‘See you this evening then,’ she called as she walked away.
‘A good day to you!’
She went to her car, which was parked in a nearby street, treading carefully (I’ve had enough to worry about already), opened the passenger door and reached for the de-icing spray in the glove compartment. It had not snowed a great deal overnight; the layer on the body of her old Saab 93 was no thicker. She walked around the bonnet.
And froze. For half a second, she stood with her arms limp at her side, her breath coming out in little white clouds. In the film of snow covering the windscreen, a finger had written:
‘MERRY CHRISTMAS, YOU FILTHY BITCH.’
Christine shuddered. Then looked all around her, slightly dizzy. The panic returned: the evil finger that had written those words must belong to someone who knew that the owner of the car was a woman.
She squirted the de-icer onto it. Then put the canister away and locked the Saab. She didn’t have time to make the journey by car, in any case. Not with this snow. She rushed towards the nearest Métro station, careful not to slip. She was late. In seven years, this had never happened.
Not even once.
3
Chorus
Eight thirty-seven. She came through the door of Radio Five almost at a run. The building where the radio station was based, at the top of the allées Jean-Jaurès, was much more modest than the shadowy giants leaning irritably over a runt that taunted them with its slogan:
BE VOCAL, BE POWERFUL
In the entrance by the lifts a sign indicated that Radio Five was the second most popular radio station in terms of listeners in the Midi-Pyrénées region. Before they even reached the floor where the studios and editorial offices were located, visitors were already fully aware of the importance of the mission being fulfilled here. If the mission was so important, why was she so badly paid? On the ground floor she nodded to the receptionist, then when she reached the second floor, hurried into the little glassed-in room which contained the coffee machine and water fountain to make herself a ‘One hundred per cent fair trade Arabica’ macchiato.
‘We’re late,’ whispered a voice in her ear. ‘So we’d better get a move on. The boss will blow a fuse.’
A familiar perfume, ‘Little Black Dress’, and a presence very near – too near – her back.
‘I overslept,’ she replied, dipping her lips into the froth.
‘Hmm. Having a good time, was that it?’
‘Cordélia…’
‘Oh, you don’t want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know you’re very secretive? I’ve never met anyone so secretive. You can tell me everything, you know, Christine.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘We’ve been working together for ten months and I still know nothing about you. Apart from the fact that you’re a very professional, hard-working, intelligent and ambitious woman. Ready to do anything to climb the ladder. Like me, basically. Except that in my case, it’s you I’d like to—’
Christine spun around to face a woman roughly one metre eighty in height but who weighed no more than sixty kilos.
‘You know I could have you sacked for that?’
‘For what?’
‘For saying things like that: it’s called harassment.’
‘Harassment? Oh my God!’
The young intern looked deeply shocked, her lips forming a comical round O, punctuated by two tiny steel beads planted in her lower lip.
‘Oh my God! I’m nineteen, I’m an intern! I earn peanuts! You wouldn’t really do that, would you?’
‘You’re not my friend, you’re my assistant. And at your age, I didn’t meddle in the lives of adults.’ She stressed the word adults.
‘Times have changed, babe.’
Leaning forward, Cordélia put her arm around Christine to drop a coin in the machine behind her. She pressed the cappuccino button. Their faces were nearly touching. Her breath smelled of coffee and tobacco.
‘What have you done to your hair?’ asked Christine, hurrying to finish the coffee, burning her tongue.
‘I dyed it. The same colour as yours. Do you like it?’
Before, Cordélia had had platinum blonde and black hair. She also had a cigarette perpetually tucked behind her ear, like an old lorry driver, far too much kohl around her eyes, and wore long-sleeved T-shirts that declared things like Even the Paranoid Have Enemies.
‘Does it matter if I like it?’
‘You have no idea,’ replied the young woman, pushing the glass door open, her coffee cup in her hand.
* * *
‘Have you seen the time?’
Guillaumot, the programme director. Guillaumot didn’t work for the radio: he had married the radio. In other words, he had married the owner of Radio Five before becoming programme director. As his superior and the person who paid his salary happened to be his wife, he had developed an ulcer, which he treated with sucralfate. He had also gone bald and wore a toupee worthy of the Beatles circa 1963. From Christine’s perspective, as an unmarried woman between the ages of twenty and sixty, he was anything but attractive. He was even a bit repulsive.
‘Happy Christmas to you, too,’ she replied, rushing towards the noisy labyrinth of the editorial room. ‘Where do we stand with the press review?’ she called to Ilan. ‘Happy Christmas, by the way.’
‘Happy what?’
Ilan was seated at his desk, next to Christine’s. He flashed her a smile. Then he pointed to the articles cut out and pinned up next to the clock on the wall, where the seconds ticked by in the form of luminous dots.
‘It’s ready,’ he answered. ‘We were just waiting for you.’
