We had met up with Simon and Lucie, who had wonderful news to share with us. François, however, couldn’t get away from the bar. On festival nights, he would calculate his quarterly earnings.
When we arrived, Simon and Lucie were already sitting at a table. From the tender glances Simon was casting at his wife’s stomach, we understood immediately. Through silent agreement, we acted as though we hadn’t guessed anything. When Simon told us that Lucie was four months pregnant, and that it was a boy, we feigned surprise to such perfection that Simon, hearing our exclamations of joy, began to cry. Lucie, baffled no doubt by her husband’s tears, shrugged, a little embarrassed, but moved all the same by this big, robust man turned to mush by the simple announcement of a child on the way.
When the Langloises joined us, we told them the news. Bakary hugged Simon and lifted him off the ground. Sylvia took Lucie’s hand, placed it in her palm, and, smiling like a woman who knows plenty about motherhood, whispered that she was happy for her.
Then we headed to the tent where the soup was simmering. The hot air filled with the steam of boiled cabbage and fried onions. The children followed, cheerfully hopping behind us like cats that had been promised the head of a fresh sardine.
We got in line under the tent. The women were serving the soup in large bowls that they filled without looking, continuing their conversations all the while. Every time the ladle hit ceramic, they would smile even wider. It was so hot that they were gulping down water every five minutes and fanning their faces with pieces of ripped cardboard.
Simon asked for a double serving of sausage for Lucie, but Lucie, rolling her eyes, said in her childlike voice that she wouldn’t let herself be bossed around. Come on, I’m not Moby Dick!
Simon burst out laughing and handed her an overflowing bowl in which two enormous, glistening sausages, several chunks of pork, and spareribs as pink as Madagascar shrimp were floating among the cabbage leaves and whole potatoes. Here you go, my little whale. Starting today, no more counting calories!
Once we were seated, Simon couldn’t stop beaming. Whenever he looked over at Lucie, his eyes shone with held-back tears, and we could almost see his heart thumping beneath his Hawaiian shirt. Lucie devoured her meal before his emotional gaze and licked each of her fingers, laughing.
The children rolled around on the lush grass. They hadn’t touched anything or at most ate a few soft bread rolls, one-fourth of a sausage, a boiled potato.
Bakary and Sylvia were holding hands, like they were worried about being separated. But Sylvia wasn’t all there. Something seemed to be preoccupying her. Her face would brighten then darken, repeatedly, with no visible external reason for her mood changes.
By then, every single one of the tables was taken. A few feet away from us, Abbott and Costello, accompanied by their wives, were all gussied up. They were wearing the same suits as in previous years. You could tell from the slightly worn fabric that they had lost their original color. Sitting close together, shoulder to shoulder, the pair roared with laughter, toasting with Suze. Abbott’s wife had gone to the salon, her hair rippling beneath a layer of hairspray so thick it could have been taken for wood varnish. Costello’s was wearing a mustard-yellow sateen dress and a straw hat that made her look a bit rakish.
After the meal, Simon suggested a few rounds of bumper cars to the kids. Whoops of delight echoed through the fairground. Sylvia begged the children to quiet down, but Simon, blissfully happy, told her that they were certainly allowed to shout and that nothing, on festival day, should be off-limits to them. In reality, he was talking about himself.
We headed toward the rides. The carny’s wife, no-nonsense, heavy makeup, cloaked in perfume, was at the register. Around the track, boys of every age had their eyes glued to her cleavage. Her husband, making sure nothing interrupted the ballet of bumper cars, dashed around collecting tokens and bringing back vehicles left on the side of the track. He was sweating bullets because of the heat, and his arms—pushing, pulling, towing—were swollen with veins.
The children rushed at the miniature cars. They mounted in pairs and, unsurprisingly, whoever was lucky enough to grab the wheel first would refuse to let go, prompting disappointment in their passenger, who, frustrated at not being the driver, would cry, turn bright red, and scream that the next round would be their turn and their turn only! The children went on round after round, which eventually annoyed all of the adults except for Simon, who was completely amped up, encouraging the race car drivers and hopping around the track like a kid to music by Maître Gims, Céline Dion, and Drake.
When it got dark, Bakary suggested grabbing drinks from the refreshment stand and then going to dance. At first we had a hard time getting the kids off the track, but once we offered them cones of churros, they leaped out of their cars.
We watched them run on ahead. I remember worrying that we would see them disappear just as quickly. I sped up so that I wouldn’t lose sight of them; there were lots of people. When I turned around to make sure the group was still following us, I caught your eye. You gave me a sad and angry look, as if you were reproaching me for something. I didn’t immediately understand. Once I realized that you were walking by yourself between our paired-off friends, both couples holding hands, it was already too late to restore the balance. I continued to chase after the children, heart sinking, pace accelerating.
At the sweets stand, I had time to buy churros and drinks for all of the children. When the rest of the group finally caught up, you didn’t spare me the slightest glance. Bakary gently lectured me: Anna, you should have let me pay.
