Don't Turn Out the Lights
Page 23
‘She did say one strange thing, once,’ Célia’s father replied. ‘Just the once. She said he was a real cowboy: a space cowboy. Or something like that. I don’t know what she meant. But she was like that, Célia; she often talked in riddles.’
Servaz stared at him, thinking of the photograph in the box – the photograph of the space station – and he shuddered. Célia’s father’s eyes were lowered. When he looked up again, Servaz was struck by the intensity of the fierceness of his gaze.
‘If she really did commit suicide, what are you doing here one year later?’ he asked.
‘I told you, a routine check.’
‘Don’t try and have me on. What’s the point of all your questions? Have you reopened the investigation or not?’
‘No, sir. The case is closed.’
‘Closed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Then get the hell out of here, Inspector, Lieutenant, Commissaire, or whatever your bloody rank is: you get the hell out of here, right now.’
* * *
Servaz slowed down outside the entrance to the Space Centre, which made him think of a motorway tollbooth surmounted by a huge symbol clearly representing a planet and a rocket launcher. The Space Centre was located at the heart of a vast university science complex consisting of laboratories, engineering schools and aerospace industries, to the east of Paul Sabatier University and south of the city. The two guards at the entrance, in blue uniforms, were bickering; they looked about as efficient as a pair of extras on a reality TV programme. He rolled down his window. He explained that he had an appointment with the director. The guard took his ID card and in exchange gave him a visitor’s badge that indicated the name of the person he was going to meet (just in case he was tempted to wander off inside), and then he was told to leave his car on the left-hand side of the car park, just beyond the entrance.
Servaz did as he was told, switched off the ignition, got out and looked all around him. A few snowflakes were whirling in the cold air; he saw tall fir trees, high pylons with projectors on top, a rocket, and an enormous satellite dish on the snow outside one of the buildings. All the facades were made of tall vertical strips of concrete separated by narrow arrow slits. He could not detect the presence of any particular security measures on the site, and yet there must be some. He headed in the direction of what they had told him was the ‘Directors’ Building’. Opposite was the Fermat Building, which housed the control rooms for the Ariane satellites. Just next to it was the CADMOS, the Centre for the Development of Microgravity Applications and Space Operations.
When Servaz had called, he had introduced himself as an investigator from the Criminal Investigation Department, and had asked to speak to the director of the Centre, and he had prayed the director would not get in touch with the CID. He had explained that he was investigating the death of the artist Célia Jablonka, who had used space research as the theme for one of her exhibitions. Over the telephone the director had confirmed that Mademoiselle Jablonka had indeed come to visit the site. He did not see what he might actually add to the investigation (so he said), but he had no objections to meeting with Servaz – although he was, he insisted, quite pressed for time. Well, no, the police had not contacted him until today, and why should they have: didn’t Célia Jablonka commit suicide? Servaz already suspected that the director was not exactly the modest sort. A quick glance at his CV had informed him that the man had got a degree from the prestigious École Polytechnique in 1977, as well as a PhD, and an MSc from Stanford.
The large man who welcomed him into his office five minutes later had little eyes that sparkled with humour, and a friendly handshake, despite his damp palms.
‘Please, have a seat.’
He sat back down behind his desk and adjusted his large polka-dot bow-tie. He gave Servaz a kind, enveloping gaze, then spread his hands.
‘I don’t know exactly what you expect from me, Commandant,’ he began, ‘but please, fire away. I will try to answer your questions.’
Servaz decided to beat around the bush.
‘Why don’t you tell me, for a start, what it is you do here.’
The man’s smile broadened.
‘The Toulouse Space Centre is the operational centre for the National Centre for Space Studies. Here we design, develop, send into orbit, control and operate the space vessels and systems that are the responsibility of the National Centre for Space Studies. You have surely heard about our various programmes – Ariane, Spot, Helios, and above all the robot Curiosity, which the Americans sent to Mars?’
Servaz did as expected: he nodded.
‘Well, the ChemCam – the laser camera that is at the top of the robot’s mast, the one that has already fired 80,000 laser shots at the rocks to analyse them – is piloted from here, and was designed here by the National Centre for Space Studies and the Institute for Research in Astrophysics and Planetology.’
Toulouse and outer space, Toulouse and aeronautics: an old story that went back as far as the beginning of the previous century, with Latécoère’s planes, and the legendary pilots from the Aéropostale like Jean Mermoz and Saint-Exupéry: Wind, Sand and Stars, Southern Mail, the dunes of the Sahara, the lights of Casablanca, Dakar, Saint-Louis in Senegal – stories that were filled with words and names like Patagonia, wireless, Southern Cross, thanks to which Servaz, as an adolescent, had escaped from his room.
‘But you haven’t come here to talk about robots and research, have you?’
‘Do you remember what Mademoiselle Jablonka seemed to be most interested in?’
‘She was interested in everything; she was an intelligent, curious young woman. And very pretty, too,’ he added, after a moment. ‘She wanted to know everything, to see everything, to photograph everything – naturally, we could not satisfy this last request of hers.’
‘Did she strike you as depressed?’
