Consolation (11 page)

All of a sudden, it all vanished. Alexis and his pathetic cruelty, Claire and the little chapels on Skopelos, Laurence’s moods, Mathilde’s pouting, his memories, their future, the lapping of the past and all that quicksand. Off it went. Deleted. The shambles on the site was beginning to seriously piss him off and he’d get back to his life later on.

Sorry, mate, but there just wasn’t time.

So Balanda, with his engineering degree, his Master of Sciences, his School of Architecture, his government certification, his membership of the Society; Balanda the workhorse, with his awards and medals, everything you can imagine, yes, everything you can imagine, everything you could possibly fit onto a business card when you’ve had enough, tossed that other, wobbly, self out.

Aaah. That feels better.

Everyone, at some point or another, had reproached him for giving too much importance to his work. His fiancées, his family, his colleagues, his collaborators, his clients, the cleaning ladies who officiated at night, and even a doctor, once. Well-intentioned people said he was conscientious; others said that he was needy or even worse, academic, and he’d never really known what to say in his own defence.

Why had he been working so hard for so many years?

What was the point of all these sleepless nights? Life on a scale of 1:100? This relationship that was so shabbily constructed? This nagging little stiffness in his neck? This urge he had to climb the walls?

Or was it simply a trial of strength, lost from the start?

What . . . No, he’d never known how to justify himself to obtain absolution. He’d never felt the need, to be honest. But now, yes. Now he did.

That morning, as he got up and took out his passport, surprised yet again at how light his luggage was, to the sound of
Passengers on Air France flight 1644 departing at seven ten for Moscow Sheremetyevo are kindly requested to proceed to gate 16
, he had his answer: it was so that he could breathe.

Just breathe.

The hours, the little we’ve seen of him thus far, the abyss, might all seem to suggest, how to put it . . . that we should have some doubts as to just how clear-sighted Charles’s explanation really is, but anyway . . . Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt for once.

Let’s let him breathe as far as gate 16.

8

THE FLIGHT REACHED
its cruising speed of nine hundred kilometres an hour. He’d scarcely had time to switch on his laptop when the captain came on to inform them that the temperature was two degrees Celsius at their destination, wishing everyone a pleasant flight, and the usual blah blah from SkyTeam.

He located Viktor, his chauffeur with the gentle smile (a hole, a tooth, a hole, two more teeth); Charles would discover, after dozens of hours of traffic jams (in no other country in the world had Charles spent so much time on the rear seat of a car. Puzzled at first, then worried, then annoyed, then enraged, then . . . resigned. Oh! So this was the legendary Russian fatalism? Watching, through a steamy car window, as one’s goodwill dissolves into the endless ambient confusion?), that Viktor, in another life, was a sound engineer.

He was talkative, and told countless amazing stories that his passenger did not understand, all the while smoking dreadful-smelling cigarettes that he pulled out of charming little packets.

And when Charles’s mobile rang, when his client began putting on the pressure again, he would hasten to turn on the music at full volume. Out of discretion. No balalaikas or Shosta, no, just the local rock group, his own. The needle well into the red.

Bloody hell.

One evening, he had taken his shirt off to show Charles his life. Every era quivering on his skin: firmly tattooed. In front of a petrol pump, he had spread his arms and whirled like a ballerina while Charles gazed at him, wide-eyed.

It was . . . remarkable.

He met up with his little French comrades, his little German comrades, and his little Russian comrades. Managed to bullshit
his
way through several meetings, and equal quantities of sighs, taking the piss, and doing bugger all, a luncheon that lasted far too long, and then on with the hard hat and the boots once again. Everyone talked at him, voluminously, everyone confused him, slapped him on the back, and eventually he had a good laugh with the blokes from Hamburg. (The ones who came to install the air con.) (But where?)

Yes, in the end he had a laugh. One fist on his hips, one hand to his brow, and his feet deep in shit.

Then he headed over to the bosses’ prefabs where two fellows were waiting for him, two blokes straight from a Karl Marx Brothers comedy. Larger than life with their big cigars and their air of second-rate cowboys. Nervous, pale, already flushed with excitement. And already so eager.

