by Enzo Bartoli
‘Oh, so I have a few more long days ahead of me. Or nights, in this instance.’
‘I’ll try to be more available to you this time. Promise. I can take over when you’re tired.’
I take this as good news, even though I’d prefer it if she didn’t take over at all. I’d rather she was just with me. I don’t much fancy the thought of her being parked in a car on her own in the middle of some nightmare of an estate. God only knows what these people would be capable of if they got hold of her.
As we arrive at Austerlitz, we find ourselves driving slowly behind a bus. There’s a huge advert on the back for a rap concert. The ‘singer’, if that’s what you’d call him, has the exact same look as our Abdou Nkomo. Behind him are two pin-up girls with huge fake bosoms, each brandishing a revolver provocatively. The image prompts a question that I haven’t yet asked myself. It falls from my lips as soon as it enters my mind.
‘Why him?’
‘What?’
I point to the ad on the back of the bus. ‘There are men like him all over the place! Even if this guy is a massive drug dealer or trafficker or whatever you want to call it, I doubt he has the monopoly on drug sales throughout France. Even Paris! There’ll be someone like him on every estate, in every suburb, in every city. So why this one?’
For the first time, I feel like I’ve asked a daft question. Chloé looks at the back of the bus and her lips curl.
‘What are you on about! It’s nothing to do with him! He’s an amazing artist!’ she cries.
‘I know that, but you know what I mean. All you’ve got to do is head down to Fresnes or Fleury-Mérogis and you’ll see dealers coming in and out of the flats all day long. So why this Abdou Nkomo? What’s so special about him?’
As we continue up Rue Saint-Jacques, Chloé remains silent for a while. Just as we reach Place de l’Odéon, she lets out a long sigh and, as she does so, I know I should be able to trust her. This guy must be a real piece of shit if we’re even talking about doing what we’re going to do. She doesn’t utter another word until we’re outside my building.
‘Are you seeing your doctor again soon?’
‘Yes. In three days.’
‘Right. I suggest meeting after that and we can talk it all through.’
Is she stonewalling me? I don’t insist on getting my explanation. It really doesn’t look like there’s one coming anyway. I step out of the car and slam the door behind me. She starts the engine again and she’s off in the blink of an eye. So much for my feelings.
I feel stuck between two thoughts. I’m sad that she isn’t paying a little more attention to me – romantically speaking. But then that’s always been the case. And I’m worried that she doesn’t seem to want to answer my question at all.
CHAPTER 20
Professor Lazreg comes to administer my treatment. I start by getting him a glass of water and opening a beer for myself.
Our conversation centres on what’s been happening in the news. An attack on a refugee centre has just been thwarted and my doctor is talking ten to the dozen about the intolerance and selfishness of our society. There’s also a Jewish children’s holiday camp that was attacked by a group of Islamic teenagers not much older than the kids in the place. Fanatics, we’re told. The doctor goes into a new spiel now about the radicalisation of young Muslims in the suburbs of Paris. I have to admit, I’m finding it hard to engage with all this. I’m just not that interested. It’s not that I’m insensitive to children’s suffering. At least, I don’t think I am. It’s just that I know that, however hard I try, I’ll never be able to understand why anyone could think that seventy-two virgins might be waiting for them in paradise, or that Jewish children should only go on holiday with other Jewish children, or that if on Sunday you take a sip of wine and a bite of bread that you’re taking the flesh and blood of an Aramaic chap who died two thousand years ago. I just don’t get any of it. I’ve spent the best part of my life studying the birth of matter and the formation of the universe. I think that if there had been some divine intervention in any of it then I, or one of my esteemed colleagues, would have seen traces of it. And I don’t believe I’ll be changing my mind on the matter any time soon.
‘We’re going to be doing a few more tests.’
He springs it on me – just like that.
‘Do you really think I need more of that right now?’
He gives me the annoyed frown of an eminent doctor whose decisions are being questioned. But he knows how to deal with people like me and has an answer for me within seconds. ‘I can see that you’re handling your treatment remarkably well. You’re resisting the disease. But there are no miracles, as well you know. You must also understand that I am doing my very best to make sure you suffer as little as possible. And these tests will help me to do just that.’
‘In that case . . .’
Scans, X-rays, blood tests, urine samples, stool samples . . . I spend a whole day at the hospital and am now going to collect the results.
When I get there, there are only two people in Lazreg’s waiting room. A woman in her mid-sixties who has just come in for a check-up. More than likely, her GP has sent her in for tests just to get her to stop bugging him, because it’s evident to me that she’s never lived with the darkness of a malignant tumour. There’s also a man. He’s a little younger. Probably fifty. He’s done for. You can just see it. He carries it with him. Perhaps he’s not even aware of it himself yet. They might not have given him the news, but I would bet what little life I have left that he’s no better off than me. I don’t know how I can be so certain of such things, but I am convinced of my diagnoses. I don’t enjoy this new-found gift of mine. It’s not a power I’d wish on anyone, but I wonder if it’s something you develop once you’re condemned to death. A kind of sixth sense. Perhaps he’ll discover he has it, too.
