What She Saw

by Gerard Stembridge

  So these thoughts ran on and rewound and ran on. He was unable to load another film in his head and escape the brother-and-sister story. It disturbed and annoyed, but also charmed and amused and excited him. Ferdie began to recognize that this uncustomary mental turmoil was coaxing him into unfamiliar territory: he was experiencing a dilemma. This was not comfortable. Dilemmas were things he had occasionally advised others about, certainly not something he ever had to contend with. He also detected, hovering at the edges of this particular dilemma, a shred of feeling that he faintly recognized as a desire to protect. It was not the potent instinctive self-protection that was his daily companion, but a much-diluted, more apologetic thing, like Orangina was to a real orange: a strange urge to protect another person.

  The doctor had come to him by then and Ferdie was pleased at her clarity, speed, and efficiency. No amiable interaction or sympathetic smiles, but he didn’t expect either—the woman had far too many patients to see. When she asked, “Did something heavy fall on it?” Ferdie enjoyed answering, “A woman’s heel.” The doctor was turned toward his foot so he could not see her reaction, but there was a moment or two of silence before she continued, “Okay, now you will feel a little pressure,” and her thumbs pressed right on the spot. “Aaaaeugh!” he screamed. Why could medical types never say it plainly: “You will feel excruciating pain”?

  It was a surprise to discover that no bones had been broken or fractured, but there was serious bruising and the foot required complete rest. No weight on it whatsoever. The doctor fixed her narrow gray eyes on him and repeated “complete rest” as if she knew men and their determination to let nothing as trivial as pain interfere with their routine. He would be given crutches to be used for limited necessary movement, but otherwise—one more time—“complete rest.” She instructed an equally expressionless nurse to bind the foot, wrote out a prescription for painkillers, and wished him well.

  He admired this woman’s professionalism, but knew he would forget her as easily as she no doubt would forget him, which was what he would have liked to do with Bellhop and Caramel Girl. The situation should be clear-cut: the possibility that he might be chauffeur to the next president of France had, in the last couple of hours, diminished alarmingly, and, at the extreme paranoid end of the scale, perhaps more than just his enviable job was in danger. He had urgently needed to acquire some significant piece of information that Vallette did not have, and had done so: the bellhop’s address. Hopefully he would be told to take a few days’ sick leave and when he returned everything would be normal again.

  So why the dilemma? He cursed this unfamiliar sensation, but could not shake it off. Entirely against his own interests, Ferdie was seriously tempted not to give Vallette the bellhop’s address.

  LANA CAN’T THINK OF ANYTHING TO SAY. ONCE AGAIN HER MIND CONJURES up those horrifying seconds. Elevator doors sliding open, R&B music, naked bodies, an eerie bacchanal, then the young woman’s frightened face, and the old guy’s flabby wrinkled skin and glittering eyes. Guillaume clearly is not joking, but he must be mistaken. He has to be.

  “Then the man I saw must be someone else.”

  “I do not think so. But it is not a problem to find out, Lana. We can show you Fournier. Photos, video. With clothes, but still. Perhaps you can recognize him.”

  It’s the second time she’s been invited to identify the naked old goat she now fervently wishes she had never seen. It’s like they’ve been handcuffed together and the key’s been lost. Now the stakes have been raised exponentially. A presidential candidate. The front-runner. Lana recognizes immediately there can be no escape from this unwanted connection, not without a payoff of some kind. Right now it seems like her only choice is to stick with this pair, even if to do so is only the least of a growing assortment of evils.

  On the way to their apartment, Pauline offers nonstop wisdom via an enthusiastic translation from Guillaume: It’s good to confront things. She, Pauline, has that kind of personality and is happy to see that Lana is this way also, an independent proactive woman. Lana soothes her inflamed brain by imagining herself banging Pauline’s head repeatedly against the peeling purple door that Guillaume is opening.

  The apartment is a duplex. The lower level is one large living room, kitchen, and cluttered office and editing space. On a table are two computer screens, a keyboard, and what Lana guesses is a sound desk and other pieces of expensive-looking technology.

  “Here, I am editing my film.”

  Lana finds it instructive that, despite his continual praise for his precious Pauline, it’s still “my” not “our” film.

  “So you want to see Monsieur Jean-Luc Fournier?”

  Very quickly he finds a YouTube video with the title “Fournier humilie Dufour.” It’s a TV debate. Guillaume points to the man on the left of the screen who’s doing most of the talking, while waving a dismissive hand at his opponent.

  “Wait, there will be a close-up.”

  But already Lana can see that he is the right age, with the right shape, the right hair. The hint of knowing amusement at the corner of the mouth makes him look more genial and the long silver mane is carefully back-combed with a leonine flourish. When the camera cuts to close-up his blue eyes seem direct, intelligent, and ferocious. It is the naked man. Lana can’t follow the TV debate, but it looks like he’s winning the argument. Or his manner suggests that he certainly thinks so.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “You mean his histoire. It is a very normal one for this kind of politician in France. Fournier is typique: Un gauche cavier. He says, ‘Yes, I am from a bourgeois family and that is why I am a socialist: because I believe everyone should have the same opportunities like me.’ He went to the best schools, Lycée Louis-le-Grand and ULM and Sciences Po. If you are a clever boy in France, everything is more easy, and if you are bourgeois and clever there is a special road for you.”

