Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  * * *

  ‘You should have cut him off right away,’ said the programme director, his tone full of blame. ‘Right from the start. When he took that familiar tone with you. You shouldn’t have kept him on the air.’ Guillaumot was giving her a dark look. His voice reached her through a filter, a thick layer of stupor.

  ‘Christine, what is the matter with you today?’ asked Salomé, the coordinator. ‘It was a real shambles.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The way you behaved … Shit, you left a huge pause! You seemed completely absent!’ Salomé’s eyes were shining with reproach behind her glasses. ‘Don’t forget you are the image of this station, my dear. Or rather its voice. Listeners have to picture a cheerful, positive personality … someone professional, not someone who doesn’t care, and who has the same problems they do!’

  Christine was nettled by the unfairness of her comment.

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve been doing this job for seven years. And the one time I screw up … Besides, who let that sick idiot on the air?’

  She could see the fury shining in Salomé’s eyes. There had been a blunder; there would be a report.

  ‘Could I … could I listen to him again?’ she asked.

  All their programmes were recorded. The recordings were kept for a month. Then sent to the broadcasting regulatory body. Any incidents were subjected to a debriefing like this one.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Igor with a shake of his head to clear his long curly hair from his face. ‘What’s the point, for Christ’s bloody sake?’

  The programme director gave Christine a suspicious look.

  ‘Do you know that person? Do you have any idea what he meant with this business about a suicide?’

  She shook her head. Could feel them staring at her.

  ‘We have his telephone number on file. We’ll notify the cops,’ said Salomé.

  ‘And then what? What do you expect them to do? Arrest him for assault over the airwaves?’ said Igor. ‘Just drop it. It was only another lunatic. What was it Audiard said? “Blessed are the cracks, because they let in the light.”’

  ‘I am taking this very seriously,’ replied the programme director. ‘That was the Christmas programme, for Christ’s sake! And we get a guy live on air who accuses us of letting people commit suicide! In front of half a million listeners!’

  * * *

  ‘Gérald?’

  ‘Chris? What’s going on? You sound funny.’

  She was standing by the coffee machine, out of earshot of the editorial office.

  ‘That letter. Do you still have it?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  She could sense both his surprise and his annoyance.

  ‘Yes … well, I think I do,’ he said.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Well, it must still be in the glove compartment, I suppose. Dear God, Chris, don’t tell me that—’

  ‘Are you at home, now?’

  She sensed a moment of hesitation.

  ‘No, no, I’m at the office.’

  He had paused for a fraction of a second; his voice sounded odd. As if he had been about to lie and finally decided against it. She felt her alarm system switch on. She had begun to recognise Gérald’s little lies – like the time when she was downloading a film and discovered that he had downloaded some porn the day before. He had sworn it was a mistake, that he thought he was getting something else. But she knew it wasn’t true.

  ‘At the office? On Christmas Day?’

  ‘I had – I had something urgent to deal with. Chris, are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten we’re supposed to meet at my parents’ in two hours?’

  On the line she heard a laugh that sounded like a snort.

  ‘That isn’t the sort of thing I’m likely to forget.’

  4

  Baritone

  Click. She’s not sure what she saw. Mirage? Autosuggestion? Fact? Click. Her mind goes over every detail. Like a camera. Click. Click. Sweeping over the entire scene. Click. And comes back each time to the same place, to their hands.

  Then lines of dialogue fill the black screen of her mind: their hands, did you see them, yes or no? They were next to each other. Close, even very close, just as you went through the door … but close in what way? She had been humming ‘Driving Home for Christmas’, a song by Chris Rea that no one ever sang any more, all the way down the deserted corridors of the Higher Institute of Aeronautics and Space, and then she went through the door. She still had snowflakes on her white anorak and her cheeks were on fire from the cold.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, stupidly, when she saw them.

  While she was surprised to see Denise, she could see equal astonishment in Denise’s eyes. And in Gérald’s. Then she had caught that movement. Lower down. Their hands …

  Holding the edge of the desk, his left hand, strong and tanned, very close to Denise’s right hand, slender and elegant, with perfect nails. Who had moved their hand first, that she couldn’t say: she had just grasped the movement. Had they been holding hands when she came into the room? She couldn’t be sure. She was sure, however, that they were embarrassed. Of course it didn’t mean anything, protested a more reasonable voice inside. If she’d been in a room with another man, about to touch him, and Gérald came in at that very moment without warning, she would surely feel embarrassed as well. Yes. Except that this was not the first time these two had found themselves close together, at a party or a barbecue. Except that they happened to be alone together in a building that was virtually deserted. On Christmas Day. And they weren’t supposed to be here. Christine had decided to surprise Gérald and, what do you know, as far as surprises went, it certainly was one – for everyone concerned.

  ‘Hey,’ she said again, and nothing else.

  She stayed silent, speechless.

  And yet she had knocked. She made a mental note of the time, from the clock hanging on the wall. 12:21.

  ‘Hello, Christine,’ said Denise. ‘How are you?’