Half an hour later, they’ve both gone to their different destinies and I know that it’ll be my turn any minute now.
‘Hello, Monsieur Gaudin.’
I didn’t hear him arrive in the waiting room. He holds the door ajar with his foot and offers me his hand to shake. He seems in a much better mood than usual. He’s warmer somehow. I join him in his office and sit down in the chair facing his desk. Same old, same old. I’ve done it a hundred times. But Lazreg has an amused smile on his face as he watches me. Before he takes a seat himself, I ask him why he’s so cheerful.
‘No reason,’ he says, sounding apologetic. ‘It’s a little strange to see you here in such professional surroundings. I’m no longer used to it.’
I understand perfectly what he means. This visit is having an odd effect on me, too. He’s been coming to my flat, having his glasses of water, discussing all sorts of topics other than my illness, and although I wouldn’t exactly say we were friends, we have reached a certain level of intimacy; and now we both feel out of place in his sterile office.
‘Let me tell you where we’re at.’ As soon as his backside hits his chair he’s opening up my file on his computer. ‘Hmm . . . Obviously . . .’
He doesn’t seem happy about something, but I don’t think I’ve done or said anything that might displease him. He hasn’t really ever told me anything about what changes I should be making to my diet or anything like that. And I don’t have any medication to take other than what he administers himself. So what can I have done wrong? I’d better find out.
‘What’s going on, Doctor?’
The voice and the tone I employ surprise me. I’m talking to him as if I doubt him somehow. But he’s done nothing wrong. Do I only have two weeks left? Would that really change anything? He doesn’t seem to notice my aggression. I don’t think he’s even heard me. He continues to read the results on the screen and mutters to himself inaudibly. I discreetly get my phone out of my pocket to check the time and decide that I’m only going to let him give me the silent treatment for a further two minutes. Then I’m going to really let him have it.
He remembers my existence just elev
en seconds before the deadline.
‘Monsieur Gaudin?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you.’
‘Oh. You hoped there would be some?’
He seems hesitant. He always does when it’s anything to do with my sickness. He throws his glasses down on to the desk. ‘I didn’t. But, to tell you the truth, the way you were reacting to the treatment made me think that perhaps we could slow down the process. But that’s not the case at all. What I told you a few months ago still stands.’
‘Which means?’
‘Which means that in eight to ten weeks your treatment will no longer be considered worth pursuing. You will be hospitalised again, and it will all move very quickly after that.’
I take in what he’s saying. It’s definite. Concrete. I can see the last few hurdles quite clearly now.
‘That’s fine, Doctor.’
‘I’ll continue to treat you until we . . . get to that point,’ he adds insistently. ‘And I’ll do everything in my power to ensure you remain as comfortable as possible.’
I suddenly feel very old and ill.
‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry about me. I’ve reached a place of acceptance now. It’s just the date . . .’
‘We’ll talk about it more next week. Unless . . . I think I can trust you, can’t I?’
I don’t know where he’s going with a question like that, but I nod, feeling shy. ‘I think so, Doctor.’
‘It’s just that . . . I told you that your treatment hasn’t been approved in France . . . and that it would be difficult for anyone to treat you other than me.’
‘I remember all that, of course.’
‘And so I thought that if you wanted to make the most of the time . . . left . . . and if you think you could manage the injections yourself . . . I could perhaps give you enough for the next couple of weeks.’
I don’t quite know what to say. I know that he must have thought about this for a long time before offering it to me as a possibility, and that I should thank him.
‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll think about it.’ We both stand and walk to the door, where I add, ‘Of course, you can count on my discretion.’
CHAPTER 21
Prior to meeting Chloé, I’d been to a nightclub on just the one occasion in my forty-four years on this earth; now, this was my second time in a month. And what dreadful places they’ve proved to be! The club that just goes by the initial S, which she took me to for some hardcore training, gave me the fright of my life, but the Bronco is as nightmarish as they come. The music? Incomprehensible bellowing between loud squeaks and scratchy noises from the turntables. The décor? Well, the dimmed lights give me a (fortunately) reduced view of what’s going on, but from what I can make out, the walls are plastered with naked girls in all sorts of compromising positions and very often with some sort of cooking utensil or piece of cleaning equipment in their hands . . . which they’re using for pretty much anything but household chores. In perfect keeping with the place, the clientele seems semi-wild. They’re screaming, scuffling and showing off like kids. I’ve never witnessed anything quite like it. Oh, and I forgot to mention . . . 99 per cent of the punters are black. So Chloé and I stick out like sore thumbs as we make our way through the crowds. It’s a miracle the bouncers even let us enter. But now we’re sitting on a red velvet bench, trying to blend in . . . or at least not be noticed. Neither of us take our eyes off the entrance. And even though my age and attire suggest I’m the odd one out in the place, Chloé’s the one suffering as she sits by my side. It’s the first time I’ve seen her lose both her optimism and her good humour simultaneously. I think that she feels guilty, too – because the reason we’re here is that Nkomo slipped through our fingers this afternoon. I wasn’t there; she’d insisted I stay at home and rest a little. The way it happened was ridiculous, as these things always are. He’d disappeared into the bowels of the estate just as business was starting to boom out in the car park. A police car turned up and patrolled the area. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The police drive round these estates every day putting up with insults and jibes from the youths who hang out in front of the tower blocks. It’s just that today, as they finished their tour, they were joined by six other riot vans which all took position in front of the high-rises. Everyone scarpered: every man for himself. And Nkomo was no exception. Chloé didn’t catch sight of him again. No doubt the subterranean levels of the place are full of escape exits and he was out of there like a rat out of a sewer.
