No problem: Thierry would learn how to use the clippers to keep one eighth of an inch of hair on his head. At the same time he would get rid of this bloody beard. Soon he would have nothing left to hide.
*
“You’re not there yet,” said Rodier, leafing quickly through the pages.
Blin had found him at the Monseigneur, a hostess bar near the Champs-Élysées which still had a whiff of the 1970s as well as the various perfumes of women waiting; coloured lights rotated above the red sofas and the mouldings on the walls. Without trying to work out what they were doing there, Thierry waited for Rodier’s reaction after reading his very first investigation report.
“You use subjective words like ‘eccentric’ and ‘upwardly mobile’ – that’s your personal opinion, no one gives a damn about it. Too many conditionals as well, it makes it sound like we did bugger all. ‘M Damien Lefaure should currently be under official observation.’ No! Didn’t you hear what my informer at the tax office said? They’ve got the guy in their sights already, the Tax Office, the Contributions Agency and the National Insurance people, and they have had for five years. That deserves the present tense, doesn’t it? On the other hand, you should have put inverted commas round ‘appears’ in the sentence: ‘Furthermore, M. Lefaure appears in the records of a company called Pixacom’, because he doesn’t appear officially. And also, when you say: ‘M. Lefaure has declared his own incompetence’, you have to be a bit more precise for whoever’s going to read it – you have to dot the i s and cross the t s: ‘. . . which means that he is under the supervision of his wife, Mme Françoise Lefaure’. You could even drive the nail home by adding: ‘he is therefore not capable of managing his assets’, because that answers the question you were asked in the first place. You’re not expected to develop a style, you just have to say what you’ve found out, and that’s it.”
“Where have I developed a style?”
“In the sentence: ‘During a telephone conversation, we were aware of an eloquent silence from the agency’s personnel when we asked for Pixacom.’ What on earth is this ‘eloquent silence’? What exactly was it saying, this silence?”
Thierry said nothing.
“We were aware of ‘some embarrassment’, that’s enough. You can tell the people at the agency weren’t expecting this sort of cross-checking, so basta.”
Rodier had a kindly way of giving Thierry a rocket, with a half smile and a tone of voice at the lower end of mocking. The verdict was incontrovertible: on the right tracks, but could do better.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” asked the barmaid.
She did not have the assurance of a manager, the speed of a waitress or the looks of a hostess. She gave people drinks without any style, stood waiting with her arms crossed, coming and going behind the bar, not really sure what to do. A red angora sweater, black stretch trousers and low-heeled brown court shoes, which she wore as if she had gone to some trouble. Thierry could see her wandering aimlessly through life for years before ending up there, a cheap dogsbody, slightly awkward and offhand. Without taking his eyes off her, Rodier spoke to Thierry with an inane grin. “Have whatever you want, it’s on the house.”
The words “on the house” afforded Rodier a brief but very real flush of pleasure. They were the most unthinkable words to the woman behind the bar. Nothing was ever offered on this house. It was more than a rule: it was an outright ban. Everything had a price, even smiles, because they were rare and were included in the bill.
“Catherine isn’t here,” she said.
“I know, she said she’d meet me at nine. In the meantime, give us a couple of glasses of champagne,” Rodier said firmly.
Two girls who had not heard this exchange got up off their sofa and came over towards them. The one who was making for Rodier was keen for everyone to notice her red fishnet stockings and her black skirt, which was split right up to her hip. Blin had no desire to smile or talk to the other girl. She was neither pretty nor ugly, and stood thrusting her breasts forward; although she was not thirsty, she would order a drink; she wanted to make Thierry feel like touching her, but her own harsh expression let her down. The only thing she wanted was to get back home, and she was quite incapable of disguising the fact.
“Ladies,” said Rodier, “we’re not customers – it’s the other way around: the bar has called on my services. So I’m not going to buy you a drink and you’re not going to hold it against me. We’re here for purely professional reasons.”
The girls got down from the stools but not acrimoniously, not even making them feel guilty for getting them over there for nothing.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” asked Thierry.
“The boss needs a favour from me. And she can do me one, too. We can probably come to some sort of arrangement.”
Up on the display the two bottles of whisky, the cognac, gin and vodka had not been touched for years. On the other hand, there was a huge ice bucket containing four bottles of champagne, one of which had been opened. Wanting to witness a ritual which he still did not quite understand, Thierry was disappointed not to see a single real customer come through the door.
“Who could fall into this sort of trap, apart from a tourist who’s blind drunk? If I had to find a definition for the biggest turn-off in the world, this would be it.”
“A man your age doesn’t belong in Monseigneur. But when you get to mine, when the bill doesn’t matter at all and you need complete discretion, it does the trick. I had some pretty memorable evenings here, a long time ago. But I don’t recover the way I used to, and my Monique is the only person in the world I can sleep with.”
