The Eyes of Lira Kazan (25 page)

 

When the speech ended there was polite applause and the hors d'oeuvres began to arrive. It was eight-thirty.

“Osetra caviar, poached langoustines! Truffled egg mousse!”

Everybody began to concentrate on their plates and their neighbours. The wine waiters began their ballet. The women very soon became bored. Their shoulders, some better concealed than others, were glued to the backs of the chairs in order to allow the men on either side to talk across to one another. They sat there with vacant smiles and lost stares. They had trained themselves for this, having bought happiness through their husbands' business dealings; but they still cast envious eyes at the voluptuous Oscar-winning actress sitting right at the centre of the Louchsky solar system. She had declared just the other day in
Elle
: “I don't belong to the union of women who grow old.” They would have loved to be able to say the same.

It was the self-made men who gave the loudest roars of laughter. They let themselves go more easily than those who had merely inherited their fortunes. Their conversation generally followed an autobiographical theme, summing themselves up: “My headmaster always told me: you'll end up either in prison or a millionaire. And I've done both!” said an American soft-drinks tycoon. And his French neighbour, who had made his fortune through hotlines and mobile phones, confessed through a mouthful of caviar that he had almost simultaneously received a Businessman of the Year award and a summons for fraudulent receipt of social benefits. They laughed comfortably together, savouring their success and crafty know-how.

“You know, we're only intermediaries,” interrupted a banker at the same table. “He's the real thing.” Pointing at Louchsky.

Every now and then the sound of a mobile would insinuate itself into the conversation. Nobody paid much attention, everybody had their own, in their jacket pocket or the evening bag that matched their dresses. It would ring, they would get it out, look at it, put it away. Sometimes they would look at the screen without it ringing, to read the latest messages, or to see how the stock markets were doing, the latest headlines, the Bloomberg alerts, the Twitter account. They were like pocket mirrors, one more reflection in this Hall of Mirrors. And so when the unknown Tweet arrived simultaneously on a dozen mobiles, nobody was particularly worried.

 

Rassmussen was the first to understand that something was happening. His eyes widened as he looked down at his screen, and he turned towards Louchsky, whose antennae immediately picked up the danger signal. Gradually, from table to table, conversations turned to whispers; people eyed one another nervously, seeking confirmation. Phones were now ringing everywhere, and everywhere the same message appeared:

“Yeehaw!”

Kay gave a little shout. He had fired. He had sent out the first missile at 20.45, as instructed by Nwankwo. They were in the same time zone, so there could be no mistake. It had just taken one click and his Scud had flown off at the speed of light. He had been preparing the attack for several days with his counterparts in Abidjan and Nairobi. They had never met but he had already spent more hours in their company than he had with his own mother. This was the underground world of the African Internet. They weren't like the hackers and the little hooded geniuses of the West, they were just resourceful boys, capable of setting up an almost infinite number of mirror sites with programming so complicated that the Seattle technicians would be tearing their hair out. Kay drank the last of his can of Coke, and turned on his Afrobeat music. The next shot would be in fifteen minutes' time.

The organizers were scraping back their chairs. Some of them started by pushing out the two photographers, despite the fact that they had been hired to stay until the fireworks began. “What about the cake?” one of them said. “Out. Now!” Others rushed over to the representatives of the press who were signalling to one another: “Have you seen this?” And how – they'd seen it all right. One part of their brain was dialling the editorial offices to get the story in quickly, the other was working out how to leave without being noticed. Their legs were jiggling beneath the tablecloths in desperation to get going. All were staring over at the presidential table.

Their conversation had stalled. Rassmussen was whispering in Louchsky's ear. And the same was happening with the French President, who appeared to be tearing a strip off his adviser. The wife of the German minister appeared to be asking for more wine; her husband signalled to her that this wasn't the moment. Douchet got up, went over to the Prime Minister, shook his head, and then sat down again. His wife summoned the string quartet, earlier than planned, and told the wine waiters not to leave a single glass empty. People slowly began to relax again. It would be a shame, after all, not to finish the caviar – it was probably just some huge practical joke, a gang of extremists maybe, out to spoil the party. There were so many of them around these days.

21.06: new message on Twitter.

From table to table you could see backs hunched over: the guests had their phones concealed in the folds of their dresses or under the tablecloth. They were downloading the link. It was a video, quite long. Soon nobody was speaking any more; everybody was watching the case full of banknotes being forced open, the governor issuing threats, Helen saying:
“Mr Finley, according to our sources, a governor in Nigeria earns twenty-five thousand dollars a year. You have just bought a house in Hampstead for fifteen million pounds. Can you explain this?”
And then the telephone ringing in the office, Helen turning pale, Finley triumphant.

Louchsky too was watching.

Finley rose from his seat. He alone knew what the word “uche” meant. He looked with fury at the back of the British Prime Minister, who was taking care not to move a muscle. The tall, proud figure stormed out of the hall. They all watched him go by, recognizing that snarling jawline from the video still running on their phones. Dellant fell in behind him, thinking this might be just the moment to corner the rights to the port of Lagos. Others watched. The feeling that they were at the right place at the right time had changed into an urge to get out as quickly as possible. Phones began to ring, the organizers ran to and fro, editorial offices were hotting up and soon the cameras and microphones would be at the gates of the palace of Versailles, demanding explanations.

 

Rassmussen charged into the kitchen, one hand holding his telephone, ringing anyone he could think of, as though the Internet were a tap that could be turned off, and the other waving at the staff, ordering them to serve the main course immediately. He brutally pushed the maître d' into the hall, where he announced: “Boned pigeon, stuffed with foie gras, with an olive
jus
!”

