Behind him, the adagio came quietly to its almost tentative coda, slow and furtive like a deer’s footsteps in the forest, light and fragile as smoke – and everything was consumed. Everything except silence.
17
Walk-on
Xanax, Prozac, Stilnox. Why did all these meds have names straight out of some science-fiction film, names that in and of themselves implied danger? She had wondered as much the night before, training her glassy gaze upon the unbelievable number of legal drugs that inhabited her medicine cabinet.
She had stared at them in the palm of her hand: the two-colour capsule, the big blue divisible oval tablet and the little white rod, also divisible (but she hadn’t cut either one). One antidepressant, one tranquilliser and one sleeping tablet: memories of an era when her demons had occupied such a space in her life that only a chemical carapace could keep them at bay – and she had wondered whether the solution might be simply to increase the dose by ten or twenty right there. Then she had stuffed all three in her mouth before lifting the tooth glass to her lips, her hand trembling so violently that she had spilled half its contents. After that, she went to curl up under the duvet in a ball, her brain feeling as if it were a landing strip for suicidal thoughts.
Now that morning had come to her aid, Christine could not remember exactly what those thoughts had been (she remembered, rather, the sort of semi-coma which preceded her terrifying plunge into a sleep resembling a black and lifeless abyss), but she knew she was in danger. Greater danger than any she had ever known. The thought was so chilling that her teeth began to chatter, despite the fact she had bundled herself up in the sheets and duvet, leaving the rest of the mattress bare. She stood up with the duvet still over her shoulders, just like the homeless man down in the street, and she walked hesitantly into the living room. It wasn’t just an impression: it was cold in the flat. She must have turned the heat down without noticing.
Now she turned it up as high as it would go before heading over to the kitchen. She happened to look at the clock, and in a moment of distraction she told herself she had to get ready to go to work, and then the memory of Guillaumot’s words came back to her, leaving her stunned. She swayed. She had to reach out for the kitchen counter to keep her balance.
She saw Iggy’s empty bowl and this was like another punch in the stomach. She hurried to the bathroom. Quick, another capsule, another tablet.
Clinging to the sink, she forced herself to look in the mirror and saw her terrified face. And now? What’s going to happen? The oval tablet, the two-colour capsule – like ice cream with two colours – were already in the palm of her hand. The little voice, however, hadn’t had its final say: You are reacting exactly as they expect you to, it said acidly. You are behaving just as they predicted.
And so what? was what she felt like replying. What fucking difference does it make? Have you got an answer? No? Then shut up!
She gazed at the tablets, then put them on the edge of the sink for the time being.
She went back into the living room with an effervescent aspirin dissolving in a glass, sat down on the sofa and stayed there for a long time without moving. She had lost her bearings: she was a ship come loose from its moorings – adrift, constantly in danger of shattering on the rocks … It was so much easier to let oneself go … The truth is, I have no options left; I’ve lost my job, my man – and no doubt it won’t stop there.
She felt crushed by the truth. In the meantime, it doesn’t stop you from thinking, insisted the little voice all the same, the one she had just sent packing. She obeyed. Her first thought was that now she had to make her way through a world that was radically different from the one she had always known. Like after a tornado, everything that had gone to make up her life before had been swept away and in this new devastated, unrecognisable world the rules had changed. If she wanted to survive, she had to adapt. Except that this new world was like a swamp without any solid ground to stand on. And she had no compass, no map to help her find her way. Then she remembered that there was, in fact, still a little corner of solid ground, the same one that had been there before: Cordélia. The thought that had occurred to her while she was shadowing her had lost none of its pertinence: Cordélia must know who was behind all this. Because Christine no longer believed she could be the instigator. It was too elaborate. Too complicated. How could Cordélia have orchestrated and implemented such a plan with a part-time job and a baby on her hands? The young woman was surely motivated solely by the prospect of financial gain. Someone had promised her – or already given her – a hefty sum.
A second thought flashed through her mind: how could she find out more about Cordélia without attracting the attention of whoever was constantly watching her? Answer: she couldn’t do it on her own. Some obscure hunch told her there were at least two people on the other side: Cordélia, and the man on the telephone, and perhaps more. All alone, she could not manage. She had to get help from someone who could act on her behalf. But who? Gérald was out of the question; and Ilan, too, now. The same went for her father and mother.
And then an idea formed: she thought of two totally unexpected people, whom her tormentor or tormentors could not possibly know; the first one was just downstairs from her apartment.
Christine suddenly felt buoyed by an abrupt, paradoxical bliss: the idea was so absurd that they could never envisage it. A considerable problem did remain, however: how to convince the person in question.
She went to the window and looked at him, sitting there on his patch of pavement among his cardboard boxes and the bin bags containing all his personal belongings.
He was turning his head from left to right, sweeping the street with his piercing gaze. The ideal person. She recalled their conversations. He had always seemed lucid, calm, sensible, and astonishingly quick-witted in spite of his situation.