  Denise might have an old-fashioned name, but that was the only old-fashioned thing about her. She was twenty-five, rather petite but with beauty on her side, a smile to put a dentist to ruin, and the well-crafted brain of a PhD student. Her eyes were the same deep, troubled colour as Gérald’s favourite drink. Caipirinha eyes. Gérald was her supervisor at the Institute. Christine was used to classifying Gérald’s female friends into three categories: harmless, interested or dangerous, but Denise needed a category all to herself: supremely interested / absolutely not harmless / very dangerous. How do you think I am?

  Gérald probably didn’t see things that way – men never saw things that way. She gave him a quick sidelong glance. In return, he flashed her the smile she could define in two words: laid-back, a smile that was so good at making her feel warmer, at calming her down, but not this time. Oh, no. This time, she noticed that his smile was more automatic than laid-back – a simple reflex. With a touch of nervousness; or was it annoyance?

  ‘I thought we were supposed to meet at your parents’?’ he said.

  As if this were a signal, Denise moved back from the desk, leaning on her lovely arms.

  ‘Well, I’d better get going. There is a life outside work, after all. And besides, it can wait until Wednesday. Merry Christmas, Christine. Merry Christmas, Gérald.’

  Even her voice was perfect. Husky and veiled just to the right degree. Christine heard herself reply the same thing, even though deep down she did not wish her such a merry time of it. She watched Denise pass, saw her bottom – perfect as well – pressing against her tight jeans. Through the closed door she could hear her heels fading along the silent corridors of the Institute.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Gérald. ‘Still something to do with that letter?’

  He seemed irritated. Maybe because he’d had other plans for the hour ahead? Oh, stop it.

  ‘Have you got it?’

  He wavered evasively.

 
; ‘I told you, it must still be in the car. I didn’t check. Good God, Christine, let’s not go into all that again!’

  ‘It won’t take me long. I’m taking the letter to the police station and then we’ll meet at my parents’ as planned.’

  Now it was his turn to move away from the desk, looking resigned. He reached for his woollen coat and scarf.

  ‘Don’t you think this is going a bit too far?’ he asked as they walked down the corridor.

  ‘What were you doing here on Christmas Day?’ she couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘What? Just a last-minute thing to attend to.’

  ‘And Denise, was she here because of the same thing?’

  It just slipped out, and she was already sorry.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  If his voice had been a thermometer, the mercury would have plummeted.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He went through the glass door that led to the car park; the brisk wind, once again laden with snow, seized hold of them.

  ‘No, you must say what you think. What are you suggesting?’

  He was just a bit too angry. Gérald got angry whenever he felt he was being accused of something.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I just don’t like the way she hangs around you, that’s all.’

  ‘Denise does not hang around me. I’m her supervisor. And Denise is passionate about things. The way I am. And that is something you ought to understand: you love your work too, don’t you? You’ve got that assistant: that … Ilan, who eats out of your hand. And you were working on Christmas Day too, if I’m not mistaken?’

  His arguments lined up logically, but the logic was slightly skewed, and his tone was just that little bit forced. He unlocked the SUV, leaned inside, then stood up with the envelope in his hand; gusts of wind made his fringe flutter in front of his glasses.

  ‘See you later,’ he said curtly.

  He walked back towards the buildings. She unlocked her Saab and sat in the driver’s seat. It was cold inside; she could feel the icy leather through her jeans. She switched on the ignition and the radio came on along with the wheezing blower of the heating system. She glanced behind her at the back seat with its piles of gift-wrapped packages. The day before, after the broadcast, she had gone to several boutiques and shopping malls. She had bought a warm, elegant winter coat for her mother, and a box set of all Stanley Kubrick’s films for Gérald, with the book The Stanley Kubrick Archives as a bonus, and she’d also got a naughty outfit for herself (she had imagined the effect it would have on Gérald as she gazed at herself in the mirror in the changing room, and the thought of opening the door to him like that had made her smile and titillated her at the same time, but now that she had seen Denise the idea seemed far less sound). For her father, the search had taken longer. She remembered just in time that for two years in a row she had given him a pen, so in the end she settled on a tablet: the cheapest one on offer.

  At her mother’s request she had also bought oysters, figs, Parmesan cheese, Christmas buns filled with candied fruit, a sweet white wine to go with the foie gras, and some ‘holiday coffee’. She pictured the garlands and candles, the apple and oak logs in the fireplace, and like every time she went to visit her parents, which was less and less frequently, she felt a wave of nausea. Then she noticed Denise’s car, a red and white Mini, still in the car park. Without warning, she suddenly felt slightly dizzy.

  She turned and looked over at the building.

  An inner voice told her to wait for them to come out, but another, stronger voice told her to do nothing of the kind, to get out of there instead. She decided to listen to the second voice. She set off, driving slowly over the fine layer of snow that covered the car park like talcum powder. The second voice reproached her for her lack of confidence: she was paranoid, that’s what she was. She had no reason to be jealous. Denise was neither the first nor would she be the last woman to hover around her man, after all.

