Nicolas no longer hid in front of Muriel when she came in to give him his mail at the stroke of 10 o’clock. With the whole range of Trickpacks on his desk, he no longer even felt he had to hide his beer. The device had been conceived from a feeling of shame which he had now shaken off; he drank beer because it was what his body wanted and his conscience had no problem with that. From time to time the Other would lash out with a comment on the subject: Drink as much as you need, drink so long as it helps you get on. Steer clear of aniseed derivatives and spirits made from fruit. Your first try was a stroke of luck, stick to vodka. You can mix with it so long as you don’t lose sight of the pleasure of the taste. And remember to drink lots of water between glasses of alcohol. I know it’s not easy, but do your best.
“Shall I leave the newspapers that came while you were away?”
“Thank you, Muriel.”
He used his daily review of the papers to emerge from his hangovers, which were getting worse and worse. He opened a second Heineken and chose the Trickpack of another brand of beer to disguise it, amused by the absurdity of what he was doing. Amongst the latest range of Trickpacks offered by Altux Ltd, there was a design with black capitals on a white background stating something along the lines of: Excessive drinking can damage your health. There were the designs for couples, His and Hers – with options for personalizing them by inscribing names or printing photographs on them. There were subversions of canned foods, including Popeye’s famous can of spinach. There was the Trichloroethylene Trickpack, but also the ones saying Arsenic, Strychnine and Holy Water. And, to crown it all, slogans about drunkenness, and extracts from famous film dialogues. Nothing surprised Nicolas any more, especially before his first beer of the day, the one he tasted with every last taste bud. The rest of the day he had the choice of a variety of poisons, depending on the circumstances. At a particular time in the evening, the beer called quite irresistibly for vodka, and then, late at night, the vodka would call for the chill of beer. And Nicolas threw himself into this spiral without a shadow of remorse. Some day soon, eaten away by alcohol and at death’s door, he would still have the delicate memory of the bitter taste of beer in the morning.
The friends of Thierry Blin, who left us a year ago, are invited to meet on Tuesday, 16 May at 6pm, at 170 Rue de Turenne, Paris 75003, to have a drink in his memory.
In between two articles he barely glanced at: Thierry Blin.
Looming up from another life.
The tennis match at the Feuillants Club. Borg and Connors.
Such a small paragraph, such an aberration.
Now that was one drink that Nicolas would not be having: he had been in Rome on Tuesday, 16 May.
Any doubts about the name did not stand up to the “who left us a year ago”. This was the same Blin, the one who had thought of the drunken challenge. They had arranged to meet three years later, on June 23rd to be precise, in less than a month in fact.
His beer suddenly tasted like sparkling water and was no longer any use to him at all. To register the shock, he felt he had to put his hand to his flask in his left inside pocket. The swig of vodka was taken almost before he realized it; he needed to concentrate without awakening his fears. What did that “left us” mean? Dead or missing? How could he guess what the madman was up to? Had he carried on with his ridiculous idea of becoming someone else? What for? And at what price? Had Blin died because he’d wanted to become this other person? One thing was sure: neither of them would be at the rendezvous they had arranged. Nicolas would never forget that lunatic who wanted to be someone else and who, without realizing it, had introduced him to vodka. So he raised his flask to the memory of Thierry Blin, his unwitting benefactor. That was his way of drinking to his memory.
The newspapers and magazines spread out over the table had just lost all interest. For reasons that he did not yet understand, Nicolas took back out the notes left by the Other the night before. All that really mattered was written there on those little pieces of paper, the rest could be forgotten. The monster was becoming more and more precise with his wording and now even took care with punctuation and made proper sentences, though still in the same spirited – sometimes threatening – tone, as if bellowing from the very depths of darkness.
Before, if someone made you wait more than twenty minutes for a meeting, you would worry that they had died. From now on, you should hope they have!
Some passages were more cryptic. Nicolas kept them carefully in a drawer and cast his eye over them from time to time to decipher the enigma.
Tell Garnier to piss off with his restructuring plan. It improves things only for his department, even if he’s claiming otherwise.
Rereading these words, Nicolas instantly dialled Garnier’s direct line.
“Guy?”
“Hello, Nicolas.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking, and I’d prefer it if our departments stayed separate, at least for now, but thanks for thinking of it.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end.
“Goodbye, Guy.”
Nicolas did have to acknowledge that the Other was right about almost everything, except on one point: Loraine’s secretiveness. If she did not make up her mind to share her secrets, Nicolas was going to have to do without her consent. He could already hear his double screaming like some voice of doom: You’ll ruin everything, you idiot. Remember the Orpheus myth!
“I’ll take the risk.”
She must have her reasons.
“I want to know what they are.”
Aren’t you happy with what you’ve got, living from one day to the next? Do you want more? How much more? And at what price?