She grabbed a felt tip and a biro and quickly read through the material. As usual, Ilan had done a great job. ‘That’s very good,’ she said, reading the article from Le Parisien which described a maternity ward in Bethlehem located a stone’s throw from the Church of the Nativity and run by a Catholic order, where ninety per cent of the patients were Muslim Palestinian women. She leafed through the other articles. Foie gras banned by the House of Lords in England (‘God Save the Queen’ by the Sex Pistols as background music). A giant Christmas speed-dating event in South Korea (‘Any idea what all these singletons asked for from Santa Claus?’). Several dozen flights cancelled due to bad weather at Blagnac airport (‘Check with your carrier before you travel’).
‘A branch of the Popular Relief has been threatened with closure – aren’t you interested?’ barked someone behind her.
She swung around on her seat. Becker, news director. He was peering up at her from the full height of his one metre sixty. Stocky, muscular, but also some fat beneath his brown sweater. He was going bald, too; but he didn’t wear a wig. Like all radio journalists, Becker was of the opinion that he represented the true nobility of the profession, and he was on a mission: to his mind, presenters were merely entertainers, public clowns. Moreover, there were no women on his team.
‘Hello Becker, happy Christmas to you, too.’
‘The words “solidarity”, “exclusion” and “generosity” are not part of your vocabulary, Steinmeyer? Or maybe you’d rather talk about the stampede of gift buying, or who’s made the most beautiful crib?’
‘That branch of the Popular Relief is in the north of the country, in Concarneau, not Toulouse.’
‘Oh, really? Then why is it that even the TV news of a nationwide channel reported on it? I suppose it isn’t funny enough for your listeners. Nor did I hear anything about the authorisation of the sale of prescription drugs on the Internet, or about the total ban on the sale of alcohol to anyone under twenty-five.’
‘I am delighted to learn that you listened to my press review.’
‘You call that a press review? I call it a joke. The press review should be done by real journalists,’ he said and his gaze went from Christine to Ilan, then up to Cordélia, where it lingered. ‘That’s the problem with this bloody station: people fo
rget that radio is, above all, about news.’
She watched him walk away and felt no emotion. Radio Five was no different from any other radio station or television channel on the planet: the relationships between the newscasters, programme directors and star presenters were often tense if not downright hostile. They denigrated each other, were full of scorn and insults. And the more the Internet got in the way, the more conflicts were likely to arise.
She sighed, collapsed into her chair then swung round to face her assistants.
‘Okay, let’s go. Ready?’
‘What’s our headline?’ asked Ilan.
He had his back to her. She could see his yarmulke. Christine smiled: he was wearing a ‘holiday’ one with smileys on it, out of solidarity with his colleagues.
‘“Not only Jesus was born in Bethlehem”,’ she replied.
He nodded enthusiastically.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, ‘this came for you.’
She followed his gaze. A padded envelope on the corner of her desk. Christine opened it. Inside was a CD: an old opera CD. Verdi’s Il Trovatore. She hated opera.
‘This must be for Bruno,’ she said.
Bruno was the music programme planner.
* * *
‘With us is Dr Bercowitz – neurologist, psychiatrist, ethologist, and psychoanalyst, author of many definitive works. Good morning, Dr Bercowitz. Today you are going to speak with us about people for whom Christmas is an ordeal.’
One minute past nine, 25 December. In the studio, the psychiatrist waited for Christine’s question before speaking; Bercowitz was a professional, at ease with radio appearances. A specialist in communication. He liked what he was doing there and you could hear it in his voice, which suggested a warm personality and indisputable authority; his vocabulary was neither too professorial nor exaggeratedly familiar. But above all he knew how to create a bond with his listeners – as if he were in their kitchen or sitting room and not behind a microphone. Bercowitz was the perfect guest and Christine knew he had recently received an offer from a nationwide broadcaster.
‘Doctor,’ she began, ‘it is holiday season once again. Lights, children’s eyes shining with joy … But it’s not only children’s eyes that are shining, the adults’ are too: why does this time of year get us so emotional?’
She hardly listened to his answer. His opening argument was sufficiently slow for the listeners to get used to his voice. Christine only heard bits of what he said: ‘Christmas reminds us of our own childhood’; ‘the fact that almost everywhere on the planet billions of people are celebrating the same thing at the same time gives us an exalting and reassuring sensation of being connected to others’; ‘that same feeling of communion that one feels at major sporting events, or even sometimes with events as terrible as war’. As usual, his tone was just a fraction too self-satisfied, she noted, but that wasn’t a problem: she was already concentrating on the next question.
‘Can you explain to us why this period, which is a source of joy and celebration for most of us, can lead to anxiety and torment in others?’
‘Paradoxically, it is because people feel connected to one another that the feeling of exclusion is equally strong for those who are alone,’ he replied with a touch of carefully measured compassion. ‘We mustn’t forget that our senses are called on more than usual during this season, with shop windows, street decorations, advertising … Our subconscious is bombarded with stimuli. For people who don’t like Christmas because they know they will be alone – because they are separated or widowed or have no means of support – these stimuli are a permanent source of conflict between society’s injunction to be jolly and their actual situation. Moreover, it is not only the joys of childhood that Christmas brings to the surface, but also its shadows.’
At these words, she felt a little seismic tremor in her gut.
‘Obviously, you can’t go to sleep on 23 December and wake up on 2 January,’ she emphasised. ‘So what can people like this do, in spite of everything, to get through this period without becoming too depressed?’
