The rest is known to the press or at least soon will be. I am weary of talking about the N’Gustro affair. I am tired. How long the night is! I’ve been talking for centuries and we are only up to the first hour of tomorrow. When it comes to nighttime pleasure, I’ve known better. I’m thinking of those long outings when I was in high school. I would pinch a car and go straight into the country, sometimes with a girl, sometimes in a group; it was good, it was great.
Come on, Butron! Get a move on! Time to spill more beans! Let me just fill a large wineglass with pepper vodka and then I’ll be with you.
I seized on a visit from Doudou, the N’Gustronian business assistant, to the Admiral’s country house, to go and meet with her. I explained things and gave her a copy of the script. I naturally took care to conceal Laveuglant’s role and all that. This was a month ago.
The Bandar-Logs had little knowledge of my sources of income or of my exact situation with regard to moviemaking. They had thus never been able to note that my role as a producer was something new and possibly somewhat suspect. It happened that a few days earlier a package had arrived from Geneva, my script neatly annotated in N’Gustro’s own hand, with a friendly letter requesting that his personality be somewhat played down if we went forward, and the people more highlighted so as to underline the fact that the struggle was that of the entire people. This N’Gustro was forever going on about the people—the People—but, alas, I knew why: it actually built him up: the more it was the people who rose up—the more the people were People-like—the more people there were, and the more N’Gustro, their leader, basked in reflected glory for being the leader of such a people, and not merely the leader of a tiny general staff. Were this really true, you would have had to wonder how come this so N’Gustronian a people had not yet risen up as one man and thrown out the handful of yes-men in the Palace and triumphantly propelled their leader in. I began to write a friendly reply along those lines, putting it in a much more flowery way, natürlich, speaking of the need to explain the relative apathy—oh, very relative, very, very relative—of the people’s struggle; hence the need to address the contradictions within the people and their just resolution—words Debourmann had whispered to me, having found them in Mao, and that could hardly hinder N’Gustro as he got ready to leave for China.
I had not finished my letter when Laveuglant came on the horn. I made my report, because you have to call a spade a spade. I was relieved that Ben Debourmann was in the head, because it was already hard to get him to swallow the notion of my generous patron investing in cinema; fortunately, though, intellectuals always end up swallowing whatever suits them.
Meanwhile Laveuglant was getting annoyed: we had to see N’Gustro right away, before he left for Peking. I told him how complicated things were. He informed me that the China trip had been postponed for a week but added that even so we must see N’Gustro before the beginning of this extra week.
Okay. Do I have to draw you a picture? César Pandore, the baboons’ big chief, was showing up in Évian. N’Gustro was delaying his visit to Peking, either indeed to meet with Pandore, or else to give the impression that he was about to come to terms with him, thus alarming the Palace’s right wing (so to speak). And the said wing, in fact alarmed, was in a hurry to join up with the opposition leader before he became best buddies with the big boss.
So why were they in a big hurry, the right-wingers? I barely asked myself the question. I assumed, in my great innocence, that Laveuglant’s pals wanted to have a perfectly friendly chat with N’Gustro to relieve pressure from their left once briefcases began to go back and forth and matrimonial plans proceeded.
I had said that it seemed hardly possible, but all the same I did what Laveuglant wanted. I begged N’Gustro to make it to Paris to discuss my screenplay. Debourmann was surprised at my haste. I justified it as follows: N’Gustro was off to Peking, then back to South America, and he also had to go to Addis Ababa, and we would never catch up with him at that rate, and we absolutely needed his firm commitment.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! The part chance plays in history! I shall never know why N’Gustro agreed to come—and came.
“It’s simple,” Laveuglant had said. “You make an appointment with him at the bar of the Claridge, neutral ground as you can appreciate, no funny business to be expected. An emissary will find N’Gustro there, and N’Gustro will either agree to the meeting with Pandore or not; in neither case will his response affect the arrangement we have come to, you and I.”
His talk of neutral territory, intended to reassure me, instead put a flea in my ear.
