6
‘Monsieur le Procureur de la République, Monsieur le Procureur de la République …
‘Monsieur le Procureur de la République,
‘Monsieur le Pro …’
Mr Hire ripped his pink blotting paper into tiny bits, which he threw into the stove. He stood there for a moment, watching the flames. He had done a lot of work. As was always the case on Mondays, the responses to his ads had been numerous – working people took advantage of their Sundays to write in. And he had Saturday’s mail too, which he hadn’t opened.
Alone in his basement, he had tied up 120 packages, which he’d had to take to the post office in three separate trips. The exercise had done him good. On the third trip, he had almost smiled when he saw reflected in a shop window the slumped silhouette of the detective who was following him. It wasn’t the usual one, but a short, bearded man with rotten teeth who had stood shivering all day, his collar turned up, across from number 67.
‘Monsieur le Procureur de la République,
‘Monsieur le …’
For the two hours since he’d finished his work Mr Hire had been doodling on his blotting pad, scribbling words and crossing them out. Now, all of a sudden, he gave up hope of finding an idea, something brilliant and subtle that would divert suspicion away from the Villejuif building.
A little before seven o’clock, he checked to see that the fire in the stove was on its way out, flicked the light switch off and left, his black briefcase under his arm. The short man was standing on the corner, taking pains to act like a gentleman with an appointment. All along Boulevard Voltaire, he walked close to the houses, ducking behind a passer-by whenever Mr Hire turned around. They must have forgotten to tell him that this was completely unnecessary.
He was definitely married with children, and down on his luck; you could tell from the way he looked. When Mr Hire went into the restaurant where he had his own napkin kept for him in a locker, the policeman stayed outside, pacing back and forth. Through the steamy window he looked as faint as a ghost.
The tablecloths were paper, the tables very small. The waitresses were attired in black and white, and the menu was chalked up on a giant slate.
While eating boudin aux pommes Mr Hire was still thinking, still searching, and when he lifted his head it was to say in an unaccustomed tone: ‘Red wine.’
This had never happened. He never drank anything apart from water and coffee.
‘A carafe?’
The wine dappled the paper tablecloth with ruby-coloured glints. Mr Hire poured a little of it into his glass, dousing it with just enough water to achieve a shade of pink. As he took his first sip he caught the waitresses exchanging glances, and though he continued to drink the spirit of it was lost, the pleasure spoiled. He smiled ironically.
When he left, the detective was across the way, in a poorly lit bar, dipping a croissant in his coffee. Mr Hire watched him stuff half the croissant into his mouth, rummage around in his pockets and toss some change on the counter.
A bus passed by, close to the pavement. Mr Hire could have leaped on to it and left the detective behind right then and there, but he didn’t. His meal had left him stuffed, and as he walked with jutting belly, he was newly alert to the significance of his every gesture.
He didn’t have far to go. Near Place Voltaire, a large café illuminated the boulevard for almost a hundred metres. Mr Hire pushed his way in, and as he penetrated the fray, he stuck his chest out ever more, practically swaggering with his briefcase under his arm. A smile hovered on his lips.
To the left of the café was a cinema that was under the same management. A loud bell announced the beginning of each show. It was audible everywhere. The main room of the café was immense. On one side, people ate; on the other, they played cards at tables covered with red tablecloths; in the back, six billiard tables were lit up by green reflector lamps, while men in shirtsleeves circled ceremoniously around.
Mothers and children were waiting for father’s game to end. Forty boys raced between the rows of tables, yelling, ‘Look out!’
And on a small stage, a pianist, a violinist and a female cellist announced the next piece they would play by suspending a big cardboard number from a copper rod.
Mr Hire bounced and skipped through all of it. When he passed by the register in the back, the cashier called out to him in greeting.
Certain sounds were constant here – the bell for the cinema, the orchestra tuning up, the crack of billiard balls – but different noises could be heard coming from an adjacent room: slow rumblings followed by claps of thunder.
Mr Hire walked towards the thunder and went through the open door. On the other side, the profusion of brilliant lights gave way to a more extensive, grander and impressive space that had the rarefied, serious feel of a workshop or a lab. He took off his hat and his overcoat, handed his briefcase to the waiter, and stopped by the toilets, where he passed a comb through his hair and washed his hands.
By the time he was finished, the detective had decided to come in. He had sat down at a table in the corner, without daring to take off his overcoat. He must have been uncomfortable, wondering whether this was a public or a private establishment.
The room was square, with a large skylight in the ceiling. There were a few tables with glasses of beer on them, but nobody was sitting at them.
