Lorraine Connection (5 page)

The first lorry turns into the factory access road. It’s now less than twenty metres away, nosing its way forward, its huge bonnet looming above their heads. The men close their eyes, speechless.
We’re
not
afraid …
Less
than
five
metres,
don’t
think
about
bodies
being
run
over,
the
wheel
that
crushes,
don’t
think.
United.
A
solid
wall
,
stand
firm.
And
don’t
fall
Less than two metres. An order comes from the back, passed forward from row to row: ‘When you hear shouts of “Fire” scatter to the sides as fast as possible!’ The bumpers touch the men in the front line, and the lorry
continues
to inch forward. Who can hold back ten tonnes?

A prolonged shout, coming from six voices in chorus: ‘Fire!’ The human chains break apart: ‘Get the driver, quick!’ Six men armed with lengths of wood furiously push forward a heap of burning pallets, scraping the ground and sending out a shower of sparks. They slide them towards the bonnet of the lorry now level with the gate.

‘Let’s burn the bastards in their cabs!’ yells Nourredine,
pouring
with sweat, his hands burned, completely carried away.

Panic aboard the first lorry. The driver throws it into reverse, retreats a few metres, too fast, the trailer careers off the road, its wheels sink into the soft earth, it jackknifes. Armed with baseball bats, the other two men jump down from the cab to protect the lorry. Hafed and a dozen or so workers step in.

‘Stop now, that’s enough. We stay on the factory premises, on our own ground. We don’t set fire to the lorry. We’ve won. They’re leaving. We let them go.’

Behind their window, the security guards contemplate the scene without moving a muscle.

The mass of workers are clustered behind the blazing pallets. The wood is well-ventilated and dry, it gives off a lovely clear bright flame. They watch the heavy articulated lorries
attempting
to manoeuvre their way out. Laughter and jeers: ‘Watch out, you’ll burn out your engine!’ The drivers are none too adroit and a few clods of earth, a few stones, are hurled at the windscreens. It’s a way of letting off steam, nothing really nasty. Nourredine has torn off his grey overalls and thrown them into the fire. Then the lorries leave in slow convoy, the same way they came. As they disappear into the distance, hazy through the flames, silence falls and lasts for a few minutes after they vanish in the direction of Luxembourg. Each person pictures a section of bonnet, the edge of a bumper, the tip of a wing, a wheel, each person relives the feeling of serried bodies, battling fear, the heat of the fire, and the overwhelming joy at the routing of the juggernaut, savouring the shared feeling that
together
we
are
strong,
the
world
is
ours.
Fists
raised in the direction of the blind windows of the executives’ offices.

If we hadn’t been warned, the lorries would have got in easily, thinks Nourredine, dazed and elated.

Then Hafed grabs a chair from inside the porter’s lodge and clambers on to it.

‘Since they’ve declared war on us, we must get organised and fight back.’

Early on this sunny afternoon the news of the strike, the
offensive
action and the victory over the bosses has spread
throughout
the neighbourhood. The factory is like a magnet and people have come from all over – the unemployed, the retired, on foot, by bicycle and car, to catch up on the news, see how the youngsters are coping, relive their own memories. When all the surrounding valleys were involved in the steel industry, when the word ‘strike’ meant something, when they attacked police stations with bulldozers, when they went on a mass march on Paris, when intentions were far from peaceful … Memories that reduce what has just happened at Daewoo to a mere blip. People cluster outside the gates, on the central reservation all the way to the roundabout. Amrouche comes out to greet a few old acquaintances. Workers from the night shift chat to the
veterans
before going inside the factory. There are also a few skivers like Karim Bouziane, off sick for six months for a supposedly sprained back as a result of shifting furniture for the Korean CEO during working hours. He soaks up the atmosphere
outside
the gates for a while then enters the factory. Nourredine lets him through with bad grace. What reason could be given for stopping him?

Rolande arrives with a radiant smile, pushing a trolley laden with potatoes, onions, eggs and bread.

