even a possibility that it is constantly being deformed in the course of its ceaseless trajectory, which would particularly explain the marked change of direction that it undergoes with each of its movements to and fro. Striking the floor with a given deviation from the vertical, it rebounds not in a symmetrical fashion at an equal angle of incidence but, less foreseeably, at an entirely new angle, differing from the first by at least five or six degrees one way or the other, because of this abnormal and variable curvature of the surface at the point of impact; gradually losing momentum, the ball then describes a very pointed parabola, the apex of which—lying almost at the level of the ceiling—corresponds to zero speed allied to a recovery of perfect rotundity. During the ensuing descent, acceleration is resumed at the same time as the bubble stretches, progressively assuming the shape of an egg; it is with this appearance that it strikes the white paint of the floor, travelling at its maximum speed, which is then abruptly reversed (after being reduced to zero in a period of time that has no duration) and immediately starts to decrease once more as the star rises, recovering in the process, by means of imperceptible modifications, the fullness of an ideal sphere, etc.
And this I consider, once again, as it comes back down towards me. What arrow, what knife could put an end to it? I take my poor, hairless head, it too like an egg, in my hands. No, I'm not mad. I'm well aware that that Natalie is someone else: I am Lord G.’s latest wife, Lady Caroline, nee de Saxe. I found the story about the girl and the dogs in an old picture book in the attic when I was very young. It also had the ordeal of Blandina, bound naked in a large-mesh net to be delivered up in the arena to the big black bull, whose horns have been specially sharpened in her honour; and that o
f Angelique, chained to the rock at the foot of the cliff, waiting with no more covering than the wave-borne spume for the giant shark that will come and eat her alive; and that, too, of Griselda, or Brunelda, or Brunetta, a young queen with the very pure lines of a goddess of the ancient world, tied by her feet to the tail of a wild horse that the soldiers, swinging their whips, send off at a gallop through the primordial forest; the victim's dazzling skin lights up all the dark undergrowth, while the huge mass of her flowing hair, cascading out behind her, is like the river in the Garden of Eden. The book was called Beauties and Beasts, and I used to think, on the evidence of the youthful grace of those moving heroines of the legendary torments, that it was intended for the edification of little girls of my age, though it struck me as being of distinctly greater interest than the other illustrated publications generally placed at my disposal.
“Now tell the story of little Christine,” says the voice from the loudspeaker, falsely neutral and detached though still over-loud, over-present. Although the character of Christine, the communicant, does not occur in the volume in question, I begin none the less without waiting for a second asking, fearing renewed punishments . . . Natalie's body, then, still palpitating though it has meanwhile been carefully washed by the servant women, is placed in a lavish hunting tableau adorning the marble floor of the great hall, among the hinds, the does, the hen pheasants, and the quail. Her elegant curves, her pink skin, her fair hair, all set off by an abandoned pose that the designer has arranged with care, look superb amid the tawny coats and the plumages with their shimmering highlights. The guests of both sexes admire the work of art at their leisure, taking in its sensuality, its subtleties, the balance of masses and colours, not without noting in passing that a little fresh blood is still running out between the girl's parted thighs, adding a touch of a lighter bright red to the crimson wounds of the slaughtered animals all around her. The plan was subsequently to serve up this choice catch as showpiece at the banquet in preparation, but female flesh is more stimulating to the mind than to delicate palates, and since in any case the dogs too must be fed, the girl is without further ado thrown to them still warm, her heart even continuing to beat feebly until she expires altogether.
I realize at this point that the barking of the pack had an excessive quality about it as regards richness of sonority and combinations of sounds: actually it was produced artificially, using the very notes given out by the luminous ball each time it bounces on the floor of the cell. One thinks of the pink-and-white beach ball belonging to Angelica, of whom Natalie's horrible death has naturally put me in mind. Indeed it is her I am observing out of the corner of my eye from the lounge-chair in which I have installed myself on the terrace of the Café Rudolph, which—it will be remembered—is very much closer to the centre of town than our usual beach, lined with its rows of huts stretching as far as the old disused fort.
However, what I am devoting most attention to at the moment is neither the pink beach ball nor the girls playing with it but, with the aid of the little round mirror that does duty as a decorative cabochon on the triangular toe of my shoe, the man in the stylishly cut white suit sitting in a cane chair very much farther back, pretending to read the newspaper held open in front of him whereas he must be keeping a look-out above the shelter of this convenient windbreak, scrutinizing with the expert eye of the dealer the half-naked bathers performing their evolutions as if on a music-hall stage in the strip of fine sand separating the café from the sea.
He has undoubtedly singled out my friend, who in her bright-orange bathing-costume, one-piece but generously cut away everywhere, is zealously doing what it takes to kindle lust. It is Angelique's job in fact, today, to provide the bait for catching in his own trap the most dangerous game of all: the hunter himself, this false doctor whom the organization has had its eye on for several days already and who is said to be one of the suppliers of the Golden Triangle, a well-known illicit enterprise of which it has just emerged that Emperor Christian was possibly the most particular customer.