The people were further away, around the four lanes. There was a sign on the wall: VOLTAIRE BOWLING CLUB.
Mr Hire walked up as gracefully as a dancer, his hand outstretched. Everyone took it. Yes, they all shook Mr Hire’s hand; even the players who had heavy balls decorated with circles of iron attached to their fingers interrupted their game. Everyone knew Mr Hire. Everyone talked to him.
‘We waited for you.’
‘You’re number 4.’
The men were in shirt-sleeves. Mr Hire took his jacket off and set it down on a chair, neatly folded, not without glancing at the little detective, who sat all alone in the back at one of the small green tables.
‘What shall I bring you, Mr Hire?’
It was the waiter, who also knew him.
‘How about a kummel?’
So! It was settled. While waiting to play, he watched each bowler take his turn with a faintly disdainful look, and at a certain moment the detective heard him humming along with the waltz the musicians were playing in the main room.
‘Your turn!’
Mr Hire looked over towards the detective, smiled complacently and said to his partner, ‘Please, go ahead.’
He was looking for his usual ball. When he found it, he weighed it in his hand, then rocked back and forth three or four times before finally taking his place at the far end of the bowling alley. His opponent had toppled five pins.
Mr Hire leaned forwards, his arms swinging, and waited for the pins to be reset, all the while half-closing his eyes and testing the floor with his foot, like a runner gearing up for a race. Twenty people were watching him. The little pink spots had appeared on his cheeks along with the slight part to his lips.
He took off suddenly, running with tiny hurried steps. The heavy ball seemed to pull him along before detaching itself and rolling the length of the alley, not very quickly, thanks to the skilful backspin he’d put on it. The ball hit the first pin, and from then on started behaving like a top – or, better, like some intelligent being. You could have sworn that it changed course at will, hell-bent on knocking down every pin.
Only one was left standing. Mr Hire frowned, wiping his moist hands on his handkerchief.
The waiter brought him his kummel, which he drank absentmindedly in small sips before collecting his ball when it had been sent back to him. His eyes measured, calculated, planned. Furrowing his brow, he thrust himself forward, let go of the ball and stomped his foot on the floor – as before, one of the nine pins was still standing.
‘You’re jinxing yourself,’ said the secretary of the club, who was the deputy bureau chief in a government ministry.
Mr Hire didn’t reply. He didn’t have time to reply. He wiped his hands again, carefully, in between the fingers, and took a moment to mop his forehead and his neck.
‘… Unh!’ he grunted, the moment the ball left his body.
He didn’t have to follow it with his eyes. There was applause. And Mr Hire, without saying anything, went to pick up his ball at the end of the gutter; he bent down, running with little steps.
It’s a glorious sound when nine pins crash into each other, even more glorious when there has been a moment of anxiety while the last one wobbles and, for a time, refuses to fall.
‘And, nine again!’
Five times nine in a single turn! He was gasping for breath, and even his chin was dripping with sweat. His hair stuck to his temples.
It was over. He smiled as he put on his jacket, afraid of catching cold, and approached his companions.
‘Do I have another game?’
‘In a minute, against Godard.’
He didn’t engage in discussion. Nonchalant, with his handkerchief in his sweaty hands, he went from one game to the next and watched how things were going, offering his approval whenever four or five pins were downed.
The light, the heat, the austere decor, the seriousness of all these men were reminiscent of a fencing or riding club. It was serious. There was not a single woman. On the other side of the door, the billiard players milled about in the common room, surrounded by music and with children who ran about the green felt tables. Further down, the card players had their wives next to them, saying: ‘Aren’t you going to trump that?’
And a little further yet was the cinema. Between all these walls, there were perhaps 3,000 people drinking, eating, playing and smoking, and rather than mingling together, the sounds were all superimposed; nothing was muted, not even the shrill tone which burst out each time a round was served, or the ringing of the cash register, preceded by the crank of its handle.
Where was the little detective? There was nobody left at the green café tables. Only his hat remained on the chair.
Mr Hire, hands in his pockets, paced back and forth. He glanced through the open doorway to the other side and noticed his detective talking to the waiter. He smiled and looked at his watch to check the time.
‘You’re saying that he comes the first Monday of every month?’
‘It’s the day the club meets. Some of them come to practise on other days, but not him.’
The waiter was surprised and looked suspiciously at the detective.
‘Since you’re with the police, you should know who he is, because he’s with the police too – and he must be in a pretty powerful position.’
‘Ah! He says he is with the police?’
‘Everyone assumed it without him saying it. He really looks the part.’
