Lorraine Connection (20 page)

Montoya’s having a couscous in a little restaurant in Pondange, sitting at the table next to Amrouche, with whom he’s quickly struck up a conversation. A journalist looking for first-hand accounts of the Daewoo strike. Amrouche could have gone on for ever. Particularly on the subject of the occupation of the offices,
in which he claims to have played a leading role. Sentimental, lost, hurt, with a profound hatred of Nourredine. Extraordinary how readily people talk. They need to tell someone about their traumatic experience, and not many people around here seem prepared to listen. But Montoya’s a good listener. Chuffed, Amrouche invites him to drop into his new office to see him whenever he likes. The next conversation, scheduled later that afternoon, will probably be much more difficult.

Rossellini’s singing loudly in the shower. His daily game of
tennis
, and he’s never played better. He beat one of his usual
partners
hollow. Robin, who was not in good shape. So perhaps not so surprising. Dresses quickly. The game ahead is likely to be much harder. Pillbox, a little blue pill. Sure of himself. Barely a quarter of an hour left to grab a salad and a coffee at the clubhouse before going back to the office.

Robin’s waiting for him at a table by the window. Rossellini looks him over. Tall, slim, fair-haired, a graduate of ENA, the prestigious École Nationale d’Administration, a state councillor getting on for fifty, and a member of the French stock exchange regulatory body: an excellent track record you could say. But he lacks ambition and is stagnating in the civil service. And he’s a practising Catholic, married, father of six. Unlucky.

Rossellini sits down at the table and places on it an orange cardboard file which he slides towards Robin. A thrill of
excitement
, then he attacks the tomato and mozzarella salad in front of him. Robin half opens the file, a packet of large-format photos. The first one shows a close-up of his own face wearing a dark wig, his face caked with make-up, all smudged. His mouth is open, his eyes closed, in the throes of orgasm. Retches. How could he look so ugly? And standing over him, the drag queen from the night before, hands on his hips, fucking his arse. Closes the file, ashen. Pours himself a big glass of water, drinks it slowly, his eyes half closed. He looks up at Rossellini, who’s almost finished his tomato and mozzarella salad.

‘You astound me, Philippe, I thought I knew you …’

‘Am I entitled to say the same to you?’

Weak smile. ‘The ENA old boys’ network isn’t what people think. So what’s this all about?’

‘Today or tomorrow, courtesy of the Financial Securities
Committee, you’ll be receiving at your office around ten
anonymous
letters drawing your attention to the fluctuations of Matra share prices at the time its takeover of Thomson was announced.’

‘These fluctuations have not escaped the Financial Securities Committee’s attention. But we can’t see Lagardère becoming involved in this type of operation for the time being.’

‘Lagardère, no. But his partner in the operation, Kim, the Daewoo boss? What was to stop him speculating on Matra shares? Do you know who Kim is?’

Robin finishes eating his warm goat’s cheese on a bed of
dandelion
leaves. He chews meticulously, down to the last crumb, his gaze darting back and forth from his plate to the hardbound file. Then he puts down his knife and fork, wipes his mouth and gives a long sigh.

‘Very well. I expect the prints and the negatives as soon as the investigation starts.’

‘Of course.’

He rises. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry today. No time for coffee. Sorry I played so badly, I was a bit tired. Rough night, work, worries …’

And he smiles, picks up the orange file as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and walks out, leaving Rossellini to pick up the bill. Classy, you’ve got to hand it to him. And the wild sex, who’d have believed it? Rossellini feels a pang of
jealousy
. Flashback:
Valentin,
we’ll
cross-check
my
contacts
and
yours.
You’ll
see,
you
’
ll
be
surprised.
This is probably only the beginning. He’s about to get an insight into Kim’s crooked system. He’ll have to probe deep and rummage around.
Life
is
assuming
unexpected
colours.
A ray of sunshine on his back as he extends his legs,
let
the
pressure
relax,
savour
the
moment.
Blackmail: a new sport that gives him a thrill and a great deal of pleasure.

The door half opens.

‘Mrs Neveu?’

‘Mm …’

A wall of suspicion. Montoya puts his shoulder to the door and shoves, flashing his press pass.

‘I’m a journalist and I’m writing an article on Daewoo.’ He steps inside. I wasn’t able to get to the cemetery. Please accept my condolences.’ Now he’s standing in the cramped hallway. ‘May I talk to you?’

She shrugs.

‘Seeing as you’re already inside, come into the kitchen. The girls are in the front room watching TV.’

American cartoons, probably. Tinny voices and outbursts of children’s laughter. The kitchen isn’t big. He sits down, she walks round in circles before sitting down too.

‘Mrs Neveu, before his accident, did your husband talk to you about the Daewoo strike?’ She’s still very tense.

‘No. He came home very late and I was asleep. Next
morning
when the alarm went off, he just told me that the factory had burned down and that I should let him sleep. I got the girls ready and we left together. Then I dropped them off at school on my way to work as usual. I never saw him again.’

‘Did you know that your husband smoked a bit of dope from time to time at the factory?’

Smile. She’s beginning to relax. ‘I don’t know what you want, but that’s not news. He wasn’t the only one.’

‘Do you know his dealer?’

‘Are you joking? Do you think I’ve got time to think about all that? With my job, my two girls, and a husband to look after? I’ll show you my schedule if you like.’

‘How did you find out that he’d had an accident and that he was dead?’

‘The police told me. The first night, he didn’t come home. Well, I wasn’t too worried. He was a womaniser, my husband. A
womaniser
and he lived life in the fast lane. I went to bed and slept. The next morning, he still wasn’t back and he didn’t often spend the whole night away. When he didn’t come home the next night either, I started to get worried and called the police. They found his body the day after. They told me that when I reported him missing they took a look in the woods below our estate, and that’s where they found him. An accidental fall which broke his neck.’