You cut in, responding somewhat abruptly, And why’s that? We can afford to pay! Your voice was unrecognizable. Hoarse. Almost a bark. Bakary leaned backward slightly and said that’s not what he meant. His response annoyed you even more, because it implied that your feelings had been hurt.
Simon suddenly lifted his arms and said, How about we go dance? It wasn’t a real question, more an order that didn’t expect a response. Without thinking twice, we followed him to the dance floor, the children, too, swept along by music the DJ was sending into the speakers.
The DJ was a short, chubby guy, forty-five or so, with round, oily cheeks. His blue eyes, two aquamarine crystals, were spinning in every direction. And he was sliding around, too, from one turntable to another, with incredible smoothness. I wondered whether he was on roller skates. His energy was overflowing, seemingly impossible to channel. He yelled out in English, Get down, everybody, come on, you can dance!, bopping his head. He wasn’t that young anymore and yet, on his little stage, in front of his mix table, the exact spot where the moon was shining its brightest, he was eternal.
His voice, which carried an impressive distance, attracted more and more dancers; so many that, in no time, the floor was packed. People were literally throwing themselves onto it. They began to gyrate as they set foot in a world where the body no longer obeyed anything but the urgent compulsion to move. We mirrored everyone else—we threw ourselves onto the dance floor. Our children hanging from our hips laughed from being shaken around, letting out joyful shouts. I edged closer to everyone so that I wouldn’t lose you all in the crowd. The brief altercation between you and Bakary had been erased from our minds. At least that’s how it seemed. Simon, who had placed himself behind Lucie, was hugging her waist. His large hands were holding her belly like he was worried it would fall off.
When the first notes of ABBA’s Dancing Queen echoed through the square, our eyes lit up with spontaneous joy. Everyone, without exception, recognized the song immediately. An enthusiastic ah! rang out in unison, and our bodies straightened up in a burst of energy. There are certain songs that transport us, though we never know quite where they’ve taken hold. Dancing Queen is one of them. That was the first time that the six of us had danced together to that song, but it awakened something inside all of us as instantaneously and dramatically as a photo from our youth. The so
ng symbolized what we had lost. That shared nostalgia reminded us that we were all navigating this world at the same time. And navigating the world at the same time isn’t nothing, when you think about it. In a swell of harmony, without taking our eyes off one another, we began to dance with abandon. Each time we chanted the chorus, we were actually proclaiming our love and desperate desire for eternity. We had never been closer than in that instant, and if Dancing Queen could have played until the end of time and protected us from the harshness of reality, we never would have had to endure what was to come.
Sadly, songs don’t last forever. When they suddenly come to an end, the cruelty of the world returns and we have to continue without the music. Now, when I think back to that moment, tears rise, and I can’t help but see it as a prelude to tragedy.
* * *
• • •
Later that evening, when we were all, except for Lucie, reasonably tipsy, we—you and me—saw Bakary and Simon having a violent argument not far from the refreshment stand. Simon had grabbed Bakary by his shirt collar and yelled something that we couldn’t hear because of the music. I remember giving you a questioning look. You were about to step in when Simon pushed Bakary so hard that I was afraid his head would hit the tree he was stumbling in front of.
When they rejoined us after, they acted like nothing had happened.
For the first time since I’d met him, Bakary was fighting against fear. His ordinarily direct gaze was avoiding something, and his arms, which seemed to be in his way, fell lifelessly along his sides.
Everyone in the procession of witnesses said the same thing. There had been no hints that this would happen. None. How could anyone have imagined for a single second that you were capable of such savagery?
Normal is the word that came up the most often during your trial. Mr. Guillot was a normal guy. People talked about you in the past tense, as if you no longer existed. Which was no doubt the case. Sitting in the defendant’s chair, you looked dead. Pale and overcome by exhaustion.
I believe that all of us, without exception, misjudged the true nature of the man we’d known for so long. Your actions were revelatory. It’s terrifying to think that I, someone who lived with you day after day, didn’t see anything coming. The thing is, I never once felt afraid in your presence. Either for me or for our daughters. What happened is simply incomprehensible.
On the witness stand, Simon, Lucie, and François confirmed that you were a good and honest person. When the judge asked Simon if he still considered you a friend, he hesitated for a few seconds, then answered, with a slight tremble in his voice, that yes, you were still his friend. Yes, of course.
Then the judge asked him to expand on that August night that kept coming up.
You were starting to have some doubts?
Yes, Your Honor.
The night of the village festival, is that right?
Yes, Your Honor.
You don’t have to call me that every time.
I’m sorry.
Don’t apologize. Go on.
That night, Bakary and I got into a fight. It was really tense. And yeah, we were all a little drunk, but I still felt like something was up. The next day, Constant came to find me. He wanted to know what had happened between Bakary and me. I told him that he had refused to give me back my money.
What were his reasons for refusing to give you back the money?
Bakary said that the invested money couldn’t be withdrawn before six months. That that’s how his client’s bank worked.
Why did you want to get back the money that you had so recently invested?
