Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  She began trembling as if it were freezing cold in the room. After a few minutes had gone by, she jumped out of bed and hurried to the toilet to throw up. But she must have already emptied everything she had eaten during the night, and the spasms of her empty stomach brought no more up than a bit of bile mixed with saliva.

  She had flushed the toilet and was on her way back into the room when suddenly the stench overpowered her. An indefinable brew of smells: alcohol, dried blood, sperm, vomit, sweat – with something vaguely chlorinated in the background. She staggered under the olfactory assault, and abruptly turned around.

  First of all, she had to clean off the traces of the man who had contaminated her.

  She rushed into the shower, paying little attention to the temperature of the water – which went from icy to burning – and she soaked and scrubbed herself for a long time, everywhere, going over and over the most intimate parts. She washed her hair with masses of shampoo, rinsed off, then came out of the shower to brush her teeth, furiously, until her gums were bleeding. After that, she gargled for a long time with an antiseptic mouthwash.

  She wanted to erase every last trace of the Other, of what He had done to her, of what He had left on her, but she knew she would not be able to erase what He had left inside her.

  ‘I’m HIV-positive.’

  The words were like a slap. She froze. Her legs went shaky and she had to hold on to the edge of the sink. Had he really said that, or was it part of a drug-induced vision?

  It’s just a dream, like the ceiling getting higher, the room changing colour, or the clearing …

  No. It was real. She could still hear his voice in her ear – the same voice as on the telephone.

  She would have to take the test. She would have to see a doctor. She would have to—

  And Iggy? What are you going to do with him?

  The thought was gut-wrenching. Iggy … She couldn’t wander around the corridors with a dead dog in her arms! And if she left him there, the cleaning woman would find him. Put him in a suitcase? And go where? It was out of the question to abandon him in a rubbish bin, like some common piece of trash. A thought occurred to her … No need for a test, no need for a doctor, no need for a suitcase, either… She let the thought expand. Suddenly it all seemed so clear. Yes, why not? After all, this was where this thing had been leading right from the start, wasn’t it? She sat down at the desk, tore a sheet of hotel notepaper from the pad and wrote a letter. Her hand was trembling so badly that her first effort was illegible. She crumpled it up, tossed it in the waste bin and started again. Then, holding back a sob, she went into the bathroom, picked up two towels fragrant with lavender and set them down next to the sink.

  After that she went to fetch him. She felt a surge of nausea when she put her hands under the lifeless little body, with its sticky fur, and she was careful to support his head – she was afraid it might come loose from his body.

  With Iggy in her arms, Christine went back into the bathroom. She set him down gently in the shower, reached for the spray nozzle and turned it on full blast. She rinsed him for a long time, cleaned away the blood, trying not to look at the terrible wound in his neck. She turned off the water, picked him up the way she had done before and put him down on the bed of clean white towels. Although she did not know why, it seemed to her that white was the most appropriate colour. She plugged in the hairdryer, picked up a comb and meticulously dried the little mongrel’s fur, then went on combing him until he looked normal again, with his curly, tawny coat and black-tipped white nose. Finally, she positioned his head over his chest so that the wound would not show beneath his fur, and she looked at him.

  Only then did she scream.

  Like a crazy woman. Screamed at death.

  And let herself slide to the floor, her back on the tiles, kicking the air with her feet as if kicking some invisible enemy.

  * * *

  She looked down. Three storeys … Her legs were trembling from the vertigo. She looked again and instantly regretted it. From up here, the few passing cars looked like toys. She could only see the tops of pedestrians’ heads, their shoulders and feet moving forward. Her own feet were on a ledge overlooking the place du Capitole, her back hugging the facade, one hand flat against the wall, the other still clinging to the frame of the French window.

  Incredibly, no one on the vast esplanade had noticed yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

  She took a deep breath. What are you waiting for? Jump.