He had me committed so deeply, however, that I could no longer go into reverse. But I did take my small precautions.
I had the company funds of “Henri Butron Films” shifted from one Geneva account to another Geneva account of which I alone knew the number.
And then, the day before N’Gustro’s arrival, I spent half my afternoon driving around near the Champs-Élysées, passing back and forth in front of the Claridge until a parking spot opened up just next to the entrance to the hotel’s underground garage, from which vantage point you could see everything if anything at all happened. What a fool I was to cruise around for so long: it is quite easy to park at nighttime. You don’t always think of the simplest things.
I spent a horrible night. Nightmares. Forebodings. I could swear that some part of me knew what was going to happen. An unconscious part. I’m a great believer in the unconscious, in Freudianism and in all that sort of thing.
Day. D-Day. Happy day! I sat in my scout car armed with a Contarex.
I saw him coming along, Comrade N’Gustro. I saw him coming along on foot, like a grown-up, with his very white teeth and, behind him, close behind him, little Ghyslaine and old Doudou—did they follow him around everywhere?
He was heading down the street in the Étoile-to-Nation direction when, a few meters from the Claridge, two trench coats brought him to a stop. Two guys with forgettable mugs, functionaries by the look of them, wearing hats, very polite, hands in pockets. There was chatting; one of the men showed a badge, a card, or who the fuck knows what. N’Gustro nodding, still polite, his smile fading but still present. The group clustered, then the two broads fell back to one side and watched N’Gustro leaving with the two raincoats, the three getting into a Peugeot 403, all black, and the car driving off calmly.
From start to finish I was focused on the scene, shooting like a mad thing, Kodak 125 film at f/8, the entire scene as it happened, the guys’ mugs, the car’s license plate—everything.
I was seriously steamed with Laveuglant, but I repressed the feeling so as not to be overwhelmed by it.
The two babes had gone inside the Claridge; I had overheard their instructions from where I was, which were to find me, inform me of the facts, and so on. As to the facts, I desperately wanted to be informed of their manifest form: I had the general idea, what I wanted were the details. I stashed the Contarex in my heap, rushed into the hotel and made straight for the bar. Doudou and Ghyslaine had only just ensconced themselves at a little table, and a flunky was bringing scotch and Campari as I approached with a relaxed manner designed to make sure that nothing in my expression or appearance suggested that I had witnessed anything at all.
“Oh hello, Butron,” said old Doudou, who seemed not the tiniest bit worried. “Dieudonné is very sorry. Two policemen have taken him to the station to check his papers.”
This was the work of Laveuglant. I processed the fact. He was simplicity in all things, the excellent Laveuglant. Even cops at his beck and call, the bitch. I shrugged.
“What now then?” I asked calmly. “Do we wait here or go somewhere else?”
“We wait, if you don’t mind,” said Doudou. “Those gentlemen said it would take just half an hour.”
“I know their ‘half an hours!’”
This by way of letting her know it would be a bit longer, so she wouldn’t fret. I took a seat. Miss Ghyslaine, on the other hand, took no part at all in the chatter. She swilled down her scotch and that was it; before long she would order more. Oral pleasure must be all there was in her life. Lucky girl!
We waited. We waited for three hours. Doudou was more and more anxious. After another little while it was impossible for me to stop her going to the phone to ask at the police station for information.
Fortunately there was chaos over there, as always with officialdom. She came back having drawn a blank. She had to call again. This meant another half hour. Then she telephoned once more. That was when it began to be obvious that the Paris cops had no interest at all in our pocket-size Behanzin, that he was nowhere to be found, and that the two raincoats had not acted in any way as policemen.
Doudou was panic-stricken.
“Do you believe this? Do you believe this?” she kept repeating. “He wasn’t arrested. He has disappeared. He has so many enemies, Butron, so many enemies.”
“I’m afraid,” she added.
The wench was in love with her boss, it was obvious.