Militsia
, they announced.

Right, who else.

All the others who were called as witnesses, most of them workers, only spoke Russian. Balanda was surprised that his usual interpreter was not there. He called Pavlov’s office. A young guy was on his way, they assured him, he spoke excellent French. Good. And here he is now, knocking at the door, red-faced and out of breath.

The discussion began. Or rather, the interrogation.

But when it was his turn to defend himself, he quickly realized that Starsky and Hutchov’s eyebrows were wiggling in the oddest fashion.

He turned to his interpreter: ‘Do they understand what you’re saying?’

‘No,’ went the interpreter, ‘they say the Tadzhik not drinking.’

Er . . .

‘No, but what I said to you before, about Mr Korolev’s contracts . . .’

He nodded, started again, and the militsiamen’s eyeballs grew ever rounder.

Well?

‘They say you guaranter.’

What?!

‘Forgive me for asking, but . . . how long have you been learning French?’

‘In Greynooble,’ he replied, with an angelic smile.

Oh, fuck.

Charles rubbed his eyelids.

‘
Sigaryet
?’ he inquired of the younger of the two sheriffs, tapping his index and middle fingers against his lips.

Spasiba
.

He let out a long breath, a delicious puff of carbon monoxide and pure discouragement as he contemplated the ceiling where a broken neon hung crookedly between two darts.

And he suddenly felt for Napoleon . . . That genius of a strategist who, as he’d read a few chapters earlier, failed to win the battle of Borodino because he’d been suffering from a head cold.

Go figure; suddenly he felt great solidarity with the man. No, kid, they won’t hold it against you . . . You’ve been fighting a losing battle from the start . . . Those guys are far too crafty for the likes of us. Far, far too crafty.

Finally Pavlovich arrived, Fiat Lux, accompanied by an ‘official’. A friend of the brother-in-law of the sister of the stepmother of Luzhkov’s right-hand man, or something like that.

‘Luzhkov?’ exclaimed Charles, ‘you mean . . . the . . . the mayor?’

Pavlovich didn’t even bother to reply, already too absorbed by the presentations.

Charles went out. In cases like this, he always went out, and everyone was always grateful.

He was joined at once by his Berlitz wonder boy, and decided to show some enthusiasm of his own: ‘So, you spent some time in Grenoble?’

‘No, no!’ corrected the interpreter, ‘I am live here at day!’

Right.

Dusk had fallen. Machines switched off. Some of the workers greeted him, while others shoved them from behind to get them to move along faster, and then Viktor drove him to the hotel.

He was entitled once again to a Russian lesson. The same one, over and over.

Roubles were
rubli
, euros were
yevrà
, dollar, ha, that’s
dollar
, imbecile of the ‘Move, c’mon, let’s go’ type was
kaziol
, imbecile of the ‘Let me pass, arsehole!’ was
mudak
, and ‘Move your arse!’ was
sheveli zadam
.

(Among other things.)

Charles was going over things absent-mindedly, hypnotized by
the
kilometres and kilometres and kilometres and kilometres of rows and rows of rabbit hutches. That was the thing that had struck him the most on his first visit to Eastern Europe, when he was still a student. As if the very worst of the peripheral suburbs in Paris, the most depressing of all the council housing tower blocks, could not stop reproducing, ad infinitum.

And yet Russian architecture . . . Yes, Russian architecture, that was something else . . .

He recalled a monograph by Leonidov that Jacques Madelain had given him . . .

It was a familiar refrain . . . Anything beautiful had been destroyed because it was beautiful, hence, bourgeois; and then an entire nation had been crammed into . . . into this, and the little bit of beauty that remained, well, the Nomenklatura had appropriated it.

Yes, we know. No need to pontificate about miserable little lives from the back seat of a leather-upholstered Mercedes, where it was twenty degrees warmer than in their stairwells.

Right, Balanda?

Yes, but?

C’mon, let’s go . . .
Sheveli zadam
.

