Brussels Noir

by Michel Dufranne

  Yet this was the misadventure that had befallen Luc Durant. The veteran cameraman, whose career had been as long as a day without beer and whose nose was blooming with broken capillaries, had had a particularly rough morning. It was a Sunday, a car-free day as mandated by the European institutions, whose representatives probably thought their initiative was amusing and original, even if they had never set foot in the Brussels metro—except, perhaps, to take part in roving gastronomic tours guided by master chefs.

  Despite his protests—goddamn, it was Sunday after all—Luc Durant had been sent alone to the city center, to film an “on the scene” report, a series of mute images that were commented on air by the host of the morning news, an old buddy of Durant’s who no longer bothered saying hello to him in the hallways. The station was swarming with loud families, and he had to be careful not to run into anyone with the heavy equipment he was carrying on his back.

  When the headlights of the 7 glimmered into view, Durant felt the crowd pushing him forward. Shoving him. He couldn’t see where the movement was coming from; his equipment made it too hard to turn around.

  He cried out loudly in protest. “Hey, watch it!” They kept pushing him. Beneath the soles of his shoes, he felt the raised edge of the platform that was supposed to warn the blind.

  He couldn’t step back, couldn’t move away; he was too weighed down by his bag, his camera, and his tripod. The tram was already hurtling down the track. He closed his eyes and saw himself crushed beneath its wheels.

  And so he kneeled and removed his harness to crawl his way back through the crowd. His camera made a pathetic sound like a dead leaf crackling under a child’s foot as it was demolished by 51.8 tons of steel.

  * * *

  Before she’d started working there, Lydie had always imagined TRBF headquarters as a beehive: swarming, buzzing, electric with constant activity. She soon realized, however, that the only one working on site day and night was the tower itself.

  As for the long Soviet-style building perpendicular to the tower, it kept nine-to-five hours, after which only drafts blew through its complicated maze of gray corridors. Drafts and new hires: interchangeable young freelance journalists exploited at will, made to believe they were enormously lucky to be there and that their rivals’ CVs were piling up in the department heads’ drawers. A formidable school of depression, the TRBF began indoctrinating its students as soon as they came in the door.

  Lydie, on the other hand, was drunk with happiness. She was realizing her life’s dream. And so she took everything in stride: the blows, the humiliations, and above all the “filler” assignments, the street interviews and seasonal stories that none of her established colleagues found worthy of their commanding presence. In the newsroom, a journalist’s importance was measured by his bedsores: the more respected he became, the less often he left his chair.

  Lydie’s work was clean, never flashy or overzealous: good material for the nightly news. She quickly became indispensable to the program, and spent plenty of time in the editing room, laughing with the technicians and fiddling with buttons.

  Soon, she was lunching every day with the team at Max, a Sardinian restaurant in the neighborhood—not expensive, but not cheap either, which helped to keep the penniless interns away.

  Daniel Claverie had made the place into an office of sorts, and Lydie into his protégé. He taught her the tricks of the trade, between mouthfuls of escalope Milanese and preening smiles at the police officers who walked by.

  “You’ll see, one day you’ll take my place,” he decreed. “Until then, do as I do. Smile at these gentlemen. It’ll be your best employment insurance.”

  Clav, sensing in her an empathetic listener, soon began to tell her about his personal life: his wife had just left him for a plastic surgeon, dumb as a rock, without warning or any consideration for their children. In short, she’d proved to be “a superficial, egocentric slut.” It was just the three of them now, Claverie and his little boys of two and seven, his nuggets, his darlings, his joys. “You can’t really understand if you don’t have kids of your own.”

  And so Lydie had invented for herself an ardent love of children, and was delighted when Claverie invited her to dinner at his place on boulevard Général Wahis. It was one of Jacques Brel’s former homes, an enormous villa with the gabled roof and half-timbered facade typical of Alsace, Daniel’s most beloved region. Tom and Steve adored the young woman right away, even cried when she decided to go home after having discreetly massaged their father’s penis through his flannel trousers underneath the kitchen table.