Miss Ghyslaine, on the other hand, was still blah. She had had snacks and finger foods brought over. I really couldn’t understand how she kept the figure she had, given the quantities she put away. It must have been N’Gustro who slimmed her down. Could penetration by a battering ram have the same effect as a sauna bath? Food for thought.
I got up.
“Listen,” I said. “This can’t be all that serious. What I suggest is that you take off back to the country place and wait there. In the meantime I’ll take care of everything.”
Doudou did not really agree, but the day was ending and dragging night in its wake, and she had to make a choice.
Psychologically speaking, I’m strongly inclined to believe that she agreed because it helped her convince herself that nothing too terrible had happened. The absence of drastic action proves in a way that a situation is innocuous. In other words, if you don’t panic, there is no reason to panic.
In short she agreed, and left; she would not get much sleep that night.
She took Ghyslaine with her. I was a touch disgruntled about that. The situation excited me sexually for a reason I couldn’t fathom. Perhaps it was that I was getting afraid myself, and fear makes you hard. In any case, I already pictured myself screwing the voracious little thing; she had to give a great blow job, the way she scarfed everything down. But okay—it was too late. I was almost tempted to go and find a whore. When certainty flags, you need a woman—it’s a well-known fact.
I got hold of myself, and watched their taxi disappear.
I hurried back to my apartment and phoned Laveuglant.
He was calm and soothing, the old fart.
“They’re probably having some difficulty coming to terms. He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Why doesn’t he phone?”
“Phone where?” said Laveuglant sanctimoniously.
He had me there. We were no longer at the Claridge. And the broads were not yet back at the country place.
“See what I mean?” said Laveuglant.
“Yes, sorry. But that’s not the only thing. What about the way you used me?”
“This is no time to squabble,” said Laveuglant. “Call me tomorrow.”
Click. He hung up. I was not a happy man.
I turned the recorder off, rewound, and listened to the tape. I had managed to capture the telephone conversation very well. You could hear the excellent Laveuglant’s voice quite distinctly. What he said was not proof positive, but he gave the impression of being perfectly au fait with things. It might not hold up in court, but the weeklies would go to town. I had him.
I rang him back.
“Careful,” I told him, “you’d do well not to hang up.”
He listened.
“I have recorded our conversations,” I said. “I photographed the kidnapping. I have other things too. Get me?”
“Yes,” said Laveuglant, suddenly laconic.
“Make damn sure N’Gustro telephones the country house before midnight.”
I gave him the number.
“Where are you?” asked Laveuglant, even more brusquely.
That was the moment when the horrifying thought struck me. It tightened my throat. I began to pant.
“Hello? Hello?” went Laveuglant. “Calm down now.”
I hung up.
I had understood everything.
I grabbed the Contarex, the tape recorder, and split. Laveuglant knew my apartment, and my car. I left on foot.
I don’t mind admitting I was afraid.
I walked through nighttime Paris; it was pretty. I didn’t know quite what to do. Instinctively, I looked for places that were familiar, people ditto, unwise as that was.
I wanted to see Anne Gouin, I wanted to see Debourmann. Heaven knows why. I crawled bars in the eighteenth arrondissement, then others around Saint-Germain-des-Prés. At a quarter after midnight, from a dive, I rang the country house. I got Doudou, who was not sleeping. She still had no news. I hung up very quickly. I think I got her more worried. It mattered less and less.
I left the phone booth ever more anxious. I was no longer myself. All of a sudden, though, I felt enormous relief, the sort you feel when you see a light. If you’re a sailor, I mean, and in peril.
Who had I seen but Eddy coming into the bar ridiculously tanned and dressed to the nines. I plowed toward him. I couldn’t tell him everything that was up, but he clearly saw that I was in trouble.
“Could you put me up?” I asked, trying for a brave face.
He said sure. He was not selfish, Eddy—you can’t say it often enough. I have to give him as much publicity as I can here. I’m not selfish either.
He realized I was in deep trouble.
We were soon at his place, his only concession to his usual habits being that he dragged a skirt along. And put her to work the moment we arrived buttering sandwiches, slicing pickles for Parma ham—the perfect analogy for my fat head.
