‘A real pro,’ laughs Étienne.
He switches off the light and the workshop is plunged into a yellowish half-light. Aisha, in a spin, draws frantically on the joint. Randomly Émilienne’s voice comes back to her, helpless with laughter in the cafeteria, telling them about ‘her first time’, lying flat on her stomach on a dustbin under an archway, rain bucketing down. Rolande had smiled at her, then taken her by the arm and steered her to another table to eat her snack. ‘I didn’t even see his face,’ repeated Émilienne, between two outbursts of laughter. Followed by her father’s voice, grating and halting, cursing when she refused to go back to the village even for holidays. I know what can happen there. Étienne moves slowly towards her and takes her by the arm, the waist, to help her up. Fear, no going back now: After him, I’m not returning to my father’s house. He leads her behind a pile of packing cases. She sees a mat.
‘It’s Nourredine’s prayer mat.’
He smiles, kneels down. She sits down, feeling as if she’s floating. He loosens her hair, which spreads out over her shoulders. She thinks, ‘This is going from one man to another,’ and lies down, her eyes closed. A cocoon of darkness, silence, Étienne kisses her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. She tenses, he slides his hand down her neck, places it on her hip, runs it down her thigh, slips it under her skirt. She lies still, rigid, her heart pounding. His hand moves slowly up towards her belly where it stops, spread flat, hot, insistent. She waits: It’s going to happen.
Then everything moves very fast. Étienne pulls down his trousers, uses both hands to yank Aisha’s tights and knickers down to her ankles, lies on top of her, penetrates her after two or three attempts. It hurts, I’ve known worse, it’s all happening far away. He begins to move up and down, she feels a sharp pain, she cries out, then feels very little. He gets still more aroused, breathing heavily, lets out one last groan and rolls off to lie beside her, his face in her hair, smells nice and clean, little kisses on her cheeks, very sweet. She feels a warm liquid running down her thighs, laughs at the thought of the stains she’s going to make on Nourredine’s prayer mat, her recklessness. Her life’s beginning to change, and that has to be good.
The delegation returns to the cafeteria and immediately everybody crowds round. Nourredine clambers up on to the table without waiting.
‘Bonuses will be discussed at the works council in a week’s time. We’ll get no information before then. They say no decisions have been taken. But the Head of HR didn’t deny the rumour. In our view, they’ve decided to cancel them and they’re simply putting off the moment when they’re going to tell us. As far as Rolande’s situation is concerned, the Head of HR will discuss it with the shop stewards only once we get back to work.’
A few protests, cries of ‘thieves’ and ‘bastards’. A short woman with permed hair calls the management ‘serial killers’. The big question: Now what do we do? At first there’s no answer. ‘A weeklong strike, until the works council meeting? That’s a long time. And besides, this isn’t really a good time, stocks are plentiful …’ Nourredine suggests waiting for the second shift, which will arrive in less than two hours, and deciding together whether to continue with the strike or not. A reasonable-sounding proposal, unanimously accepted.
The groups disperse. Some go back to their card games in the cafeteria, others go and play music in the staffroom. Amrouche vanishes, he’s probably gone back to hang out in the admin section. Small groups of women stand around chatting by the coffee machine. A few mothers unobtrusively slip away to get on with the washing and two men go off to pick mushrooms. With the arrival of the cooler weather there should be hedgehog mushrooms.
Nourredine is sitting at a table with Hafed, a member of the health and safety committee who was on the delegation. He’s a young technician: slim, elegant, and a know-all, highly valued for his technical skills. One of those men who can’t be intimidated by threats of losing his job. He lives with the certainty, justified or not, of being a man who is indispensable and sought-after. The two men, two different worlds, have never spoken to each other, but today they’re drinking coffee together with a shared feeling of impotence.
One of the women from admin cautiously enters the cafeteria, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She slides in beside Nourredine, leans towards him and says very quietly: ‘The CEO called a removals firm to clear all the stocks of finished products. I heard the interpreter, he was calling from the office next to mine while your delegation was waiting to speak to management.’