‘I’m no shrink,’ replied the director. ‘And besides, I only saw her on two occasions at the most. Why do you ask?’
Servaz thought of something.
‘She had met someone,’ he said, disregarding the director’s question. ‘She talked to her father about a “space cowboy”.’
The director frowned.
‘If you’re interested in the astronauts, you’ve come to the wrong place: you won’t find any here. The training centre for European astronauts is in Cologne – and the headquarters for the European Space Agency as well as for the National Centre for Space Studies are in Paris … But she might have been in touch with other people without going through me. Why are you interested in them?’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to tell you.’ He noted with satisfaction the little spark of annoyance in the eyes of the man sitting across from him.
‘Listen, I don’t really know what you’re looking for – or what you imagine – but those men are highly trained, thoroughly prepared, both physically and mentally. You cannot imagine the sort of training they go through: centrifuge, swivel chair, tilt table … these men can withstand anything. With a smile. They’re incredible. And they undergo a whole series of tests, including psychological ones.’
‘Is there any way she might have met one of them here?’ insisted Servaz, ignoring his remark.
‘I just told you…’
The director sounded increasingly annoyed. Then he paused.
‘Now that you mention it … She was also invited to a gala event which the National Centre for Space Studies gave at the Capitole: everybody who was anybody in the French space industry was there. I invited her to come with me. When she saw all those alpha males in their dinner jackets, she completely forgot about me,’ said the big man with a hearty laugh.
‘You mean that—’
‘Yes, all the French astronauts were there: the space cowboys, as you call them.’
‘Do you remember the date of the gala?’
The director picked up his telephone and exchanged a few words with his assistant, then waited for her reply.
* * *
Night was falling over Toulouse, although the afternoon was only two thirds over. It was 31 December and the city was lit up like a Christmas tree. An icy wind seemed to be blowing in all the way from the Polish steppes.
Why have you come back into my life? he thought. I had managed to forget you.
You haven’t forgotten me.
But you’re dead.
Yes.
I am already forgetting your face.
The way you will forget everything else.
Is that all there is? All those words we said. All the promises. All the kisses, the shared moments, the gestures, the waiting, all the love – will nothing remain?
Nothing.
Then what is the point of living?
What is the point of dying?
Are you asking me?
No.
He looked at the pedestrians, wan and hurried, the Christmas lights and decorations, the pretty girls, all bundled up and laughing on the café terraces: their laughter would fall silent, the Christmas lights would dim, the pretty girls would get old and wrinkled, then die. He dialled the number for the town hall.
‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice. He gave his name, explained who he was and talked about the gala evening on 28 December 2010.
‘Anything else?’ said the woman, with a touch of bureaucratic smugness.
‘Might you have kept a list of the guests?’
‘You must be joking.’
He stifled an urge to make a cutting remark.
‘Does it sound like it?’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not within my remit. I will put you through to someone who might be able to help you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking note of the word might.
He waited patiently, listening to Mozart.
‘Yes?’ said a second voice.
Servaz explained why he was calling.
‘Stay on the line. I’ll find it for you.’
He stood up straight. The voice was firm and determined. He heard the woman moving about, addressing someone else in an authoritarian tone. He felt a fresh surge of hope. After all, it was the same in the police – there actually were some civil servants who were competent and eager to help. He heard the footsteps come back a few minutes later.
‘I’m sorry, but we don’t have it here. I’ll put you on to someone else.’
He was about to give up and end the call when a thin little voice answered.
‘Yes? Hello? Hello?’
He hesitated. What was the point?
He trotted out his story again, wearily.
‘Um … the list of guests for 28 December 2010?’ echoed the little voice, not very sure of herself.
‘Yes. Do you see which event I’m referring to or not?’
‘Of course. I was there. The evening with the astronauts.’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’ll see if I can find it for you. Do you want to hold or would you rather call back?’
He thought about how difficult it had been simply to get hold of her. And if he hung up, he might not have the courage to call back.
‘I’ll hold.’
‘As you wish…’
After ten minutes had gone by, he was beginning to wonder whether this person had not forgotten about him and gone off to celebrate New Year’s, leaving her phone off the hook on a corner of her desk, when he heard:
‘I’ve got it!’ Her voice was triumphant.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. We have a full archive. Including photographs.’
‘Photographs? What photographs?’ His mind was racing. ‘Stay where you are … I’ll be right there,’ he decided, suddenly.
‘What? Now? But I – I get off in half an hour and it’s – it’s New Year’s Eve!’
‘I’m only a hundred metres away. And it won’t take me long. It’s very important,’ he added.
The little voice became even thinner.
‘Well, in that case…’
24
Voice
It was seven forty-six p.m., that 31 December. The temperature had fallen below 2°C, but she nevertheless opened the French windows of her hotel room, and evening sounds rose from the square below. From her bed and beyond the balustrade she could admire the illuminated facade of the Hôtel de Ville, which was perpendicular to her hotel, the Grand Hôtel de l’Opéra, 1, place du Capitole. Fifty rooms, two restaurants, a spa with sauna, a steam bath and a massage parlour, right in the centre of town. Her room was red: red walls, red armchair, red floor – only the ceiling, bed and doors were white.