  The wind was howling in her ears; all around her the city was vibrating-buzzing-thrilling with energy and an appetite for life. How many people were thinking about her at that moment – other than those who wanted to see her jump? What memories would she leave behind? The only companion who had been unfailingly loyal to her lay dead in the bathroom, where the hotel staff and police would find him after she jumped. She had left a brief note on the desk: Iggy is to be buried at Beaumont-sur-Lèze, in the pet cemetery: contact Claire Dorian.

  She moaned. She felt crushed by a feeling of solitude so terrible and so total – in this city of 700,000 inhabitants – that she knew she would jump. She would go through with it. It was only a matter of seconds now, the time it would take to find the last ounce of courage still lacking.

  Then she heard the little voice again:

  Jump. But if you jump, you’ll never know. Not who or why. Don’t you want to find out? Is this really what you want, to die without knowing what was behind it all?

  And for the first time in her life, with implacable lucidity, a new clarity, she suddenly understood that this voice that had been talking to her for years was her sister’s. Madeleine’s voice. A Madeleine who had grown up in secret, deep inside her. An adult Madeleine: sometimes sententious, often exasperating, always requiring her attention, just like the Madeleine from her childhood. But a Madeleine who wanted what was right for her: the only person, perhaps, who truly loved her.

  * * *

  For a long time she didn’t move, but sat staring into space, her back against the balustrade, her feet in the room.

  When she had emerged from her trance, she had changed. She was no longer the Christine of before, the one who had tried clumsily to ward off all the attacks and to understand, the one who had been looking for support and had found only a homeless man who cared about nothing but booze.

  You don’t need any support. You can do it on your own, little sister. All you need is one thing: the rage burning inside you.

  Yes. She edged her way upright back to the window, extremely cautiously, her nails scraping against the granular surface, then she stepped over the stone parapet and slipped into the room just as someone down on the square noticed her at last and pointed up.

  Now she began to feel the shock set in, the internal impact of the act she had almost committed. She was paralysed to the bone both by the icy wind coming through the window, and the idea that she could, at that very moment, be lying sprawled on the pavement, all her bones broken and her inner organs reduced to a formless stew. But for all that, she felt a new wave of determination filling her veins. They wanted her dead? Fine. Perfect. Perhaps she would die – but they could no longer count on her suicide. They would have to pay. Someone who is not afraid to die and has hatred in her heart makes for an even more formidable adversary. They had miscalculated: they had aroused something in her that had been sleeping for a long time. Without realising, her tormentors had hardened her and prepared her for this moment when the strength and rage waiting inside her would prevail.

  You are strong, much stronger than they realise, much stronger than you thought you were, little sister. It was a feeling of great purity: they had stripped her of everything she possessed, but thanks to them, she now had nothing left to lose.

  As if empathising with her new state of mind, a ray of sun burst from the leaden clouds and came to illuminate the floor of the room in front of her. It sprinkled the red carpet with gold dust and she noticed that it was also lighting up Iggy’s emp
ty basket in one corner. This time, her tears flowed profusely: it was impossible to hold them back.

  So she let them come, in the knowledge that they were not tears of weakness.

  * * *

  She closed her suitcases and left the room. Two people were waiting ahead of her at reception. When her turn came, the receptionist frowned.

  ‘You’re leaving? I thought you were going to stay for several nights. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she answered. ‘I’m going home. The workers performed miracles: everything has been repaired. No more leaks.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Please put this on Madame Dorian’s account.’

  ‘Yes. Did you take anything from the minibar?’

  ‘Yes. Put that on her bill as well.’

  She began walking through the streets of Toulouse, trundling her suitcases behind her. She did not live very far away, and she didn’t feel like taking the Métro. And Iggy’s body was not all that heavy. She had all the time in the world, now.

  That’s all well and good, said Madeleine’s voice, but where do we start?

  She knew, of course. It was perfectly obvious. There was only one way to begin.

