ON THURSDAY MORNING, Lou Tausk is at his apartment on Rue Claude-Pouillet, detained there by maintenance work. He hasn’t been back to the studio on Rue de Pali-Kao in quite some time. As Pélestor is going through an even darker tunnel than usual, the two men have postponed their partnership until the lyricist’s mood has stabilized. The maintenance work consists in checking the electrical circuit: the outage the other day led Tausk to call up a handyman he often uses who goes by the name of Hyacinth.
Though his day job is a driver on the Paris metro, Hyacinth is indeed very handy when it comes to working around the house, and he is also pretty quick and not very expensive. A likable, extremely attractive man, he is faithful to the origins of his name, the Hyacinth having driven the entire Greek pantheon alphabetically mad with love, from Apollo to Zephyr. So, a bit like him, only preferring girls, Hyacinth could indeed seduce practically anyone he wanted: he was always flanked by an attractive woman in his driver’s cab, never the same one, and their presence never disturbing the smooth running of the network. As he is busy, for the moment, reorganizing the fuse box in Tausk’s home before leaving for his next shift on Line 2, the telephone rings. It’s Nadine Alcover, who asks Tausk if he’d like to have lunch with her. Okay, says Tausk, and maybe we can do something afterward? Yes, promises Nadine Alcover.
Excited by this prospect, Tausk goes to the bathroom to inspect himself. Staring into the mirror, he pushes back his hair, then calls the hairdressing salon: a slot open in an hour . . . Good, I’ll take it, he says. On the off chance, he tries to get hold of Pélestor, and—after it rings six times without response—leaves a basic message on his voice mail: Hope you’re feeling better, call me back when you get a chance, etcetera. There is a very good reason why Pélestor does not answer his cell phone: because it is, at that moment, lost under an unmade bed, surrounded by crumbs, fruit peelings, abundant dust bunnies, ancient tissues, and stray pills and capsules with their crumpled package inserts, while Pélestor himself, dressed in pajamas, is avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he sorts into categories (anxiolytics and antidepressants, narcotics and other sedatives) his opulent collection of psychotropic drugs.
And so, leaving Hyacinth to his fuses—and agreeing that they will meet up later—Tausk goes out to get his hair cut. He is assigned the same woman he saw the other day—pierced, tattooed, rugged and muscular, cold-eyed and unsmiling—but this time opts to keep his mouth shut and wait for it to be over. After a robust hair wash, however, once he is in the chair, immobilized under a towel, half-strangled by the string of the apron, blinded by an interrogation-style spotlight, he hears: Don’t I know you from somewhere? The hairdresser stares at him while she rubs her hands. Well, yeah, says Tausk warily, I came here last month. No, it’s not that, she replies, dismissing this possibility with a sinister swish of scissors, I’m sure I’ve seen your face somewhere else. Tensed in his seat, frowning at the scissor blades, Tausk says, Oh? Well, I guess it’s possible. Could I have seen you in a magazine? the hairdresser suggests, choosing a razor. Uh, says Tausk, growing even tenser, I suppose you could have. I even wonder if I’ve seen you on TV, she insists. Maybe, acknowledges Tausk, sweating profusely now, but if so it was a long, long time ago. The hairdresser is silent for a moment as the clippers attack his temples; then she offers a hypothesis. You wouldn’t be a pop star by any chance, would you?
And that is how Tausk comes, quickly and unexpectedly, to get on friendly terms with this hairdresser, who, having identified her client, completely changes in terms of her behavior and attitude. Not only does she easily remember the artist’s name; she recalls some of his hits (Ah, “Excessif,” of course, she says, clearly moved, how many times have I danced to that . . .), even the less successful “Dent de Sagesse,” which, she admits, made her cry more than once. She seems keen to prolong their time together almost indefinitely, and Tausk has to step in to avoid finding himself with a shaved head. He leaves a magisterial tip and dashes off.
Having finished her shift, the hairdresser dreamily swept up the scattered locks of hair before going home, where she was preparing lunch and listening to the radio—it was Georges Aspern this time, who had just played “Oublions” by Bradoc & Bradoc—when she heard a key turn in the lock and Clément Pognel walked into the room: Did you have a good morning, my darling?
Just the usual, replied Pognel, how about you? Oh, pretty normal too, she answered. Ah, except I saw that guy again. That guy? Pognel repeated. The one whose hair I cut the other day, Marie-Odile elaborated. I told you about him. Well, he came back. I thought he reminded me of someone, and I was right. He’s a pop star, can you believe it? I’m sure you’ve heard some of his stuff. Really? said Pognel, stiffening. What does he look like? How can I put this? Marie-Odile wondered. And what’s his name? insisted Pognel.