Iggy had sniffed out every nook and cranny of the place, bumping into the doors because he had still not got used to his plastic cone collar, and then when he’d had enough, he fell asleep on top of the bedspread.
She too had dozed off – after unpacking both her suitcases – once she felt safe, and the tension of the last few hours had finally receded. It was her mother who had found this place for her: ‘Get a room at the Grand Hôtel de l’Opéra, the manager is a friend of mine.’ She had made her promise not to say anything to her father. But she had had to give her a plausible explanation all the same – her mother was not the type of woman who would be satisfied with feeble excuses. Her explanation boiled down to this: a burglar had broken into her place while she was sleeping, and she no longer felt safe. ‘You informed the police, I hope?’ Christine lied. Then she added that it was only for a few days, the time it would take to have the locks changed.
The bronze tones of Saint-Sernin and the other churches rang out; the monotonous concert of traffic rose to her windows, broken by solo passages of shouts and laughter, and now and again by the dissonant note of an impatient car horn. She stared at the fan on the ceiling. Bells were ringing, vibrant, fervent. She could also hear strains of more pagan music floating like tattered joy among the evening sounds. She could hear the city’s heartbeat. So much activity bringing it to life. So much activity and joy she could no longer be part of.
Why hadn’t Léo called?
She couldn’t stand it any more, so she took out her mobile and looked for his number among her contacts. She heard it ring four times before the voicemail clicked in. Damn! Furious, she hung up and immediately redialled. This time he picked up on the second ring.
‘Christine—’
‘Yes. It’s me. Sorry to disturb you, I’m sure you’re at home, but I wondered if you had tried to reach me. The battery on my mobile was dead,’ she lied, ‘and—’
‘No, I didn’t try. Christine, you know I can’t talk now,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Who is it?’ called a woman’s voice in the background, and Christine thought she recognised it – she had met Léo’s wife once at a party; they had even got on well together.
‘It’s nothing. It’s about the trip I told you about!’
‘Kids!’ shouted the same voice. ‘Kids, go and get ready!’
‘When can I see you?’ asked Christine. ‘Were you able to get hold of that detective?’
Silence.
‘Listen, this is not a good time. What did the police say?’
Should she tell him the truth? Later.
‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘I got the impression they didn’t believe me.’
Another long silence.
‘I need to see you,’ she added, shivering not only from the cold air that was fluttering the curtains – as if they were taking flight in the room – but from something else besides.
‘Christine … I need to think … I spoke to the detective, the one who owed me a favour. He turned up some stuff about you.’
She gulped.
‘What stuff? Did you ask him to investigate me?’
‘He said that during your adolescence you underwent psychiatric treatment. You attacked your family doctor.�
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‘I was twelve years old!’
‘He was also in touch with his contact in the police: there was a girl you attacked, too. I know all about it.’
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘I have to give it some thought,’ he said again. ‘I’m the one who’ll call you back. Look after yourself.’
He had hung up. She felt the rage wash over her and she pressed the redial button. He couldn’t just cut her off like that! She had a right to explain herself. For Christ’s sake, it wasn’t fair: everyone had the right to defend themselves! He knew her, didn’t he? They had been to bed together at least a hundred times!
She heard the call go to voicemail.
* * *
It was the summer of the year she turned twelve, the evening of 23 July 1993. That summer – a summer of nightmares and ghosts – she had contracted glandular fever and it had left her so exhausted that she rarely left her bed; most of the time she was prey to a fairly high fever which caused her to break out in a hot sweat, and the glands in her neck and armpits were swollen, while the constant headaches made it feel as though her skull was compressed in a vice. The increase in her white-blood cell count, and above all the complications in her bronchial tubes required the family doctor to come and give her an injection every evening before bedtime. After that, her mother switched off the light. Those nights when she had a fever were memorable for their elaborate nightmares, and she ended up dreading the moment when her mother pressed the switch and darkness fell. Just as she was convinced that Dr Harel’s mysterious injections were the cause of her nightmares.
But that evening of 23 July, it was not her mother who came, because she was at the bedside of her own mother, who was ill. It was her father who saw to things. ‘Sleep well, monkey face,’ he said, as if he knew nothing about her nightmares and fever, then he switched off the light and closed the door.
In the dark, wrapped in absolute terror, she had felt her heart begin to beat wildly. Drowsy, she heard voices coming from the swimming pool just beneath her window. The voices were whispering, but the temperature had climbed to over 30°C at night, and the window was open. She listened out, and then she heard it: the splashing of someone swimming. She turned her wan, feverish face towards the clock radio. Midnight. Her cheek against the pillow was damp from her night sweats. Beneath her skull was a blazing sun. And once again she heard them: the whispering, mysterious voices. She was drawn to them. But the swimming pool at night was a different place from during the daytime: an inaccessible and dangerous place, a forbidden place. Nevertheless, she threw back the sheet and went out on the mezzanine: there was no one downstairs in the living room, and yet all the lights were on. She went downstairs.