‘Has he been a member of the club for a long time?’
‘Maybe two years. I remember because I was already working the bowling alley then. One evening he came in like you – all shy and reserved, and asked me if it was open to the public. He sat down over there, his briefcase on his knees, and ordered a coffee. For two hours, he stayed in his seat – that’s how enthralled he was by the game – and then, when everyone had left, he set the pins back up and tried it himself. He turned red when he saw me. I was the one who advised him to sign up, since it only costs thirty francs a year …’
Mr Hire watched them from afar.
‘And he’s the one who mentioned the police?’
‘We spent months speculating about what he did. He doesn’t talk much. Even now that he’s the best bowler in the club, he doesn’t see any of the members outside of here. So, one day, the treasurer made a bet that he could settle it, and asked him the question point-blank.’
‘What question?’
‘He said: “You’re high up in the police, right?” and Mr Hire turned red, which was proof enough. We had heard that policemen sometimes get theatre passes, and we asked him. Now he brings them in almost every time …’
When the detective returned to the bowling alley, Mr Hire was finishing his second game, and since it was the one that determined the winner of the monthly pool, everyone was gathered around. The prize this time was a turkey, which the treasurer had placed on a café table before they began. People came from the billiards room to watch the end of the contest.
Mr Hire was moving around at the end of the alley, in his shirt-sleeves, his moustache neat, his lips red. All his movements were preternaturally assured. He set his feet down on the floor at just the right spot. The ball flew from his arm in an arc that was pure geometry.
The wife of the president was waiting for her husband, buttoning her grey cloth gloves and looking at the turkey, whose yellow flesh she had prodded.
‘Nine!’
He was a machine. Mr Hire didn’t see anyone. The crowd was only a painted backdrop to his game. He took a risk while the pins were being reset, and threw the ball casually in the air, catching it by the holes, on three fingers. The detective was one of the nearest spectators and, perhaps for him, Mr Hire added a whimsical touch to his game, winding up like a windmill before letting the ball go.
‘Nine!’
And he held his hand out towards the crowd.
‘A scarf,’ he said with a brusque voice.
Someone handed him a grey one, which he tied around his head as a blindfold. He held his hand out again and fumbled around for the ball.
‘Eight!’
As the room erupted into applause, he took off the scarf and murmured shyly, ‘Whose is this?’
He had one more turn to play, and he was trying to think of some other extraordinary thing to try, it didn’t matter what. He was capable of anything! He didn’t bounce. He bounded, light as a balloon.
‘Three more points and you win,’ announced the secretary.
He froze for a moment, as if he’d lost his nerve, then he walked to the end of the runway, turned his back on the pins, and spread his legs. He could see the poor little detective in front of him. He lifted the ball to the height of his head then bent and threw it behind him, between his knees.
‘Seven!’
Everyone started talking at once. People put on their jackets, their overcoats. They were leaving. Mr Hire approached the president’s wife.
‘Allow me to offer you …’
He pointed to the turkey.
‘On one condition – you must come and have dinner with us.’
‘Forgive me, I can’t. My job …’
It was over. Nobody paid any more attention to him. Distracted hands shook other distracted hands.
‘See you tomorrow?’
And the sound of billiard balls once again filled the air. As at the circus, the waiter had turned off half of the lights as soon as the final act was finished, and there was the same dusty glow, the same overwhelming sense of emptiness. But Mr Hire hadn’t spent all of the life that had welled up inside him. He wandered around, useless, unnoticed, still flushed and with shining eyes. And suddenly, he found himself in front of the detective, who was counting the change that had been given to him by the waiter.
‘So, my little man!’
The words shot out of him, bombastically. Mr Hire wore a look of invincibility.
‘I’m not making your job easy, eh?’
In spite of it all his lips trembled, less from fear than from excitement. The detective may not have been any more comfortable. He coughed into his hand. ‘Are you speaking to me?’ he stammered.
‘My overcoat, Joseph!’ cried Mr Hire in lieu of a response.
The president took him aside.
‘My wife tells me … You really don’t want your turkey? You could make a nice dinner for someone …’
‘I assure you …’ he replied with a cold smile.
It is hard to say why it always ends up like this, in a kind of debacle. Only a small group was left, four or five committee members, discussing the new by-laws. They were content to wave goodbye to Mr Hire from a distance. But as soon as his back was turned they leaned forwards on to their elbows and, speaking in low whispers, called the waiter over.
‘Who was the other one?’
‘The short one, with the beard and the worn-out overcoat? An inspector with the Sûreté.’
