The door slams, she jumps, her nerves can’t stand the slightest jolt. The Hyena comes in, and stares at her in the mirror. She’s terrifying. The idea flashes into her head that her family has paid someone to kill her. That would be too stupid. Valentine makes an effort, gripping the washbasin, her heart wants to jump out of her chest.
‘You are a fucking idiot. A dirty, uneducated, pretentious, fucking little idiot, way out of your depth.’
‘Oh!… honestly, I’m sorry if you don’t like me. But I thought you were being paid to take me home, not to do instant character analysis…’ Valentine automatically gives a smart-alec answer, but she would really prefer to be able to seem humble and obedient, thinking that might calm this madwoman down.
‘And what do you know about who’s paying, or how much, or who to, or why? Eh? What have you grasped about what you’re being made to do?’
‘What I understand is, I need my dad, I need to go back to school now, and take better care of myself.’
‘Be careful, little chick, anyone can tell that’s been learnt off by heart. You’ll have to try harder for it to sound sincere. Are you sure you’re ready to go back?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘For three hours I’ve been looking at your little face in the rear-view mirror. I’ve had time to think. What has she stuffed into your brain? What stories has she been telling you?’
‘I’m really sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Valentine has frozen. This madwoman scares her to death. She’s never in her life had anyone speak to her as brutally as this, as close up as this. The woman’s face isn’t the same, it seems to be alight, hatred seeping from every pore. She could be in a horror film just like she is, no need for special effects, torn-off limbs, nothing. Just her ugly mug in close-up would be enough. The teenager’s legs feel hollowed out, they can hardly hold her up. A little push would be enough to make her fall to her knees. Her thoughts are all on the ground, lying there inert. She’s afraid.
The madwoman calms down, leans against the wall, facing Valentine. ‘I feel like the huntsman in Snow White, the one who has to bring back her heart.’
‘Look, honestly, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I swear…’
‘Shut up. You’re lying. The huntsman, we all know the story, he lets her run away into the forest, and he takes a deer’s heart back instead. Note that he doesn’t take an axe when he returns to the castle, to cut the throat of the stepmother, or to attack the king who just let it all happen. Fairy tales are a good guide to real life. You don’t fight your paymaster.’
‘There’s no need to get so worked up, just because you’ve got to take me home… I’m not going to stick up for my stepmother, but I’d be surprised if she asked you to rip my heart out.’
‘Just who do you think she is, your Sister Elisabeth? You think she’s interested in your case, why? You think every runaway kid that crosses her path, she takes them under her wing for a bit of brainwashing? You think just because she wears her little blue and white headdress, and because she has wrinkles that make her look kind, that she’s a good person? You haven’t had experience of enough rotten apples in your life already? What do you think her diary looks like, your precious new friend, Sister Elisabeth? What do you bet there’s not too much about the infinite mercy of Jesus, sacrificing himself for our salvation? Who do you think she’s working for, that Sister?’
Valentine takes this on the chin. She’d been warned: they’ll lie to you. They’ll try and make you have doubts. Sister Elisabeth had said: ‘They’ll know my name.’ But she’d omitted to say: ‘They’ll sound like they’re telling the truth, so convincingly that it will make you want to cry.’ Valentine looks at the floor and says nothing. The less she says, the less she risks giving herself away. She blocks the inside of her brain, it’s as if she had rolled into a ball, waiting for a disgusting big spider to go away. She’d like it if someone else came into these toilets to interrupt the confrontation, but nobody’s there. The Hyena turns on a cold tap and lets it run over her wrists. She speaks to her reflection in the mirror.
‘I’ve never had any morals, I have no passion for the good. I don’t know whether it’s age, getting tired, or your angelic little face… But I can’t let you go back home without saying something to you. Do you understand? Have you ever heard the saying: you think you’re dying for your principles and you’re killing for a barrel of oil?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Get this into your head, that old woman is doing the same job as me. She may not have the stature of Mother Teresa, but she’s the same kind of believer. With a fat bank account, and thinking poverty’s fine for other people. Whatever she’s said, tell yourself that what’s at stake here can be counted in euros, or in the extra power someone’s going to get. That’s what we are. Total bitches, obeying orders, selected because we’re good at working on people.’
