I Kill (3 page)

Jean-Loup raised his eyebrows and smiled. Robert was a manager, and for him success ultimately meant a sigh of relief and a sense of satisfaction when he wrote the annual report. The heroic era
of Radio Monte Carlo, the days of Jocelyn and Awanagana and Herbert Pagani, in other words, was over. This was the era of economics.

‘I must admit we’ve been good. You mostly. Apart from the programme’s winning formula and the new direction it’s taken, it’s a success because you’re good at
deejaying in French and Italian. I just did my job.’

Bikjalo waved his hand in a vague gesture of modesty that didn’t suit him at all. He was referring to his very astute managerial instincts. The show’s strengths and the bilingual
talents of its host convinced him to try a move that he had devised with the sense of a born diplomat. Encouraged by the ratings and the enthusiasm, he’d created a sort of joint venture with
Europe 21, a French station with an editorial line very similar to that of Radio Monte Carlo. It broadcast from Paris. The result was that now
Voices
could be heard in most of Italy and
France.

Robert Bikjalo put his feet up on the desk and blew cigarette smoke towards the ceiling. Jean-Loup thought it a very official and symbolic pose. The president, if he’d been there to see,
probably wouldn’t have agreed. With a triumphant voice, Bikjalo continued.

‘The Music Awards are at the end of June, beginning of July. I’ve heard rumours that they want you to emcee. And then there’s the Film and Television Festival. You’re
going full speed, Jean-Loup. Others like you have had trouble moving up to television. You’ve got looks, and if you play your cards right, I’m afraid you’ll be the cause of a
brutal tug-of-war between TV and radio.’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Jean-Loup, standing and looking at his watch, ‘that Laurent is having a tug of war with his liver. We still haven’t talked and we need a schedule
for tonight’s show.’

‘Tell that has-been writer-director that he’ll be thrown out in the street, just like you.’

Jean-Loup headed towards the door. As he was leaving, Bikjalo stopped him. ‘Jean-Loup?’

He turned. Bikjalo was sitting in his chair, rocking back and forth with the expression of the cat that finally ate the canary. ‘What?’

‘Needless to say, if all that TV business works out, I’m your manager . . .’

Jean-Loup decided that his price would be very high.

‘I’ve suffered through a percentage of your cigarette smoke. You’ll have to suffer just as much for a percentage of my money.’

As he closed the door, Robert Bikjalo was gazing up at the ceiling with a dreamy stare. Jean-Loup knew that the director was already counting the money he had yet to earn.

Jean-Loup was looking out at the city through the large control-room window, observing the play of lights reflected on the still water of the harbour. High above, cloaked in
darkness, the mast stood on the peak of Mount Agel, visible only by its series of red lights. It was this mast that enabled the radio signal to reach all of Italy.

‘Break over,’ came Laurent’s voice over the intercom. ‘Back to work.’

Without bothering to answer, the deejay moved away from the window and went back to his place. He put on his headphones and sat down at the microphone. In the control room, Laurent flashed an
open hand to show five seconds to the end of the commercial break.

Laurent played the brief
Voices
theme that meant the broadcast was starting again. Before the break, the programme had been fairly laid-back, light-hearted even, without the tone of
despair they sometimes had to deal with.

‘Back to Jean-Loup Verdier, with
Voices
from Radio Monte Carlo. We hope nobody needs our help on this lovely May evening – only our music. Oh, I’ve just been told
there’s a phone call.’

The red light on the wall lit up and Laurent was pointing at him with his right hand to show there was a call waiting. Jean-Loup leaned his elbows on the table and turned to the mike in front of
him.

‘Hello?’

There was some static and then silence. Jean-Loup looked up and raised his eyebrows at Laurent. The director shrugged to show that the problem wasn’t at their end.

‘Yes, hello?’

Finally, an answer came through and was transmitted live on air to every listener. It had a presence in the minds and lives of all who heard it. From that moment on, and for a long time to come,
the darkness would be a little darker.