They looked at each other, enraptured.
‘What did I tell you?!’
Mr Hire crossed the main room, his briefcase under his arm, swimming against the crowd. It was intermission at the cinema, which meant that everyone had headed to the café. He was jostled and squeezed between elbows. His hat flew off, and he found it some distance away, balanced on a shoulder.
He stopped at the edge of the pavement, hesitating under an orange electric sign. The boulevard was deserted, except for the cinema-goers who didn’t want a drink and stood instead in the shadows, smoking and waiting for the bell.
The detective was also standing at the edge of the pavement, only a few metres away. He tapped his feet and turned up the collar of his overcoat. A fine, cold rain had begun to fall.
‘Monsieur le Procureur de la République,
‘Monsieur le Pro …’
Mr Hire’s indecision was unmistakable. On his left, a car was starting up: he saw the president and his wife in a small saloon. They were obviously in high spirits. The turkey, poorly wrapped in a piece of newspaper, sat on the wife’s knees.
As they drove past Mr Hire, the president waved, but the woman didn’t even give him a glance.
Five taxis were lined up in the middle of the boulevard, waiting, and Mr Hire raised his hand. The driver of the first one stepped out of his car to turn the hand-crank. A scowl appeared on the detective’s face.
‘Villejuif, a little way after the intersection. I’ll tell you where.’
The taxi smelled like rice powder, and there was a wilted carnation on the seat. Through the window Mr Hire could see the policeman, who was still trying to make up his mind. Finally he decided to take off on foot in the direction of the Métro.
The kummel burned in his gut. His knees wobbled the way they did on the first Monday of every month since he’d taken up bowling.
It took him a long time to cool off. Little by little, Mr Hire’s body adjusted to the temperature of the car. His nervousness, his fever and his energy evaporated, and he slumped down in his overcoat until the collar met his nose. Without moving from his seat, without slowing down, the driver opened the divider with one hand, leaned back ever so slightly, and yelled, ‘Should I go by Porte d’Italie?’
‘However you like.’
The divider snapped shut. The window opened a crack, admitting a glacial breeze.
‘Monsieur le Procureur de la République …’
They drove by the empty plot where the woman had been killed. The driver must have known about it, because he slowed down to look where the crime scene had been cordoned off. As always, a girl stood on the corner. She watched the taxi go by with an indifferent expression.
The concierge was not easy to wake; when Mr Hire called her name as he passed by her door, he heard her turn over in the bed. He climbed the four flights slowly and reached his landing after the timer had already extinguished the lights.
When he opened the door he frowned, struck by something out of the ordinary. The darkness wasn’t complete. There was a pinkish glow on the floor, a slight purring sound, little gusts of warmth.
With the light on, he saw that the fire was on, and his cafetière was steaming on the stove. His bed was open. In the middle of the table there were four or five flowers in a glass – rather sad ones too, it must be said, because in Villejuif it was hard to find anything except cemetery flowers.
Mr Hire closed the door, and before even removing his coat he walked over to the window and lifted one of the sheets of grey paper. Across the courtyard, the light was on. But Alice was asleep. Her book had slid on to the blanket. Her eyes were shut, and her chest heaved slightly with regular breaths; her head was resting on her bent arm, exposing the red hair of her armpits.
‘Monsieur le Procureur de la République …’
He nearly stomped on the floor out of impatience, out of impotence.
‘Monsieur le Pro …’
With a single angry gesture, he ran his hand backwards through his hair and began to undress, looking from the flowers to the bed to the lit stove.
Then he went back to the window. Alice had straightened out her arm. Now she was on her back and she had thrown back the covers. Her big, heavy breasts pointed up through her cloth nightgown.
The previous night she had been stretched out on his bed. He sat down on it now and took off his socks. Barefoot, he went to turn down the stove and remove the cafetière.
Finally, he lowered the grey paper, but not before a furtive last look. His light was off. His bed groaned. A loud roar from the boulevard shot through the room: the express lorry from Lyons, flying by at a hundred kilometres an hour, with eight tonnes of cargo. The cup continued to rattle in its saucer even after the noise had disappeared.
It was an hour before Mr Hire’s breathing returned to normal. His hand dangled off the side of the bed. With each exhalation his lips parted emitting a faint ‘pfff …’, and the lower hairs of his moustache quivered.
As on every other morning he was still asleep when, at six o’clock, the girl from the dairy woke up, turned off her alarm and got dressed without washing, her eyes puffy with sleep and her mouth dry, to go and clean the shop and place bottles of milk outside of people’s doors.