*

While the water was running he called the agency and summed up his day for Philippe, who was the most concerned among his associates. Certain e-mails had been forwarded to Charles that he must read within the hour in order to give his instructions. And he had to call the planning board.

‘Why?’

‘Well . . . it’s about the screed . . . Why are you laughing?’ They were worried, in Paris.

‘Sorry. It’s nerves.’

Then they talked about other sites, other estimates, other margins, other fuck-ups, other decrees, other rumours in their little world and, before hanging up, Philippe informed him that Marquesin and his lot had got Singapore.

Ah?

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Singapore . . . ten thousand kilometres and seven time zones . . .

And suddenly, that very instant, he remembered that he was
extremely
tired, that he hadn’t had the sleep he was owed for . . . months, years, and his bath was about to overflow.

As he came back into the room, he looked for sockets where he’d be able to recharge his various batteries, tossed his jacket across the bed, undid the top buttons of his shirt, squatted down, paused for a moment of bewilderment in the cold clarity of the minibar, then went and sat down next to his clothes.

He pulled out his diary.

Pretended to be interested in the next day’s appointments.

Pretended to leaf through it before putting it away.

Just like that. The way you fiddle with a well-worn personal object when you’re far away from home.

And then, what do you know . . .

He came upon Alexis Le Men’s number.

Well I –

His mobile was still on the night table.

He looked at it thoughtfully.

No sooner had he dialled the area code and the first two numbers than his stomach betrayed him . . . He made a fist and dashed to the toilet.

When he looked up again, he slammed into his own reflection.

His trousers round his ankles, his white calves, his knock knees, his arms wrapped round his torso, his tight face, his pitiful expression.

An old man.

He closed his eyes.

And emptied himself.

The bath felt lukewarm. He was shivering. Who else could he call? Sylvie . . . the only real female friend he’d ever known Anouk to have . . . But . . . How could he find her? What was her last name, again? Brémand? Brémont? And had they still been in touch? Towards the end, at least? Would she be able to give him more information?

And did he even want to know?

Anouk was dead.

Dead.

He would never hear the sound of her voice again.

The sound of her voice.

Or her laugh.

Or her fits of anger.

He’d never see her twisting her lips again, or see them tremble or stretch to an infinite smile. He’d never look at her hands again. The inside of her wrist, the tracings of her veins, the hollow of the circles beneath her eyes. He’d never know what she was hiding, so well, so poorly, so far away, behind her weary smiles or her silly faces. He’d never sneak sidelong glances at her. Never take her arm by surprise. Never –

How could it help just to replace all of that with a cause of death? What would he gain? A date? Details? The name of an illness? A stubborn window handle? One last stumble?

Honestly . . .

Was the sordid truth really worth the candle?

Charles Balanda put on some clean clothes and tugged at his shoelaces as he ground his molars.

He knew. That he was afraid to know the truth.

And the braggart in his soul placed a hand on his shoulder, and began to sweet-talk him: Oh, go on . . . Give it a rest . . . Just keep your memories . . . Remember her the way she used to be . . . Don’t ruin her . . . That’s the greatest tribute you can pay her, and you know it . . . Keep her the way she was . . . Absolutely alive.

But there was the coward, too, breathing down his neck, murmuring in his ear: You know very well what happened, hey – she might have left the world the way she lived?

Alone. Alone, and in a mess.

Totally adrift in a world that was far too small for her. What was it that had killed her? Not hard to guess. Her ashtrays. Or all the drink, which never seemed to give her peace. Or the bed she never turned down any more. Or . . . And what about you? What the fuck do you think you’re doing now, piling on the flattery? Where were you before all this? If you’d been there, you wouldn’t be shitting your knickers like this now . . .

Please, have some dignity, my boy: you know what she would do with your compassion?

Shut your face, he grated; just shut your face.

And because he was so proud, it was the coward who redialled the number of his worst enemy.

What would he say? ‘Balanda here’ or ‘It’s Charles . . .’ or ‘It’s me’?

By the third ring, he could feel his shirt sticking to his back. By the fourth, he closed his mouth to try to work up some saliva again. By the fifth . . .