‘I heard about the occupation when I was at the supermarket, so I went round and asked the local shopkeepers for donations. All this is for you so you can have a hot meal tonight. My way of saying thank you.’

Nourredine, touched, lets her in.

‘Come in, Rolande. At least as long as we’re in charge, you’re welcome here.’

Then it’s the turn of the dignitaries, in their dark saloon cars
and dark suits. All ill at ease, very ill at ease, the mayor with his tricolour sash, the deputy, more discreet, and the regional health and safety inspector who keeps a low profile. They shake a few hands, force a few smiles, tap Amrouche on the shoulder then come and talk to Nourredine and his crew in front of the gates.

‘The valley needs these jobs … Watch what you do … Mr Park, the CEO, is a reasonable man, we know him well … You should try negotiating …’

What do they know of life in the factory, these three? And this health and safety inspector, with his useless site visits, his reports that are always favourable, not a single infringement in two years, in the most dangerous factory in the whole region, what does he know about the man who had his head sliced off, about Émilienne, Rolande or Aisha? Nourredine feels self-conscious in his tight-fitting jacket and grubby jeans. He’s seized by a kind of rage and fantasises about grabbing the health and safety inspector by the lining of his jacket, shaking him and banging his head against the gatepost, smashing his forehead, his nose, seeing blood pour down his smart navy-blue suit, then letting him go and watching him crumple in a heap on the ground.

‘… If Daewoo were to close down as a result of this strike, which is a possibility, I warn you, it would be disastrous for the entire valley.’

‘We worked hard to set up this factory here,’ adds the mayor. ‘I know what it cost the town.’

Nourredine can’t think of anything to say to them.

The fourth man, who has kept in the background until now, goes up to Nourredine, smiling, and holds out his hand. Tall and sturdy, he has a direct, straightforward manner. And his
handshake
clearly states that he’s not afraid of sullying himself by shaking hands with a worker. The manner, the gesture, the tone of voice – imperceptible signals of kinship: they’re from the same world, that of the factory, not exactly the same, but similar.

‘Maurice Quignard. I represent the European Development Plan committee.’
European
subsidies,
the
great
cash
cow,
translates
Nourredine. ‘I spoke to your CEO on the telephone before coming. You know, he’s not a bad guy. I think this business is all a big misunderstanding. From what he tells me, the
immediate
sale of stocks should make it possible to pay some bonuses …’ Nourredine reels, finds it hard to breathe.
After
all
,
it
is
possible
we
rushed
into
this
without
thinking
… ‘We just need to find grounds on which to negotiate.’

‘Negotiate, that’s all we’ve wanted to do since this morning.’

‘There’ll be no negotiations while the managers are being held.’ Nourredine is frankly taken aback.

‘Nobody’s being held. We’re stopping people from coming in, not from leaving.’

‘And the negotiations won’t take place here, under pressure, but at the town hall.’

‘I’m not the sole decision-maker.’ He casts about. ‘We’ll have to discuss it. Speaking for myself, there’s no problem.’

Quignard steps inside the gate as if by right. Nourredine, caught unawares, wavers. Too late, Quignard is already in the porter’s lodge, one of the two security guards offers him a chair, holds out a telephone. He settles in, calls management, he’s very much at home. When he comes out again:

‘In a quarter of an hour, the managers will start coming out, in their cars, of course. The senior managers will meet you in two hours’ time at the town hall. If that’s agreeable to you, of course.’

Then Quignard walks off in the direction of the roundabout, where his chauffeur-driven car is waiting, a big black Mercedes. He exchanges a few words with the three state officials, it’ll all work out fine, no reason why it shouldn’t, nobody wants war. A little further on, he passes a grim-faced Maréchal who’s come to find out the latest.

‘Antoine, are you going inside the factory?’

‘No. My shift finishes at two p.m. and until I have more
information
, I’m not on strike.’

‘So you can come with me to my office. Negotiations should begin very soon, and Park will keep me informed by telephone. I’d like to have your opinion.’

‘Got anything to drink?’

A smile. ‘As usual, your favourite brandy.’

‘There’s nobody’s waiting for me at home.’

