Lorraine Connection (16 page)

‘Security firm, 3
G
, Nancy.’

‘You’ll have that information right away.’

Hôtel Vauban on the main square in Pondange, a former parade ground in the days when the fortress was in use. The square is vast, windswept and deserted with a seventeenth-century church on the far side, built in the severe style of the Jesuits. A Jesuit style for a military congregation. An elegant, neo-classical mansion is home to the town hall. Once upon a time the two façades were so black with grime that he had never noticed the beauty of the architecture and the stone. After eating a ham baguette washed down with a beer, Montoya has a shower and changes his clothes. He stretches out flat on the bed, a pillow under his knees to ease his back which sometimes aches, the result of a nasty fall during a chase through the streets of Istanbul.
Worn
out,
about
to
turn
fifty.
A
whole
past
of
half-successes
and
total
cock-ups.
Booted
out
of
the
police.
Tactfully
and
with
a
farewell
party,
a
cover-up,
but
still
thrown
out.
His back slowly relaxes, the base of the spine first, and then the shoulders.
Insurance
investigator‚
some
profession,
always
up
hill
and
down
dale,
dosh,
routine,
boredom,
and
the
iron
grip
of
the
lovely
Eugénie
with
green
eyes.
You
make
enough
dosh
to
blow
on
luxuries,
and
to
make
you
want
to
earn
even
more.
Yet
never
enough
to
be
truly
rich
and
not
to
give
a
damn.
So
it’s
a
spiral
:
always
more
shit
cases
and
an
increasingly
bitter
taste
in
the
mouth.
Stop,
take
a
breather.
Get
a
grip,
a
bit
of
stability,
an
office
in
Paris,
friends,
a
cosy
relationship,
that’d
be
nice.
A
job
like
Valentin’s.
Less
important.
I
don’t
have
the
stature,
or
the
con
tacts
.
A
less
strategic
operation.
Dreams
of
a
quiet
old
age
at
last,
so
the
whole
journey
does
not
seem
simply
absurd.
The feeling of well-being radiates to the back of his neck …
and
now,
where
do
I
go
from
here?
Stir
the
pot
and
see
what
comes
to
the
surface.
First
point,
various
drugs
are
circulating,
everyone
seems
to
be
aware 
of
it
and
nobody’s
attaching
any
importance
to
it.
A
minor
dope
dealer
at
the
centre
of
the
investigation,
the
Hakims
in
the
area
‚
could
there
be
a
connection
between
the
two?
Premise:
there’s
no
such
thing
as
chance.
His body now entirely relaxed, his thoughts, woolly, begin to fray …

He must have fallen asleep.

He is abruptly woken by shouting beneath his window. ‘So-
li-da
-rity …’ ‘Free Nourredine …’ ‘Our bonuses …’

He rushes over to the window. More a gaggle than a
demonstration
. Thirty to forty people marching in a ragged procession without too much conviction. No banners, a few trade union flags, outbursts of shouting, the odd slogan taken up by the rest. The group appears to be breaking up, disappointed by the low turnout and a tangible general indifference. No one’s taking any notice of the demonstration, and the few pedestrians they do meet hurry away. An Arab, an arsonist … the group walks past the houses and stays in the shade of the trees lining the square, probably intimidated by the empty expanse in the centre. Montoya spots a tall woman with short, bleach-blonde hair cut in a bob, who holds herself upright and seems tougher than the others. A hunch, a bet: Stakhanova? There’s no harm in trying. The group speeds up, as if in a hurry to get the demonstration over with. Montoya slips on a leather coat and hurries after them. He catches them up in front of the town hall, where they are silently putting away the flags and starting to disperse, not even waiting for the return of the delegation that has gone inside to meet one of the mayor’s deputies. From behind he approaches the blonde woman, a tall silhouette in a fitted black wool coat and black boots. She’s
smoking
a cigarette with a calm elegance and talking to a man who is shorter than her, aged around fifty, heavy-set and solid.

‘Thank you, Mr Maréchal.’

A slightly husky voice reminiscent of a 1930s cabaret singer. Montoya shivers; the man leaves.

‘Ms Lepetit?’

She turns around, bright blue eyes, good bone structure, calm, regular features, a scar to the left of her upper lip. Definitely Stakhanova. Montoya’s surprised: beautiful, a very beautiful woman, a strong presence.
I
like
that
in
a
woman.

‘That’s me. What do you want?’

‘To buy you a drink. Is that possible?’

She finds herself looking at a slim, dark-haired man.
He
’
s
rather
attractive,
just
my
type,
and
a
stranger
around
here.
Not
dragged
down
by
the
general
misery.
Whoever
you
are,
for
a
fleet
ing
moment,
you’ll
be
a
breath
of
fresh
air.
Smile.

‘It’s even welcome.’

There aren’t many cafes in Pondange, and most of the
remaining
few have been redecorated, sterilised, like the whole town. Rolande leads Montoya towards the lower town and walks into a cafe that still has a big zinc counter at the far end of a dark room with mirrors on the walls, solid timber tables and chairs, and a wide variety of beers chalked up on a slate. There are only two or three regulars at this hour. She sits down at a table by the
window
, unbuttons her coat, sighs and smiles. Stunning.

‘Tea with milk for me please, Simon.’

Montoya glances at the slate.

‘Sudden Death is just the drink for me.’

She rests her forearms on the table, leans on them and talks as if they were old friends.

