Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  Think.

  There were at least two things: 1) he had found a way into her office, or else he had an accomplice there; 2) he was sufficiently close to Gérald and Denise to know what they said to each other, or else he had been spying on them. She remembered the photographs on her computer: yes, that was certainly what he had done. He must have listened to their conversations that day or another day. But one question remained, always the same: his motive. Why? Why her? Once she could figure out the motive, then she would have him.

  She lifted the mug of coffee to her lips.

  Yet another thought:

  He is isolating me.

  Yes. That was what he had gone on doing that night, alienating her from Gérald and her neighbours. In the same way that he had alienated her – now she got it – from the police and, to some degree, from her boss, after that incident with the antidepressants. She didn’t know why he was doing it, but that was also part of his plan. You have to break the isolation. Whatever the cost. She had to find an ally. But who? Her mother? (A-ha, said the little voice, you are joking, aren’t you?) No, of course not. Her mother would wrinkle her pretty nose and train her sapphire eyes upon her and wonder whether her daughter had suddenly gone mad or had always been so.

  Her father? Even less likely. Who, then? Ilan? Why not? Her assistant was reliable, hard-working, discreet. But could he be anything more than a good assistant? She had no choice: she couldn’t think of anyone else. At that very moment, with unpleasant clarity, the little voice piped up once again:

  No one else? Really? No girlfriends? Someone you can trust besides your beloved fiancé? Hmm … doesn’t this say a lot about certain aspects of your life, sweetheart?

  There was something else she must do.

  She reached for her laptop, opened it on the counter and switched it on. She set about deleting all the cookies and changing her passwords, then she began to download a complete new security package with anti-viruses, firewalls, anti-spyware, anti-phishing and the whole caboodle, and then she went to take a shower. When she came out of the bathroom, she got rid of the old system and launched a quick scan. She glanced at the clock. She would perform a more thorough one at the office. From a drawer in the cabinet under the television she took out binders where she kept bills, receipts, credit card slips and her chequebooks, and she placed them all in a khaki canvas holdall, a relic from her student years. She would open a safe deposit box at the bank and store everything there until she had found a satisfactory solution. Henceforth her flat could no longer be considered a safe place. Finally she called the vet. His assistant put her on hold for a moment then came back to chirp that her boss had agreed to see Iggy immediately: she must come at once.

  ‘Thank you for choosing our services. No potentially dangerous software detected’, said a synthetic voice from her computer. The scan was finished. She put her laptop into the already heavy satchel, fetched the wire dog carrier and went back into the room, where Iggy waited for her with a disarming mixture of tenderness and trust.

  * * *

  It was eight twenty. Late again. But nothing in comparison with the previous days. And besides, she had been going in early for years: a few one-off instances of coming in late wouldn’t erase all that, surely?

  After she came out of the lift she went to grab a coffee from the machine. In spite of everything, she felt relieved: Iggy was safe now, they had given him a tranquilliser, and there was nothing left in her flat that her torturer could use against her. She hadn’t had time to drop off the binders at the bank – she still had them with her – so in the meantime she would lock her satchel and computer in her desk (except your drawers aren’t safe, either, said the voice). Yes, but until now she had never locked her drawers. This time, she would make sure the key never left the pocket of her jeans. So what if her neighbours in the open-plan office saw what she was doing and wondered what she was up to.

  She stifled a yawn and thought about her guest for the day: the director of the Toulouse Space Centre. Gérald knew him well. It wasn’t the first time she had invited a representative of the industry onto her programme: the city’s space and aeronautics focus had long been at the heart of its industrial and economic development. And besides, she may as well admit she had a particular relationship with space, for better or for worse, through the men in her life, and … But she stifled that thought too.

  It’s no time to be thinking about that.

  She left the glassed-in room, her steaming cup in her hand, her satchel over her shoulder, and headed through the open space towards her desk and Ilan’s. She would ask to speak to him after the programme. Right now it was the press review that was urgent. The sight of her assistant’s empty desk jarred her from her thoughts.

  Ilan was nowhere to be seen.

  Where was he?

  Ilan was never late. Not once in three years.

  She saw a yellow Post-it stuck on her telephone. She leaned closer and read:

  Come to my office. Right away.

  Guillaumot’s handwriting.

  The tone was rather threatening but coming from the programme director this was nothing unusual. Christine looked all around the room. Everyone seemed absorbed in their work. Too absorbed.

  Something was up. She went to the door of the little office and paused on the threshold.

  Guillaumot was standing across from Ilan and Cordélia, who were listening to him attentively. He spotted her, interrupted what he was saying and motioned to her to come in.

  The other two turned to look at her.

  ‘Close the door,’ said the programme director.

  The cautious neutrality of his tone did not bode well.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘Let’s sit down, for a start,’ he said.

  ‘We have a programme to prepare, I think,’ she replied, pointing to her two assistants.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, sit down,’ he repeated, his tone unchanged.

