Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  “I can’t stay, I have to look after Maman. How about lunch tomorrow?”

  “I can’t do lunch. Tomorrow evening?”

  Lucie nods and hugs me with great tenderness. It hurts.

  But I still have plenty of work to do.

  I light a second cigarette, grab my notes, and start studying, pacing around the big, deserted living room: “Capital—47 million euros. Composition—Exxyal Group: 8 percent, Total: 11.5 percent . . .”

  Over the course of the evening, Mathilde leaves two short, violent messages.

  At one point she says: “You’re the exact opposite of what I expect my father to be.”

  It breaks my heart.

  From: Olenka Zbikowski

  BLC Consulting

  To the attention of: Bertrand Lacoste

  Subject: End of internship

  As you will no doubt be aware, my second internship finishes on May 30. This six-month period followed an initial four-month internship.

  You will find enclosed with the present note a full report on my activities at BLC Consulting since you were kind enough to place your confidence in me. I would like to take this opportunity to offer my sincere thanks for the roles you have allocated me in these ten months, roles which, in several cases, have far exceeded the responsibilities ordinarily attributed to an intern.

  Almost ten months of unpaid activity, during which I have demonstrated constant willingness and unfailing loyalty, represents a sufficient trial period for me to expect a decision on your part regarding permanent employment.

  Allow me to take this opportunity to declare once again my dedication to the company’s business activities, and my strong desire to continue to collaborate alongside you.

  Best,

  Olenka Zbikowski

  15

  Charles said: “I live at number 47.” Which really means that his car is parked opposite number 47.

  Number 47 is the only number on the street, along with 45, which is three hundred yards away. Between the two lies the enormous brick wall of a factory, the neighborhood’s only attraction. Opposite, construction fencing and scaffolding. The street is straight as a die, dark, with lampposts at thirty- or forty-yard intervals.

  Charles greets me with the little Indian sign he makes with his left hand.

  “Before,” he tells me, “I was over there right under the streetlight. Forget about sleeping! Had to wait for a space to free up in the shade.”

  Charles had burst out laughing when I called him.

  “Is that drink still on?” I said.

  His joy was genuine, despite having already drunk enough for both of us that day:

  “Seriously? You want to come to my place?”

  And so here we are, almost 11:00 p.m., standing outside his place: a bright-red Renault 25.

  “Nineteen eighty-five,” Charles says, proudly patting the roof. “Six-cylinder 2.5-liter turbo V6!”

  The fact that it hasn’t been driven for more than ten years doesn’t faze him in the slightest. The car is up on blocks to avoid flat-spotting the tires, which lends it the impression of floating a few inches above the ground.

  “I’ve got a pal who comes around every few months to pump them up for me.”

  “That’s great.”

  What’s really astonishing are the bumpers. Front and rear. Huge great chrome bars, way too big, that rise to about four feet off the ground. The sort more commonly seen on American trucks. Charles notes my amazement.

  “It’s my neighbors in front and behind. The last ones. Every time they came home from a ride they’d bash into my car. One day I got fed up. So here we go.”

  Here we go indeed. Quite something.

  “Down there farther along,” he says, pointing to the other end of the street, “there used to be another Renault 25. An ’eighty-four GTX! But the guy moved.”

  His voice is tinged with the regret of lost friendship.

  A good part of the street is occupied by tired old vans and other cars up on blocks, all housing families of immigrant workers. The mail carrier leaves the mail under the wipers, like fines.

  “There’s a good atmosphere in this neighborhood, you can’t complain,” says Charles.

  We go inside for drinks. It’s very organized, Charles’s apartment, ingeniously arranged.

  “Well it has to be!” he answers when I remark on it. “It’s not very big so it has to be . . .”

  “Functional . . .”

  “Yes! Functional!”

  As ever, Charles is bowled over by my vocabulary.

  He places a tray between the seats to serve as a sort of liquor cart for the bottle and the peanuts. It’s mild outside so I lower my window, and I feel the night air caressing the back of my neck. I brought a drinkable whiskey: nothing too swank, but not bad either. And a few bags of potato chips and other snacks.

  We barely speak, Charles and I. We look at each other, smiling. Not that there’s any ill will between us. It’s a moment of calm. We’re like two old friends in our rocking chairs on the terrace after a family meal. I let my mind drift and it fixes on Albert Kaminski. I look at Charles. Which of them do I feel closer to? Not Charles. He sips his whiskey, his lost eyes gazing through the windshield, past the huge bumper and beyond to his peaceful neighborhood. Charles is a victim; that’s the only profile he fits. Kaminski and I are severe cases, car crashes: either of us could end up a murderer. It’s a serious point. We are dabbling with radicalism. Having abandoned all hope, Charles might just be the wisest of the three of us.

  On the second whiskey, Romain’s shadow looms before me, a reminder of the long procession of grievances I have in store. I’ve made my decision. I won’t ask Charles to testify.

  “I figure I’m going to take care of this myself,” I say.