If he’s so quick-witted, can you tell me what the fuck he’s doing on the street? asked the little inner voice, so fond of contradicting her.
Shut up.
Christine saw him smile and thank a woman who had just dropped a coin in his cup, then watch her as she walked on down the street.
Christine backed away from the window. First she had to wake up.
An almost icy shower got her blood flowing. She made a very strong coffee, and dressed quickly. When she went out into the street, she felt strangely cheered. She greeted him from across the road, and he waved back. She hurried to the nearest cashpoint, on the place des Carmes. When she stood in front of the machine, Christine did some rapid maths. The maximum withdrawal authorised for her credit card was €3,000 over a period of thirty days; her tormentors had withdrawn €2,000 the previous day and she felt a moment of apprehension as she placed her card in the slot. What if they had taken more? Would that mean she had no more credit? Nothing of the sort happened, and she looked with relief at the pile of bank notes the machine spat out. She then stopped at the boulangerie to buy two croissants – the baker gave her a filthy look when she paid with a fifty-euro note. Back in her flat, she wrote a note, which she folded and slipped in her pocket. For a split second she wondered whether she was completely out to lunch. She decided she wasn’t, poured some black coffee into a Tupperware cup and put the croissants in the microwave. She then put a plastic lid on the coffee, returned the hot croissants to their paper bag and headed for the lift.
‘Here, this is for you,’ she declared two minutes later, down in the street, as she handed him everything.
She saw a smile spread through his greying beard. Yellow, crooked teeth appeared in the middle of his craggy face, as well as several metal stumps shining in the corner of his mouth.
‘Well! I’m being spoiled! A proper breakfast.’ There was astonishment in his tone.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
He shot her a surprised, wary look.
‘Max.’
‘Max,’ she said, slipping the folded paper inside a twenty-euro note into his coat pocket, ‘I can help you. I ju
st put a note in your pocket. Be careful no one sees you read it. It’s very important.’
This time, his look was more cautious than surprised. He nodded, without smiling, and she felt his gaze upon her back the entire time it took her to cross the road and go back to her building. When she got home, she went to her bedroom window. He was already looking up towards her window; he knew very well where she lived. Even from this distance, she could gauge the bewilderment in his eyes. He slowly raised his cup, as if drinking a toast. Never taking his eyes off her. Unsmiling. Only later, once he’d finished the coffee and eaten the croissants, did he lie down and disappear beneath his cardboard and his blanket.
Christine could recall every word she had written:
The building code is 1945. There’s another entrance on the street at the back. Wait for an hour. Then come in the back entrance and go up to the third floor, to the door on the left. I have some work for you. Trust me, it’s nothing illegal, however it may seem.
It was only once she left the bedroom that she realised how afraid she was. Was it wise to invite someone like him to her place? What did she actually know about him? Absolutely nothing. He might be an ex-convict, a strung-out junkie, a thief, a rapist.
Too late. She had given him the code.
Having said that, she could always refuse to open the door. She walked over to the door and checked that it was locked. Then she went back to her bedroom. Now he was sitting again, staring up at her window. And at her. He made no sign to communicate whether he accepted or refused her offer. He just went on observing her from down there, his face upturned, unreadable.
Suddenly she felt very uncomfortable: he must take her for a madwoman.
Then what will he think when you’ve explained what you want from him.
Every five minutes she went back to the window, more and more impatient, but he still hadn’t moved. After roughly an hour, she went to the window again and froze. The pavement was empty: he had left his post. When the doorbell shattered the silence of the flat, she stiffened. And yet he was doing just what she had asked him to do.
Dear God, you are completely crazy.
She took a long deep breath. And covered the distance to the door, unbolted it and opened it.
18
Verismo
Her first thought was that he was very tall. At least one metre ninety. And very thin.
‘I’ll stay here if you want,’ he said with a big ironic smile, sensing her hesitation. ‘I can take my shoes off, too, but I don’t advise it.’
His voice was calming, relaxed; she felt ridiculous.
‘No, no, come in.’
She stepped aside and he walked past her. Then the smell reached her nostrils: a mixture of rancid sweat, filth, unwashed feet, and in the background the sickly sweet but insistent stench of alcohol oozing from every pore. Perhaps in the street he did not stink as much as some of his fellows, but here, in the confined space of the flat, his stench enveloped her like a cloud of acetone. She could not help but be glad she did not have five noses like an ant. She wrinkled the only one she had and pointed in the direction of the living room, keeping her distance. As he made his way calmly through the room, she eyed his mud-encrusted shoes clumping across her floor.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ she said.
‘Do you have any fruit juice?’
The fermented and distilled kind? asked the nasty little voice inside, but she stifled it. She went to fetch a bottle from the fridge and pointed to the sofa.
‘You’re not afraid of germs?’ he joked as he sat down and took the glass, three quarters full, in a big hand that was almost as black as his fingerless glove; his white nails looked like pale pebbles set against charcoal.
