The Empire Of The Wolves

by Jean-Christophe Grangé

  "No one's touching my brain." Anna got to her feet and wrapped herself up in her shawl, wings of a raven lined with gold.

  Laurent broke his silence. "Don't take it like that. Eric has assured me that -"

  "So you're on his side, are you?"

  "We're all on your side, Anna," Ackermann purred.

  She pulled back to get a better look at this pair of hypocrites. "No one's touching my brain," she repeated in a stronger voice. "I'd rather lose my memory completely or die from the disease. I'm never setting foot here again." Suddenly in the grip of panic, she yelled, "Never, do you hear me?"

  3

  She ran along the deserted corridor, leapt down the stairs, then came to a halt in the doorway of the building. She felt the cold wind calling to her lifeblood. Sunlight flooded the courtyard. It made Anna think of the clearness of summer, without heat or leaves on the trees, which had been frozen for better conservation.

  On the far side of the courtyard, Nicolas the chauffeur noticed her and jumped out of the saloon car to open the door for her. Anna shook her head at him. With a trembling hand, she rummaged through her bag looking for her cigarettes, lit one, then savored the acrid smoke that filled her throat.

  The Henri-Becquerel Institute was made up of several four-story buildings surrounding a patio dotted with trees and dense shrubs. The dull gray or pink façades were decked with warning signs:

  NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY, MEDICAL STAFF ONLY, DANGER.

  In this damned hospital, the slightest detail seemed hostile to her.

  She breathed in another throatful of smoke. The taste of the burning tobacco calmed her, as if she had cast her anger into the embers of the cigarette. She closed her eyes, abandoning herself to its heady odor.

  Footfalls sounded behind her.

  Laurent walked past her without looking around, crossed the courtyard, then opened the rear door of the car. He waited for her, tapping the concrete with his brightly polished moccasins, his features tense. Anna threw away her Marlboro and went over to him. She slid onto the leather seat. Laurent walked around the car and got in beside her. After this little silent routine, the chauffeur pulled the car off then drove down the slope of the garage with all the majestic slowness of spaceship.

  Several soldiers were on guard duty in front of the white-and-red barrier at the gate.

  "I'll go and get back my passport," Laurent said.

  Anna looked at her hands. They were still trembling. She took a compact from her bag and observed her face in its oval mirror. She was almost expecting to see marks on her skin, as though her internal upheaval had been like a violent punch. But there was nothing. She still had the same bright, regular features, the same snowy whiteness, framed with Cleopatra-style hair; the same dark blue eyes rising up toward her temples, their eyelids lowered slightly with the languidness of a cat.

  She saw that Laurent was coming back. He was leaning over in the wind, lifting up the collar of his black coat. She suddenly felt a warm wave of desire. She observed him: his fair curls, his prominent eyes, that torment creasing his brows… He pulled his coat closer to his body with the uncertain movement of a cautious, timid child, which sat strangely with his power as a top-ranking police officer. It was like when he ordered a cocktail and described with little pinches how he wanted its ingredients proportioned. Or when he slid his hands between his thighs and raised his shoulders to show he was cold or else embarrassed. It was this fragility that had appealed to her, the weaknesses and failings that contrasted with his real power. But what remained of her love for him? What could she remember of it?

  Laurent sat back down by her side. The barrier rose. As they passed, he directed a firm salute at the armed men. This gesture of respect irritated Anna once more. Her desire faded. She asked coldly: "Why all these policemen?"

  "Soldiers," Laurent corrected her. "They're soldiers."

  The car slipped into the traffic stream. Place du Général-Leclerc in Orsay was tiny and immaculately groomed. A church, a town hall, a florist's shop: each element clearly stood out.

  "Why these soldiers?" she pressed him.

  Laurent replied absently "It's because of the Oxygen-15."

  "The what?"

  He did not look at her; his fingers were tapping the window "Oxygen-15. The labeled water that was injected into your blood for the experiment. It's radioactive."

  "How nice."