“That’s just it, it’s not from one day to the next, it’s only ever nights. I love this woman, I love her, I can’t go on not knowing what she does when I’m not there, it’s driving me mad. At first, the game was fun, there was a whiff of heresy to it, but the smell of it’s become unbearable. I want to know because I have a right to.”
You have no right at all.
“What do you know about it? She’s always with you, you don’t have to suffer her not being there.”
What she’s giving you is already so good, if she needs more time, let her have it.
“I’m not going to wait one more night.”
He had been mulling it over for a few weeks and everything had come to a head when they got back from Rome. He had to know. Right away. All he had to do was open the yellow pages at the letter D.
Detective, Investigations, Tailing, Discretion . . .
As simple as that.
Paris Association of Detectives . . . BU Detective Agency . . . Cabinet Latour, enquiries . . .
In amongst all of these there was bound to be one which could tell him who Loraine was.
APR, missions . . . Anticipating, Deciding, Instigating, commercial and private cases . . .
She would know nothing about it.
Surveillance and Research . . . Detective since 1923 . . . He would know for sure.
Surveillance in radio-cars, close to Chaussée-d’Antin . . .
He had the right to know.
Consultant Detective . . . Security audits . . . Counterfeiting . . . Debtors . . . Missing persons . . . Data protection . . . SOS Detectives . . .
Which one? These men would do anything, you just had to pay the price. He tried to find a name which inspired him in the listings and the boxed ads, but they were all as good as each other, they all made him suspicious. He took another swig of vodka to give him courage, and looked through each address, each name. Without realizing it, he could not get over the shock created by Blin’s reappearance: a reappearance announcing a disappearance, it was all happening too quickly. The words “left us” had disturbed him for reasons that were now becoming clear. And what if, by remaining so anonymous, Loraine disappeared too? And what if she had said as little as possible with the sole intention of facilitating her exit, some time soon? And what if her silence was protecting Nicolas fr
om some threat? Somewhere behind Blin’s disappearance, he had become afraid for Loraine. He emptied his flask without even knowing he was doing it.
Private cases . . . Discretion . . . Good News Agency . . .
Why not the Good News Agency? The name was both absurd and naive. This one or one of the others, what did it matter in the end. Having run out of vodka, he resigned himself to finishing his warm beer in one go. He was drunk, he knew that, he had tried hard enough to get there.
“Hello? I’d like to talk to a detective.”
“Monsieur Vermeiren is on a case at the moment, but I could arrange a meeting for you.”
“I need someone straight away.”
“Try BIDM or Paul Lartigues’s company, they’re big organizations and they can get things going quickly, but perhaps not within the hour.”
“I’ll sort something out, thank you.”
Actually, why did he need to use that lot? What was the point in pouring his life out to some stranger? It wasn’t rocket science, after all. With a bit of application and guesswork, he would have it all worked out in less than an hour. He missed the burning of the vodka, he could not wait to get out of the tower and go into the first bar he could find to fill up his flask – he had tried all sorts of other spirits, but none of them could get the Other to appear in broad daylight.
“Hello, Loraine? I can’t hear you . . .”
“The reception’s not very good here. I haven’t really got time to talk.”
He wanted to give her a chance to tell him everything. Perhaps that was what she was waiting for.
“Where are you?”
“I’ve just said I haven’t got time. Anyway, we’re seeing each other this evening, aren’t we?”
“I’ve got to see you now.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. It’s the first time I have, isn’t it?”
She did not answer.
“Well, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me where and when.”
She would not commit herself.
“Loraine!”
“The Petits Carreaux Brasserie at the end of the Rue Montorgueil.”
“When?”
“One fifteen.”
If her secret was too heavy he would help her carry it. If it was too heavy for two, at least he would know for sure and he would know what sort of decision to make.
“Hello, Muriel? I’m going to be out for the rest of the day. Could you cancel everything I’m doing this afternoon?”
“All right, Monsieur Gredzinski. There’s just a meeting with the Rhônes-Alpes local council people who are in Paris until Saturday. I’ll find another time.”
“Thank you, Muriel.”
“Monsieur Gredzinski? There is something else . . . Someone’s just arrived for you, he’d like you to see him.”
“Now? Who is it?”
“. . . He says he won’t keep you long.”
“Who is it, Muriel?”
“. . . It’s Monsieur Bardane.”
“Don’t send him in.”
He picked up his flask, put it away in his inside pocket and left his office, heading for the lifts. Bardane was there, sitting on a chair like a courier waiting for his package. The last person in the world that Nicolas wanted to bump into. Loraine was waiting, it could be that a whole life was going to be decided in the next hour, and the prick had chosen that precise moment to resurface! Why could the words “left us” not be reserved for people like him?
“Hello, Nicolas.”
Bardane held out his hand and forced a smile. Gredzinski did not take the same trouble.
“Your timing’s not great. I can’t see you now.”