She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he took great gulps, as if he were dying of thirst, with no regard for the noise he was making, greedily sending the liquid down his throat then licking his chapped lips with an agile tongue that concluded the operation with a light-hearted click.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ he said. ‘But I’m not prepared to do just anything for money.’
Plunging one hand into the pocket of his stained coat, he set the twenty-euro note in front of him on the coffee table. He put her message next to it.
‘If there’s nothing illegal about it, why all the mystery?’
His tone was friendly enough, like someone who is curious and entertained by the situation.
‘Are you crazy?’ he asked, since she didn’t answer.
The question made her start. Although his tone was relaxed, he seemed to expect a reply.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Christine.’
‘Go on, Christine. Tell me.’
After that, he leaned back into the sofa and crossed his legs. She almost smiled at the thought that in spite of his filthy clothes and his long hair that had not seen a pair of scissors in ages, he made her think of a shrink.
‘How did you end up where you are?’ she asked, instead of answering. ‘What did you do before?’
She saw him hesitate, then his features hardened.
‘I was a French teacher,’ he began, ‘in a private school.’
He frowned and let out a sigh.
‘I also used to take the kids on outings at the weekend, or during the autumn or Easter break. In those days, I was a believer. I went to Mass every Sunday with my wife and kids. I was an important member of the community and I had a lot of friends.’ He paused for a long time, staring at her. ‘I lost my faith the day a little boy’s parents filed a complaint against me for inappropriate behaviour with their child. According to them, I had shown him my penis. Rumours spread very quickly. It was a small town. Other parents questioned their children, and then they began to spread stories that were even worse. I was taken into custody. I was confronted with the little boy’s testimony. There were details that didn’t add up. Loads of details. Far too many, in fact. He admitted that he’d made the whole thing up, and I went home. But things didn’t stop there. Emails started going around clandestinely. They said that videos with child pornography had been found on my computer, that I masturbated on the sly, looking at the children, during the weekend trips, and that I always found a way to be there whenever they were going to the toilet or taking a shower … They said I had even made … inappropriate advances to my own children.’
He choked on his last words and when he looked up, Christine could see that his eyes were moist. A little muscle was throbbing beneath the skin on his right cheek. She looked away.
‘According to those who spread the rumours and forwarded the emails, the fact that the gendarmerie didn’t have sufficient proof clearly didn’t mean that I had done nothing; the little boy had withdrawn his testimony so he wouldn’t have problems later on, the investigation had been closed because of a simple technical detail, and so on.’
He was perspiring. It occurred to Christine that he must not be used to being indoors any more.
‘It was more than suspicion. I was guilty. Someone will always think you’re guilty, won’t they? There were too many rumours, and too many clues, you see? So all those would-be dispensers of justice, ordinary bastards convinced they are in the right, the sort who are just waiting for an opportunity to give free rein to their violent impulses, they decided to take the law into their own hands. We lived in a pretty house, my wife and kids and I – just outside the village, near the forest. One evening when we were watching television someone threw stones through the living-room window. It happened again two days later, through other windows. Once, twice. A noise like thunder, insults screamed in the night, cries like animals … The children were terrified, of course.’
He pointed to his glass and she refilled it. He drank it as thirstily as before, but this time without clicking his tongue. He was no longer in the mood.
‘The incidents accumulated. Our cat was poisoned and died, our tyres were regularly slashed, friends stopped
seeing us. More and more friends. My children became outcasts; they were treated like pariahs; they had no one to play with. So they played with each other, my son and daughter, twins – they were seven years old that autumn, when it happened: seven years old, can you imagine?’
He shot her a sad smile.
‘And then one day my wife looked right at me and said, “You did it, didn’t you?” Even she ended up believing I was guilty. You understand: that many people could not be wrong. Something must have happened, there’s no smoke without fire. She left me. She took the children. I began drinking. The headmaster was just waiting for me to make a wrong move in order to sack me; he too was convinced there was no smoke without fire. The house was not paid off, so I lost it. I went to stay with the last friend I had left, then even he said, “You have to go now.” I don’t hold a grudge: his wife had said it was her or me. He made me promise to stay in touch, he gave me some money, and he said, “Call me whenever you want.” I never saw him again; I never tried to get in touch, and nor did he. He was a very good friend, the best friend I’ve ever had.’
He closed his eyes, tight, all his wrinkles converging towards the corners of his eyes, and then he reopened them. They were bright and dry again.
‘Well,’ he said in a firm voice, as if he had just related an amusing or entertaining story, ‘that’s enough about me: what do you want from me, Christine?’
How old was he? He looked close to sixty but given the time he had been living on the street, he could be ten or even twenty years younger. He gave an impression of serene strength, in spite of the terrible story he had just told. She wondered if he had been telling the truth, if he really was innocent. Or if he had committed at least some of the acts he was accused of, and had rewritten the story. How to find out? She decided not to beat about the bush.
Don't Turn Out the Lights Page 17