  This comes right out of the blue, and it’s obvious Charles doesn’t fully grasp what I am talking about. He inspects the bottom of his glass in a dreamlike state, before grumbling a few words that might amount to an agreement, but who knows. Then he thinks and shakes his head, as if to say that it’s better this way, that he understands. I turn to the line of cars, the pavement glistening under the yellow smudges of the streetlights, and the factory wall that looks like a prison. I’m on the verge of the Big Test, the one that I’ve dedicated all my energy to, more than all of it. I savor this moment of peace as though I might die tomorrow.

  “Funny when you think about it . . .”

  Charles agrees that, yes, it’s funny. This is the moment where, helped along by the whiskey, I ask myself the question: why am I here? It terrifies me to think that I came to gather my strength. If I miss my shot, this may well be what I can look forward to—a car up on blocks in a derelict suburb. That’s a bit harsh on Charles.

  “That wasn’t very nice of me . . .”

  Without hesitating, Charles places his hand on my knee and says:

  “Don’t worry.”

  I’m still ashamed. I try to change the subject.

  “So, have you got a radio?”

  “Well, now you’re talking!” says Charles.

  He reaches out and hits the button: . . . with the CEO receiving a golden handshake of 3.2 million euros.

  Charles turns it off.

  “Good system, hey?” he says proudly.

  I don’t know if he’s talking about the news or if he’s just happy to be showing me his home comforts. We stay there for a good while.

  Then I tell myself it’s time to go back. I’ve got studying to do, I must stay focused.

  I didn’t say anything, yet Charles motions to the bottle:

  “A little one for the road?”

  I pretend to think about it. I actually do think about it. It’s not a good idea. I decline, saying I need to be sensible.

  Several more sedate, gentle minutes pass by. The calm makes me want to cry. Charles pats me on the knee again. I focus on the bottom of my glass. It’s empty.

  “Right, time to call it a night . . .”

  I turn
to grab the door handle.

  “Let me show you out,” says Charles, opening his side.

  We shake hands in silence at the back of the car.

  As I walk to the métro, it occurs to me that Charles might be the only friend I have left.

  16

  Five days until I’m up against the wall on Thursday. The countdown is both reassuring and frightening. For now, all I want is reassurance.

  Despite the half-bottle of whiskey I knocked back last night, I’m up and ready for battle at dawn. As I drain my coffee I realize that my review notes are starting to stick. On Monday or Tuesday I should be receiving the results from the additional investigations, leaving me a day or two to come up with a strategy, provided there’s even an ounce of dirt to go on.

  Since Nicole left, the apartment has been desperately sad.

  Mathilde has stopped giving me grief via the answering machine. She’ll be having a tough time stopping her husband from suing me straightaway. Maybe he already has.

  Kaminski arrives on time, to the second. On the agenda: reading and analyzing several RAID training documents focusing on the psychological aspects of hostage taking and interrogation.

  First he refers to an itemized list of maneuvers that make hostages confess—so long as they’ve been held long enough—and the precautions the commando would have to take. That gives me a better understanding of the various psychological phases the victims go through, not to mention the points at which they’ll be their most vulnerable.

  We summarize what we’ve covered at the end of the morning session, then dedicate the afternoon to the interrogations. My management experience has already given me a solid grounding in manipulation techniques. Interrogating hostages is simple: take a job interview, multiply it by an annual performance review, then add weaponry. The principal difference is that in business, your fear is latent, whereas in a hostage taking, the lives of the victims are in danger. On second thought, it’s the same in business. Ultimately, the only real difference lies in the nature of the weapons and the length of time they’re left to stew.

  In the evening, as planned, I have dinner with Lucie.

  Her treat, so her choice of restaurant. Sooner or later, as we grow older, we become our children’s children. They’re the ones who take charge. But I’m in denial that the moment has already come, so I insist on a change of restaurant. We go to the Roman Noir, which is just down the road. It’s warm. Lucie looks as pretty as a flower, even though she’s making out that this dinner isn’t a special occasion. The fact is that by talking about other things, the occasion becomes an event. Lucie tries the wine (it’s common consensus that she has the best nose in the family, not that there’s ever been any proof of it). Perhaps she doesn’t know where to start. In any case, she opts to talk about everything and nothing, about the apartment she wants to move out of because it’s so dingy, her work at her firm, the low pay that’s forcing her to live hand to mouth. Lucie only talks about her love life when she’s not having any joy. She’s avoiding the subject, so I ask the question:

  “What’s his name?”

  She smiles, takes a glug of wine, and looks at me as though she’s announcing bad news:

  “Federico.”

  “Of course, you always go for the exotic ones! What was the last guy called, again?”

  “Papa!” she says, smiling.

  “Fusaaki?”

  “Fusaaki.”

  “Wasn’t there an Omar, too?”

  “You make it sound like there have been hundreds!”

  It’s my turn to smile. Bit by bit we keep pretending to forget why the two of us are here. To put her at ease, as soon as we’ve ordered dessert I ask her how her mother is doing.

  Lucie doesn’t answer straightaway.

  “She’s sad,” she says eventually. “Very stressed.”

  “It’s a stressful time.”

  “Are you going to tell me why?”

  Sometimes you have to prepare for a meeting with your children the same way you do a job interview. Of course I don’t have the energy or the inclination this time around, so I improvise, keeping it very general.