I laid out my situation. I was knocking it back, but that was no problem—I’ve always held my liquor pretty well. Eddy listened with widening eyes. He was paying close attention.
From his place I tried to reach Debourmann, without success the first time. Then I phoned Doudou. Still no word from N’Gustro. It was getting on for three or four in the morning. She wanted to get a lawyer; I didn’t object. On that level I was beginning to be out of my depth. But, as Eddy pointed out, on another level things were taking a fascinating turn finance-wise.
I tried Debourmann again without finding him at his hotel, but this time I left Eddy’s number for him to call me back as soon as he came in.
Then I talked a few more things over with Eddy. We were on the same page in our analysis of the situation, save that I was beginning to think my life was on the line, which was not the case for him.
I called Jacquie in Rouen and woke her up. I promised her a hot scoop, journalistically speaking, if she would show up beneath the Porte Saint-Martin the next morning around eleven thirty (actually this morning, considering the hour). She wanted to know more; I hung up. She would come or she wouldn’t. Perhaps the whole affair would be wound up nice and tidy before then, I thought. Still, it was worth setting this up.
I put another call through to Laveuglant, who had not left his office, almost as though awaiting my ring. I made it short. Wiretapping, call tracing—I imagined all of it. In the event, though, it was he who had things to say: that our commitments would be honored, that I should not be alarmed and not react precipitately, as it was not in my interest.
“You may be sure,” he said, “that I would not have involved myself without adequate backup.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” I answered. “What I want is something concrete.”
I hung up. It was getting too dangerous.
The instant I did so, the phone rang, and I picked up. It was Debourmann, a bit canned. I told him, as I had Jacquie, to be at the Porte Saint-Martin at eleven thirty. “Hello? Hello?” he was saying as I rang off.
A bad night, as you can imagine. Eddy had offered to loan me his chick, but suddenly I had lost all interest in that; I passed, and tried to sleep.
In the morning my mouth was furred and I was wide awake at nine, which was really unpleasant; I didn’t dare get up or make phone calls. Eddy was sleeping with the girl, how sweet. Eventually I went down for a café crème and the papers. No mention of anything in there. I called Doudou from a booth, paranoid as I was, but N’Gustro had not appeared or telephoned. The kid was crazy with worry. I told her that everything would work out.
By late morning I was getting more and more frenzied, and my brain was beset by the certainty of disaster.
I sent Eddy ahead to the meeting place at the Porte Saint-Martin after describing the two characters, Ben and Jacquie, and asking him to bring them to me. That way we could be sure of no ambush and no hired killers, plainclothes boys, Negroes or any other unholy elements.
He must have made something of an impression, Eddy, decked out for his role as he was—and as he loved to be even in the regular way. It’s a wonder he didn’t cover an eye with a black patch, but he certainly wore granny glasses, a scarlet velvet frock coat, a jabot, and flares. They must have taken him for a kook, but they came with him anyway to where I was waiting further along the boulevard, parked in Eddy’s crate. I had left the Matra behind when I abandoned my bachelor pad and I could hardly go back there for it.
I insisted on things being presented as a formal statement from me. I stressed that, with this in mind, I needed a representative of the French papers and someone from the international press so that the world—the whole world—could learn exactly what was afoot.
I told them everything, the abduction and everything. I may have glossed over a couple of details, to be frank, on account of the need not to reveal too much about me or make a bad impression on them, otherwise it would be only too easy for their readers to doubt my account; it was also necessary to leave a way out for Laveuglant, whose name I did not mention.
What I wanted was protection. I swore to God it was not I who wanted to create problems for anyone and that if I ended up doing so, it was because other people sought it. I further swore that my purpose, consistent with my need to protect myself, was always to obtain if at all possible the return in good shape of Dieudonné N’Gustro.
Anyway, I showed the two parties the photos I had taken of the kidnapping, at least the negatives. I had developed them that morning, because naturally Eddy had a little darkroom—he often needed visual evidence, in order to retain the support of his backers, of the girls he was using to scam them. There is not much in his family album that fails to fascinate.
