Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  Barefoot, she crossed the living room to the sliding door that gave on to the patio. She opened it quietly and went out into the warm, starry night. Then a shiver of pleasure mingled with anxiety ran down her skin. Before her lay the lapping, illuminated surface. Someone was swimming. A figure back-lit by the lamps at the bottom of the pool. She immediately recognised her: her sister Madeleine. Maddie was swimming through the translucent little ripples, on her back, her hair undulating around her head like seaweed. And she was completely naked.

  ‘Maddie?’

  Her big sister turned towards her and righted herself, waving her arms.

  ‘Christine, what are you doing here? Don’t you know what time it is?’

  ‘Maddie, what are you doing?’

  The air was trembling above the pool; there was a smell of chlorine tickling her nostrils, and the air was filled with a luminescent ballet of fireflies. They were dancing, sparkling, and Christine, at the age of twelve, felt the full hallucinatory strength of the image: Madeleine naked in the pool and the fireflies dancing all around.

  ‘Go on, Christine, out! Go back to bed!’

  The violence – and distress – in her sister’s voice were like a slap, but the enchantment, or might it have been the dream, held her there, transfixed.

  ‘Maddie…’

  She was on the verge of tears. There was something about this strangely enchanted summer night that was deeply sinister and unpleasant. She felt something disruptive, something not as it should be, dizzying. It must be a dream – because then her attention was drawn to something on her right at the far end of the pool. A shadow. It was slithering and undulating smoothly under the surface of the water and there were instant associations. Snake, poison, danger. Christine went cold all over. A snake was swimming on the surface of the water, headed towards her sister. She wanted to warn her of the danger, but no sound would come from her throat … Then she understood that it was just a shadow. The shadow of a shadow, standing motionless at the edge of the pool, at the far end. She couldn’t see his face, but she recognised him. Recognised his shoulders, his torso, the way he stood.

  ‘Daddy?’ she said.

  The shadow didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  And yet it couldn’t be him: because Daddy was asleep upstairs in his room. It was someone who looked like him. Someone his age. He was naked, too. The revelation was strangely oppressive, and made her deeply uncomfortable.

  What was Maddie doing naked in the swimming pool with a man Daddy’s age who was also naked?

  ‘Please, Chris, go back to bed. I’ll be there right away.’

  Madeleine’s voice, imploring, immensely sad. Christine turned around and went back through the living room and slowly up to her room, moving like a sleepwalker. Behind her the whispering had resumed, and she heard a loud splash. The swimming pool is dangerous, and I forbid you to go there at night: her daddy had often said this to her.

  * * *

  The next day her fever was even higher, 39.5°C. Dr Harel opened his box full of syringes. She said no, she didn’t want a shot. He smiled – now, now, you’re a big girl. No, she said again, feeling as if her eyes were popping out of her head because of the fever. NO. Be reasonable, said her father before leaving her alone with the doctor. Only a few seconds later her father and mother threw open the door to the room when they heard the doctor scream with pain, the needle rammed into his thigh.

  After that, she had to admit, she had gone mad. She had screamed. Spat. Scratched. And when her father tried to calm her down she bit him. It was Dr Harel who suggested the psychiatrist.

  * * *

  How could Léo simply accept the cops’ version? she wondered. How could he base his reaction on events that had occurred twenty years earlier? They had been lovers for two years. Did that not count for something? Shouldn’t he at least have listened to her version of the facts? Who are all these people who come into your life, demanding your love and attention – only to suddenly leave you? (May I remind you that you’re the one who left him, said the little voice.) If she could not rely on Léo, who was left? Max the wino, with his endless thirst? God help us!

  Outside, the bells had stopped ringing. She got up to close the window; the air in the room was icy. Down on the square pedestrians were bundled up, strolling among the Christmas lights. In the crowd she spotted a man on his own, a man in his forties, with a champagne bottle in his hand. As alone as she was …

  Who else? No one. She was alone – as alone as anyone can be: this time, it was for real.

  25

  Counterpoint

  On the evening of 31 December, Servaz entered the Henri-IV courtyard of the Toulouse Hôtel de Ville through the large wooden door that gave out on to the place du Capitole. He walked across the courtyard to a sliding glass double door, turned right once he was inside and went through a handsome wrought-iron gate immediately followed by a tall wooden door that opened beneath a sign declaring in large gilded letters: DEPARTMENT OF ELECTIONS AND ADMINISTRATIVE PROCEDURES. His guide was waiting just beyond: a little woman as wide as she was tall, oddly dressed in a flowing purple overgarment. She led him at a brisk walk down a labyrinth of corridors and offices that were clearly less splendid, then opened a door and he followed her into a tiny space with a computer. She pointed at the screen.

  ‘You’ve got everything here,’ she said. ‘The photographs of the party on the evening of 28 December 2010.’ She pointed to a bound file. ‘And the list of guests is there.’

  He moved his finger to the rows of images on the screen.

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Roughly five hundred.’

  He pointed to the chair.

  ‘May I sit down?’

  She glanced worriedly at her watch.