On Thursday afternoon, after carefully categorizing his medications, Pélestor arranged them in order of effect, checked their quantities, and verified their expiration dates. Then he must have changed his mind because, suddenly removing them from their packaging, he threw the contents of each bottle down the toilet. After emptying all his vials down there too, he flushed everything away, put on his coat, and buttoned it up to his neck.
Getting ready to go out, he checked four times that the windows were shut and that he hadn’t left the water running or the gas on. Then, dawdling on the landing outside his open door, he took his key from his pocket and examined it to make sure—even though it was the only key he possessed—that it was the right one. He double-locked the door and left his building, then started walking toward the closest metro station, Colonel Fabien. On the platform for the train heading to Porte Dauphine, Pélestor followed the countdown minute by minute on the liquid crystal display screen where the arrival of the next few trains are displayed (1ST TRAIN 02 MIN, 2ND TRAIN 06 MIN,) above the time (17:02).
As for Tausk, at four thirty he was heading toward the Courcelles station to take the Line 2 train in the other direction. After eating lunch, he’d enjoyed a pleasant session with Nadine Alcover, which put him in a good enough mood that he decided to go and work in the studio. He stood at the end of the platform for the train going toward Nation, in line with the front car, and in his mind revisited the greatest hits of the afternoon’s session.
When the train surged out of the tunnel, Tausk recognized Hyacinth in the driver’s cab, who signaled that he should join him. I don’t want to butt in, Tausk said as he smiled, gesturing with his chin at the latest attractive woman to be sitting next to Hyacinth. No problem, smiled Hyacinth in return. Get out here, Geneviève, he affectionately ordered the woman. I’ll see you later, eight o’clock at the Cintra, okay? Geneviève nodded, smiled at Tausk—what a smiley scene this is—and left him her place in the cabin. And so we set off toward Nation.
In the tunnels, dotted with pale fluorescent lights, Hyacinth first brought up the fuse box, which should last a few years but will eventually have to be replaced by a new model that meets current standards. Then, after Anvers station, the train went aboveground and Tausk and Hyacinth talked about the city around them, the way this area was changing and its probable future—plans for renovation, the demolition and construction of buildings, whether or not to continue providing train lines from the Gare du Nord and the Gare de l’Est, the development of the Bassin de la Villette and the Nicolas Ledoux rotunda—before they plunged underground again after Jaurès. The station after Jaurès, if you are heading eastward, is called Colonel Fabien, and that is where things went horribly wrong.
They were about to enter the station, watching as the yellowish vaulted ceiling grew clearer, as if through a zoom lens, against the black background, when they also saw a man at the end of the platform calmly descend onto the rails. The man lay down in front of the train, then turned his head to see it arrive, even attempting to look the driver in the eyes, and perhaps also the other occupant of the cabin: Tausk, recognizing Pélestor with horror, will never know if his former partner identified him before the impact. Hyacinth honked his horn for all it was worth, while punching the emergency brake so hard that he drew blood without even realizing it, and started screaming so he wouldn’t hear the sound of the collision, so that his voice would fill the cabin and drown out the dreadful thud of impact.
As soon as the train came to a halt, Hyacinth followed the usual procedure for such cases, blocking the doors and making an announcement. We have just run over someone, he forced himself to declare. Would everyone please remain seated while we wait for the emergency services to arrive. As he was announcing this, he set off the alarms that would stop the next train coming in the other direction: the man under his train might not be completely dead, so better not to let him be finished off by the one coming the other way. After that, he called the dispatcher, who, surveying the traffic on the network, is the metro’s equivalent of a control tower.
I’ve just run over a customer, stammered Hyacinth to the dispatcher. My train has stopped, so has the line next to mine, and we’re waiting for the emergency services. Without any audible emotion, the dispatcher asked Hyacinth to go and check that the other line was free: Make sure none of the pieces are on the other rails, he ordered the driver. Go down and take a look, and then at least we can let the other trains pass. But Hyacinth said, No, I can’t.
They had to wait a moment for a manager on call to arrive, accompanied by a driver who could take over from Hyacinth, after which the police would arrive. It was a very long moment. While Tausk remained in his seat, Hyacinth opened the door between the cab and the first carriage. He walked toward the passengers, and one of them pointed out that he had blood on his pants. Hyacinth, disoriented, said it was the blood of the man who had killed himself before realizing—when he saw the wound in his hand caused by hitting the emergency brake—that it was his own. Then the police arrived. The judiciary police officer told him: Come down with me, we’re going to take a look at the body. But again Hyacinth said no, he just couldn’t.
While the policeman began writing his report, Hyacinth went back into the cab and Tausk heard him talking to himself, the tears rolling down his handsome face: It’s over, whispered Hyacinth, it’s all over. A good hour must have passed before he called Geneviève to cancel their date at the Cintra.