  She raised her eyebrows. The programme director, already seated, was looking at her insistently over his glasses. He had a notebook open in front of him. He read quickly what he had written, then looked up again, with a pen in his hand, once they were all seated.

  ‘Well, um, I don’t quite know where to begin. This is a fairly unusual situation. I would like to speak to the three of you. As programme director, it is my job, as you know, to make sure the service runs smoothly. And to make sure that no one in this service, um, suffers in any way because of other people’s behaviour.’

  Christine’s gaze went from Cordélia to Ilan. Cordélia’s expression was impenetrable and Ilan studiously avoided her gaze. She felt a draught of cold air all down her neck. Guillaumot was staring at her without flinching.

  ‘Cordélia came to see me this morning,’ he began.

  Christine glanced over at the intern; their gazes met in silence. The blood pounding in her temples, she understood: this was where the next attack was coming from.

  ‘She has complained about you.’ He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘About your behaviour. Well, shall we say harassment, on your part. That is the word she used. Cordélia asserts that for weeks you have been sexually harassing her: making passes, inappropriate gestures, and even threatening to have her fired if she doesn’t comply. She doesn’t want to file a complaint but she wants it to stop. This internship is very important to her, and above all, she doesn’t want any problems: that is what she has said. She would like for us to deal with the issue amongst ourselves.’

  Christine gave a sarcastic little laugh.

  ‘You think it’s funny?’ said the programme director, immediately indignant. ‘You really think this is a laughing matter?’

  She restrained her anger.

  ‘Don’t tell me you believe all this rubbish?’ she said, leaning closer. ‘Honestly, have you looked at her?’

  They both glanced at Cordélia. That morning, she was wearing an ultra-short plaid kilt and black tights, with a sweatshirt proclaiming AL
CHEMY on the chest and high-top black trainers with silver studs. Her nails were painted blood red like her lips. The piercings on her lips sparkled. How could anyone believe a girl disguised as Cruella before they believed Christine?

  ‘She says that you, um, fondled her several times in the toilets,’ continued the programme director, blushing slightly. ‘That you, uh, tried to kiss her. That you invited her over for a drink and that—’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘That you have been flooding her inbox with emails of a, um, sexual, or even, um, pornographic nature.’

  ‘Oh, honestly, the girl is completely delusional! Shit, look at her!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Exactly what?’

  ‘Exactly, you must have figured no one would believe her.’

  She looked at him as if he had gone mad.

  ‘This is a joke,’ she said. ‘You’ve all gone bonkers!’

  And, as he was staring at her without answering, she added, ‘Do you know who you’re talking to? You’re talking to me, Christine, who’s been working here for seven years – do I look like a pervert?’

  ‘She said that she’s uncomfortable being around you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well then, let her show us those emails. Where are they?’

  Guillaumot looked hard at her, then shoved a pile of printed pages across the desk.

  ‘Here.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘This is absurd.’

  She looked at the printed pages.

  Cordélia, forgive me. I didn’t want to threaten you. You know I don’t mean you any harm. I think about you all the time, I can’t help it. This is the first time I have felt something like this about a woman.

  Christine

  Cordélia, what would you say to dinner, just the two of us, on Saturday evening? Please say yes. It doesn’t commit you to anything, I promise. Just dinner between friends. I promise you no one will know about it. Call me, please.

  Christine

  Cordélia, you haven’t been answering my emails. I’m forced to conclude that you disapprove of my attitude. That you’re hostile. Cordélia, you know your future is in my hands.

  C.

  Cordélia, I’m giving you 24 hours to reply.

  There were dozens more in the same vein. A flock of black birds fluttered through her mind. She felt dizzy; her palms were hot and damp.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ she said slowly, skimming the messages with an unbelieving gaze. ‘This is absurd. I did not send these emails. Honestly, can you really imagine me writing this sort of thing? And signing them on top of it!’

  Guillaumot looked annoyed.

  ‘Christine, we double-checked: that is your IP address, from your computer.’

  ‘But – what the hell? Anyone could access my computer, you know that very well! All anyone has to do is spy on me while I’m typing in my password. I’d be willing to bet this little tart sent them herself.’

  He nodded slowly. Stared at her coldly. A look of a sort she had never seen on his face before, even in his angriest moments.

  He turned to Ilan.

  ‘Ilan,’ he said, ‘are you ready to repeat what you told me?’

  Christine felt a chill all down her spine. She looked at her assistant. He was red as a lobster.

  ‘I would like to start by saying that Christine is a true professional,’ he said, his voice almost inaudible. ‘We do good work and, um, we’ve always got on well. I’ve been very happy working with her, she’s someone I respect … and I would like to say that I believe her when she says she didn’t write this … insane stuff.’

  ‘Fine, Ilan,’ said Guillaumot. ‘We’ve taken note of your objections. But that wasn’t my question. Did you, too, receive inappropriate messages?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the same IP address, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And were they signed?’

  ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘Can you tell us by whom, Ilan? “Christine”, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ilan. ‘That’s what it said, but it doesn’t mean—’

  ‘When did you get these emails?’

