Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  She said it with humour, and he smiled.

  ‘I’m not that old, am I? A father figure – really?’

  ‘Well, something like that. A sort of Jedi master.’

  Her stuffy nose was the colour of an aubergine and her eyes were watering. She trumpeted once again into her handkerchief.

  ‘A what master?’

  ‘Like in Star Wars,’ explained Vincent.

  Servaz looked at them both, then gave up trying to understand.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, pointing to the photograph in Vincent’s hand.

  Espérandieu repeated what Servaz had just told him. Servaz looked from one to the other. When they had started in his department, both of them had been subjected to attacks, some less veiled than others: anti-Arab or anti-Chinese racism, or both, in Samira’s case; and homophobia in Vincent’s, because some of the older cops suspected that despite his wife’s beauty, he wasn’t attracted solely to women – probably simply because Espérandieu had certain mannerisms and sartorial habits that could be deemed somewhat effeminate. As for Samira, some of the men in the brigade found it extremely difficult to admit that a young woman with an immigrant background was better at her job than they were.

  ‘Do you have any idea what this picture might mean?’ asked Vincent, waving the photograph as if it had just come out of the developing bath.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Do you know whether Célia Jablonka was in any way connected to the milieu of space research?’

  ‘According to Charlène, the subject of her penultimate exhibition was space research, yes.’

  Espérandieu stared at him, and Servaz recognised an expression he knew well: that of a collector looking at an interesting piece.

  ‘I don’t get it, boss,’ said Samira, putting away her handkerchief. ‘Did the girl commit suicide or not?’

  ‘As surely as you’ve got a cold,’ he answered.

  * * *

  It had been the absolute hot ticket of the holiday season that year, 2010. The Salle des Illustres at the Capitole. A long gallery laden with the bourgeois and pretentious gilt, paintings and stucco that were the fashion in the ninteenth century, a place where people crowded together and greeted one another and congratulated themselves on their presence. On having climbed sufficiently high, on having a long arm, on being important enough to have been invited. There were true celebrities and the only mildly famous, politicians and lawyers, architects and journalists, artists and athletes, people of influence and parasites. Christine knew that she herself was exaggerating her role as a popular local radio presenter. She went from one subject to the next the way she went from one guest to the next, serious when she had to be but not excessively so; light-hearted and cheery the rest of the time.

  A butterfly.

  And naturally, because it was the purpose of the soirée, all the way at the back, clustered around the mayor, were the upper crust from the European space endeavour. Engineers, directors, researchers. With, as their star attraction, the space cowboys. The company showcase. With strings of diplomas, even more than most of their fellow guests, and yet as virile as any Hollywood actor, they sent the needles of the members of the fair sex zooming into the red. Christine had already noticed a certain number of women looking their way while she herself was gazing at the painted ceiling high above. For the time being the space cowboys joined the crowds around the buffet, but the moment they began to scatter, the available ladies (and even those who were not available) would swoop down upon them like a cloud of locusts on a field. That was what she was thinking, her glass of champagne in her hand, when a voice called out to her:

  ‘Don’t tell me that you, too, only have eyes for them.’

  She turned around to look at the gentleman with thick glasses who was definitely anything but her image of a spaceman.

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Gérald Larchet, professor and researcher at the Higher Institute of Aeronautics and Space.’

  ‘Then you’re like me, Gérald: you merely look at the stars from down below.’

  She’d left the bespectacled man there on the spot. She’d gone around to shake a few hands and kiss a few cheeks, she exchanged a few words of no importance, and then the voice once again resounded in her ears.

  ‘And who do you think you are, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Do you always give people the brush-off like that?’

  He seemed very agitated. His eyes were flashing through his lenses. And they were actually quite attractive, those eyes. His anger almost made her smile. And on closer inspection, the effect of his glasses was deceiving: she could tell that there was a muscular physique beneath his wool coat, grey jacket and blue shirt. He was tall. He had pleasant features. He was good-looking, even.

  ‘You should change your glasses,’ she said.

  ‘Is that another nasty remark?’

  ‘No, anything but: it’s a compliment.’

  That was how it had begun. An hour later, she knew almost everything there was to know about him; that he was single, for example, and above all that he had a true sense of humour (there were quite a few fakes in the room; you could hear their laughter, triggered on demand). And she also knew for certain that she fancied him.

  Except that the story didn’t end there.

  It was also on that evening that she made the acquaintance of Léo: Léonard Fontaine. A real, handsome celluloid hero. A space cowboy. He was, in fact, the most famous of them all: the star turn of the evening, the poster boy for the European Space Agency. She was the one who had gone up to him. To invite him onto her show. She had had to elbow her way through the horde of admirers (seventy-five per cent of whom were women). She had expected to encounter a fairly insufferable, self-assured type, but he was just … relaxed. With an athletic build, a pleasant face with wrinkles that lent him charm, and a smile that had clearly been arranged by his dentist. Fifty-five years old. The archetypal cool guy … married, two small children, the little voice inside reminded her. And yet she was flattered and even a bit more when he began to come on strong.