Valentine wishes she’d leave her alone. She wants to speak to Sister Elisabeth, urgently. For a brief moment, like a freeze-frame, despite her struggles, the thought insinuates itself: what if this woman’s telling the truth? But she’s been warned: don’t trust anyone. She closes her eyes and counts down. Get back to the hypnotized calm.
It doesn’t work. Surely the Hyena is preaching untruth to find out the truth. Block it. Deny everything. Never admit anything. This is the first test. Valentine pronounces through her teeth in a cold and indifferent voice. ‘All I know is I want to get back to my father.’
The Hyena has turned back into human shape, she floods the room by splashing water on her face. She wets her hair and combs it back. She holds out her hand to Valentine, smiling as if she was just talking about the cool night air. ‘No hard feelings. Just a little injection of reality. Like when a vampire bites an innocent victim. Crunch! It’s over. You know. After all that, it’s true, you’re old enough to make up your own mind. I’ll let you think about it overnight.’
‘Don’t worry about me, I know perfectly well what I have to do.’
There, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. It was more than she could manage. The woman turns round, now she’s neither angry nor relieved, she looks moved. And coming from her, perhaps that’s worse than anything.
‘Do you want a bottle of water, something to eat? You haven’t eaten anything this evening. Some crisps, chocolate perhaps?’
In the car park there’s a line of trucks looking like reassuring animals, their headlights out. Lucie, leaning up against the boot of the car, is whispering into her mobile, punctuating the conversation with happy little chuckles. She’s pathetic, but she looks happy.
They get back on the road in silence. The poison is seeping into her thoughts, trying to make her weaken. Valentine is shaken. How is it possible that a few sentences down in those neon-lit toilets could make her have doubts? Sister Elisabeth. Their lovely understanding. ‘Too good to be true.’ The immediate love, as if the nun had recognized her own child. But it doesn’t change anything. She’s climbed up on the merry-go-round, her seat belt is fastened. To get down now, what could be more depressing? To wait for what? What could she possibly look forward to? Valentine sees again a photo Magali had shown her. The skeleton of an albatross on a rock, the fragile bones of its wings spreadeagled. It had eaten so many plastic bottletops, which looked like juicy morsels floating on the surface of the sea, that its stomach was full of multicoloured capsules. In ten years, or a hundred years, that’s all that would remain. The bones, the feathers, the beak would all have turned into dust. But those absurd plastic bottletops, imitating food, won’t even have lost their colours. Perhaps some other albatrosses will have eaten them.
Even if it’s been taken for the wrong reasons, her decision is the right one.
They stop again after two more hours. Lucie stays in the car, pretending to be asleep but her mobile’s in her hand, she’s waiting for a text that doesn’t come. Valentine sits with the
other detective at a tall round table by the coffee machines; the strip lighting adds another ten years to the Hyena’s age. She says, ‘You have to be mentally confused to the highest degree to choose truth over lies, or virtue over vice, I know that. But I can’t bring myself to leave you alone. Just tell me what you’re going to do…’
‘I’m going to go back to school. Really, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘But you’ve been looking very thoughtful these past two hours in the car.’
‘I’m feeling nervous at getting back to my family.’
‘Look, if you want, we don’t have to go there. We won’t go to your father’s house. I’ll take you anywhere you like.’
‘Are you a paedophile or what?’
‘If it makes you happy, no problem. I can take you, we’ve got the car. We can do whatever you want. But just cancel everything. Give me ten days, just ten days, and we can talk about it. Look, if you like, we can hitch a lift with a basketball team. We can say we’re journalists. Think about it: twenty boys in a bus, plus the driver, the trainer, the physio. Or something else that appeals to you. For instance if you’re into politics, we can go to Chiapas in Mexico, we’ll wear ponchos and you can learn to shoot. Or Russia if you want? We can go to Russia and meet the rich boys and girls of a big country. Or we could tour the cathedrals of Europe, if religion’s the new thing that turns you on. Whatever you like. But change your plans, don’t go back to your father’s house.’