The two men exchange glances, instinctively clasp each other’s hands in a handshake. In it together, cut to the quick. Faced with contempt, they feel like shouting, hitting out, smashing something, showing they exist. And they can hear, very clearly, the threat behind the slap in the face: first the stocks, then the machines, then the closure of the factory, something management has been threatening constantly for the last two years. ‘It’s war,’ mutters Nourredine, gutted. Hafed smiles. ‘Keep calm, it hasn’t come to that yet, but we do have to agree on how to respond.’
An impromptu general meeting. Hafed, speaking in a neutral voice, informs the assembled workers. The collective reaction is immediate: ‘All this belongs to us as much as it does to them.’ ‘We won’t allow the lorries to enter the factory.’ No more hesitation, indecision, dispersed groups, everybody joins in the discussion. ‘How do we go about it?’ ‘Block the entrance gates.’ ‘Occupy the porter’s lodge, essential if we want to control the opening and closing of the gates.’ ‘That means occupying the factory?’ Yes, say it out loud, we’re occupying the factory. And we’ve got to move fast, there’s no shortage of removals firms in Lorraine. ‘We occupy until the second shift arrives,’ Nourredine decides. ‘Then we’ll discuss the next move with them.’ Unanimous agreement.
The cafeteria empties and a hundred or so workers including around ten women surround the porter’s lodge at the factory gates. Between it and the front of the building is a somewhat neglected open area of about thirty metres covered in unmown grass, wiry enough to withstand the Lorraine climate. Behind the tinted mirror glass façade are the executives’ offices. The senior and middle managers, Korean and French, must all be there, watching from behind the windows. They are invisible, but the awareness of their presence weighs down on the workers, they feel exposed. At least there’s no sign of any lorries, which feels like a small victory. Maybe there won’t be any lorries, it could all be a false rumour. They take what comfort they can from that. Carry out another recce. Two huge sliding gates are electronically operated from the porter’s lodge. One gate leads to the staff car park to the right of the factory; the left-hand one is the lorry route to the warehouse and the loading bays. To the right again there’s a pedestrian entrance. Between the two gates stands the porter’s lodge, a flimsy building with two huge windows. Twenty people should be able to fit in there. For the time being there are only two security guards, staring out of the windows at the workers without moving.
They must go in. Amrouche has joined the workers, his expression inscrutable. The delegation reconvenes and enters the porter’s lodge. Again it’s Nourredine who’s the spokesperson. ‘We’re occupying, we’re taking control of the gates.’ The security guards are two men the wrong side of fifty, beefy, pot-bellied and wearing navy-blue jackets marked ‘Security’. They shrug. ‘As you like, we’re not Daewoo employees and our chief has instructed us not to get involved. He simply told us to maintain a presence in the porter’s lodge, and he’s sending two colleagues as backup to patrol the premises. You’ll be able to identify them, they’ll be wearing the same uniform as us.’ Nourredine asks them to show him how to open and close the gates. It all seems simple. Outside, a feeble sun has finally broken through and the workers have resumed their conversations. They amble around in small groups, already at a loose end. A few women go inside the porter’s lodge to warm up, others start drifting back to the cafeteria.
The first workers from the second shift begin to arrive, mostly by car. Nourred
ine opens the right-hand gate. They leave their vehicles in the car park then return in small groups, and informal discussions break out between the two shifts. No bonuses this year. No, it’s not a matter of December payments being delayed, but of no bonuses at all. What about the February agreement? All bullshit. The women talk among themselves. With Christmas coming, no bonuses means no presents for the kids. Reactions veer between anger and disbelief, in an atmosphere of chaos.
Just then Nourredine, who’s still watching the main gate, sees a convoy of three huge articulated removal lorries emblazoned with their company logo crawling towards the roundabout in front of the factory gates. He presses the switch to close the gate, which doesn’t budge. A surge of adrenaline, sweat, turmoiled thoughts, the lorries’ arrival timed to coincide with that of the second shift, gates blocked open from the inside offices. If the lorries get in, there’ll be fights, the police, and we’re fucked. He rushes outside yelling:
‘The lorries, the lorries! The gate’s stuck, block the entrance, block the entrance.’
