Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  ‘Grand-Puy-Lacoste 2005,’ said her father laconically.

  He leaned over to refill their glasses. Christine wondered when he would bring up Madeleine. And how. Because sooner or later he would talk about her. Even in passing, even in an allusive way – with a slight tremor in his voice. It was as inevitable as turkey at Christmas. Madeleine had died nineteen years ago. Ever since then, her father had been in mourning. A constant, permanent, almost professional mourning. What is your profession? I’ve been a journalist, writer, a television and radio man – surely you’ve heard of that show, What a Racket … And now? Mourning, put mourning. His Wikipedia entry indicated that Guy Dorian, whose real name was Guy Steinmeyer, was a French writer and journalist born on 3 July 1948 in Sarrance, Pyrénées-Atlantiques, who for twenty years had presented the most famous daily radio programme in France, launched on 6 January 1972, with 6,246 broadcasts in all, in the course of which he had interviewed every single artist, politician, sports personality, writer and scientist in France – including three presidents, two of them while they were in office. Then he’d moved to television, with the same success.

  ‘We are so happy to meet you at last,’ said her mother. ‘Christine has told us so much about you.’

  (Oh really, when?)

  Gérald shot her an embarrassed look.

  ‘Yes … she has also told me a great deal about you.’

  A big fat lie that sounded like one.

  ‘And we are so glad that she has finally found a suitable match.’

  (Oh, no, have mercy, not that.)

  ‘Christine is someone who knows what she wants,’ her father declared at last.

  The perfect couple turned their heads towards her, like a pair of synchronised robots.

  ‘That is why we are so proud of our daughter,’ echoed her mother.

  Another quick look in her direction. It was not so much pride Christine saw there as her mother’s effort to convince herself.

  ‘She wants to follow in our footsteps. She’s been working so hard at it.’

  ‘We are very proud of her,’ insisted her father. ‘We’ve always been proud of our daughters.’

  ‘Christine has a sister?’ (This from Gérald.)

  And so, there they were. She could feel the bile in her throat.

  ‘Madeleine was Christine’s older sister,’ said her father hastily and, for a fraction of a second, his voice cracked like an adolescent’s. ‘She died in an … accident. Maddie was so very talented, so gifted. It wasn’t easy for Christine to live in her shadow. But she has come through. She’s shown us what she is made of.’

  A memory, like a brutal flash. The summer of 1991. The Bonnieux house. Friends around the swimming pool. So many of them were so familiar from seeing them on TV that it was as if they were actually on set, with Madeleine in the middle. Madeleine was only thirteen but she looked sixteen, with her womanly breasts under her T-shirt, her womanly hips, and her little round womanly buttocks in tight shorts. Madeleine was helping to serve, attracting all the men’s gazes, flaunting her charm with a joyful recklessness, testing her precocious power over the male libido (had she really seen her like that? When she herself was only ten? Or was her memory reconstructing the scene after the fact?), a nymphet, an ingénue, mimicking and eclipsing the adult women. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the queen of the party. And not just that party. Madeleine was the queen twenty-four hours a day – whereas Christine was relegated to the role of lady-in-waiting.

  She met Gérald’s gaze. Could see his bewilderment. You never told me about your sister. Never told me who your parents were either, that they were famous. Dear Lord.

  She was grateful that he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘When she was little,’ said her mother with a smile, ‘Christine tried desperately to compete with her sister.’

  (Oh no, please, not you, Mum.)

  ‘Like the time when her father taught her how to swim.’

  She laughed. But her father didn’t laugh. Didn’t look at her. He was looking at his long hands.

  ‘It was a very long process. But she finally got the hang of it. She wouldn’t give up. Ever. That’s Christine – she hangs on. All through her childhood she had this model there before her who was difficult to equal.’