‘Above all, they must try not to be alone on the day. They can find themselves a substitute family. They can celebrate Christmas with friends rather than family, or with neighbours with whom they get along well. If the people you are close to enjoy your company, no doubt they will be only too pleased to invite you. Providing, that is, that they know you are alone: don’t be ashamed to tell them. You can also practise charity and solidarity: it will give you great satisfaction to feel useful, and to do something that matters. Charities, food banks, homeless shelters always need volunteers. Otherwise, you can always try a change of scene. Go away if you can. It will enable you to focus your attention on new things.’
Go away … go away rather than confront her parents, Christmas, the dinner. The shrink’s words fell heavily into her thoughts like coins in a collection box at church.
‘And what about people who have neither the means to go away nor friends to take them in, people who no longer have the strength or the health to become volunteers: is there something that we can do?’ she asked, her throat suddenly tight.
Shit, what was the matter with her? She saw the woman in her dream again: You did nothing.
‘Of course,’ replied Bercowitz, looking her straight in the eye, as if he had noticed that she was upset. ‘There is always something you can do.’
Behind the glass separating the studio from the technical cabin, Igor, the director, a bearded thirty-year-old with long greasy hair, leaned over his microphone.
‘A little faster, Doc,’ he said into the headphones.
The psychiatrist nodded. He turned to face Christine.
‘More than ever we must be on the lookout for signs of distress. A solitary neighbour. Ambiguous words that might be a call for help.’
You let me down, said the woman in her dream again. The room – a cage of four metres by four, with a glass wall separating them from the technical cabin and another wall hidden by blinds from the editorial room, with no other ventilation than the air-conditioning – suddenly seemed like an oppressive box. As if the temperature in the studio were rising.
Bercowitz was talking.
Staring at her.
His little lips were moving. But she didn’t hear him.
She heard another voice.
You did nothing.
‘Ten seconds,’ said Igor in the headphones.
She almost didn’t notice that the shrink had finished. For a split second she went blank. It was nothing on the scale of a day or a life. But to the listeners it was an eternity. Behind his glass Igor was staring at her. As was Bercowitz: at that very moment, he looked like a rugby player desperately waiting for his partner to get into position to receive the ball.
‘Um, thank you,’ she said. ‘Now we will, um, take a few questions from our listeners.’
Nine twenty-one. She blushed, stared at her Mac, while Igor, baffled, started the jingle. Three listeners were displayed on her screen, which was blinking impatiently: line 1, line 2, line 3. There were also text messages. The listeners could either ask their questions this way, or leave a message, or request to ask it live. In which case the coordinator would speak to them first in order to evaluate the quality of the connection, the pertinence of the question and their ease with expressing themselves, then she would add brief comments for Christine.
Christine immediately noticed number one on the list. Thirty-five years old. An architect. Unmarried. The coordinator had added an enthusiastic evaluation: ‘Intelligent, pertinent question, pleasant voice, speaks with ease, slight accent: perfect.’ As usual, she decided to keep him for last. She motioned to Igor to connect line 2.
‘First question,’ she said. ‘We are speaking to Reine. Good morning, Reine. You live in Verniolle, you are forty-two years old, and you are a teacher.’
The listener on line 2 provided a few basic biographical details, as requested, then she asked her question. The psychiatrist pounced on it e
agerly. His voice was purring. Christine would be sorry when he left for his nationwide destiny.
She asked the shrink to answer a text message. And then she called on Samia, on line 3.
‘Thank you,’ said Christine, once the shrink had answered yet again. ‘One last question? Let’s hear from Mathias.’
Line 1.
Nine thirty.
She motioned to connect the line.
‘It doesn’t bother you that you let someone die?’
For a fraction of a second, she was too stunned to move. His voice was powerful and ingratiating. Low-pitched, warm and deep at the same time, an inflection with a faint hiss. Without knowing why, she got the impression that the guy was speaking in the dark, from a place without light. A long shudder went through her and she wondered whether her brain was simply distorting much more innocuous words. No, because the voice continued, ‘For all your fine words of solidarity, you let someone commit suicide on Christmas Eve. Even though that person had called out to you for help.’
Her gaze met the shrink’s. He opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking.
‘What … is … your question?’
Her own voice seemed detached from her body. Toneless. It had nothing in common with the supple, compliant, almost erotic instrument she ordinarily played.
‘So what sort of person are you, then?’
She could feel the sweat on her damp palms; she could see Igor’s eyes popping out of their sockets behind the glass window; she could see her own reflection, aghast. She finally raised a hand to tell him to cut off the line.
‘Um … Thank you … Thanks also to Dr Bercowitz for his insight … Happy Christmas to everyone.’
The theme music began to play: ‘Notion’, by Kings of Leon. She pressed her back against her seat, stunned, as if the blood refused to circulate through her veins. She couldn’t breathe. The small space was oppressive, the man’s words still echoed.
She saw Igor lean in towards his microphone. His voice erupted in the headphones:
‘Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on? Christine, for Christ’s sake, were you asleep or what?’
Don't Turn Out the Lights Page 4