The lorries move forward in a slow, relentless convoy. The first one turns on to the roundabout in a majestic curve. The shapes of three men can just be made out in the cab. Two hundred or so workers, only the men, with Hafed in the front line, his jaws clenched. The rest race for the gate, arms linked, and grip the gateposts. They stand several lines deep, united, together, hearts pounding.
Behind the human barricade, Nourredine and five other workers all had the same idea at the same time. Pile up some empty pallets and set fire to them with lighters, that’s all we’ve got. Shit! Let’s hope they catch alight. They catch alight.
The first lorry turns into the factory access road. It’s now less than twenty metres away, nosing its way forward, its huge bonnet looming above their heads. The men close their eyes, speechless. We’re not afraid … Less than five metres, don’t think about bodies being run over, the wheel that crushes, don’t think. United. A solid wall, stand firm. And don’t fall Less than two metres. An order comes from the back, passed forward from row to row: ‘When you hear shouts of “Fire” scatter to the sides as fast as possible!’ The bumpers touch the men in the front line, and the lorry continues to inch forward. Who can hold back ten tonnes?
A prolonged shout, coming from six voices in chorus: ‘Fire!’ The human chains break apart: ‘Get the driver, quick!’ Six men armed with lengths of wood furiously push forward a heap of burning pallets, scraping the ground and sending out a shower of sparks. They slide them towards the bonnet of the lorry now level with the gate.
‘Let’s burn the bastards in their cabs!’ yells Nourredine, pouring with sweat, his hands burned, completely carried away.
Panic aboard the first lorry. The driver throws it into reverse, retreats a few metres, too fast, the trailer careers off the road, its wheels sink into the soft earth, it jackknifes. Armed with baseball bats, the other two men jump down from the cab to protect the lorry. Hafed and a dozen or so workers step in.
‘Stop now, that’s enough. We stay on the factory premises, on our own ground. We don’t set fire to the lorry. We’ve won. They’re leaving. We let them go.’
Behind their window, the security guards contemplate the scene without moving a muscle.
The mass of workers are clustered behind the blazing pallets. The wood is well-ventilated and dry, it gives off a lovely clear bright flame. They watch the heavy articulated lorries attempting to manoeuvre their way out. Laughter and jeers: ‘Watch out, you’ll burn out your engine!’ The drivers are none too adroit and a few clods of earth, a few stones, are hurled at the windscreens. It’s a way of letting off steam, nothing really nasty. Nourredine has torn off his grey overalls and thrown them into the fire. Then the lorries leave in slow convoy, the same way they came. As they disappear into the distance, hazy through the flames, silence falls and lasts for a few minutes after they vanish in the direction of Luxembourg. Each person pictures a section of bonnet, the edge of a bumper, the tip of a wing, a wheel, each person relives the feeling of serried bodies, battling fear, the heat of the fire, and the overwhelming joy at the routing of the juggernaut, savouring the shared feeling that together we are strong, the world is ours. Fists raised in the direction of the blind windows of the executives’ offices.
If we hadn’t been warned, the lorries would have got in easily, thinks Nourredine, dazed and elated.
Then Hafed grabs a chair from inside the porter’s lodge and clambers on to it.
‘Since they’ve declared war on us, we must get organised and fight back.’
Early on this sunny afternoon the news of the strike, the offensive action and the victory over the bosses has spread throughout the neighbourhood. The factory is like a magnet and people have come from all over – the unemployed, the retired, on foot, by bicycle and car, to catch up on the news, see how the youngsters are coping, relive their own memories. When all the surrounding valleys were involved in the steel industry, when the word ‘strike’ meant something, when they attacked police stations with bulldozers, when they went on a mass march on Paris, when intentions were far from peaceful … Memories that reduce what has just happened at Daewoo to a mere blip. People cluster outside the gates, on the central reservation all the way to the roundabout. Amrouche comes out to greet a few old acquaintances. Workers from the night shift chat to the veterans before going inside the factory. There are also a few skivers like Karim Bouziane, off sick for six months for a supposedly sprained back as a result of shifting furniture for the Korean CEO during working hours. He soaks up the atmosphere outside the gates for a while then enters the factory. Nourredine lets him through with bad grace. What reason could be given for stopping him?