  Not so different anywhere, Lana thinks. Certainly not in the United States. But she doesn’t interrupt.

  “And also, this is important, I think. He was a student in Paris in 1968. So—this is me, this is my theory—Fournier, he discovers politics and sex in one moment. On the street, crazy protest, on the campus, passionate free love. You understand? It was a cocktail, intoxicating, no? And so, I believe, always for him politics and sex are, ah . . . entrecroisé . . .”

  “Intertwined?”

  “Yes. My idea. Guillaume’s proposal. I think so. What do you say?”

  “Yeah, it’s, ah, I can see how that might be. But please, tell me more about him.”

  “Then he is professor of economic history. At this time it is normal for a university teacher to join the Parti Socialiste. He marries also. You see. So, all is normal. This is the path for leaders in France. Mitterrand likes this clever young man. Now he is a junior minister. During this time there is no problem about his private life. But his first marriage, phut! And he marries again. Now it begins. Not public news, of course, but rumors and whispers, amusing stories for the dinner party. Soon he is a legendary . . . we say, lapin chaud. You have heard this?”

  “I get it.”

  “When I am in university in 2000, no one speaks of Jean-Luc Fournier without a little joke about his sexual appetite. He is a kind of aspiration for many of my friends: Socialist—good. Big brain—good. Women cannot resist him—fantastic! It is impressive, no, for a fifty-year-old man? Then he becomes a European commissioner and now a big surprise. In Brussels, a woman complains. She says he forced her to have sex with him. What? Jean-Luc Fournier, force? No, Fournier does not need force, he is so irresistible. Ah, but there was no physical violence. This woman only says she could not refuse him, even though she wanted to. Why? Because she was a subordinate and afraid about her job. Ah, so. What do the friends of Fournier say? This woman is bitter about something perhaps? Revenge? Of course that is the solution. And so embarrassing for poor Fournier, that he must speak about such affairs in public. He says he was foolish. In France they say yes,
foolish to trust such a dangerous woman who cannot keep her mouth shut. But after there comes another story and another. Again only whispers. No one speaks in public. A young journalist goes to interview Fournier in Brussels and she says he tries to seduce her in his office. She has to fight to keep him away. Could it be true? Certainly it is true that older women who work in politics, in media, in university, they now whisper to their young colleagues, ‘Do not be alone with Fournier.’

  “Then we hear the most crazy story. So crazy it cannot be true. In this story a woman goes to hospital one night because during sex the man bit off her ear . . . The man was Monsieur Jean-Luc Fournier. Yes, Lana, I am serious. But okay, I cannot discover if it is true for sure. But I know that it is true about these sex parties. And now you know it also. In France you see there are many who say it is wrong even to ask these questions. These are private matters. Even if these things reveal a man who is out of control, who will abuse his power? Have you heard of satyriasis? That is what they say is the sickness that Fournier has.”

  “I understand. And I have to admit what I saw tonight was pretty sick.”

  “Would you want such a man as your president?”

  “He’s not going to be my president.”

  “Ah, but he is good enough for France?”

  There is a harsh ringing. Sustained. Then it stops. Guillaume and Pauline look at each other. Then Guillaume holds up a hand demanding silence and goes down the hallway to the front door. Lana hears the door open, then an exclamation from Guillaume. A few seconds later he reappears carrying a woman in his arms. Her head is resting on his shoulders and her face is visible. Her eyes are open and she is breathing. It is Odette. Guillaume barks something in French to Pauline and looks at Lana.

  “The door, please.”

  She goes quickly to the apartment door and closes it. When she returns Guillaume is carrying Odette up the spiral staircase and Lana follows them into a large attic space with a steeply slanted roof. A corner section at the high end is painted a lurid green from floor to ceiling, with a chair on a little platform in front. There are studio lights on stands positioned all round. Guillaume gently places Odette on a bed in a dark corner of the room. She moans and Guillaume mutters soothing things. Pauline arrives with the bowl of water, a towel, and a bottle of some liquid. Guillaume dips the towel in the water and begins to wipe Odette’s face. In the grim light Lana cannot see exactly what her injuries are. Guillaume pours liquid from the bottle onto the wet towel and dabs her forehead and her arms with it. Antiseptic? Odette moans again and both Guillaume and Pauline whisper sweetly. Lana feels out of place, almost like a voyeur. Then she is surprised to hear her name. Guillaume seems to be asking if Odette recognizes her.

  Odette’s eyes peer over his shoulder. Realizing how pathetic and trivial it would seem, Lana manages to stop herself from saying, “Don’t you remember? We spoke in the bar. I tried to be friendly, but you weren’t interested?” Odette is whispering to him now. Pauline cries out in horror at what she hears. Guillaume looks back at Lana.

  “After you, they stopped the orgy. Even Fournier runs away. Vallette and his friends tie her to a chair and interrogate her. They did this. Then they leave her, except for one. He does not question her, but he insults her and touches her.”