‘The demo was very disappointing. A week ago, in the factory, there were two, three hundred of us, all standing together. Today in the square there were thirty of us, in disarray. It’s over. Luckily there are a few good people like Maréchal.’

The drinks arrive. Sudden Death is a lovely warm colour, a head that’s almost solid, cool droplets run down the glass. Rolande pours her tea, a drop of milk, warms her hands around the cup, her mind elsewhere. He resumes the conversation at random.

‘In the old days, the steelworkers had bigger demos.’

She jumps, her expression hard.

‘Not you too. I don’t like fairy tales. When I was sixteen, I worked for a small textiles factory ten kilometres from here, and it wasn’t unionised. We all went on strike over pay and
conditions
, and a delegation of us went to the local union in Pondange to ask if we could join. All the officials were steelworkers and they threw us out. They didn’t want to know a bunch of women,
judging
by what they had to say. Ever since that day …’

‘Don’t hold it against me, I’m not from around here.’

‘That’s what I thought. And that’s what I like about you. Now tell me why you invited me for this drink.’

‘I’m a journalist. I’m writing a special report on Daewoo, its various factories in France. I’m interested in the strike and the
fire, but also all the issues to do with working conditions and safety in the factory.’

‘Which paper do you work for?’

‘Not a paper, for Agence France Presse. Our reports are sold to the newspapers. At the moment, with Daewoo taking over Thomson, there’s a lot of interest.’

‘Who gave you my name?’

‘A staff rep, All Amrouche.’

‘He’s a good man too, and a friend.’ Bitterly: ‘He wasn’t at the demo.’ Montoya refrains from asking:
Are
you
surprised
?
She pours another cup of tea. ‘You’ve come to the right person. I can tell you about working conditions at Daewoo.’

She launches into the story of Émilienne’s accident. Montoya listens attentively, his gaze riveted by Rolande’s square hands, her slightly swollen fingers, the skin worn and marked, her nails cut short. They appear to feel every sentence, emphasising and
punctuating
her words. After Émilienne, the clash with Maréchal. He’s taken aback: the same Maréchal who was at the demonstration and who you said was a ‘good’ man? Mocking smile, yes, yes, the same Maréchal. She moves on to the account of her dismissal …

‘I heard it caused some controversy …’

Rolande sits up straight with a slight smile, her hands are folded on the table.

‘In any case Quignard, the new boss, reinstated me. It was worth it.’

‘A new boss? Isn’t it an odd time to change bosses?’

‘All the Koreans left after the fire, very quickly within
forty-eight
hours. Quignard took things in hand and in my opinion is doing a good job.’

Amrouche, Maréchal, Quignard, all good guys, yet she still has that Stakhanova manner. Be careful. Why is she standing up for Nourredine? Doesn’t she get it? She stops talking and slowly drinks her tea. A powerful memory from the day of the strike comes back to her. Aisha, her arms folded across her chest, her face white, describing the headless body, the emotion they all felt.

‘I’m not a very good talker. I’ll have to introduce you to my young neighbour, Aisha.’ Her fingers drum on the table. ‘It won’t be easy. She hasn’t set foot outside her flat since the strike.’

‘Why not?’

The hands open, spread, hesitate. ‘She’s very young, her father
is a strict man who tends to be violent, the mother’s dead, the older brothers and sisters are married and have gone looking for work elsewhere. He’s stayed here, alone with her, he gets a steelworker’s pension, does nothing all day long. Like that for years, a man who’s still able-bodied, he finds it hard to accept. He was furious with her for going on strike. And since then she’s allowed herself to be shut up without protest. It’s not like her.’ She clasps her hands. ‘I haven’t seen her since. This would be a good opportunity.’

A silence as she lays her hand on top of Montoya’s, skin on skin, pressing down. Her hand is soft and rasping like her voice. Montoya shivers with an unexpected thrill.
Careful.
Let
Stakhanova
come
to
you.

Rolande says, ‘I like the way you listen. Calmly, not in a hurry. You make it easier for me to talk.’ He thinks dark thoughts …
Even
in
the
drug
squad
,
my
grasses
talked
more
than
other
peo
ple’s
,
fat
lot
of
good
that
did
me
…

‘Come, I’ll take you to my flat, it’s the only place where you’ll be able to meet Aisha.’

As Rolande leaves the cafe, she bumps into a short young man who is going in. On seeing her, he shrinks back.

‘Karim. You weren’t at the demo either.’

He stammers: ‘I couldn’t make it, Rolande.’

Montoya steps aside to let him pass and stares at him. Not striking, the key prosecution witness. Before leaving, he turns around and meets Karim’s eye in the mirror observing him,
prying
and anxious.

Cité des Jonquilles, staircase A, first floor. Rolande leaves Montoya outside on the landing for a few minutes. He hears a brief conversation on the other side of the door, Rolande and another female voice, sounds of washing-up, doors banging. Then she shows him into a pleasant and well-lit living room. She keeps it impeccably tidy, spick and span in fact. Two windows, creamy white walls, pale wood furniture. On the wall facing the windows, there’s a panoramic view of Venice as it appears when you arrive by sea, suspended between sky and lagoon, painted in blue and pink hues, the light of certain September mornings. A break in the wall, a break in life. A souvenir? A dream? Rolande motions him to sit in one of the three chintz armchairs facing the television while she goes and telephones in the hall, with the door
closed. On a coffee table in front of him there’s a photo of a
smiling
teenage boy wearing a polo-necked jumper and some books that look as if they’re from a library.