A tall slim woman of about fifty with blond hair and far too much make-up came into the bar with the confidence of a manageress. She said a general hello, went behind the bar, put her coat away in a cupboard and came and put her arms round Rodier. He introduced Blin, and she kissed him with the same enthusiasm, then sat down on a stool between them. She had managed to keep an air of surprise in her eyes and a more sincere smile than all the other women there. Her black thigh boots identified her as the sort of capable woman whose natural authority no one, and particularly not Thierry, would challenge.
“What are you going to get me to drink, boys?”
“Nothing, you’re getting the drinks tonight.”
Amused to see the roles reversed, she ordered herself a glass of champagne.
“How do you manage to have a tan all year round in a place like this?” Rodier asked.
“It costs me a fortune, but it’s worth it,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse to show the contrast between her burnished skin and the white lace of her bra.
Thierry, electrified by this spontaneous gesture, understood that he now needed this in his life.
“Can we talk now, my Pierrot?” the woman asked.
“He works with me, you can talk.”
“I need an ex-directory number. That’s not difficult for you.”
“Three thousand.”
“Three thousand? Well, you’ll be able to buy me a drink with that!”
Even though she was the manageress, Catherine never forgot to pose seductively: it was like a second persona which she assumed late in the afternoon and kept until dawn. Thierry would have been curious to see when this woman’s sincerity and spontaneity were fully expressed.
“For this number of yours, you’ll need to give me an advance of 1,500 and lend me that girl over there, in the blue dress. You can give the remaining 1,500 to her.”
“Yvette?”
“I’ll send her back in two hours.”
Without asking for any explanation, Catherine left them to go and negotiate with the girl in question.
“Am I allowed to know what’s going on?” asked Blin.
“I’ve got a job that’s been dragging on for a long time. Believe me, I’d give a lot to get you to go instead of me. I’m even going to have a little whisky to give me the courage.”
Even though
Rodier had a habit of grumbling every time more work appeared on the horizon, it was rare for him to have to egg himself on like this.
“You’ll have to tell me more about it. It’s not so much out of curiosity, I just want to learn.”
“In my line of work, you often find a problem with money is actually hiding a question of morals. This time it’s the other way round: a little question of sex is hiding a major financial problem. A company director wants to be able to prove that his wife goes to a swingers’ club. He couldn’t care less where she spends her Sunday and Tuesday evenings, he just wants her to be at fault in the divorce proceedings so that he can keep the thirty per cent share in a company they set up together.”
Blin eyed him silently.
Rodier said nothing.
“If you want to have a good time with Yvette, spare me the tall story!”
“You can’t go into that sort of place alone, everyone knows that. When Yvette and I get through the door, she’ll go and sit down at the bar, and I’ll go and ferret round the place to find this woman. With any luck, I’ll be able to get a picture of her as she’s coming out.”
Thierry sat listening to him with his arms crossed, about to explode laughing.
“It’s like something from one of those American series where men spend their whole lives in dinner jackets and women sleep with their chauffeurs. To round off my training, you’re going to tell me why you really need this girl – if it’s not too personal.”
“I haven’t got that much imagination, everything I’ve said is true; at least, that’s how it was presented to me. This sort of thing probably doesn’t happen in the life of a framer, that’s why you want to change. But it does in mine, and that’s why I want to change too. And it’s now or never, if this gives you second thoughts, to address moral issues and the whole caboodle. I’ve accepted this job, others would have turned it down, but I do turn down plenty which line the pockets of the competition. Of the seven deadly sins, there are three or four which I’ve made a living from up till now, and they’ll do the same for you if you persevere.”
Blin had not anticipated this call to order, and he sat rooted to the spot.
“This might also be an opportunity for you to backtrack, to go home like a good boy, go back to your old work, which won’t give you any problems with your conscience and won’t disturb your peace of mind. There’s still time. We still have a choice.”
Yvette joined them just at the right moment, with her coat over her shoulder.
“Shall we go?” she asked.
Rodier put his jacket back on, shook Blin’s hand without another thought for what he had said, and offered his arm to Yvette as they went out.
Thierry stayed alone at the bar for a minute.
There’s still time.
He automatically ordered a whisky. He was told straight away that this was no longer on the house, and he shrugged. At the same time, Catherine glanced quickly over at the girls’ table; Thierry had returned to the status of an everyday customer and was the only sucker there this early in the evening.
We still have a choice.
For a moment he thought of Nadine, who was waiting for him in their bed, waiting patiently, worried by the fact that he was so free in what he did and when he did it. She did not suspect anything very bad and was only worried that he might be depressed. She never raised the question, but Thierry knew that look in her eye.
“Is someone going to give me a glass of champagne?”
A girl had come to try her luck; she had curly blond hair and was wearing a black top and a red skirt. Thierry tried to imagine the story of her life: she was in love with someone who was out of work and hated himself for letting her do this sort of work, but they had to live. Since he had been following people in the street, he had fun dishing out lives as the fancy took him, as if he had the authority.
There’s still time.
Come on then, have the champagne! A tiny little flute with two ice cubes in it which she just about brushed with her lips. He wondered what the next stage would be in this tiresome process, which was meant to get him drunk and ruin him while giving the girl enough to feed her for a month.