Outside, the first television and radio vans were drawing up and unloading their equipment. A call to march
on Versailles had been launched on Facebook by a group of net-surfers called “Death to Corruption”. The idea had caught on like wildfire. Those bankers, industrialists and politicians would have a party all right, cornered in the Hall of Mirrors, while the scandal spread throughout the whole information network, supported by videos and mountains of documents. Kay had done his job well.

Vandel, suddenly delighted at having been placed so near the door, got up quickly and left. The Brazilian oil tycoon did the same – after all, drilling hadn't yet begun in the bay of Santos. Several women followed, on the pretext of powdering their noses, tiptoeing in their stiletto heels, with their husbands behind them. Then the German Finance Minister got up. He left the top table, saying that he had an urgent call from the Chancellor. Louchsky nodded, but did not look up or shake his hand; he was watching the French President frantically signalling to his prime minister who was at the next table. The former seemed to be reminding the latter of an ancient constitutional custom: you're the connection, so you stay.

Night had fallen, cold, starlit and slightly threatening, as it so often does in the mountains. On the big oak table wine, bread and local sausage. Eight plates and eight glasses. Dmitry counted them in silence. He hadn't opened his mouth once that day, since the morning, when Nwankwo had arrived on the bus. He knew, she had warned him. He had shouted at her: “You've got no respect for anything! Not your daughter, not your friends, not me! You're the only one that counts, aren't you?” And then Félix had turned up that afternoon, accompanied by the judge. They made a strange pair, those two, complete opposites but inextricably bound together. Dmitry had remained silent throughout, deaf to Jacques's assurances that he, Jacques, was delighted to have some company in his house, and to Lira's protestations that she had no choice in the matter, that it was a question of life or death. He remained angry. She had turned this refuge that he had found for his daughter into a revolutionary cell.

He found it quite unbearable – their joy at seeing each other again, exchanging news, supporting Lira. He was irritated by Nwankwo's serious manner and Jacques's wife's exaggerated hospitality, all the trouble she was taking with these piles of plates and cutlery. As though they were just going to have a convivial dinner together. When the moment came for them all to sit down and raise their glasses at Jacques's signal, Dmitry banged down on the table with his fist.

“So we're drinking Lira's health, are we?”

“Shut up, Dad!”

“You're going to have to make a few wishes my girl! Your mother loves trouble and we don't count any more!”

“Shut up!”

“I've already told you, they've taken every precaution before coming here,” Lira said calmly.

“What precautions? Look at yourself! Just look at yourself!”

“I can't—”

“That's what I'm telling you. What's the point of precautions? It's too late.”

“Stop this, Dad!” Polina shouted, clutching her mother.

“If anyone loves you here, it's me,” he said, his jaw trembling.

Nwankwo got up. He was holding his mobile, useless here, but he wouldn't let go of it.

“Dmitry,” he said, “We're not madmen or heroes. We'll leave soon, I promise you. But we couldn't do anything else.”

“And you don't think she's paid enough! She's blind, she can't annoy anyone any more, they'll leave her alone! But oh no, you're still there, glued to her, with your stench of death. So is that your thing then, tucking up blind people at night? This woman was my wife and she's the mother of my daughter – I'm responsible for her, so you can just bugger off!”

“I'm not your wife any more,” Lira said.

She knew how hard it was for him to hear her saying it. Even in the dark, even mutilated as she was, she didn't want to be his wife. She would have liked to have been able to get up and replay one of the scenes that had preceded their separation and then go out slamming the door behind her. But she could no longer do that. From now on she would have to rely on sharp words, and leave the shouts and the crashing around and the slamming doors to others. Dmitry grabbed his jacket and his keys and left the room. A cold draught blew in and they all listened as the car drove off.

“He'll be back,” Jacques said.

There was another beep, the alerts were flooding in now. Nobody bothered to turn off the ringtone any more. The Hall of Mirrors had turned into a gigantic call centre.

“Now what!” the French President cursed.

He got up, not waiting any more, and told Louchsky, who sat frozen on his chair, that he should do the same if he knew what was good for him. He left, followed by his wife. The British Prime Minister fell in behind him. They were falling like ninepins now. The smartphones were spewing out details of offshore accounts, conflicts of interest, bribes and commissions.

The ancient mirrors now reflected a half-empty room, the tables with their floral decorations now deserted, others with only two or three guests left. These too gradually rose and drifted away. The pigeon lay congealing on the plates. The marble pillars with their gilded capitals no longer seemed to be supporting anything. Louchsky, who just moments ago had been compared to the greatest of tsars, was now just the man of the present, an all too immediate present, which had become as flimsy as a cigarette paper. His wife tried to lay a comforting hand on his arm; he brushed it aside; his eyes seemed to have sunk in their sockets, a vein on his temple throbbed, he appeared to be silently screaming.

They were all jostling each other on the monumental staircases and in the cloakrooms, where everybody was shouting for his or her fur coat, hat or scarf. They all knew what awaited them outside. The most powerful guests had
been allowed to bring their cars and chauffeurs into the courtyard, but the others were going to have to walk through the gates to find their limousines outside. “They're all lefties out there,” they were muttering, “and journalists.”

“Same thing!” shouted one angry woman.

And then it started to rain, first a fine mist, then a solid downpour. The luckier ones were able to hide behind the frosted windows of their cars; all they had to suffer were a few knocks to the bodywork, or microphones tapping on the glass. The others just had to join the departing procession on foot. There were miserable faces, crumpled suits, evening dresses weighed down by soaking hems; bankers searching for their chauffeurs, rich foreigners who didn't care about the French television cameras, law-and-order chiefs snarling with fury, and PR people still affecting a rictus grin when faced with outstretched microphones and machine-gunning flash photographers.