  Yes, it was her father who had taught her how to swim, and he was the one who had helped her discover The Call of the Wild and 20,000 Leagues under the Sea and The Jungle Book, and he was the one who had gone with her to the cinema for the first time. And yet, no matter how tender and indulgent and mischievous he had always been (Well, what? I have the right to a kiss, too, don’t I, not just your mother, you little monkey?), he was always slightly less so with her than with her sister. With Madeleine, there was something else. They had a bond she could only qualify as … superior. (Stop that at once, said the voice inside.) But it was true, wasn’t it? ‘Do you love me?’ she had asked her father one day – she remembered it was the day of her tenth birthday. Of course I love you, little monkey. She loved it when he called her that. But he didn’t say ‘my’ … Whereas with Madeleine, it was always my darling, my hummingbird, my sunbeam. Madeleine had never asked her father if he loved her before. Because she didn’t have to. She knew.

  Her father, even if he protested it wasn’t true, even if he hid it and was convinced he was distributing his demonstrations of paternal love evenly (Good God, girl, the way you express yourself, sometimes!), constantly favoured Maddie. Already by the age of ten, with her immature little brain, Christine understood this, instinctively.

  Which made it all the more ironic that physically, she looked more like him than Maddie did. How many times had people pointed this out to her: You have your father’s face, you talk the way he does, you have his eyes, you have …

  * * *

  Back in the car, Gérald was fuming.

  ‘Bloody hell, you could have warned me!’

  ‘Warned you about what?’

  His eyes were as round as marbles. ‘That your parents were famous!’

  ‘Famous? How many people remember them?’

  ‘Well me, for a start! I remember my mother glued to her radio when I came home from school, listening religiously to your father interviewing some politician or artist or intellectual. Do you realise that his programmes changed the way we saw the world? That they influenced an entire generation? And your mother! How many times when I was a teenager did I switch on the TV and get her show! Why don’t you use their name?’

  ‘Steinmeyer is my name!’ she protested. ‘I see no reason to change it!’

  ‘Still, you could have warned me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘Well, you did that. Your parents are incredible. Incredible. They are just the perfect couple. How many months have we been together? And you never talked about them. Why not?’

  Good question.

  ‘It’s not my favourite topic.’

  * * *

  Fucking hell … She locked the Saab and crossed the snowy street towards her building. A landscape full of bumps, new contours and traps, as strange as walking on the moon. She felt herself succumbing to an onset of nausea, her stomach full to bursting. She told herself there was something indecent about this yearly gorging on food.

  Obscene.

  As obscene as her father’s sorrow. Sometimes Christine felt a boundless rage towards him, that endless mourning he’d wrapped himself up in. She felt like screaming in his face: But we lost her too! We loved her too! You don’t have a monopoly on sorrow! He’d already had one operation for cancer of the saliva glands. When would the next one be? For a moment, Christine wondered whether you could commit suicide through the intermediary of cancer.

  She was so upset that twice she miskeyed the front door code. The hallway was cold and dark, enclosing like a tomb. She shivered. She walked over to the mailbox. She felt apprehensive as she unlocked her box. No letters. She exhaled. She saw an Out of order sign on the cage to the lift and swore. T
hen she shrugged: it was the logical conclusion to a catastrophic day.

  She took the stairs; like the rest of the building, they were completely silent. She felt tired, demoralised. The entire day had been nothing but a huge waste from beginning to end.

  ‘Your parents are incredible … just the perfect couple!’

  My dear Gérald, you’re such a comedian.

  * * *

  No sound came from her landing, but that was normal, her neighbour was as quiet as a mouse – except when she opened her nasty mouth. She was two steps from the landing when she first noticed the smell.

  She pinched her nostrils.

  What a strange odour! Floating in the air. It wasn’t the usual unpleasant smell of the worn, dusty carpet on the stairs.

  It was a strong smell.

  Of ammonia.