‘Why are you saying all this?’
‘I know it’s a heavy burden, I can see you, and I know it’s heavy. It won’t be like you think.’
She can be funny when she tries. And she really cares. Not so long ago, Valentine would have listened to her. But now she’s had enough, she’s trusted too many people in one life. She’s tired of all their efforts, all of them. She can see the emptiness behind their eyes. They’re clutching at straws. This private eye is clinging to her. Lucie is clinging to her mobile. They’re all empty shells. Everyone. All the stuff this detective is suggesting is superficial, surface stuff. Rushing headlong into the unknown. Forgetting what’s basic. She’s consumed enough of that kind of thing. She doesn’t want any more of those pleasures that leave you with a hangover. Valentine sighs. ‘Don’t worry about me. Really. You’re being kind. But don’t worry.’
On the parking lot, more trucks are asleep, like metal carcasses. The Hyena takes the wheel and wakes Lucie.
‘Now we know. It’s official. We’re an endangered species.’
Valentine smiles. She’s waiting. She’s no longer troubled by any hesitation. She has no doubts.
PARIS
WE GOT TO PARIS AT DAWN. THE BUILDINGS, the sky, the pavements, all looked grey. The overalls of the municipal workers spraying the streets with water made green patches against the rest.
We found a parking space just opposite the Galtan residence. Valentine hadn’t said much during the drive. The Hyena switched off the engine.
‘I’m not coming up. I’ll leave you here.’
She got out of the car and hauled her bag from the boot. Then she turned to the teenager. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to come for a little trip round town with me first?’ I thought she was making quite a fuss at saying goodbye – after all they hardly knew each other. I was amazed that she was just going to leave me there without asking what we’d do about the bonus. I thought she would call me later in the day. When my turn came, she gave me a hug. Visibly, fatigue had made her sentimental. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was cold. I watched her walk away then disappear round the corner. Her long-limbed silhouette, seen from behind, had something touching about it.
When I turned to Valentine, I found she looked pale and drawn, and I put it down to the sleepless night, the built-up emotion and fatigue. In the lift, it suddenly gripped me: the feeling that I was making a big mistake. This time, I thought it must be because for me our return meant going back to the office, to those pointless assignments for the agency, and perhaps never seeing Zoska again. Every warning intuition I had that morning I decided to ignore.
I’ve rerun it so many times since. It was obvious that something was wrong. But I was tired, my mind was on other things, I didn’t press the alarm button in the lift, I didn’t say, ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ The Galtans, unlike their usual behaviour, were being affable. There was coffee and plenty of croissants waiting for us. They were more awake than we were. Not the kind to make a huge fuss, either. But you sensed that they were genuinely relieved. Jacqueline, all in black like an old-fashioned widow, couldn’t stop thanking me. She was as honeyed when you did what she wanted as she was aggressive if you crossed her. I didn’t pay attention to Valentine, her fixed smile when her grandmother stroked her hair, repeating, ‘Are you all right, little one, are you all right?’ The father was ill at ease, he was having difficulty finding the right body language and words. The stepmother and her daughters came into the room a few minutes later. They must have discussed it beforehand and decided to let Valentine have a while alone with her birth family. At the time, the only thing on my mind was that it was going to be strange finding myself on my own again. And to wonder whether Zoska would forget me at once, or start texting me.
Then I left Valentine, without much emotion, since she had hardly said a word to me since the start of the journey. I patted her shoulder, repeating that I was glad she was OK and back at home. I don’t remember her expression that moment. To tell the truth, I wasn’t paying attention to her. I was glad to have the envelope stuffed with banknotes in my pocket, the old woman had slipped it to me with affected discretion, as if it was a tip for Christmas. I wondered again when the Hyena would come to collect her share.