  ‘Well, last month, but they stopped very quickly. And I’ll say it again, I like working with Christine very much, I cannot fault her on anything. I’m sure she’s been framed. I can’t see any other explanation.’

  He shot a suspicious glance in Cordélia’s direction.

  ‘What sort of emails?’ continued the programme director, unperturbed.

  ‘Um, well, you know, inappropriate, as you said…’

  ‘Overtures?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sexual stuff?’

  ‘Yes, that sort of thing; but it didn’t last long, as I said.’

  ‘How many were there, do you have any idea?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, maybe twenty.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Fine, Ilan. All right. Let’s suppose it was about that many. How long did it last, can you say?’

  ‘A week, ten days; no more, that I’m sure of. I told you, it stopped very quickly.’

  ‘And you got several of them per day, right?’

  Christine felt as if the ground were shifting beneath her feet, like an earthquake.

  Ilan’s ears had turned purple. ‘Yes.’

  It was more than she could take. She leapt to her feet and leaned across the desk.

  ‘That’s enough now! Stop this bullshit! It proves absolutely nothing: someone could easily have used my email when it was open on my desk! I will not tolerate this slander one more minute, do you hear? This business is grotesque, it’s gone on long enough. And I cannot understand why you would even begin to believe it.’

  The programme director ignored her outburst.

  ‘Those emails, Ilan,’ he asked, ‘did you get them during the day or at night?’

  Silence.

  ‘Both,’ said the young man, embarrassed.

  Another long silence. Christine was still on her feet; she felt drained, nauseous, groggy. Guillaumot glanced at his watch.

  ‘Thank you for being so honest. You and Cordélia may go back to work. I thank you both; go and see Arnaud about the programme. He will fill in for today. Get a move on.’

  Cordélia and Ilan left the room, Cordélia glaring back at Christine. Christine looked at Guillaumot, stunned.

  ‘Frankly, I cannot understand how you can believe her claims for a minute. How long have we been working together? I’ve always done my job, you know that. I’ve never had any personal problems with colleagues until today; I’m not hysterical like Becker, or tyrannical like you, or a layabout like some people around here. I’m professional, reliable, and everybody enjoys working with me—’

  Guillaumot rushed to grab the line she had tossed him.

  ‘Everybody enjoys working with you? Open your eyes, for Christ’s sake, Steinmeyer! Everyone here thinks you’re a pain in the arse, an arrogant, difficult drama queen! Everyone thinks that you’ve been getting above yourself lately. I cannot count the number of times you’ve come and pestered me about trifles.’ He shot her a look that was heavy with resentment. ‘Need I remind you what I found in your drawer? Not to mention all the times you’ve been late, or your very unprofessional behaviour on the air lately.’

  Suddenly she understood. Guillaumot didn’t like her, either. And for him this was the dream opportunity. She felt as if the ground were moving; a storm was raging inside her mind, thick and dark.

  ‘Do you really think people worship at your feet?’ he continued in the same vengeful tone. ‘And that we cannot manage without you? That you are indispensable?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course that’s what you think. That’s your problem, Steinmeyer; you’re completely disconnected from reality. And now this. Who do you think you are, for fuck’s sake!’

  She couldn’t believe her ears. She had always thought that they appreciated her work, respected it,
along with her professionalism, and that apart from a few differences of opinion and a few enemies – it was normal to have one or two in an environment so fraught with competitiveness, and where so many employees coveted others’ positions – she got along well with the editorial board.

  He made a show of checking his watch.

  ‘I have a meeting with shareholders and management in one hour. Go home. I’m going to think about what we do next. In the meantime, stay home tomorrow, Arnaud will handle the programme for now.’

  She almost said something, then thought better of it. She was on the verge of exhaustion, of a breakdown. She placed her hand cautiously on the back of her chair to keep from stumbling.

  Guillaumot’s voice grew softer, as if he’d realised he had gone too far: ‘Go home, Christine. I’ll keep you informed. Whatever I decide, you will be the first to know.’

  She beat a hasty retreat. The door to the office had stayed open after Ilan and Cordélia had gone out: consequently, everyone had heard Guillaumot’s outburst. She rushed to her desk, head down. Through a totally silent room. She could feel all those gazes converging on her.

  ‘Christine, I—’ began Ilan.

  She raised her hand and he fell silent. Her fingers were trembling so violently that she had to try twice to get the little key into the lock of the drawer. She took out her satchel, hitched the strap over her shoulder and hurried to the lift.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said someone as she went by.

  14

  Coloratura

  There were woods behind the centre, a short distance away, and miles of poplar trees ahead – on the plain, lined up like halberds in a painting by Paolo Uccello. As he sat down, he realised he was beginning to like this place. He might not like the other boarders, with a few exceptions, but the place itself was not without charm. Or peace and quiet. He realised he was in no hurry to leave, that he was afraid of returning to the real world. Did that mean he was still a long way from being cured?