  Christine gulped. It was the stink of urine. Yuck, how horrid. She kept going towards her door. That was where the smell was coming from. She pressed the button for the timer light and bent down, trying to breathe through her mouth rather than her nose, repressing a wave of nausea: the bottom of her door and her doormat were soaked. There was a puddle underneath the mat. Some animal had pissed on her door not long before. Shit. It had to be the poodle from the top floor. Couldn’t he have waited until he got to the street? This was the first time, but his owner could have mopped it up … Christine would mention it the next time she saw her.

  On the other side of the door her landline chose that very moment to start ringing. She fumbled in her handbag to find her keys. Which, of course, were all the way at the bottom. Beneath a jumble of tissues, headphones, mint-flavoured chewing gum, pens and lipsticks. The phone went on ringing – imperiously, impatiently – inside the flat.

  She unlocked the door. Stepped over the dark spot on the doormat. Tossed her open handbag onto the sofa and hurried over to the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  Slow breathing in the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’ she said again.

  ‘You could have saved that poor woman, Christine. But you didn’t. It’s too late now.’

  She gave a start. A man’s voice. Her heart was pounding.

  ‘Who is this?’

  No answer. Just his breathing, but she’d recognised the voice: warm, deep, vaguely sibilant, an accent – and that impression that the man was in the dark, speaking to her from a deep dark place.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘And you, Christine, do you know who you are? Who you really are? Have you ever asked yourself the question?’

  The man was calling her Christine. He knew her. She recalled what the cop had said: ‘And could it be this letter was not put in your mailbox by mistake?’

  She heard the echo of fear in her voice when she said, ‘Who’s speaking? I’m going to call the police.’

  ‘And tell them what?’

  The man on the line did not seem the least bit perturbed. His tranquil confidence merely aggravated Christine’s sense of panic.

  ‘I did what I could: I gave the letter to the police,’ she said to justify herself, her temples throbbing, as if it was normal to have to justify herself to a stranger. ‘And you, what did you…’

  (It doesn’t bother you that you let someone die?)

  ‘… do? And how did you get my telephone number?’

  He tutted. ‘I’m afraid that’s not good enough. Not good enough at all. I think you could have done a great deal more – but you didn’t want to spoil Christmas, did you?’

  ‘Tell me who you are, or else…’

  (For all your fine words of solidarity, you let someone commit suicide on Christmas Eve.)

  ‘… I’ll hang up. What do you want from me?’

  A swarm of wasps in her brain.

  ‘You like this game, don’t you, Christine?’

  She didn’t answer. What game was he talking about?

  ‘Christine, do you hear me?’

  Oh, yes, she heard him. But she did not have the strength to say a thing.

  ‘Do you love him? Because it’s not over. Oh, no. It’s only just beginning.’

  6

  Soloist

  His throat dry, Servaz looked at the package. He felt as if clawed fingers were caressing his neck, digging into his chest. And yet the package was much smaller than last time. The postmark indicated that it had been posted in Toulouse, but that didn’t mean anything, of course. In any case, it could not be an insulated box, given its size: roughly eleven centimetres by nine. Nor was there a fake sender’s name like Mr Osoba …

  He hesitated, then tore off the wrapping paper; a sharp rustling sound. He knew he shouldn’t have done that; he should have called forensics to have them examine it from every angle, cover it with a developer powder, place it under seal in a plastic bag and take it to the lab. But they hadn’t found a thing on the previous package, and he was convinced there would be nothing to be found on this one, either.

  The box was made of rigid pearl-grey cardboard, with a tight-fitting lid. He looked out at the snowy landscape beyond the window, took a deep breath, then slowly lifted the lid with trembling fingers and plunged his gaze into the box. His lungs filled with air as the relief washed over him: it wasn’t what he’d expected. A finger, that’s what he had feared. Instead, he was looking at a little white plastic rectangle with a red logo representing a crown, a key and the letters ‘T’ and ‘W’.

  Grand Hôtel Thomas Wilson: it was written directly underneath, in fine print.

  An electronic hotel key. There was also the room number. 117. And a piece of folded paper underneath on the red satin in the box. He unfolded it.