Chloé did her best to find him by going through the usual channels: local dives, the homes of his closest friends and allies, his regular clients . . . but there was neither hide nor hair of him. She headed back towards his neighbourhood, the Navigateurs estate, and, with extreme caution, went down to the basement level, where there was a vast underground system of garages and storage spaces. She couldn’t find his Audi R8, which is usually parked down there and guarded by one of his lackeys. It was at this point that she decided to call me.
I wasn’t in particularly good shape when the phone rang. She must have guessed this by the sound of my voice because, when I offered to join her, she refused outright. But I am finding it harder and harder to deal with the insomnia I’ve recently started to suffer from, and couldn’t rest as she’d asked; so I managed to convince her to come and pick me up so that we could seek him out as a team.
This is how we ended up in the hell that is the Bronco. By now, we’re both starting to get a little on the desperate side. We know that this is the only place we have any chance of finding him at 3 a.m. We know he comes here a lot. But neither of us has ever actually crossed the threshold before. We usually just follow him as far as the car park, watch him go inside and then know that nothing of much interest is going to happen until the following day. But we decide to venture inside tonight, in the hope (the absurd hope) that we might pick up a few clues on how to establish contact with the man.
‘We shouldn’t have bothered coming! We’re never going to get anywhere!’
She screams this in my ear, but I only just catch what she’s saying. At least there’s no chance of anyone overhearing our conversation if even I can’t hear her over the din.
‘Why? Do you think he won’t bother showing?’
‘I don’t think so. And if he does turn up, he’s going to spot us straight away, isn’t he? We don’t exactly blend in.’
I can’t say she’s wrong about that. Quite a few people have been giving us odd looks. They’ve been paying particular attention to Chloé and . . . to her curves, I imagine. The men in here aren’t exactly the subtle type. They look at me immediately afterwards and must be asking themselves, and I’m getting quite used to this by now, what’s she doing with a bloke like that?
‘What do you suggest, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
She spits this last sentence out nastily. It’s not like her, but I understand her frustration. We’ve been following him for eight days now. We’ve been either working together or taking it in turns to try not to let this Nkomo out of our sights. We have to break off sometimes, though, usually between 3 and 10 a.m. We now have a good idea of the sorts of things he gets up to during the day: examples include the delivery at a motorway service station car park of a significant number of suspect packages, several pick-ups of cash from his various dealers, and a bit of a punch-up with one of his bodyguards after some sort of disagreement. I even watched, from afar, what looked like a territory negotiation with another of the big bosses from one of the estates on the eastern side of Paris. Chloé has told me quite a lot about his private life, too. His sex life, in any case. This man is a sex addict and a pervert, it seems. He enjoys using his power over women to satisfy his carnal instincts. There are quite a lot of cash-strapped junkies out there who’ll do anything for a fix. But it’s not only them. He also sleeps with the girlfriends of his fellow gang members. He somehow has that
right. And then, of course, there’s the odd lady of the night here and there who he enjoys time with in the back of his car or in bar toilets. He’s certainly given us plenty to do. We’re never bored when we’re watching him, but we always go home feeling rather nauseated. And it’s all been for nothing.
We can’t find a flaw in his system. He is armed. Always. He is dangerous. He is never alone. When he sleeps, there are two or three of his henchmen parked in a car outside his flat. There’s even one inside the flat itself. Or outside the front door if he’s enjoying some time with his girlfriend. This is going to be complicated, no two ways about it.
All this must be contributing to the fact that I haven’t been able to sleep much recently. I’ve spent so many hours watching this man and when I find myself alone I spend even more time wondering how we’re ever going to get near him. When Chloé takes over from me and tells me to go home and take it easy, I can only stay in front of the television for a few minutes before I start pacing up and down, trying to work out a solution, trying to find the chink in his armour that will allow us to operate in safety. But nothing comes to me.
It’s ludicrous. I know that’s what most people would think. From where I stand right now, I might as well head off on a kamikaze mission and take him out in the middle of the street. With a little bit of luck, I might just escape his gang . . . but I’d be more likely to get a bullet in my brain and that’d be the end of that. At least I’d avoid being hunted down in a revenge killing. I’d also miss out on the agony that’s probably awaiting me in a hospital bed.
‘We’d better just go. I’m not feeling it.’
Chloé declares her decision and hops straight to her feet, ready to make a quick exit. I also feel the need to get the hell out of here, but at the same time I have my doubts. A voice inside my head is urging me to stay – saying that if we do we’ll learn something important. But I know Chloé well by now and I know there’ll be no stopping her, so I stand up to follow.