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
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
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