  * * *

  At dawn he was already in place. Sitting in his car. The adrenaline flowing through his veins. After finishing Mila’s journal he had showered and dressed, then he went down to prepare a thermos of black coffee in the kitchen on the ground floor. He drove silently out of the rest home car park.

  With the car stopped on the hill, at the edge of a field, Servaz was sipping strong, if tasteless, coffee. He had seen a light come on downstairs in the fog-shrouded designer house. A big modern house that looked as if it had been designed by Mies van der Rohe himself: an assemblage of concrete cubes with horizontal lines and a flat roof, big rectangular windows and picture windows on the swimming pool side; even a little stable. White fences and meadowland all around. The full round-faced moon was keeping watch over the landscape; the thickets were black and the hills were still a dark blue.

  A figure walked by the lit window. Servaz focused his binoculars. It was him. His pulse began to race. It was six thirty: he was an early riser. Servaz watched him calmly drinking his coffee, in a bathrobe, sitting by the window. He obviously wasn’t worried that someone might be watching. Then Servaz saw him leave the room and a second rectangular window lit up. For an hour and a half, Léonard Fontaine sat in front of his computer. The sky grew lighter; the countryside emerged slowly from darkness, like a theatre backdrop gradually being illuminated, and Servaz went back to his car to move it behind a cluster of trees, without switching on the headlights. He then stepped back out into the brisk chill and pulled up his collar. He climbed over an electric fence and walked through the melting snow and the tall wet grass to the very edge of the hill. He had his thermos with him to keep warm, but he was dying for a fag, to feel the smoke go down into his infected, eager lungs. By the time he reached the edge of the hill, the bottoms of his trousers were soaked.

  At seven twenty-eight the sun came out at last and its pale low rays caressed the frozen landscape, unable to warm up the air. At eight o’clock its rays swung over the hill to light up the bottom of the dale and the picture window at the front of the house suddenly opened. Servaz saw Fontaine take a few strides along the wooden terrace, still wearing his bathrobe, barefoot in spite of the cold. With a new cup in his hand, he was sipping his coffee and looking straight ahead. Servaz could see the steam from the cup through his binoculars. There were little lights shining on the ground.

  Once he had finished his coffee, Fontaine walked around the pool in the direction of the pool house. The snow had been cleared, but the wood must nevertheless be slippery and he was walking cautiously. He went into the little building, switched on a light and disappeared inside. All at once an electric hum rose and the PVC cover on the pool began to roll back. Servaz watched this spectacle with the same odd fascination a voyeur secretly inspecting a pretty woman might feel.

  He’s not really going to swim, is he?

  Servaz gave a start when he saw the astronaut come back out of the pool house: despite the cold, Fontaine was naked. He crouched down to switch off the security alarm with a key and a moment later, he dived into the water.

  Bloody hell.

  Crawl, butterfly, backstroke. Servaz watched the astronaut doing laps for a good hour. The water was steaming: the pool must be heated. The sun had lit up the dale now; it was a fine winter morning, clear and cold. Servaz was freezing. At last Fontaine got out of the water; he ran to dry off in the pool house, then went back to the main house in his dressing gown. For a good while, Servaz could no longer see him.

  When Fontaine reappeared, he was wearing a thick jumper, jodhpurs and riding boots; he walked along the white fence to the stable and disappeared inside. Fifteen minutes later he came back out with a magnificent horse. Servaz observed him as he saddled the horse then mounted it nimbly before setting off in conquest of the facing hillside. Servaz felt a shiver go through him; every fibre in his body told him the house was empty, and that Fontaine’s ride would last at least half an hour. He knew that Fontaine was married with small children, but everything told him, too, that this morning he was alone, there was not the slightest movement, the slightest trace of any other presence. It was extremely tempting to go down and explore, but on the one hand, he did not really know how long Fontaine would be absent, and on the other, he would leave footprints in the snow. Unless he parked the car outside the door … Fontaine would see that someone had come and gone in his absence, and he would have no way of knowing who. A public figure like him must receive regular visitors.