“What’s your name?”
He hesitated between Thierry and Paul. No longer really the one, but still far from being the other. She could not care less about his name; Thierry had no desire to know hers. Rodier was right, all he had to do was get down from this stool, go home, and get back to Nadine and, in the morning, his little shop.
There’s still time.
“Are you married?”
No reply.
“You don’t have to answer.”
He did not.
“Do you want another drink?”
“I’m going to have a bottle, that’ll make the boss happy. But I want something in return: kisses on the neck, two or three, right now.”
“You or me?”
“Both of us.”
“You’re a one-off.”
She must have thought he needed comforting, and took hold of his shoulders to subject him to a flurry of kisses intercut with other little niceties on his neck. He rubbed his nose in the opening in her blouse so that he was filled with the smell of her perfume. He felt nothing familiar in this strange embrace, nothing sensual, just a hint of complicity with this girl who lived in such a different world.
“Well, well, my love birds,” said Catherine. “I’m going to have to call the police or the fire brigade.”
The kisser started laughing. She had fulfilled her task. Blin stroked her shoulder, paid and left.
*
“You’re getting home later every night.”
“Weren’t you asleep?”
He collapsed into bed, fully clothed.
“Are you drunk?”
Regretting that he was not, he said no to make her think he was.
“Don’t muck about with me, you stink of alcohol.”
“. . . So?”
The way he orchestrated their break-up with a slow process of disintegration was far more diabolical than the way Rodier’s client was trying to get rid of his wife.
“We’re going to have to talk.”
“It can wait till tomorrow, can’t it?”
He felt her moving closer and tensing as she smelled him.
He thought he could make out a couple of tears.
In the morning she would find curly blond hair on the pillow. Traces of lipstick on his collar.
The rest was a foregone conclusion.
Nicolas Gredzinski
Naked and with his eyes half closed, Nicolas found a white bathroom and took a shower to wash off – albeit unwillingly – the smell of sex that emanated from his whole body. Still streaming with water, he went and snuggled up to the beautiful woman as she slept. In this state of abandon, revealed only to Nicolas, Loraine’s mystery remained intact.
As they had come out of the Lynn, they had tried to find an adjective to describe their state: they were grey. A magnificent night-sky grey, more wolf than dog, with a hint of blue. They were walking along the Seine and had seen, as if by magic, a monstrous vessel drifting towards them – the Hotel Nikko, they would discover in the morning – and had boarded it with all the arrogance of pirates, ready to take on the whole building at the least resistance. Nicolas enquired about what was in the mini-bar before even asking for a room; they went up the stairs, amused at the thought of waking anyone who thought they were safely settled at this time of night.
“Champagne?” he asked, on his knees with his head in the fridge.
“Champagne!”
What happened next was a whole new encounter. The second time I met Loraine. He had never in his life manoeuvred so swiftly to undress a woman; he wanted her naked as soon as possible, and the strangest thing was that with every garment that came off he felt more and more naked himself. If she was going to condemn him to knowing nothing about her life, then her body had to be revealed immediately; she did nothing to stop him. In fact sh
e helped him with her laughter and a few gestures which facilitated the striptease and made it a hundred times more exciting. They stayed like that for a while, her completely naked, kneeling on the floor, and him in his suit and tie, slumped on a sofa. As they drank, they launched into a very frank conversation about how self-contained the middle classes were and, against all expectations, this only heightened the erotic charge of the situation. He took this time as a gift from Loraine, who was very conscious of giving so little in other areas; she agreed to show the visible part of herself completely. This gift increased her usual charm tenfold, created a new kind of complicity, swept aside Nicolas’s prevarications and reconciled him to the ghosts of all the women he had not managed to undress. Hypnotized by her bare skin and her secret folds, he tried to catch every smell that came from her, a mixture of Dior and natural sweat, of makeup and intimate exhalations. It was that same smell – corrupted by his own smell, compromised by their embraces – that he found again under the sheets when he came out of the shower. If Loraine was still asleep, then she must have decided to be, so it would have been pointless and tactless to wake her and point out that the sun was up. He found the strength to break away from her, got himself dressed without taking his eyes off her little brown leather handbag, and was tempted to slip his hand inside it to unearth a few facts – was Loraine married? What the hell did she do before going and hanging out in bars? Was Loraine called Loraine? – all things that had become less urgent now that they had made love.
Nicolas was happily picturing himself sliding gently through the day with a smile on his lips and a light heart, waiting for the night and all it promised; it would not be too soon to see whether they could be so imaginative without drinking. Now he could get back into the Group, quite ready to dismiss all the tiresome people who could not resist reminding him that life is a challenge.
“Monsieur Bardane wants to see you straight away!” said Muriel.
This information seemed to be urgent. Nicolas paid absolutely no attention, picked up his mail and the usual newspapers, and sat down at his desk to review the papers. He did not need anything, not beer, or aspirin or deliverance. His good mood was enough. An hour later, Bardane knocked on his door. “You think you’ve scored some points with the DG, don’t you?”
Someone Else Page 13