  “No, I can’t—I want you, but you’re my superior,” was, in essence, Lydie’s argument for not unzipping her boss’s fly. Claverie had started to beg—“Come on, please, just show me your tits!”—only two months after the young woman had been hired. His pleas left Lydie’s panties completely dry, but brought tears to her eyes—the emotion of nearing her goal, at last.

  * * *

  The news had quickly made its way to the coffee machine on the third floor. Pierre Romand, the former editor-in-chief of the morning news, was dead: he had thrown himself from his office window. Nothing shocking in itself; the poor guy had been slowly burning out since the late nineties (“overworked” had been a catchphrase at the time).

  More unusual, however: Romand had been in a wheelchair due to a recent stroke, and his window was high up. Yet this did not raise any particular suspicions; a wheelchair-bound man had arms, after all.

  He left his colleagues the memory of a good-natured man with an appetite for women and drink—a bon vivant, as they wrote on his funeral wreath, the type of remark he would have appreciated. He had covered the Gulf War in 1991; the story of a Kuwaiti mother whose son’s eyes had been gouged out with a spoon by Iraqi soldiers had cemented his cynicism. Getting laughs out of his colleagues was his way of politely masking his private despair. Like a cardiac surgeon who works all night on hopeless cases but quips about breast implants in the morning.

  That was Romand. He seemed hardened, and he was. But if you looked more closely, you saw the cracks in his exterior. For that matter, it had taken only a single anonymous letter posted to his mailbox to break him. A videotape, a few archives of the morning news from 1996—from two days in a row—and a snapshot from a police file, showing a man of an indeterminate age hanging in a stairwell, his chin covered with dried foam.

  * * *

  In the photo she texted, Tom was in tears, but it was Steve who had the sharp edge of the knife pressed against his carotid artery. You’re going to follow my instructions calmly, was the message Lydie sent a few seconds later.

  How did you get into my house, what kind of sick joke is this? Where’s the nanny? Daniel replied by text in a panic when Lydie wouldn’t answer his calls.

  If you tell anyone about this picture, I’ll know, she texted back. And I’ll kill them. So do what I say.

  Jesus, what do I have to do? Please! You wouldn’t hurt them!

  We’ll see about that. First, you’re going to host the morning news as if everything were normal. If I see or sense anything unusual in your behavior or in your voice, or if I notice any strange activity in front of my house, I’ll cut your sons’ throats. Or I’ll disembowel them. I’m not quite sure yet. I’ll probably just go with my gut.

  Are you fucking with me? You’re completely insane! What’s come over you? What did I do?

  You’ll figure it out soon enough. Don’t send me any more messages, I’ll decide when we talk. If you break this rule, I’ll cut off one of their fingers. Then two, then three. Break a leg, Daniel. I’m watching you.

  He walked on set, his armpits soaked in sweat, a panty liner stuck under each arm, his neck bulging against his yellow tie. Despite his promise to behave normally on the air, Daniel doubted he would be able to keep calm while his almost-mistress played knives on the necks of his children. The thought that she might have mutilated or killed their nanny did not disturb him: he barely knew the first name
of the fat old Moroccan woman whose sour smell disgusted him a little.

  On the other hand, that she should touch the flesh of his flesh drove him into a blind rage. He had, for that matter, worked all his life to protect the sanctity of childhood, and reserved a special hatred for abusers of all stripes.

  He remembered very well the euphoria that had washed over him in the midst of the Dutroux affair, when he’d managed to expose the identity of a child molester to the public, who took care of finishing the job. He had felt useful then; he’d felt that his work, his very existence, was justified. This was why he had become a journalist: like Lydie, he had his heart set on repairing injustices. And what could be more unjust than the suffering of little ones?