Rolande arrives with a radiant smile, pushing a trolley laden with potatoes, onions, eggs and bread.
‘I heard about the occupation when I was at the supermarket, so I went round and asked the local shopkeepers for donations. All this is for you so you can have a hot meal tonight. My way of saying thank you.’
Nourredine, touched, lets her in.
‘Come in, Rolande. At least as long as we’re in charge, you’re welcome here.’
Then it’s the turn of the dignitaries, in their dark saloon cars and dark suits. All ill at ease, very ill at ease, the mayor with his tricolour sash, the deputy, more discreet, and the regional health and safety inspector who keeps a low profile. They shake a few hands, force a few smiles, tap Amrouche on the shoulder then come and talk to Nourredine and his crew in front of the gates.
‘The valley needs these jobs … Watch what you do … Mr Park, the CEO, is a reasonable man, we know him well … You should try negotiating …’
What do they know of life in the factory, these three? And this health and safety inspector, with his useless site visits, his reports that are always favourable, not a single infringement in two years, in the most dangerous factory in the whole region, what does he know about the man who had his head sliced off, about Émilienne, Rolande or Aisha? Nourredine feels self-conscious in his tight-fitting jacket and grubby jeans. He’s seized by a kind of rage and fantasises about grabbing the health and safety inspector by the lining of his jacket, shaking him and banging his head against the gatepost, smashing his forehead, his nose, seeing blood pour down his smart navy-blue suit, then letting him go and watching him crumple in a heap on the ground.
‘… If Daewoo were to close down as a result of this strike, which is a possibility, I warn you, it would be disastrous for the entire valley.’
‘We worked hard to set up this factory here,’ adds the mayor. ‘I know what it cost the town.’
Nourredine can’t think of anything to say to them.
The fourth man, who has kept in the background until now, goes up to Nourredine, smiling, and holds out his hand. Tall and sturdy, he has a direct, straightforward manner. And his handshake clearly states that he’s not afraid of sullying himself by shaking hands with a worker. The manner, the gesture, the tone of voice – imperceptible
signals of kinship: they’re from the same world, that of the factory, not exactly the same, but similar.
‘Maurice Quignard. I represent the European Development Plan committee.’ European subsidies, the great cash cow, translates Nourredine. ‘I spoke to your CEO on the telephone before coming. You know, he’s not a bad guy. I think this business is all a big misunderstanding. From what he tells me, the immediate sale of stocks should make it possible to pay some bonuses …’ Nourredine reels, finds it hard to breathe. After all, it is possible we rushed into this without thinking … ‘We just need to find grounds on which to negotiate.’
‘Negotiate, that’s all we’ve wanted to do since this morning.’
‘There’ll be no negotiations while the managers are being held.’ Nourredine is frankly taken aback.
‘Nobody’s being held. We’re stopping people from coming in, not from leaving.’
‘And the negotiations won’t take place here, under pressure, but at the town hall.’
‘I’m not the sole decision-maker.’ He casts about. ‘We’ll have to discuss it. Speaking for myself, there’s no problem.’
Quignard steps inside the gate as if by right. Nourredine, caught unawares, wavers. Too late, Quignard is already in the porter’s lodge, one of the two security guards offers him a chair, holds out a telephone. He settles in, calls management, he’s very much at home. When he comes out again:
‘In a quarter of an hour, the managers will start coming out, in their cars, of course. The senior managers will meet you in two hours’ time at the town hall. If that’s agreeable to you, of course.’
Then Quignard walks off in the direction of the roundabout, where his chauffeur-driven car is waiting, a big black Mercedes. He exchanges a few words with the three state officials, it’ll all work out fine, no reason why it shouldn’t, nobody wants war. A little further on, he passes a grim-faced Maréchal who’s come to find out the latest.
Lorraine Connection Page 3