  Hesitating, Servaz studied the house; he saw nothing that looked like an alarm system, not even a projector on the facade at roof level, that might be activated by a motion sensor. There was no one in sight, either. He was perfectly aware that if he went into the house without a warrant (the cops called it a ‘Mexican’) and was apprehended, his career would be over. He might as well start looking for a job as a security guard right away. He could, to begin with, simply knock at the door. That wouldn’t implicate him in any way. He walked back across the sodden field to his car, sat behind the wheel, and set off. He drove slowly down the slope to where the drive met the main road, by two oak trees, then he went up the drive and switched off the engine at the front door.

  Now what?

  What if the wife and kids were inside asleep? What would he say? That he suspected her husband of being a monster? He got out of the car. Studied the frozen landscape one more time. His breath rose, white, into the cold air. His pulse was beating just a little bit faster. He went up the two concrete steps. Rang the bell. No answer. Pressed the Bakelite button with his thumb one more time. Nothing moved. The door seemed to be mocking him. As did the silence inside the house. A raven cawed in a tree behind him, startling him.

  Go on. Do it. Prove to yourself that you’re alive, that you’ve still got guts.

  A long time ago, he had learned from a thief how to open a lock in thirty seconds. This one looked like a very standard model.

  Yet there might be sensors inside the house. If Fontaine had something to hide, he would certainly not have left it in an accessible place. And besides, what did he expect to find? He wouldn’t have time to search his computer, in any case. Or his files. Servaz inspected the lock again: it looked new. So much the better. Oxidation and dirt might have seized up the pins.

  What are you trying to prove? He went back to the car, opened the door on the passenger side, and leaned over to the glove box. He took out a ring of a dozen or so keys wrapped in a rag. These were not ordinary keys, but instruments known as bump keys, used by burglars to pick pin tumbler locks. Logically, he should have had a skeleton key for each different make, but a dozen models were enough to open over half the locks on the market. Servaz got to work. By the eighth key he still hadn’t found his way in, and his hands were moist, his face covered in sweat.
The ninth key slipped from his damp fingers but it responded favourably. Once he had pushed it in, in the neutral position, he gave it a short bump with his palm and immediately turned it. Bingo. The door opened onto a silent hallway.

  He checked his watch: fifteen minutes had gone by since Fontaine had ridden off.

  The walls of the long hallway, grey polished concrete with a fine finish, were absolutely bare. The anthracite flooring was magnificent. There was no furniture. Nor any obvious motion detector. He continued walking along the hall. And froze. Stopped breathing for a moment. A dog bowl. Empty. Huge. Big bowl = big dog, he deduced. He felt sweat run down his spine: he was terrified of dogs. And of horses. He could still turn around … He walked into the big living room, which confirmed his initial impression: black and white abstract canvases on the walls, a modern desk in front of a small bookshelf, a big flat-screen television above an equally large fireplace that ran on bioethanol – its flames dancing on a bed of pebbles … The swimming pool was visible beyond the picture window. Through a door to the right, Servaz saw a big bed. No burglar alarm. But a dog … Where was it? He stood motionless for a moment in the middle of the room. Stairs of pale wood, suspended in space, led up to a mezzanine; the mezzanine overlooked an open-plan kitchen. Servaz looked up the stairs …

  And saw it.

  A monstrous dog. What breed, he could not say, but it had a massive head, a short muzzle, and its thick jowls left not the slightest doubt: he belonged to the category of killer dogs. Pit bulls, Rottweilers, bulldogs and other filthy beasts with jaws of steel and beady, fierce little eyes. He felt himself go cold all over. The animal was sleeping at the edge of the mezzanine; his head was slumped on the floor, overlooking the living room. If he opened his eyes he would immediately check the room and see the intruder. Servaz’s throat went dry.