  Laurent turned toward her. He was trying to look reassuring, but his eyes revealed how annoyed he was. "It's not at all dangerous."

  "Which explains why there are all these guards, I suppose?"

  "Don't be stupid. In France, any activity using nuclear materials is supervised by the Atomic Energy Commission. And this implies the presence of soldiers, that's all. Eric has no choice but to work with the army."

  Anna could not help sneering.

  Laurent stiffened. "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing. You just had to find the only hospital in the Paris region that has more khaki uniforms than white coats."

  He shrugged and stared at the countryside. The car had already turned on to the motorway and was heading into the Bièvre valley. Dark brown and red forests rose and fell away into the distance.

  The clouds were back. Far away. A pale light was struggling to make its way through the low wisps in the sky. Yet it still felt as if the heat of the sun was about to take command and inflame the countryside.

  They had been driving for over a quarter of an hour before Laurent opened his mouth again. "You should trust Eric."

  "No one is going to touch my brain."

  "Eric knows what he's doing. He's one of the best neurologists in Europe "

  "And a childhood friend. As you keep telling me."

  "You're lucky he's treating you. You-"

  "I'm not going to be his guinea pig."

  "His guinea pig?" Laurent clearly articulated each syllable. "His guinea pig? Whatever do you mean?"

  "Ackermann was observing me. My condition interests him, that's all. He's a researcher, not a doctor."

  Laurent sighed. "You're being paranoid. Really, you are…"

  "So, I'm mad, am I?" Her mirthless laughter fell like an iron curtain. "That's hardly news, is it?"

  This outbreak of lugubrious merriment made her husband even angrier. "And so? Are you just going to sit there and wait while the disease gets worse?" He was writhing on his seat.

  "You're right. I'm sorry. I've been talking nonsense."

  Silence once more filled the car.

  The countryside looked increasingly like a blaze of damp grasses, reddish, sullen, mingled with gray mists. The woods continued as far as the eye could see, at first indistinct, then as they neared, in the shape of crimson claws, fine chasings, dark arabesques..

  From time to time, a village appeared, with a rural church steeple jutting up. Then a spotlessly white water tower trembled in the hazy light. It seemed unbelievable that they were just a few miles from Paris.

  Laurent launched his last distress flare. "Just promise me you'll agree to have more tests done. And I don't mean a biopsy. It will only take a few days."

  "We'll see."

  "I'll go with you. I'll devote all the time we need. We're with you-you do understand that?"

  Anna did not much like the word we. Laurent was in full association with Ackermann. She was already more of a patient than a wife.

  Suddenly, from the top of the hills of Meudon, Paris appeared in a flash of light. The entire city lay there, with its endless white roofs, glittering like a lake of ice, stuck with crystals, peaks of frost and clumps of snow, while the skyscrapers of La Défense stood like icebergs. Gleaming with clarity, the city was burning in the sunlight.

  This dazzling sight cast them into a dumb stupor. They crossed the Sèvres bridge then drove through Boulogne-Billancourt without exchanging a word.

  When they were approaching Porte de Saint-Cloud, Laurent asked: "Shall I drop you off at home?"

  "No, at work."

&n
bsp; "You told me you were taking the day off" His voice was tinged with reproach.

  "I thought I'd be more tired than this," Anna lied. “I don't want to leave Clothilde on her own. On Saturdays, the shop's taken by storm."

  "Clothide and the shop.." he said sarcastically.

  "What about it?"

  "This job. I mean… It's beneath you."

  "Beneath you, you mean."

  Laurent did not reply. Maybe he had not even heard her last comment. He leaned forward to see what was happening in front of them. The traffic had ground to a halt on the bypass. Impatiently, he asked the driver to get them out of there.

  Nicolas got the message. From the glove compartment, he produced a magnetic flashing light, which he placed on the roof of the car. With its siren blaring, the Peugeot 607 pulled out from the traffic jam and sped away again. Nicolas kept his foot down.