‘Hello, Jean-Loup
.’

There was something unnatural in the sound of the voice. It was muffled and strangely flat, devoid of expression. The words had a muted echo like the sound of a plane taking off far away. Again,
Jean-Loup glanced up questioningly at Laurent, who pointed, drawing circles in the air to mean that the distortion was on the caller’s line.

‘Hi. Who is this?’

There was a moment of hesitation. Then came the muffled answer with its unnatural echo.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m someone and no one.’

‘It’s – it’s not a great line. Where are you calling from?’

Silence. The vapour trail of a plane wafting midair in some unknown place.

The speaker continued.
‘That doesn’t matter, either. The only thing that counts is that the time has come to speak out, even if afterwards neither of us will be the
same.’

‘How so?’

‘Soon I’ll be a hunted man and you’ll be one of the bloodhounds sniffing in the dark. And that’s a shame, because right now, at this very moment, you and I are no
different. We’re the same’

‘How are we the same?’

‘We’re both faceless, and people listen to us with their eyes closed, imagining. There are millions of people out there who want only to get themselves a face they can show with
pride, to create one that’s different from all the others. That’s all they worry about. Now is the time to find out what’s behind the face
.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Silence again, long enough to make Jean-Loup think they had been cut off. Then the voice came back and some listeners thought they could hear a hint of a smile.

‘You’ll understand, in time
.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

There was a slight pause, as if the man on the other end of the line was weighing his words.

‘Don’t worry. Sometimes it’s hard for me, too.’

‘Then why did you call? Why are you talking to me?’

‘Because I’m alone.’

Jean-Loup bent his head and gripped the table with his hand.

‘You’re talking like someone who’s in prison.’

‘We’re all in prison. I built mine myself, but that doesn’t make it any easier to get out
.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. It doesn’t sound like you like people very much.’

‘Do you?’

‘Not always. Sometimes I try to understand them and when I can’t, I try at least not to judge them.’

‘We’re the same that way too. The only difference is that when you’re finished talking to them, you’re able to feel tired. You can go home and turn off your mind and
its troubles. I can’t. I can’t sleep at night, because my troubles never rest
.’

‘So what do you do at night to stop it?’

Jean-Loup was egging him on slightly. The answer was slow to come, as though it were wrapped in layers of paper being opened one by one.

‘
I kill
. . .’

‘What does that—’

Jean-Loup’s voice was interrupted by music coming from the speakers. It was a light plaintive song with a pretty melody, but after those two words it spread through the air like a threat.
It lasted about ten seconds and then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone.

In the heavy silence that followed, the click of the call being cut off was heard by one and all. Jean-Loup looked around at his colleagues. The air-conditioning was on high, but suddenly
everyone could feel the scorching flames of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Someone managed to drag the rest of the programme out to its closing song. No more phone calls came in. That is to say, the switchboard was flooded after the strange call, but no more callers
were allowed on air.

Jean-Loup took off his headphones and laid them on the table next to the mike. He realized that his hair was soaked with sweat, in spite of the air-conditioning.

Neither of us will ever be the same.

He played only music for the remainder of the show. He tried to demonstrate what he considered a strange similarity between Tom Waits and the Italian musician Paolo Conte, who were very
different as singers, but both major songwriters. He translated the words of two of their songs and pointed out how important they were. Luckily, he had several such expedients in case of
emergency, and this moment definitely qualified. There were some reserve phone numbers to use when the show just wouldn’t come together. They’d call some singers or writers they knew,
begging them to join in. Then they’d use up fifteen minutes on some poetry and the humour of Francis Cabrel.

‘Jean-Loup?’ The door to the control room opened and Laurent’s head poked in. ‘You okay?’

Jean-Loup glanced over without looking at him. ‘Yeah, fine.’

They left the studio together, exchanging puzzled, somewhat evasive glances with Barbara and Jacques, the sound technicians. Barbara was wearing a blue shirt and Jean-Loup noticed that there
were large patches of sweat under her arms.

