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 . . .
On the fifth ring he could hear an answerphone click on, and a female voice chirping, ‘Hi, you have reached the home of Corinne and Alexis Le Men, please leave us a message and we will get back to you as soon as . . .’
He cleared his throat, let a few seconds of silence go by for a machine to record his breathing thousands of kilometres away, and hung up.
Alexis . . .
He put on his raincoat.
Married . . .
Slammed the door.
To a woman . . .
Rang for the lift.
A woman called Corinne . . .
Stepped in.
And who lives with him in a house . . .
Went down six flights.
A house with an answerphone . . .
Walked across the lobby.
And . . .
Headed in the direction of the draughts.
And . . . what about his slippers?
‘Please, Sir!’
He turned around. The concierge was shaking something above the counter. He came back, hitting his forehead with his palm, took his set of house keys and handed over the room key in exchange.
Another chauffeur was waiting for him. Far less exotic, this one, and in a French car. The invitation had been nicely put, but Charles had no illusions: the good little soldier was headed back to the front. And when they drove through the Embassy gates, he finally decided to switch off his mobile.
He did not eat much, and this time he did not admire the sublime bad taste of the Igumnov mansion, but he answered the questions he was asked and reeled off the anecdotes they wanted to hear. Played his role to perfection, stood up straight, held tight to the handle of his knife and fork, did not hesitate to stick his neck out, responded with jokes and allusions, shrugged his shoulders when it was called for, gave his opinion, and he even laughed on cue – and all the while he was quietly going to pieces, falling apart, cracking up.
He watched his knuckles tightening, going white along the stem of his glass.
Snap the glass, maybe he’d bleed, get up and leave the table . . .
Anouk had come back. Anouk was once more taking her place. Taking up all the space. Like before. Like always.
Wherever she was, wherever she had come from, she was looking at him. Making fun of him, gently, and commenting on his neighbours’ manners, the arrogance of these people, and just look at the jewels on those ladies, and isn’t it all just as it should be, and what was he doing among these people?
‘What are you doing here, Charles my dear?’
‘I’m at work.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes.’
Quizzical silence.
‘Anouk . . . please.’
‘So you remember my name?’
‘I remember everything.’
And her face grew darker.
‘No, don’t say that . . . There are certain things, times . . . that I want you to forget.’
‘No. I don’t believe that. But . . .’
‘But?’
‘Maybe we’re not talking about the same . . .’
‘I hope not,’ she smiled.
‘You –’
‘I . . .’
‘You are still just as beautiful.’
‘Shut up, you daft fool. And get up. Look . . . they’re going back into the salon . . .’
‘Anouk?’
‘Yes, kid?’
‘Where were you?’
‘Where was I? But that’s for you to tell me . . . Go on, go and join them. Everyone’s waiting for you.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked his hostess, pointing to an armchair.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Just tired . . .’
Well, well.
That’s it, blame fatigue. For how many years had he been using that excuse, tucked snugly in the loose folds of his trousers? Such a respectable smokescreen, and so very very useful . . .
It’s true, fatigue is quite chic when it comes in the wake of a fine career. Flattering, even. A nice medal pinned to an idle, restless heart . . .
He went to bed thinking about her, and he was struck, yet again, by how pertinent certain clichés could be. Well-worn phrases that you pull out once the nails have all been hammered in: ‘I didn’t have time to say goodbye . . .’ or, ‘If I’d known, I would have said goodbye in a better way . . .’ or, ‘I still had so many things to say to her.’
I didn’t even say goodbye to you.
He did not hope for an echo this time round. It was night-time, and at night, she was never around. Either she was at work, or she was telling herself her own story, or her vast battle plans, leaving it to Johnnie Walker and Peter Stuyvesant to turn the pages and to send out the light brigade, until eventually she ended up forgetting, or surrendering, and fell asleep at last.
My Anouk . . .
If there were a heaven, you’d already be vamping St Peter . . . Yes.
I can see you.
I can see you twiddling his beard and taking his keys from his hands, to make them glitter against your hip.
When you were feeling good, nothing could stand in your way, and when we were children you could take us to heaven whenever you felt like it.
How many doors did your smile break down? How many queues did we jump? How many yards did we sneak ahead? How many signs did we o
verturn, bypass, disobey?
How many times did we give them the old V-sign, all those grumpy old sods; and to hell with all the barriers, and everything forbidden?
‘Give me your hands, guys,’ she’d conspire, ‘and everything will be fine . . .’ And we loved it, the way you’d call us ‘guys’ even though we were still sucking our thumbs, and you would crush our knuckles as we launched the attack. We’d get the jitters, and sometimes it even hurt, but we would have followed you to the ends of the earth.
Your decrepit Fiat was our vessel, our flying carpet, our stagecoach. You’d spur on your little four horsepower steed, swearing like Hank in Lucky Luke, Yeah! Giddy-up y’ole nag! Your whip would crack all along the Paris périphérique and you’d chew on your cigarette just for the pleasure of startling us when you spat the wad out of the window.
With you, life was exhausting, but the telly remained silent. And everything was possible.
Everything.
Provided we never let go of your hand . . .
You even did it again once the Marlboros had replaced the tubes of Nestlé’s condensed milk, remember? We were on our way back from Caroline’s wedding and we must have been sleeping off the confetti in the rear seat when your anxious cries woke us.
‘Hello, hello, XB 12, do you copy?’
We emerged, grumbling, in the middle of a field; all the headlights were off and you were conversing with the cigarette lighter in the dim glow of the overhead lamp. ‘Do you copy?’ you pleaded, ‘our vessel is stranded, my Jedi are stuck in the mud and I’ve got the Rebel Alliance on my tail . . . What should I do, Obi-Whatsit Kenobi?’
Alexis was despondent and muttered fuck in a thick voice, while a fascinated cow looked him over, but you were laughing too hard to hear him. ‘Why do you take me to see such idiotic films?’ Then we got back on the tracks of hyperspace and I observed your smile in the rear view mirror for a good long while.
I saw the little girl you must have been, or should have been if they had only let you get up to mischief back then . . .
Sitting behind you I looked at your neck and thought, Is it because she had such a rotten childhood that she’s so good at enchanting our own?
And I realized that I was growing older, too . . .