I was feeling emotional and exhausted when I got home. A lot of things had happened, but as soon as I was inside the door it was as if I’d left only yesterday, nothing had changed. I called the office to say I wouldn’t be in till the afternoon. Agathe was exasperated that I hadn’t reported in more regularly, but impressed that the mission had succeeded. Deucené was relieved but distant, I think he was afraid I’d use this as a pretext to ask for a rise, he preferred prevention to cure, and not to get too matey with the staff. But he too was glad to be able to close the file. And to say that the agency had successfully completed its task. When he found out I’d been driving all night, he advised me to take the whole day off. I’d never known him be so magnanimous.
I installed Skype on my computer. And waited for Zoska to come online. She was sweeter than when I’d left. Enclosed in a frame on my laptop screen. It was frustrating to be with her without her being really there. I went to bed early. There was an underlying sadness, a kind of grey dust over all my thoughts when I emerged next day. I didn’t see it as a premonition. I went downstairs at eleven. I walked to the office. I considered resigning. I thought about going to live in Barcelona. I would just have to take my courage in both hands and ask Zoska how she would react. But it seemed a bit premature to unveil my plans.
As I pushed open the door, I didn’t know what to expect: we had spent seven days in Barcelona without my keeping my boss up to speed, and I hadn’t yet written a word of my report. Deucené took the time to see me, a quarter of an hour, ten minutes of which he spent on the phone, signalling to me to hang on. Then he declared he was pleased, that he was expecting the file to be tied up by first thing tomorrow morning, and he hoped I’d gone easy on the expenses. I didn’t try to explain that the family was going to cover all that.
I closed my office door. Jean-Marc came by for a coffee, his charcoal-grey suit looked good on him. I told him I’d fallen in love. I’d never before talked to him about my private life, but I was bursting to talk to someone. When he learnt that it was with a girl, he got interested in my story, so much so that suddenly I didn’t want to say any more about it.
Rafik in person called me just before lunch, to ask if I’d like him to wait for me and go and eat something together. The high life, eh
. But I didn’t want to be there at all. I felt cold all the time. I was surprised to find myself missing the Hyena. I would have liked her to call.
I didn’t put the report in next morning, because I still hadn’t written a line of it. Or the next day. Agathe was being more polite towards me, she asked me for it in a respectful tone of which I didn’t know she was capable. I’d gained status all of a sudden. I took no pleasure from it. I wanted Zoska to announce that she’d bought a ticket for Paris, or for her to ask me to come at once. But love by Skype seemed to satisfy her. I couldn’t understand why the Hyena wasn’t trying to reach me. I was disappointed that she could manage without me so easily. By the Monday, her silence was making me furious. I needed her help to finish my report. But I didn’t know how to contact her.
That morning, I had all the same managed to write a few pages for the file. But I’d run out of inspiration and by lunchtime I was on the internet doing Tarot cards on the Vogue website, asking various questions about my relationship with Zoska and the importance she would have in my life. The cards were good if enigmatic, and I was concentrating hard when Jean-Marc came into my office without knocking. Ashen-faced, he was trying to keep his voice under control.
‘There’s been a bomb attack at the Palais-Royal. I’m going downstairs to look at the TV, do you want to come?’
‘The Palais-Royal? Here, in Paris? Do they let Islamists in there?’
Like a stupid idiot, I had time to think it was rather nice being treated as if I was important, and I graciously followed him downstairs.
On the ground floor, a dozen people were standing looking at the flat-screen in the big hall. There was a funereal silence. Any desire to joke had been blocked in everyone’s throat. It took time to understand what we were seeing. And an effort to convince yourself you were watching the news, live, not the trailer for some big-budget action movie. The TV commentators were talking in zombie-like voices, you could tell they’d closed down their brains, they were on automatic pilot but not sure what to say.
Apocalypse Baby Page 27