‘There were dozens of calls. Two people asked if it was a mystery story and a bunch of people were furious at what they saw as a cheap way to try and increase the ratings. The boss called,
too, and swooped down like a hawk. He fell for it and asked if we had gone nuts. Apparently, one of the sponsors had called him immediately, and I don’t think it was to offer a pat on the
back.’

Jean-Loup was imagining the president’s room, more smoke-filled than earlier, if that were possible.

‘Why didn’t the switchboard filter that call?’

‘I don’t know what the hell happened. Raquel says the call didn’t go through her. Somehow – she has no idea how – it went right into the studio line. There must
have been a short or something. As far as I’m concerned, that new electronic switchboard has a mind of its own. We’ll all be fighting with machines one day, like in
Terminator.
You’ll see.’

They left the studio and walked side by side to Bikjalo’s office without daring to look at one another. Those two words had left a small, hollow space between them.
I kill
. . . The
awful sound of that voice was still hovering in the air.

‘And that music at the end? It sounded familiar.’

‘I thought so, too. It was a soundtrack, I think.
A Man and a Woman,
an old Lelouch film. From 1966 or something like that.’

‘And what does it mean?’

‘You’re asking me?’

Jean-Loup was astonished. He was facing something entirely new, something he had never experienced before on the radio. On an emotional level more than anything else. ‘What do you
think?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ Laurent pronounced these words with a careless wave of his hand, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

‘Really?’

‘Sure. Aside from the switchboard problem, I think it was just some jerk’s really bad idea of a joke.’

They stopped in front of Bikjalo’s door and Jean-Loup turned the knob. They finally looked each other in the eye.

‘It’s just a weird story to tell at the gym and laugh about,’ said Laurent, thinking out loud. But he didn’t look at all convinced.

Jean-Loup pushed open the door. As he walked into the manager’s office, he wondered whether that phone call was a promise or a bet.

Jochen Welder pressed the remote control of the electric windlass and held it down to lower the anchor and enough chain to hold the
Forever.
When he was sure of the
anchorage, he turned off the engine. The magnificent twin-engine yacht, designed by his friend Mike Farr and built especially for him by the Beneteau shipyards, started turning slowly. Pushed by a
light landward breeze, it followed the current with its prow facing out to the open sea. Arianna, still standing and watching the anchor descend, turned to him and walked easily across the deck,
occasionally leaning against the lifeline to compensate for the gentle rolling of the waves. Jochen watched her, his eyes half closed, and admired once again her supple, athletic, somewhat
androgynous figure. He took in her firm body and the grace of her movements with a sense of muted arousal. He felt his desire well up like an ache and he gave thanks to the kind fates for making a
woman who could not have been more perfect if he had designed her himself.

He still didn’t dare tell her that he loved her.

She joined him at the helm, threw her arms around his neck, and placed her mouth on his cheek in a soft kiss. Jochen felt the warmth of her breath and the natural scent of her body. Her skin
smelled of the sea and of things to discover, slowly, unhurriedly. Arianna’s smile sparkled against the light of the sunset and Jochen imagined rather than saw the reflection shining in her
eyes.

‘I think I’ll go down and shower. You can too, later on, if you want. And if you decide to shave as well, I’d probably accept anything you have to offer after
dinner.’

Jochen returned her intimate smile and ran his hand over his two-day beard. ‘I thought women liked a man with stubble.’ And imitating the voice of a 1950s movie trailer, he said,
‘Someone who holds you around the waist with one arm and steers his ship into the sunset with the other.’

Withdrawing from his embrace as she headed below decks like a silent film star, Arianna answered, ‘I can easily imagine myself heading off into the sunset with you, my hero, but does my
face have to get all scratched up?’ And with that she disappeared.

‘Arianna Parker,’ he called after her, ‘your enemies think you’re a chess player, but I’m the only one who knows what you really are.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked, peeking her head back through the door, curious.