On the waste ground behind the factory, Karim has set up his little business. He likes the place. Before him the valley’s verdant slopes stretch down to Pondange. When he was little, it was a street filled with blast furnaces – fire, noise, smoke and dust, day and night. His father wore himself out working at one blast furnace after
another, and Karim’s destiny, as the eldest son, was all mapped out. At sixteen, a steelworker, alongside his father. Today, his father is slowly dying on a good pension, while he’s thriving on small time wheeling and dealing. The air is pure and the valley is green, life’s good, seen from the Daewoo waste ground. He makes kindling from the pallets, sets up a makeshift barbecue and, with the collusion of the cafeteria manager, is cooking the sausages he sells cheaply on improvised wire skewers.

Two burly, thuggish-looking strangers with close-cropped hair, aggressive thirty-year-olds, are walking slowly towards him, their hands behind their backs.
They
look
like
cops,
and
none
too
friendly
thinks Karim, who hesitates, glancing around.
Nowhere
to
run.
Spots the navy-blue ‘Security’ jackets, the uniform of Daewoo’s security guards. Relieved, Karim smiles at them and proffers two skewers. ‘For you, no charge.’ The two men nod, take the sausages and walk off without a word. Karim continues
serving
his customers, and for a little bit extra, he slips a gram of hash into the paper napkin containing the pair of sausages he hands to his regulars. A smoking corner has been set up in the
stockroom
, in the midst of the polystyrene packaging, well away from the security guards’ path.

Rolande is in the cafeteria and has taken over the kitchen area. She sets to work with precise gestures, assembling crockery and cutlery. Cheerfully she peels, rinses, chops and stirs. Earth mother. To her it’s half a game, half sublimated desire. Her way of being part of the collective action.

The first car loses no time in leaving the executives’ car park on the right-hand side of the building. It heads for the gate between two lines of men and women workers who have come running from all corners of the factory to stand and jeer. They stare at the car’s occupant, lean over the bonnet, thump and occasionally kick the bodywork, feeling a real thrill at being the ones to instil fear. It’s all good-natured ebullience for the moment. Étienne, all psyched up, has a good laugh. Aisha, starting out in the front line, amazed at her daring, soon tires of the game, too many men up too close, she allows herself to be edged out of the crowd and goes into the porter’s lodge where the two inscrutable security guards are making coffee. They offer her a cup.

A first then a second car leave without hindrance. At the wheel are French managers, near strangers. They probably work in accounts. Then a Peugeot 606 driven by a Korean appears. A lot of people in the factory dislike the Koreans. That’s the way it is, no special reason. This guy’s reputed to make the women who clean the factory clean his apartment for no pay, the bastard. Someone shouts: ‘Search the car.’ One way of prolonging the fun. Suggestion adopted immediately, and executed. While a group of workers obstruct the saloon, Nourredine moves over to the door and glances at the back seat. Empty.

‘Would you open up the boot please, sir.’

The Korean, his face terrified behind his thin, steel-rimmed glasses, suddenly winds up the windows and locks the doors, and signals that he doesn’t understand. He turns green, blinks very quickly, and breathes haltingly, opening and shutting his mouth soundlessly. A fish in a goldfish bowl, ridiculous.

What happened? Did he panic? Or is it a deliberate attempt to force his way through? The car jumps forward and knocks down three workers. The crowd roars, around twenty men grab the bodywork and shake the car which bounces on its springs, almost lifts off the ground. One of the felled workers gets up and,
standing
in front of the bonnet, takes charge of the operation. Clear a space to my left, to my right, together, one … two … the car rocks … and three … one last push turns it on to its left side and it falls back with a crunch of crushed metal. The Korean, thrown against the left-hand door, hides his face in his hands and doesn’t move.

‘What’s he carrying that’s making him so scared? Drugs? Weapons?’

The boot’s locked and won’t open.
Grab
the
key
from
inside
the
car?
Nourredine’s against it, too complicated, and might end up in a fight. Karim stands beside him with a little half-smile, and nudges him with his elbow.