  His fingers gripping the back of the seat, Laurent followed each turn, every twist of the wheel. He looked like a little boy concentrating on a video game. Anna was always amazed to see that, despite all his qualifications and his job as director of the Ministry of the Interior's Centre des Etudes et Bilans, Laurent had never forgotten the excitement of the beat, the call of the street. Lousy cop, she thought.

  At Porte Maillot, they turned off the bypass and into Avenue des Ternes, where the driver at last switched off the siren. Anna was back in her universe. Rue Saint-Honoré and its precious window displays, the Salle Pleyel with its high bay windows through which, on the first floor, slender dancers could be seen moving around; the mahogany arcades of Mariage Freres, where she bought her special teas.

  Before opening the door, she picked up the conversation where the siren had interrupted it.

  "It's not just a job, you know. It's my way of staying in contact with the outside world. Of not going completely nuts in that flat."

  She got out of the car, then bent down toward him. "It's that or the lunatic asylum, you understand?"

  They exchanged a final look and, in a twinkling of an eye, were allies once more. Never would she have used the word love to describe their relationship. It was based on complicity and sharing, which lay beyond desire. Passion, or the fluctuations caused by days and moods. They were calm, underground waters mixing deeply. They could then understand each other, reading between their words, between their lips…

  Suddenly, she felt hopeful once more. Laurent would help her, love her, support her. The shadow had now lightened. He asked: "Shall I pick you up this evening?"

  She nodded, blew him a kiss, then headed toward the Maison du Chocolat.

  4

  The bell on the door rang as though she were an ordinary customer. Its simple, familiar notes reassured her. She had applied for this job a month before, after seeing it advertised in the shop window. At the time, she had just been looking for something to take her mind off her obsessions. But she had in fact found far more -a refuge.

  A magic circle protecting her from her anxieties.

  At two in the afternoon, the shop was empty. Clothilde must have taken advantage of this quiet moment to go to the stockroom.

  Anna crossed the floor. The entire shop looked like a chocolate box, wavering between brown and gold. In the middle, the main counter rose up like an orchestra, with its black or cream classics in squares, circles and domes. To the left, on the marble slab of the till, were the "extras," the small delights customers picked up at the last moment while paying. To the right were the miscellaneous: fruit jellies, sweets, nougats, like a series of variations on a theme. Above, the shelves contained more gleaming delicacies, wrapped in glassine, whose bright glints were even more appetizing.

  Anna noticed that Clothilde had finished the Easter window display. Woven baskets contained eggs and hens of every size; chocolate houses with caramel roofs were being watched over by marzipan piglets; chicks were playing on a swing, in a sky of paper daffodils.

  "Is that you? Great! The assortments have just arrived." Clothilde appeared on the goods lift at the back of the shop, which was worked by an old-fashioned hoisting winch, and allowed them to bring goods up directly from the garage on Square du Roule. She leapt off the platform, strode over the piles of boxes and stood radiant and breathless in front of Anna.

  In just a few weeks, Clothilde had become one of her reassuring landmarks. She was twenty-eight, with a small pink nose, and light brown hair that fluttered in front of her eyes. She had two children, a husband "in the bank," a mortgage and a destiny that had been traced out with a T square. She lived in a world of certain happiness that amazed Anna. Being with her was both comforting and irritating. She just could not believe this faultless scenario devoid of any surprise. There was a kind of obstinacy or underlying falsehood in such a credo. In any case, it was an inaccessible mirage for her. At the age of thirty-one, Anna was childless and had always lived in an atmosphere of malaise, uncertainty and fear of the future.

  "It's been a hell of a day. I haven't stopped." Clothilde picked up a box and headed toward the storeroom at the back of the shop. Anna slipped her shawl over her shoulder and did likewise. Saturday was such a busy day that they had to make the most of the slightest lull to prepare new trays.

  They went into the windowless room. Which measured ten square yards. Piles of cardboard and layers of bubble packs were already cluttering the floor.

  Clothilde put down her box, pushed her hair back and pouted. "I forgot to ask you. How did it go?"