  She had to learn to trust other people. And Gérald in particular. She knew only too well where her lack of confidence came from: how could she trust anyone, when she had been betrayed by the only person in the world who should not have betrayed her? Yes. It all came from there. From that black hole, which for so long had absorbed all the light. Denise’s presence in Gérald’s office didn’t mean a thing. Of course it didn’t.

  That’s a lie, answered the other voice, the one she had inherited from the dark years. Stop telling yourself stories, girl. Did you see their hands, yes or no? You are fully aware, deep down, that it’s not even a question of trust, is it, Christine? No, it’s something else: once again, you’re afraid to face the truth.

  * * *

  ‘Why did you wait?’

  The cop was looking at her, his face impassive. Undecipherable. His fingers were fidgeting, playing with his tie. Which was ugly. She hesitated.

  ‘It was Christmas Eve. I – I had to meet my fiancé’s parents for the first time. I didn’t want to be late.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But now it is one fifteen. You could have come sooner.’

  ‘I work at Radio Five. I had a broadcast this morning. And I’ve been waiting forty minutes for my turn.’

  His interest seemed piqued.

  ‘What did you have to do with the radio broadcast?’

  ‘I’m the presenter.’

  He gave a faint smile.

  ‘I thought I recognised your voice from somewhere. I have a meeting in half an hour, so unfortunately I don’t have much time to give you.’

  He focused his attention on the letter open in front of him. As if the fact that she was a public person changed everything.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, when the silence began to seem endless.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. I’m no psychologist. In any case, no suicides were reported last night. Or this morning, if that will reassure you.’

  He said the words as if they’d been talking about a simple burglary, or a snatched handbag.

  ‘The letter is strange,’ he added finally. ‘There’s something not quite right about it.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something about the tone. It doesn’t ring true. Who talks like that? Who calls out for help in such a way? Nobody.’

  She told herself he was right. She herself had had the same feeling reading it for the ninth or tenth time. The strange feeling of something peculiar, abnormal, even a threat that was not actually a threat of suicide.

  Now he was staring at her.

  ‘And could it be this letter was not put in your mailbox by mistake?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What if the person who wrote it meant for you to read it?’

  She felt a shudder go through her.

  ‘That’s absurd. I don’t know what they’re talking about, or who they could be.’

  He was still staring at her. Little prying cop’s eyes.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right.’

  He folded up the letter. ‘Are there any other fingerprints on the letter besides your own?’

  ‘My fiancé’s. So, are you going to look into it?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. What is the name of your programme?’

  Was he flirting with her? She looked for a wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one.

  ‘Mornings with Christine. On Radio Five.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh, right. I like that station.’

  5

  Concertato

  ‘What exactly do you do, Gérald?’

  Her mother’s blue eyes were full of curiosity. Like in the days when she used to host her programme on Channel One, where she would invite everyone who was anyone in the country: actors, politicians, singer-songwriters, intellectuals. There weren’t so many comedians in those days. And reality TV, that televisual equivalent of an open sewer, did not exist.

  Christine looked at t
hem. Her oh-so-perfect parents. Sitting next to each other on the sofa, holding hands like they’d just met, after forty years of marriage. The Steinmeyers made a point of cultivating a perfect image. Perfection in every detail. Even their clothing matched: shirt and trousers in almost identical colours, impeccably ironed, the harmony of their taste in fashion, food, art … Christine noted Gérald’s slight hesitation when he started on an explanation that was meant to be both simple and didactic, but which only managed to be boring.

  You certainly didn’t expect to find yourself in the family equivalent of a television studio: that’s my fault, I should have warned you. Oh dear – and to think I wanted to surprise you.

  ‘But this must all seem, well, rather boring to you,’ he concluded, blushing. ‘Even so, I must confess, it is a – how to put it – fascinating profession. In my opinion, um, at any rate,’ he thought it best to add.

  Oh for the love of Christ, Gérald! Where has your bloody sense of humour gone?

  He glanced over at her, seeking support. Her mother’s smile was full of indulgence. Christine knew that smile. She also recognised the quick look her mother gave her. It was there, in her eyes, the look she would have given twenty years earlier, on the set of her programme, to any guest who was singularly lacking in charisma. The show had started at five p.m., every Sunday. After that there had been a fallow period, then she had been in charge of a weekly magazine show that was already in decline – a relative decline that transformed into a slow death with the advent of the Internet.

  ‘No, no, no,’ lied her mother, brazenly. ‘It is truly fascinating, honestly.’ (One should always be wary of people who used truly, honestly, frankly all the time: she was the one who had told Christine this.) ‘Even though I must confess I didn’t understand everything. Why are you waiting to invite him onto your radio show, my darling?’

  Laughs of complicity from both sides. To send my listeners to sleep? thought Christine. No, that was too cruel.

  And her father, in the meantime? He was smiling. Nodding. He let the conversation continue, his gaze absent.

  ‘I – this wine is excellent,’ said Gérald.