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘No idea.’

  She seemed somewhat put out by his answer.

  ‘You know, I would like to be on time for my party, actually.’

  It had been dark for a while already, and in the little room only one lamp struggled against the encroaching shadows.

  ‘If you like, I’ll lock up,’ he suggested.

  ‘No, I can’t do that. Is it really that important?’

  He nodded gravely, looking her straight in the eyes.

  ‘And urgent?’

  He stared at her with the same stern look. She shook her head, defeated.

  ‘Well then, fine, do what you have to do. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Black, no sugar. Thank you.’

  * * *

  Half an hour later, he was not so enthusiastic: over two hundred guests had been invited, not counting all the extras, and the photographer had been overzealous: he’d snapped away as if there were no tomorrow. The same faces appeared again and again, while others were visible only once, and even then they were blurry, far away, practically off camera. Everyone who was anyone in the space industry was there, if Servaz was to believe the list, beginning with the director of the Toulouse Space Centre, whom he spotted in several pictures, and the director of the National Centre for Space Studies. There were also local and national journalists, guests from all walks of life, the mayor, a deputy, and even a minister. Naturally, he had no difficulty identifying Célia Jablonka; the young woman was ravishing in her bare-backed evening gown, and her lovely neck was emphasised by a chignon dotted with little pink pearls, loose strands of hair artfully arranged on either side of her face, an elaborate hairstyle that must have taken hours at the salon. There were not many women who could compete, and no doubt the photographer found that she captured the light – or that she was good publicity for the evening – because he had taken her picture over and over.

  The problem was that she had spoken with rather a lot of people.

  Servaz’s second angle of attack was the famous Space Cowboys, the galactic boy band. He had the list before his eyes and the photos on screen, and he thought he had managed to locate the thirteen astronauts who were present, although
he was not able to match a name to every face. Smiling guys with square jaws and bright eyes, looking as healthy as any California surfer. They were all wearing the same suit, rather like members of a sports team on an official tour. Once he had stamped their faces onto his memory, he went back to the pictures of Célia. She had spoken with three of them. With the first, she only appeared once. With the second, the conversation must have lasted a bit longer, because there were two pictures; the man was in his forties and he was lavishing all his charm on her. Célia was responding – but nothing more. With the third man, she had been photographed in three different places in the room, and on the last picture their faces were clearly closer together. Servaz felt his heart beat faster. Something was happening in this photograph. The photographer had zoomed in and caught Célia at an angle that showed her dilated pupils, all her attention absorbed by her companion. In addition, she had moved close enough for the conversation to take a more intimate turn. It’s a question of proximities, the physical distance separating individuals during communication. All space is shared; there is no such thing as neutral territory. Whether it was Célia or the astronaut who had taken the first step, in the end both of them had agreed on a distance that was on the border between personal space and intimate space – a long way, in any case, from simple social space.

  Servaz sat back abruptly against his seat, his hands behind his neck. And now? What did this prove?

  The town hall employee chose that moment to look in through the door.

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Not yet. Give me just a little while longer.’

  ‘You’re not celebrating New Year’s, Commandant?’

  ‘Um, yes … is it that late?’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘Ah, yes. So it is.’

  He called to her again.

  ‘Um, Cécile – is that right?’

  Her round face and curly hair reappeared.

  ‘Yes?’

  He pointed to the screen.

  ‘This man, here, looks familiar. Do you know who it is?’

  She slid into the narrow space with the same millimetric precision as she had earlier, as if she possessed integrated radar or sonar, and leaned towards the screen.

  ‘Don’t you watch television?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t like television.’

  She looked at him as if trying to determine whether he was joking.

  ‘It’s Léonard Fontaine.’

  And, as he raised an eyebrow:

  ‘The astronaut.’

  He smiled, contrite. ‘Ah, yes, of course.’

  He wrote down the name.

  ‘Are you married, Commandant?’

  ‘Divorced,’ he replied. ‘Fancy-free.’

  She burst out laughing and again looked at her watch.

  ‘I’ll go and get a USB key and put all these photos on there for you. That way you can look at them as much as you like. And you can take the list with you. I’d be very surprised if anyone else asks for it. I’m really sorry but I have to close the office.’

  * * *

  There was a festive atmosphere throughout the city. He didn’t feel like going back to the rest home – any more then he wanted to get stuck somewhere with strangers who would slap him on the shoulder in a shower of confetti and streamers while their wives insisted on getting him to dance.

  It was better to drink alone than in the wrong company. He had bought a bottle of champagne and a box of plastic champagne glasses, all of which he had thrown into the rubbish except for one, and he filled his glass as he walked across the vast esplanade crowded with people. All around him couples hurried through the freezing night with their winter coats over their evening clothes, some with a bottle, some with gifts. He was sitting on a bench in the square Charles de Gaulle, at the foot of the Donjon, when his telephone vibrated in his pocket. He answered without checking the caller’s identity – proof that although he was not drunk, he was no longer in a normal state.

  ‘Where are you, Martin?’