‘Have you seen the forensic report?’ She immediately becomes suspicious again.

‘No.’

‘Didn’t you ask to see it?’

She gets up, walks over to the window, and stands gazing out over the plateau stretching as far as the horizon. Apart from a few clumps of trees and silhouettes of gigantic silos to break it up, the prospect is endlessly flat under the bleak late afternoon light of a
day without sunshine. After what seems like an age, she comes back over to him, a look of profound exhaustion on her face.

‘I’m from the countryside. My parents have a farm on the
plateau
. When I met Étienne, I was sixteen, I dreamed of the city, of going out and having fun, seeing shows, meeting people. I got a job as a cashier in a supermarket thirty kilometres from here. I see people all right, that’s for sure. A husband who’s always chasing women, never at home, two kids to look after, to bring up almost alone on a housing estate that’s miles from everywhere. And this view. It’s unbelievable how beautiful the plateau can look when you see it from the windows of our farm, and how desolate and sinister it seems from the third floor of a council flat. So, when Mr Quignard came to tell me that he would ensure that the funeral expenses would be borne by Daewoo, and that the company will pay me compensation for my husband’s death, I didn’t ask any questions, I said fine. Straight away. I’m going back to the farm with my two girls, and that’ll be the end of it. It’ll be cheaper for me and I’ll always be able to find a job. And what Daewoo gives me, even if it doesn’t amount to much, will help me and my girls with the move. Now, go away and leave me alone.’

She turns her back on him and fumbles in a cupboard to occupy her hands. Montoya gets up and leaves, slamming the front door. On the landing, he leans against the door jamb,
listening
. He hears the TV and the girls’ voices, their mother bustling about.
She
must
be
wishing
she
hadn’t
talked
to
me.
But
she
had
to
unburden
herself,
one
way
or
another,
in
her
solitude.
She’s
won
dering
what
she
can
get
out
of
it.
He waits. And then the click as she picks up the telephone, which he’d noticed on the wall in the hall. She dials a number with nervous concentration.

‘Mr Quignard? … I had a visit from a journalist … No, I don’t know who he is. He asked me questions about Étienne’s death … If he was in the habit of walking down that path, if I’d read the forensic report … Of course … Like we said … but I wanted to let you know that I’m prepared to move right away, this week. Only it’ll cost me …’

At least she’s got her head screwed on. Montoya escapes
noiselessly
down the stairs before the end of the phone call.

Quignard replaces the handset very gently, trying to control his movement.
Be
calm,
calm.
Today
could
turn
into
a
nightmare
if
I’m
not
careful.
Pours a double brandy, turns on Radio Classique and sinks into his armchair.
Let’s
take
stock.
This
morning,
I
find
out
from
that
half-crazy
Lepetit
woman
that
Park’s
fraudulent
accounts
were
seen
by
Étienne
Neveu.
Perhaps.
She
wouldn’t
be
capable
of
making
up
something
like
that.
Who
does
Neveu
tell
about
these
lists?
She
answers:
everyone.
That
I
don’t
believe.
It
happened
more
than
ten
days
ago.
And
Maréchal
wasn’t
aware
of
it?
I
wouldn’t
have
heard
anything
from
Amrouche?
Impossible.
Neveu
was
with
someone
when
he
saw
the
lists.
Someone
who,
for
one
reason
or
another,
didn’t
say
anything
until
yesterday.
Lepetit
couldn’t
keep
it
to
herself
for
more
than
twenty-four
hours.
Now,
think.
At
the
same
time,
a
journalist
tries
to
talk
to
Neveu’s
widow
and
asks
her
questions
that
prove
he
thinks
Étienne
Neveu’s
death
was
no
accident.
A
brilliant
accident,
well
orchestrated,
everyone
was
convinced.
Quignard pictures the blaze, its unexpected
fierceness
, the roar, familiar in a strange way, the showers of sparks, the iridescent flashes, a lavish display that had everybody
mesmerised
, and Étienne’s diminutive physique, rushing from one group to another, nobody taking any notice or listening to him. Not a single witness mentioned him to the police.
Even
Maréchal,
standing
next
to
me,
his
eyes
riveted,
afire
in
his
valley,
had
forgot
ten
about
him,
until
the
arrival
of
that
pain-in-the-arse
this
morn
ing
.
Question:
how
had
this
shit-stirrer
got
on
the
trail
of
Neveu’s
widow?
Someone
talked
yesterday,
to
Lepetit
and
to
the
shit-
stir
rer
.
Someone
who
was
in
the
factory
with
Neveu.
Who
saw
the
lists
with
Neveu.
And
who’d
kept
quiet
about
it
until
yesterday.
Why?
Because
he
and
Neveu
must
have
been
up
to
something
together.
Who
can
know?
I
can’t
count
on
Maréchal
any
more,
he’s
put
him
self
out
of
the
running.
Amrouche.
Of
course,
Amrouche.
Glance
at
his
watch.
Not
quite
six
o’clock.
He’s
probably
still
there,
he
always
works
very
late.
Smug little smile.
Smart
move,
taking
him
on.
I
knew
he’d
be
useful
to
me
sooner
or
later.
He turns off the radio, sends the secretary home, then heads for Amrouche’s office near the staff lounge and the coffee machine. He hammers on the door and pushes it open. Amrouche, hunched over his work in the light of his desk lamp, is handwriting a note about a Daewoo worker he’d spoken to that afternoon to find out if he was willing to take on a job elsewhere.