  Of course, at the time, he was only a measly freelance journalist—no one knew his name or asked him to sign rolls of toilet paper at the supermarket—but he had made a real impact on the world. He had acted heroically, within his means. For Belgium, the 1990s would always be marked by a seal of shame, and for Daniel Claverie, one of pride. Those years had allowed him to climb the rungs of the ladder toward his seat on the evening news, where he’d remained ever since. Only the blow jobs regularly offered him by a few zealous interns could make him feel any excitement about sitting his ass there every day.

  At 7:28 p.m. he took his seat, eyes bulging, sweat flowing in rivers from his temples. At 7:29 he had a coughing fit. At 7:30 he opened the news segment as if nothing was wrong, fresh and dashing as always—the mark of a true professional. Only the most astute viewer would notice the vein pulsing slightly on his forehead.

  At 7:57, after he’d delivered all the evening’s topics and was about to close the segment, he saw more words appear on his teleprompter, in italics, words that were not his own. A long silence went over the air while he read them to himself.

  You’re going to read what follows on the air, without adding anything, without blinking, without raising an eyebrow. Your confession must seem as natural as possible. If I doubt your sincerity, you’ll find your bathtub full of your sons’ blood when you come home.

  In his earpiece: “What the hell? Should I roll the credits? Daniel?”

  Go ahead. Read this: Bisou.

  Claverie let out a gasp but said nothing. He pushed his microphone away.

  On his phone, a text: This was a test to judge your docility. You failed. Prepare yourself for the worst. Don’t say a word to anyone. See you tomorrow. Bisou.

  When he arrived home, no one was there.

  The next morning, he blew his nose into his Tartan tie in the middle of the morning news, as Lydie had ordered him to do a few minutes before. Jokes began to spread over social media networks, poking fun at an anchor who seemed to be losing his sense of what was and wasn’t in keeping with television etiquette.

  The next day, he appeared without makeup—Lydie had forbade him from wearing any—and scratched his head intermittently when the order was given.

  Daniel and Lydie continued to cross paths during the day and maintained the appearance of a cordial relationship. She was warmer than ever, obliging him to converse at length with her in public, and to give her news of his charming little boys. When would she see them again? Would he bring them to the office one day? They weren’t feeling well? Couldn’t have visitors at the moment? What a shame. She insisted that he wish them a prompt recovery on her behalf, even brought some candy for them one day and hoped that they were allowed to eat it.

  In the following weeks, Claverie had to fit several words into his segment—this was something he often did to amuse his friends: a challenge well-known to those who speak on the radio or appear on TV.

  For his friends, Daniel had said “goodness me,” “butternut squash,” and “Hula-Hoop.” For Lydie, Daniel said “table,” “carrot,” and “bidet.” Then Daniel said “Tom,” “Steve,” “dead,” “dishonor,” and “horror.”

  He was called into the office of the executive director, who was taken aback by his recent behavior—erratic, to say the least—on the air.

  The chief recommended he take a week’s vacation. Claverie attempted to decline, but he wasn’t given a choice. He was at the point of breaking down, confessing that he had to continue working in order to save his sons’ lives, but he managed to hold himself back, knowing that his tormentor would not pardon this error as easily as the first one. When he’d left, Lydie stuffed his mailbox with photos of decapitated children.

  The apotheosis took place a week later, on the day he returned to host the news.

  * * *

  At the end of the segment, Claverie recited the words on the teleprompter: “Ladies and gentlemen, before I sign off, I have one last thing to add. I’m taking advantage of the national platform offered me here to make this confession, which has weighed on me for such a long time. I am attracted—sexually—to young children. Sometimes I touch them. And it gives me pleasure. Yet I don’t believe that I’m a monster. You’ll remember that I was, in the nineties, a sort of white knight of virtue. Well, it was during that time that I realized the truth about myself. This is a message to all the men, and even the women, who suffer . . .”

  The credits went hurtling down the screen, too late. The director, mouth gaping, had been too shocked by what he was hearing to cut the star anchor’s confession in time.