  “Come on, spell it out,” Lucie says after my bungled account.

  “Well, your mother refused to listen, and your sister refused to understand.”

  She smiles.

  “What about me—where do I fit in?”

  “There’s room in my camp, if you’re interested.”

  “Wow, it’s a pitched battle, is it?”

  “No, but it is a battle, and right now I’m fighting it alone.”

  So I have to explain. More lies.

  As I repeat what I said to Nicole, I realize how many lies I’ve heaped one on top of the other. I’m keeping the whole, wobbling pile together, but the slightest knock and it’ll come crashing down, bringing me with it. The ad, the tests, the bribe . . . That’s where it snags. Lucie’s more perceptive than her mother and doesn’t fall for it for a second.

  “A well-established recruitment firm is entertaining a bullshit idea like this for a few thousand euros? That’s really quite astonishing . . .”

  You’d have to be blind not to detect her skepticism.

  “It’s not the whole firm. The guy’s doing it solo.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not risky. Doesn’t he care about his job?”

  “I have no idea, but once I have my contract, he can go to the slammer for all I care—I couldn’t give a damn.”

  There’s a lull as the waiter arrives with the coffees, and afterward the conversation struggles to pick up again. I know why. So does Lucie. She doesn’t believe a word of what I’m telling her. As if to prove it, she drinks her coffee and places her hands on the table.

  “I need to go . . .”

  She’s surrendering, no doubt about it. She could have scratched away at the sore point, but she chooses not to. She’ll still come up with a few platitudes to say to her sister and her mother; she’ll think of something. As far as she’s concerned, I’m caught up in some tawdry affair, and she’s not in any hurry to find out the details. Lucie is running away.

  We walk together a little. Eventually she turns to me:

  “Right, well, I hope everything turns out how you want. If you need me . . .”

  And there’s so much sadness in the way she squeezes my arm and kisses my cheek.

  After this, my weekend takes on an eve-of-battle feel.

  Tomorrow in the battle think on me.

  Except that I’m alone. I don’t just miss Nicole because I’m alone, but because my life without her has no direction, no sense. I’m not sure why I’ve been unable to explain this all to her, how things have become so complicated. This has never happened to us. Why would Nicole not hear me out? Why did she not believe in my chances of success? If Nicole no longer believes in me, I’m already dead.

  I need to hold on for a few more days.

  Until Thursday.

  The following day, I review my notes and run through my accounts to see how much I’ve spent, nausea overwhelming me at the thought of what might happen if I screw this up. I study the photographs and the biographies of the hostages. I go for a walk to keep my concentration fresh. I bring all my notes, my beginner’s guide to the oil and gas industry, and a photocopy of the RAID document from Kaminski.

  When I get back, there are three messages from Lucie. Two on my cell phone, which I’d left at home, and another on the landline. After our futile dinner last night, she would like an update. She’s a bit worried, she doesn’t say why. I don’t want to call her back—I can’t afford to lose my focus. In four days, I’ll be back in the race, and I’ll be able to explain how hard it was holding up without them.

  17

  Mestach called last night to say that the additional investigations were now available. As I still owe him half his fee, he doesn’t miss the opportunity to remind me that his investigators have met a very tight deadline and that it’s miraculous they’ve obtained so many results—a c
lassic technique to make me think I’m getting value for money. I don’t fall for it.

  Mestach counts the money twice before handing me a large envelope. He starts to show me out, but I take a seat in the armchair in the corridor leading up to his office.

  It dawns on him that if I don’t feel I have enough bang for my buck, then he’ll know about it right away. This is my daughter’s money, and I have no intention of frittering it away on nothing.

  To be honest, given the time constraints, it’s good. In places, it’s even very good. I don’t want to let this on, so as soon as I’ve taken stock of the first few results, I slip out of the building. Seems he won’t have to know about it after all.

  Back at home, I clear my desk and line up the findings.

  Jean-Marc Guéneau. Forty-five years old.

  This guy is straight out of the nineteenth century. People from Catholic families like his have been intermarrying for generations. The men are all generals, priests, professors; the women are all housewives, little more than laying hens. His family tree is more of an elaborate tropical shrub. Like the rest of the spineless upper middle classes, his little clique has been diligently leaching income from land and property ever since the start of the industrial revolution, a term they hold in particular disdain because it reeks of the proletariat. Predictably enough, the last few generations have been particularly hard-line. They live in the sixteenth, the seventh, the eighth arrondissements, Neuilly—only the classiest neighborhoods. Our Guéneau marries at twenty-one and proceeds to produce a brat every eighteenth months for the next ten years. They called it a day at seven. Madame must be taking her temperature every five minutes between Hail Marys, insisting on the withdrawal method, too, because you can never be too careful. So it’s unsurprising that Guéneau needs to come up for air; rather seedy air, as it happens. I have two photographs of him: the first is taken at 7:30 p.m. as he enters a side door on rue Saint-Maur; the second, taken at 8:45 p.m., shows him leaving. That means getting home around 9:15 p.m. For his trip to the “gym,” he’s carrying a sports bag.