  "They made me take tests all morning. The doctor said something about a lesion."

  "A lesion?"

  "A dead area in the brain. The region that recognizes faces.”

  “That's crazy. Is there a cure?"

  Anna put down her box and repeated, parrot-fashion, what Ackermann had told her. "Yes, there's going to be treatment. With memory exercises and medication to shift that function to another healthy part of my brain."

  "That's marvelous!" Clothilde was smiling broadly, as though she had just learned that Anna had completely recovered. Her reactions rarely fitted the situation and revealed a profound indifference. In reality Clothilde was oblivious to other people's misfortunes. Grief, anxiety and doubt slid off her like drops of water on an oilskin. Yet, at that moment, she seemed to sense her mistake.

  She was saved by the bell.

  "I'll go," she said, spinning on her heel. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back."

  Anna pushed aside some boxes and sat down on a stool. She started laying out some Romeos on a tray-squares of fresh coffee mousse. The room was already full of the heady odors of chocolate. At the end of the day. Their clothes and even their sweat smelled of it, and their saliva was saturated with sugar. It is said that bartenders get drunk from breathing in alcohol vapors. Do chocolate sellers get fat from being around such delicacies?

  Anna had not put on an ounce. In fact, she never put on any weight. She ate like pig, but the very food seemed to avoid her. The glucose, lipids and fibers went through her without touching the sides.

  While she was arranging the chocolates, Ackermann's words came back to her. A lesion. An illness. A biopsy. No. She would never let them slice her up. And especially not him, with his cold gestures and insect eyes.

  In any case, she did not believe in his diagnosis.

  She just could not believe it.

  For the simple reason that she had not told him a tenth of the truth.

  ***

  Since the month of February the lapses had become far more frequent than she had admitted. These moments of emptiness now came on her at any time, anywhere. A dinner party with friends, a visit to the hairdresser's, when buying a magazine. Anna now often found herself surrounded by strangers, with nameless faces, in the very heart of her daily life.

  Even the nature of the attacks had changed.

  It was no longer just a question of names slipping her mind and memory lapses. She also had terrifying hallucinations. Faces went hazy trembled, then altered before her very eyes. Expressions and
looks began to waver and float as though seen through water.

  Sometimes, they looked like faces made of burning wax, which melted and folded into themselves, creating demonic grimaces. On other occasions, features vibrated and shook, until a series of different expressions became simultaneously juxtaposed. A cry Laughter. A kiss. They all merged together in a single physiognomy. A nightmare.

  Anna lowered her eyes when walking in the street. At parties, she never looked at the person she was speaking with. She was becoming nervous, timorous and scared. The "others" now just reflected back the image of her own madness. A mirror of terror.

  Nor had she really described the sensations she experienced concerning Laurent. In fact, her uneasiness never went away, never completely disappeared after a lapse. There was always a trace left, a hint of fear. As though she no longer really recognized her husband. As if there was a voice whispering to her. "It's him, but it isn't him."

  Deep down, she sensed that Laurent's appearance had changed, that it had been altered by plastic surgery. Ridiculous.

  This craziness had an even more absurd aspect. While her husband was becoming ever more a stranger to her, one of the shop's regular customers was starting to feel strikingly familiar. She was sure that she had already seen him somewhere… It was impossible for her to say where or when, but her memory lit up in his presence. With an electrostatic tingle. And yet, this spark never led to a precise memory.

  The man came once or twice a week and always bought the same Jikola chocolates squares filled with marzipan, rather like oriental delicacies. He in fact spoke with a slight, perhaps Arabic accent. He was about forty, always dressed in the same way, in jeans with a threadbare corduroy jacket buttoned up to his neck, like an eternal student. Anna and Clothilde had nicknamed him "Mr. Corduroys."

  Every day they watched for him. It was a game of suspense for them, an enigma, a pleasant way to pass the time. They often elaborated hypotheses. He was a childhood friend of Anna's, or an old boyfriend, or instead a furtive pickup merchant and she had caught his eye at some cocktail party.