Because the baby was coming. That changed everything. We wanted to fix up its room, plus everything else that comes with it—everything that a baby needs. I was crazy happy, but I needed that money.
Did you insist on getting it back?
Yes. I even threatened to sue Bakary if he didn’t pay me back within the week. Bakary promised to do everything in his power.
What happened next?
Bakary gave me back half the amount and promised to give me the other half in six months. “I scrambled like mad to get this money,” he told me, “out of friendship for you!” He also said that the bank was doing me a favor, that it was an exception, and that I should consider myself a favored client. He made me believe that the bank didn’t want to lose me, that I was important to them.
What was your reaction?
It was always the same thing with Bakary. He would sweet-talk you. He really did seem upset. . . . I chose to trust him.
And you weren’t suspicious? It didn’t occur to you that the Swiss bank didn’t exist?
I know it might seem weird, but in the moment I didn’t think about it. And then after that he offered me a drink, he patted me on the back, we talked baseball. The problem was no longer a problem. It was always that way with Bakary. . . .
What did Mr. Guillot say to you when you confided in him about your dispute with Mr. Langlois?
He wanted to get his money back, too. I remember he said, “This whole thing feels off.”
Did you know that he had invested eight thousand euros?
Yes, he had mentioned it. I knew about his investment and our friend François’s.
Do you think that Mrs. Langlois was aware of her husband’s mishandling of funds?
I don’t know, I doubt it. Bakary always made sure not to talk about it around her.
But she was still aware of the problems their company was having?
I think so. She seemed worried a lot.
So Mr. Guillot told you he wanted to get his money back?
Yes, he was determined. He was, like me, furious.
At the time, did you know that Mr. Langlois’s company was in dire straits?
He never said anything to us. He acted like everything was fine, plus he kept up the same lifestyle.
Did Mr. Guillot go to see Mr. Langlois?
That same day.
What happened?
Bakary didn’t give him back his money. He actually got annoyed and told him that the amount he’d been able to get for me was an exception. I know now that after giving me back half my money, he had nothing left. He was waiting for other “clients.”
How did Mr. Guillot react?
Really bad. Mr. Langlois had given me back fifteen thousand euros without too much convincing, but he refused to return the Guillot family’s eight thousand euros. That made Constant crazy. Bakary told him that he would try to get him some of the money back the following month.
So in September.
That’s right.
And then?
Nothing in September. Or October. Each time Bakary had the same response: “The bank says no. Next month for sure . . .” End of November and still nothing. That’s when Constant lost it.
Did Mr. Guillot come to you to discuss what was going on?
Yes, at first. I would reassure him. I’d try to reason with him. I even offered to lend him some cash. You’ll pay me back in six months, I told him, when you get your money back.
And?
He never wanted to. He wanted his eight thousand euros. It had become an obsession. He was haunted by the whole thing. It’s all he thought about, all he talked about. He was sleeping less and less. When we’d meet for a drink at François’s, we could see that he wasn’t really there.
Did your friend François also try to reclaim his money from Mr. Langlois?
He had accepted the bank’s conditions. He told us that Bakary had been honest with us from the start by clearly explaining that the bank would refuse to give us back our money before six months.
Had he really specified that?
Honestly, I don’t remember.
Were you and your friend François worried about Mr. Guillot’s behavior?
Let’s just say that we could see
the situation was becoming alarming.
Did you help him get some perspective?
We tried.
Didn’t you have any influence on Mr. Langlois? Couldn’t you have gone to see him to encourage him to return Mr. Guillot’s money, like he had done for you?
He wouldn’t have given it back. He didn’t have it anymore. . . .
Did you imagine that your friend was capable of such an outpouring of violence?
No, it was impossible. Not him.
That’s a categorical no.
Categorical. We were all shocked the day we found out. We spent the whole night talking about it, trying to understand.
Who’s “we”?
Constant’s friends.
How do you all explain his actions?
We can’t. But . . . sometimes, sometimes I tell myself that maybe he’d . . . been hurt.
By whom? By what?
By life, by Mr. Langlois, something like that.
Is that a valid reason to kill five people?
No, of course not. He went too far.
You said it. Do you have anything to add?
No, nothing.
Thank you.
One year after the end of the trial
The proprietor hands me the keys. Her hands are as small as a child’s.
Room 28. It has a tub. You’ll see that I left you some bubble bath. Do you like coconut? It’s coconut. But subtle coconut, right, not the sugary kind that’ll make you dizzy, uh-uh, it’s very light, you’ll see, real delicate.
Her bright, curious smile throws me off; I don’t know if it’s intended for me or if it’s simply the way she always looks. Suddenly she asks, Your husband or your son? The question sends chills through me and I freeze, panicked. Is it written on my forehead that I’ve come to see a prisoner? There’s no way I can maintain eye contact, and with the same confusion I’ve felt for months, I lower my head in a sign of submission.
Don’t be embarrassed, dear. I’ve been hosting inmates’ wives and mothers in this hotel for twenty-two years. Some come from far away, for years now. Now don’t you worry. You’re at home here. I won’t ask you anything else.
People Like Them Page 9