  She had felt only the briefest flare of guilt: he had called her back the next day, to her great surprise, to tell her that he would appear on her programme, and he had invited her to dinner at the same time. They had slept together that very evening. He was very enterprising and direct – and she liked that. He was a good lover. Imaginative. During that time, she had let Gérald pursue his courtship in due form, taking his time. Léo was rarely free in the evening; he had his family life. So as a rule they met at a hotel in the afternoon. He had warned her right from the start: he had no intention of leaving his wife. He had been honest. Or at least that was what she had thought at the time. Today she told herself that it had been, rather, a supreme form of dishonesty: he was in the clear, knowing all the while that even if she agreed to his conditions his partner was bound to suffer. In this way, he was at peace with himself and could play the game however he liked. No promises he could not keep, no responsibilities; in the beginning she had felt more in love with Léo than with Gérald but gradually the scales had tipped in Gérald’s favour. So why hadn’t she ended the affair sooner? Why had she waited so long? Almost two years! She only gave Léo up one month ago: when Gérald showed her an engagement ring.

  Could Léo be behind all this? She had wondered – but she had immediately concluded that he couldn’t: Léo was both the most egocentric and the most well-balanced person she knew. Besides, at no time during their two years together had she ever thought he was truly in love. Bizarrely, it was perhaps for this reason that she had waited so long to leave him: because she had hoped, with a secret appetite for revenge, that the right moment would come, the moment when she would manage to break through his shell, and reach his heart – and make him bleed …

  But that moment had never come.

  What would happen, on the other hand, if Gérald found out that all through the first two years of t
heir relationship she had been seeing another man? That she had been constantly lying to him and hiding the truth from him? That when she snuggled up in his arms, she had just left those of another man? She shuddered; for a brief moment she was filled with panic at the thought. Now that Gérald seemed to have gone cold on her … for how long? she wondered. She was in love with Gérald. It was Gérald she wanted to spend her life with. Even if the thought of her afternoons with Léo still made her feel warm inside.

  Yet now, as she listened to the ringing on the line, she was preparing to resume contact with the man she had banished from her life scarcely a month earlier.

  * * *

  ‘Christine? Have you changed your mind?’

  There was no bitterness in his voice. Or surprise. If anything, he sounded jokey. She felt a twinge of sorrow at the thought he could joke so easily about an affair that had lasted two years and ended only a month ago – and it was also the sound of that warm, deep voice. Then she told herself it was his way of dealing with their break-up. Of digesting it. That just because he wasn’t showing his emotions didn’t mean he did not have any.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his tone more serious. ‘How stupid of me. What’s up, squirrel? How are you?’

  She faltered for a moment: squirrel. One of the nicknames he used to give her. One month later it had lost none of its potency.

  ‘I have to see you, Léo, it’s important.’

  ‘You sound strange. What’s the matter?’

  She replied that she would rather talk about it in person. She could tell from his silence that he was surprised. She closed her eyes. She tried to drive the doubt from her mind: how could she explain what she had been through over the last few days? How could she make him understand how distraught she was? If anyone could help her, it was Léo: this man who was stronger and more sure of himself than anyone else.

  ‘Please,’ she murmured, her voice almost inaudible.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘I’m in danger, Léo. My life is in danger.’

  A very long silence.

  ‘Where, then?’ he asked solemnly.

  ‘Our usual hotel, the usual room, you reserve it. In one hour.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be there. Christine?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on. But trust me: we’ll take care of it.’

  She hung up, vastly relieved. Léo’s final words had filled her with hope. Yes, she’d been right to call him. The soft touch of a flannel winter shirt. The smell of lemony aftershave. A knot in her belly, and her blood stirring, just there – precisely there – along the body’s meridian to the sensitive spot between her abdomen and her groin: Léonard Fontaine was a remedy almost as dangerous as the affliction.

  * * *

  She paused as she emerged from the side street. Her sharp gaze looked all around the square. Then with her hood still pulled over her head, her hands deep in her pockets, she quickly crossed the square and went around the frozen fountain in the direction of the Grand Hôtel Thomas Wilson.

  Inside the revolving door she removed her hood, but she still sensed the receptionist staring at her as she headed towards the lift. The doors opened on the first floor and she walked down the long silent corridor, her steps hushed by the carpet.

  She stopped outside a dark door with a big gold electronic lock. Knocked discreetly. The door opened almost immediately and she went into room 117.

  * * *

  The familiar little corridor with its panelled walls, luggage rack, two white dressing gowns on their hangers, the bathroom door open a crack to their left: she immediately recognised it all. And the scent of cleanliness and floral perfume that drifted through the room. Léo closed the door behind her and swung her around to face him; she let him kiss her, but then quickly ended their embrace.

  ‘Please, Léo…’

  She held herself ramrod straight.