There he was, the former client director, looking somehow neglected and dressed up to the nines at the same time. Tired, red-faced, eyes downcast – everything about him looked desperate.
“Just two minutes, please, Nicolas.”
The most arrogant will all be servile one day. But why the bloody hell did it have to be today?
Since Bardane had left, Nicolas had felt something close to remorse, but it was a sporadic, low-grade remorse, a decorative remorse, a safety-device anxiety which vanished with the first mouthful of alcohol. This man had tried to humiliate him at a time when he was not yet the Gredzinski he was now, when he was frightened if someone raised their voice in front of him, frightened of his own shadow, of life, of everything: easy prey. Now he had every right to give his resentment full sway.
He was waiting for the lift. Bardane was close behind him, his efforts to catch up as grotesquely pathetic as his every move had been since his redundancy. Nicolas ostentatiously ignored him but there was nothing for it: they ended up alone in the lift.
“I know I made a lot of mistakes with you, Nicolas. I shouldn’t have inflicted that meeting on you. I know that that’s what you resent me for the most, and you’re right.”
“I didn’t want your job, I was handed it on a plate. If you miss it all that much, take it back, I don’t need it any more, I don’t even need to work again in my life, I’m getting ten or twenty times my salary every month – and, incidentally, my salary was raised after you left, anyway. I’m only doing this job because it’s been quite fun until now, but it’s over. They’ll be recruiting soon, put yourself in the running.”
“Stop making jokes like that. I lost my sense of humour a long time ago.”
Did he ever have one? Nicolas wondered as the doors to the lift opened onto the atrium.
“I came to apologize. I’m responsible for everything that happened.”
“I’m in a hurry, can’t you see?”
“No one wants to take me on, given my age. I thought I’d be able to find work straight away and . . .”
They had reached the paved entrance. The faster Nicolas walked, the more ridiculous the situation became.
“Broaters only sees things through you, just one word from you and I could have a job again – anything, I’m quite happy to be demoted.”
“You have been demoted.”
“Take me on in the department. I know the workshop by heart, I could be an asset.”
Nicolas was almost running along the footbridge. He was going to be late, Loraine would not wait. He loved her, he had to tell her right away and convince her that he could take whatever she had to say. Bardane would not give up now and was in danger of ruining everything.
“When the time comes for the Final Judgment,” said Nicolas, “and I stand before the Eternal Father, I’ll confess all my sins: ‘I stole a Transformer toy from someone younger than me when I was six. In the second year I told everyone in my class that Clarisse Vallée was in love with me, and they all made fun of her. I once kicked a cat incredibly hard when it woke me up miaowing for food.’ And when the Good Lord asks me how I redeemed myself, what good I did for mankind, I’ll tell him: ‘I broke Bardane.’”
Nicolas launched himself into the Métro station and, as he reached the ticket machine, he glanced over his shoulder.
No one.
*
He looked round the café. It was a bad time, with customers trying to grab lunch and looking for a little corner to sit down, and highly charged waiters far too busy to deal with him. He forced his way through the comings and goings and found room to stand at the far end of the bar, which was cluttered with empty glasses and coffee cups. Why had she not told him to meet her in a place they knew, a back-street bar, a park? How could they play out their moment of truth in all the hurly burly of a bistro? She came in, came over to him and gave him a furtive kiss on the lips.
“What’s going on?”
“Don’t you want to go somewhere else? There must be somewhere quieter round here.”
“Nicolas, I’ve only got ten minutes. I only came because I thought it was an emergency, and emergencies don’t take hours, otherwise they wouldn’t be emergencies.”
“We’ve got to talk about us.”
“Oh shit! I deliberately said I’d meet you here because I saw this coming.”
“Don’t you think I’ve waited long enough?”
She raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“I love you, for God’s sake!”
“I do too, and that’s exactly why I think you should forget about seeing me here now, and we should meet at about 9 o’clock at the Lynn, like we agreed. I’m perfectly capable of doing that, how about you?”
To avoid making the situation any worse, he felt he had to say yes. After everything they had been through, she still knew how to put him in his place, as she had on the evening they first met.
“Well, till this evening. Give me a kiss, you idiot.”
He hated her, he loved her. They kissed. The Other was right: he would have to be mad to threaten what they had. She left the bistro; he watched her leaving, she waved to him and went off down the Rue Montorgueil.
He would have to be mad.
Why had she chosen that café?
After all, it didn’t matter at all.
Why quarter past one?
Nicolas wondered where all his wonderful determination had gone. The barman wanted to serve him, so he ordered a double vodka and downed it in one, making his eyes water. Did this café mean something in Loraine’s life? In her work life? Or her private life, the one he felt excluded from? He went back out onto the street on an impulse, set off in the direction he had seen her taking and stopped on the corner of the Rue Étienne-Marcel. He could see her in the distance, heading for Les Halles.
Someone Else Page 23