  Vincent’s voice. A faint smile passed momentarily over his lips.

  ‘I’m just leaving the mairie,’ he said, figuring that at least an hour and a half had gone by since he had left the town hall employee with her purple overgarment and fluorescent trainers.

  ‘The mairie? At this time of night? What were you doing there?’

  He didn’t answer, his attention distracted by a homeless man who was eyeing his half-full champagne glass.

  Servaz winked at him and handed him the glass.

  ‘Happy New Year, mate!’ cried the tramp, seizing it.

  ‘Who are you with?’

  ‘No one … Aren’t you going to celebrate?’ he asked his assistant.

  A stupid question if ever there was one.

  ‘That’s why I’m calling. We’re having a party with a few friends; they’ll be here any minute. Why don’t you come and join us?’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but—’

  ‘Listen, Charlène is waving at me, I’ll put her on. I hope you’ll come,’ he added. ‘You’re not really going to spend New Year’s in that sinister place, are you, Martin? Or maybe you’ve got a date…’

  He could hear music in the background, one of those rock groups Vincent liked so much. No: something more syrupy, a chick wailing like a cat whose tail has been stepped on – must be something their ten-year-old daughter Mégan had chosen.

  ‘Martin?’

  A warm, smooth voice, like a sip of Baileys Irish Cream.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘Why don’t you come?’ she said in a loud voice. ‘We’d be delighted to have you: your godson has been asking for you, you know.’ She must have walked further away, because suddenly she lowered her voice. ‘Come. Please.’

  ‘Charlène.’

  ‘I’m begging you. We haven’t had much time to talk lately. I want to see you, Martin. I need to see you. I promise I’ll be good,’ she gushed.

  He could tell she’d been drinking. He hung up, and switched off his phone. His stomach in a knot, he raised the champagne bottle to his lips – then stopped when he thought of all the alcoholic policemen who haunted the centre. Then he looked again at the bottle: he had forgotten how much alcohol could depress him. He got slowly to his feet. He looked at the group of homeless men sitting on the ground on the other side of the walkway. The one he’d given his glass to was still holding it, empty, in his hand. He raised it in Martin’s direction with a smile. The others followed his gaze and they all nodded to greet him courteously, mainly staring at the champagne bottle, for the fact that it was still two thirds full had not escaped them.

  Servaz went over to them and handed them the bottle.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ he said.

  His gesture was greeted with applause and cheers.

  Martin headed for the underground car park where he had left the car.

  * * *

  He switched off the headlights when he drove into the rest home car park. He didn’t want Élise or one of the other health-care assistants to notice him and pressure him to join the party. He closed the car door as quietly as possible, but it was unlikely he would be heard: music was pouring out of the building, full blast.

  He walked on tiptoe, although the snow muffled his steps, to the hallway, and then crossed it, hugging the walls. Here the music was deafening. Laughter, applause, exclamations. He hurried silently towards the stairway without switching on the light. Even when he had closed his bedroom door he could still hear the bass through the walls. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes to midnight. Okay, he wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway. So he switched on his computer and opened his email. He saw the message at once. It had been sent by a certain malebolge@hell.com. An obvious reference. Dante. The Divine Comedy. You could have shown a bit more imagination, he thought. All the same, his hair stood on end, like iron shavings on a magnet, when he opened the message:


  Any progress, Commandant? I’ve given you a fair number of clues. You’re getting soft.

  His features lit up by the screen. His heart pounding. Winded both by the familiarity of the tone and its bossiness. He gazed at the message. Someone impatient, authoritarian – even tyrannical. Someone who knew but who was playing with him, like a cat with a mouse. Why? he wondered. Once again, he thought it must be someone who was bound by professional secrecy: a doctor, a cop, a lawyer. But there was something else in the tone of that message: an impression of stubbornness …

  Or could it be …

  Yes, of course. It must be him. The one who had driven Célia to suicide. And now he was challenging Servaz to find him. His mouth was dry, and he felt as if the idea were taking root in his brain like a tree. Was it an actual possibility or was it yet again he himself who was constructing outlandish theories to suppress his boredom?

  Breathing faster and faster, he got up in the dark and rummaged inside his jacket pocket for the USB key Cécile had given him. He plugged it in. His computer took forever to download the five hundred photographs. Suddenly the sound of the music from downstairs grew even louder and he heard the faraway echo of shouts and hearty applause. He checked his watch in the glow of the screen. Midnight. A new year … He wondered if he would be back on the job before the year was out – and whether he would be better. Suddenly he remembered he had switched off his mobile after hanging up on Charlène, and he thought about Margot. He hurried over to his jacket and switched on the phone. There was one voicemail and one text message. Margot’s voice on the first: Happy New Year, Papa. I hope you’re all right. I’ll try to come and see you this week. Take care of yourself, my dear Papa. I love you! He could hear voices and music in the background and he wondered whether Margot was at her mother’s or with friends. The text message was from Charlène. Happy New Year, Martin. You should have come. I hope you’re having fun at least. See you soon. He read it again but the words slid over him; his mind was already elsewhere.