  Then she turned around and walked across the room. The kingsize bed, the television with its LCD screen, the desk covered with black leather, the coffee maker, the minibar, the bedstead of silver diamonds, the red pillows, the little chrome lamps subduing the darkness of the ebony walls.

  How many times had they come here? Thirty? Forty? Fifty? At least once a week for two years, except during the holidays: that would add up to a hundred times they’d met.

  One hundred!

  He went over to the desk and she saw he’d had some champagne sent up.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure? Christ, it feels strange to be here.’

  She was surprised by the tenderness and a slight weariness she heard in his voice: yet Léo was not the kind of man who would dwell on the past. When their gazes met, she saw the familiar tender glow in his eyes. He took the bottle from the bucket and she saw he had already drunk from it while waiting for her.

  ‘I didn’t come here for that, Léo.’

  ‘Christine, relax. We’re going to talk; you’re going to tell me what’s going on. You are in no danger here, all right?’

  He sat on the edge of the bed, with a full glass. He was wearing a faded denim shirt open over his tanned chest, and his sleeves were rolled up as if it were summer.

  She pulled a chair over in front of him and sat down. He stared at her, frowning.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said. ‘You seemed upset on the phone. Apparently, you still are. Take your time, I have all the time in the world…’

  ‘I’ll have half a glass after all.’

  He got up to pour it for her. She took the opportunity to start talking, in a slow and measured voice, while he had his back to her. She summarised what had happened as honestly and objectively as possible. He showed no expression during her entire story. When she had finished, ten minutes or so later, he let out a whistle. His eyes were veiled – as if he had gone inside himself and was searching through his considerable experience for something remotely similar.

  ‘It seems serious,’ he said finally, giving her a worried look.

  She knew that with Léo the word ‘serious’ meant ‘grave’, ‘worrying’, or even ‘dramatic’.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure it all happened exactly the way you’ve told me?’

  There was a hint of scepticism in his voice that Christine did not like.

  ‘What are you insinuating by that? That I’m making it all up?’

  ‘And you are sure you don’t have the slightest idea who is behind it all?’ he asked, ignoring her reaction.

  She hesitated.

  ‘For a moment, I thought it could be you.’

  She saw him raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Mmm. I left you hardly a month ago, I told you that it was all over between us and then suddenly someone started fucking up my life.’

  She gave him a defiant look.

  ‘You don’t honestly believe what you’re saying, Christine?’

  Well, well, she’d managed to break through the shell after all: his voice was trembling with anger.

  ‘No, of course not. I know nothing, Léo. But I can’t imagine Cordélia is acting on her own; I think she’s doing it for money and nothing else.’

  He seemed preoccupied.

  ‘In any event, this business has already gone much too far, don’t you realise? You have to go to the police.’

  ‘After what happened with the letter?’

  ‘Yes. Even after that. There’s no alternative. If you want, I’ll come with you.’

  She paused to reflect. What would the cops think of her if she showed up with a married man who was not her fiancé – a man who, on top of it, was almost instantly recognisable?

  ‘No, it’s better you don’t come with me.’

  He looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘Christine, you have to go to the police. You’ve waited too long already. You have virtually lost your job. And what happened with your dog: I don’t like that at all. This is much more than simple harass
ment. Somewhere, there, outside, there is someone walking around who really has it in for you. Someone has already broken into your place. And hurt your dog.’

  She frowned and screwed up her eyes. As if she didn’t know. Suddenly she had a terrible sense of apprehension: she was desperately seeking a way out and all he could suggest was going to the police? If a man like him could see no other alternative, what course of action did she have left?

  He must have sensed how terrified she was, because he put a hand on hers.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find a solution. We have to act methodically,’ he continued. ‘For a start, go and stay at a hotel for a while.’

  ‘And what about Iggy?’

  ‘Take him with you. Or give him to someone else for a while … to your parents, or friends.’

  What friends? she almost said.

  ‘Why don’t you come and stay at my place for a few days?’ she suggested. ‘Just tell your wife you’re on a business trip.’

  She knew that Léo’s life after leaving his career as a spaceman had been very busy. He had spoken at length about his new direction when he had appeared on her programme at Radio Five: for a while he had been in charge of the astronaut training centre in Cologne, in Germany; he had worked as consulting astronaut on the ATV project, an uncrewed cargo spacecraft whose purpose was to supply the International Space Station; he had created his own company, GoSpace, a branch of the National Centre for Space Studies, which organised scientific flights on the reduced-gravity Airbus 300 ZERO-G; he had also become one of the principal sales representatives for the European Space Agency, promoting human spaceflight and space exploration to a wider public as well as to government officials and universities.

  Now he gave her a sharp look.

  ‘No, I can’t do that. But we have to act. You were right to come and see me. Who else have you spoken to?’

  She had a picture of Max in her living room, with his dirty clothes, filthy beard and long greasy hair.

  ‘Nobody. Gérald, given the present state of our relationship, would not believe me.’