  With her face turned away, Odette speaks in faltering English.

  “He was not important.”

  “I am saying to Odette I should never have asked her to do this. It was too dangerous. We were hoping she could be at the party, safe for a little while, find some good shots, then make an excuse to leave, say she was nervous. The camera was in her sac . . . no, her . . .”

  “Purse.”

  “Yes. A tiny hole. She holds it like this, this way, then this. She practiced.”

  “It was good. Perfect shots I am sure. . . . but then . . .”

  Odette’s English seems to fail. She continues in French, sounding strained. Guillaume translates rapidly.

  “She almost escaped . . . she filmed Fournier . . . on his knees like a little dog . . . but he saw her go to the elevator . . . he was begging her to stay . . . she blames herself.”

  He soothes Odette. She manages some more English. “My sac, I hold it so. He sees and fuh! I know he know.”

  And off she goes in French again. Agitatedly. Guillaume resumes his interpreter duties.

  “Fournier is suspicious . . . even more when she will not release the purse . . . His fingers are in her arm like a . . . the crab—”

  “A claw.”

  “Yes, claw. His eyes are like a savage animal’s . . . Ah, then the elevator comes. She tries to get away. That is when she sees you. She cannot get free . . . Then the elevator doors close. Fournier is very agitated . . . He takes the bag and finds the camera . . . She can see his rage but also his fear . . . Three men come and they stop everything. Fournier tells her . . . ‘You do not exist. Say what you want, no one will believe you.’”

  Odette stops talking. She seems barely conscious. Guillaume asks her something in French. She can only manage one word in response: “Claude.” Guillaume touches her shoulder gently and stands up.

  “I ask how did she escape. You heard her answer, yes?”

  “Claude, her brother.”

  “Yes, we will find out more later.”

  Lana feels a surge of admiration for the mental strength, the courage, the fire inside that took the young woman into that obscene lair. She envies it. Her little escapade, fired merely by curiosity born of elation, seems pretty pathetic now. If she had had any forewarning of the sleazy scenario that awaited her on the seventh floor, she would never have gone near that elevator. To go there willingly, toting a hidden camera, seems unthinkably brave. And then caught, tied up, interrogated, beaten.

  They go downstairs. Guillaume speaks in a whisper.

  “I think she will be okay tomorrow. She is wonnerful, yes? And still we have no evidence, no photos, only her words, which, against their words mean nothing.” He looks meaningfully at Lana. “You are the only witness.”

  It would be so easy and feel so right to say yes to the question in his eyes. But Lana heeds a tiny warning voice.

  “Guillaume, you know how people hate the way Americans interfere in stuff that’s not really their business—especially the French, actually. And I totally buy that. You got an election coming up and it’s for you people to decide. No matter what I saw it wouldn’t be right for me to get involved in any way. Sorry. I mean, believe me I understand your frustration, but . . .”

  Suddenly Guillaume claps his forehead and gives her the big smile.

  “Oh, I am stupid. It is a problem with language. Lana, I am sorry if you misunderstand me. You think I want you to be a witness to change the election? No, no. This is impossible. We are nothing. Look.”

  He gestures around the messy space as if to confirm his epic unimportance.

  “We are independent. Little. This project, I have been trying for a year. Maybe it will be another year. This is not a story only about Fournier. He is a little part, yes, maybe a bigger part, certainly, if he is already our president when we are complete. But no, this is a documentary . . . ah, a philosophical investigation . . . to question the sexual politics of France. You know we French like to say the public actions of a politician are important only, not the private life. In fact for many they like it when a politician is also seductive. D’Estaing was proud of himself for this. You know what he said? He said, ‘As president I was in love with seventeen million French women. They felt this love and they voted for me.’ But there is a problem, yes? This situation is good for men, especially for rich and powerful men, but not for women. Chirac’s wife, she must always ask the chauffeur, ‘Where is my husband tonight?’ Well, perhaps she was stupid to stay with such a man, but what about the case of Mitterrand? What about his mistress and his secret daughter? Was it a private matter, his own business when Mitterrand spent money from the state for his mistress and his daughter and utilized the apparatus
of the state to protect his secret? Interesting, yes? You understand, Lana. This is the story I am trying to tell. It is a discussion most important.

  “In France for men in powerful political situations, it is still the time of Kennedy. Silence, secrecy. Sometimes this is good. We are not puritans. But, ah yes, if the rules are not equal, if the woman she cannot say no, if the man is not the charming seducteur, but something else? A predator, arrogant and forceful. What then? This is a question. We ask your help for this question, Lana. Decide the election in France? Dufour or Fournier? No. Of course not. To make my little documentary it is slow. Maybe another year, maybe more. We are idealists, we are dreamers. We hope, but we do not know. You were a witness to something very important tonight. It is better for our story that you are not French. You look with different eyes. Open eyes. Please, help us with this project?”

  His arm is around Pauline’s waist. When he finishes his speech he squeezes it and kisses her temple. They both gaze at Lana. Hungry puppies could not have been more entreating.