Once I am quite certain that the character's eyes are following my young pupil as she leaps and spins I delay no longer before setting in train the series of operations provided for in the plan. Careful not to sit up (because it is essential that my legs and the upper part of my body remain in a reclining position, otherwise my spy shoe will enable me to scrutinize nothing but the comings and goings of ants or the flight of gulls), I give the agreed signal: lighting a cigarillo. Angelica, who has seen me, immediately gets rid of the beach ball by throwing it to one of her partners—who have not been let into the secret—and starts walking towards us, her dancer's gait now at its most inviting, still holding the green apple in her left hand and taking a bite out of it, in order to complete the picture, just as she sets her bare feet down on the wooden floor of the terrace.
The girl thus passes near my lounge-chair, not even glancing at me, then walks on through the fairly sparse clientele, moving away in my rear-view mirror whereas she is on the contrary getting closer to the man in white as if she were making for the toilet. On reaching the immediate vicinity of his table she pretends all of a sudden to have driven a splinter into her toe, which is not at all surprising in view of the extreme roughness of these gappy, coarse-grained planks. So she executes a series of rapid little hops on her right foot, lifts her left foot in order to take it in her hands, but, hampered by the apple, quickly decides it would be more effective to drop into a semi-kneeling position, as if by chance right up against the false doctor's wicker chair, arching part of her bronzed body—shoulder, nape of the neck, and throat—within reach of the latter's hand on the pretext of examining more closely the upturned sole of her foot.
The man, however, does not flinch, does not say a word. All Angelica can hear is the faint rustle of the pages of his newspaper, which he is no doubt laying down in front of him, searching for what will seem the most anodyne phrase with which to open this crucial conversation . . . But there is no sequel, in this or any other direction. The girl then ventures to look up, prepared herself to seek assistance from this faint-heart if he doesn't make up his mind fairly soon . . .
The slave-merchant doctor is calmly looking at her from behind his steel-rimmed spectacles without a trace of compassion, unsmilingly, as if she were a terracotta statuette in the window of an antique shop. He then lowers his newspaper towards her, having just folded its pages in four the better to display the picture that, without further introduction, he now shows her: “Your photo's in the late edition of The Globe,” he says.
The provocative pout, scarcely formed, freezes on the charmer's lips. Things are hardly going according to plan; also it's impossible to see what Lady Caroline, on whom the attitude adopted unfortunately involves turning her back, is doing. Moreover Angelica recognizes the photograph, which was taken in the country on her nineteenth birthday, perfectly. Although it is a particularly pretty one of her, she has never given anyone a copy of it because of its private character: Carolina took her bare-breasted. Consequently she can understand neither why nor how this intimate shot has come to occupy prime space in the major evening daily.
“It's the sex-crimes page,” the man says, still regarding her with a stern stare. “There must be some mistake,” Angelica offers without conviction, not even thinking to get up, so completely has this turn of events caught her off her guard. “That's what they all say!” the investigator replies after a silence, speaking in strange, vaguely suspicious tones. At the end of a quite long pause devoted to some complicated inner meditation he adds, “Stay as you are to avoid drawing attention to us.” Only then does the girl become fully aware of the absurdity of her position; she obeys nevertheless, not without wondering quite how her being on her knees in front of this man could in any way help them to pass unnoticed.
“What have you got in your left hand?” The question, put in an inquisitorial manner, scarcely leaves her time to dwell at further length on the previous problem. “You can see: an apple . .
.” “Give it to me!” he orders, and she does so without exactly knowing why. But the man, instead of taking the bitten fruit that she holds out to him, leans forward slightly and offers, with a view to taking possession of the object without touching it with his fingers, a spotless handkerchief that he has carefully unfolded in front of her on an outspread hand. Having wrapped up this piece of evidence, still with the same meticulous precautions, he places it in a transparent plastic bag, sealed with a brass strip bearing a row of numbers, which he finally replaces in the jacket pocket from which he drew it a moment ago. “You're going to have some explaining to do about all this,” he says in a bored voice, as if sorry for her on account of all the difficulties she has just brought upon herself.
Angelica thinks it is time to react. What will Caroline say if her emissary makes so woeful a showing? But scarcely has she opened her mouth to protest when she is interrupted in commanding tones: “I'm a police inspector,” the man says. “You're going to have to follow me to the bureau of special investigations.” At the same time he shows her a green-and-yellow official card on which, among other particulars, there appears in larger characters: “Divisional Commissioner F.V. Francis. Vice Squad.” So is the young lady on completely the wrong track?
Recollections of the Golden Triangle Page 10