So I showed the photos but kept them. I also showed the audiotape on which I had recorded my conversation with Laveuglant, but since in this case his name was clearly stated, and since I preferred that the recording not be heard so long as there was no good reason to poison things with him further, I had sealed the reel with a dab of wax, imprinted the wax with my signet ring, and instructed Debourmann, to whom I had entrusted it, not to play or use it unless I gave him the green light or something irreversible befell me.
“So things are really that bad?” asked Jacquie.
I saw from her expression that she was impressed, that she was recalling our lovemaking, and realizing that in the end it had left its mark on her; as moving as that was in principle, it was just too bad for her.
I then shooed both her and Debourmann off.
As I watched them walk away, excited and chattering to one another, I felt a renewed self-confidence. As for Laveuglant I had him in the palm of my hand. Acting as though he knew this as well as I did, I decided to go and retrieve my wheels, because I couldn’t always be treating Eddy like a taxi driver.
So he drove me over to the street outside my house. We drove past in low gear, keeping a sharp eye out but seeing nothing, then repeated the procedure twice more to make sure, again without seeing anything, so I got out, shaking Eddy’s hand, though not too firmly, I confess, on account of a kind of presentiment that I was about to make a dangerous mistake. I rushed to start my banger up and get the hell out of there.
The instant I turned on the ignition everything exploded. The engine block hit the roadway, buckled and tumbled away. I remember shrieking, but the fact is, the job was botched; as proof, I was still alive, propelled out of the debris completely panic-stricken with a horrid heaviness in my belly, which I could see was streaming with blood. More flowed from other parts too; there were fragments of metal and glass embedded in my flesh and my hair and eyebrows were scorched. I took to my heels like one possessed, scaring the daylights out of a few grannies.
Just then, amazingly, a Negro in a raincoat came out of a bar and drew a gun and opened fire on me from thirty meters, as if at a funfair, without showing a trace of emotion.
In that moment good old Eddy saved my life. His MG pulled up just behind me with a wild growl, its undercarriage low to the ground. He had heard the noise from the other side of the block, which he then rounded and returned.
It was a real western. Eddy always stashed a Colt in his hot rod, a real collector’s item with percussion caps to ignite the powder and a host of other antique bells and whistles. The great advantage of this weapon was the unbelievable racket it made. Eddy had fired on the ape through the vent window, wildly, and of course he missed—those old popguns are about as accurate as shit spreaders—but it all made such a din, what with the shattering of the window, the noise of the cannon itself, and a grocer’s window cascading like a prepared-piano piece, that the Negro, whose turn it was to suspect an ambush, took off like a lunatic in the direction of the Musée de l’Homme just as I leapt, or rather flew into the MG, and we left, stunned, while the Matra blazed in the most distressing way.
Doubly distressing, when you think that I had left the negatives in the car.
Still, what was done was done. I had quite enough evidence left to make serious hay, negatives or not. The photos had shown the two accomplices, but there were still three witnesses to the abduction—Doudou, Ghyslaine, and I—and in addition I had the recording of my telephone conversation with Laveuglant.
I reflected that this was it: this was war. We hastened over to Eddy’s and stayed long enough to get me patched up a little. I was covered with scratches, plus the real stomach wound. Eddy bandaged me. I phoned Laveuglant. I gave him both barrels. He burbled with fright. He implored me to keep quiet a bit longer, the faggot.
“It wasn’t me who did this to you,” he whined. “It was the others.”
I asked him which others, taking a bitter delight to hear him mumbling, unable to give a straight answer. What did emerge quite clearly was his urgent desire to know where I was, ostensibly so that he could protect me. I laughed in his ugly face and hung up.
That was this noon.
Eddy drove me here to Rouen. After which he left. He recommended a doctor to me. He wanted to leave me his piece. Perhaps I should have accepted, but I was through with asking other people for help. It is me, not them, that they want to destroy. I am the one, not they, who has to respond. Sitting here in the dark, I am happy.