  All over the city, in the backs of bars, in living rooms, hospitals, and newsrooms, jaws dropped. Had they heard right? Were they hallucinating? The journalist had seemed strange recently—should they take his confession seriously? Telephones rang: Are you watching the news? Did you hear Clav too? God, it’s insane . . . Some laughed nervously. Others sobbed (the elderly, mostly). The clip would soon be posted on Facebook, on Twitter. I knew it, people would type in the comments.

  The news sites would repost the video, as well as the many commentators who attempted to analyze it, endlessly discussing topics which the TRBF would not comment on. Not right away, in any case. A few young women who’d kneeled under the TV star’s desk in the vain hope of securing themselves a job would testify anonymously, bearing witness to his manipulative sexual behavior.

  For the moment, Claverie choked on his own vomit as he walked toward the studio doors.

  In the narrow cocoon of her apartment, Lydie conscientiously spoon-fed little Tom in front of the TV, while Steve, frowning in concentration, played with cars on a tablet. The young journalist was living her greatest night. The social media networks, like the blood in her veins, were buzzing.

  * * *

  The morning after Daniel Claverie’s confession, and seven million YouTube views later, Lydie returned his children to him. On the phone, he had drily declined her invitation to meet her at Max; he was, as she might have guessed, in no condition to lunch, and besides, the police and his ex-wife were in his living room. He had agreed to delete all traces of their communication from his phone (she had done the same with the TRBF computer system), and to thank her, on his doorstep, for taking care of his little ones during this tormented night when he couldn’t have been mentally present for them. Lydie, playing the remarkably professional babysitter, had alerted the police—despite her great respect for the father—of a few worrisome observations: Tom and Steve covering their faces with their hands whenever she raised her voice, signs of loss of bladder control in the oldest. Little things, here and there, all confirmed by Fatima, their devoted nanny. Perhaps none of it meant anything; after all, Daniel Claverie was a respectable man, she was certain. But she still felt it was her duty to have a word with the authorities. This was how she had been educated—to report all signs of possible wrongdoing, regardless of any personal bias. Daniel would understand her perfectly, attached as he was to the notion of moral integrity.

  Before leaving for work, she assured her superior of his colleagues’ respect for him and wished him courage for what he would have to confront. She gave him a sly, meaningful wink that horrified the TV star, causing him to gag on his bile once again.

  * * *

&nbs
p; Lydie was on remand when she heard the news.

  Ever since her confession, she’d occupied a pleasant cell in Prison de Forest. There was plenty to read and write about, and her cellmates, though foul-smelling, were not so inhospitable as the American television shows would lead one to believe. She wasn’t so bad off. Lydie had often complained that the Internet had altered her ability to concentrate and that she was unable to write her memoir, In the Shadow of the Tower, a project she had nurtured from girlhood (she would dedicate it to her mother who’d died in childbirth, the lucky fool); there were too many distractions. In prison, there was no Internet access, or very little, and that was a good thing.

  And so she had been among the last to know. But deep down, she didn’t care; she’d already had her revenge, and in the most delicious manner.

  Of course, Daniel Claverie had returned to his job within a few weeks, his innocence proved by the police and by Lydie’s confessions. But the public did its utmost to “finish the job,” just as it had before. It had been, in a sense, reassuring to witness that in this world gone mad, where everything appears to change so quickly, certain human instincts remain intact.

  The lovely half-timbered facade of his home was now obscured by hateful messages spray-painted a few days after the star’s confession. The former public friend number one had been beaten up in broad daylight, in the street, by a group of parents outraged to see him walking free. The TRBF had reaffirmed their support, offering viewers the “true” version of events: the story of a rejected young woman, crazy with rage—crazy, period—willing to go to any lengths to destroy him. Lydie had found it amusing to see her face appear suddenly on the old plasma TV in the prison cafeteria. As Claverie had predicted, she’d taken his place on television—a good half of the screen, in any case. All of Prison de Forest had been impressed by her strategy, and showered her with praise.