  Meeting tomorrow in room 117

  Round, flowing, easy handwriting. Blue ink … A woman’s?

  He wondered what sort of woman might want to arrange a meeting at a luxury hotel with a depressed policeman. And what sort of meeting it might be. Romantic? What else, in a hotel room? Charlène? She had come to see him twice during his ‘convalescence’. Charlène Espérandieu was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, but she also happened to be his assistant’s wife. Four winters ago, they had grown so close that they had been on the verge of committing the irreparable. Charlène was a very captivating woman. Not to mention the fact that she had been seven months pregnant when they were drawn so irresistibly to each other, and that Vincent was his best friend …

  Was this her, suggesting they meet? If so, why suddenly out of the blue? Why now?

  Or did the key have another meaning?

  He looked at it again and shuddered. Servaz had already been to that hotel on the Place Wilson, one of the most luxurious in Toulouse, for an investigation. There was a telephone number beneath the name. He took out his mobile.

  ‘Grand Hôtel Thomas Wilson.’

  ‘I’d like to book a room.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Standard, luxury, or suite?’

  ‘Room 117.’

  A pause on the line.

  ‘What days would you like to book?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  He heard typing on a keyboard.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, the room is already booked. But I can offer you a very similar room—’

  ‘No, thank you. That’s the one I want.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I see only one possibility: I have your telephone number; if there is a cancellation, I will notify you immediately, Monsieur…?’

  ‘Servaz,’ he said.

  ‘You said Servaz, S-E-R-V-A-Z?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Well, I really don’t understand: that is the name on the reservation.’

  7

  Vibrato

  She dreamed she was running through a forest, pursued by something terrible. She didn’t know what it was, but there could be no doubt about the monstrosity of the thing behind her. She saw an old farm with outbuildings among the trees. Exhausted, she collapsed only a few feet from the door, in the snow. When she lifted her head, her father was standing on the threshold, in his vest, high-
waisted trousers with braces and farmers’ clodhoppers. ‘There’s a letter for you,’ he said. He tossed it on the ground in front of her and slammed the door. That was when she woke up.

  Fear. Sweat. Pounding heart.

  She sat bolt upright, opened her eyes and mouth wide: her heart was racing wildly in her chest. Her armpits, her brow, her back: all soaking. The sheets were damp with sweat. A pale winter sun was forcing its way like a fever between the slats of the blinds. How long had she slept?

  One minute past eight.

  Oh, no, not again! Her mouth felt furry: she remembered she had taken a sleeping tablet the night before. The first in a long time. A sleeping tablet and a gin and tonic. No: two gin and tonics. She stretched, her eyes puffy with sleep; the moment she moved, Iggy rushed over to the bed to lick her cheek and collect his ration of morning cuddles. She stroked him mechanically. Vague memories floated in tatters through her mind: the Christmas dinner, the call during the programme, the puddle of urine on her doormat and, finally, the man on the telephone.

  She forced herself to breathe more slowly. She listened to the silence in the flat. As if there might be someone there. She listened more closely.

  Nothing. Only Iggy getting impatient. His round, tender eyes were staring at her, not understanding. His little pink tongue appeared beneath his black nose. She got up. Left the room and hurried to the bathroom, amid mountains of T-shirts, rolled-up sheets, knickers and damp towels, until she reached the sink, where she filled a tooth glass with water and drank it down in one gulp. The ceiling light was still flickering. It made her nervous. She hurried into the kitchen-sitting room to pour some coffee into a bowl. As she was about to open the fridge, she realised she wasn’t hungry.

  She thought again about the puddle of urine.

  She hadn’t had the courage to clean it up the night before. She had merely closed the front door and double-locked it. Now she headed to the door, unlocked it and opened it. The stink was still there, but had faded to a vague ambient smell which made you want to hold your nose. She had no time to take care of it now. She decided it would be simpler to throw out the doormat and replace it with a new one. Tonight she would take it straight down to the rubbish area: it was out of the question to bring that – whatever it was – into her flat.