OFTEN PEOPLE EXASPERATE US during their lifetime and it is only when they are dead that we see the extent of our loss: that is how it was for Tausk after the suicide of his lyricist. Pélestor had not been without his faults, but not only could he create impossibly catchy words that fitted as tightly as a snake’s skin to a bass line; he could also suggest orchestral or rhythmic nuances to that melody that its composer would never have imagined. He was no ordinary wordsmith.
Three fruitless solo sessions at the studio on Rue de Pali-Kao were enough for Tausk to realize the scale of his loss, and, deprived of Pélestorian inspiration, he did not think he could make any progress at all without help. He even, very quickly, had the feeling that he was only a shadow of his former self, a shadow that was rapidly fading. In fact, this feeling was so strong that he was compelled to consider, before it was too late, canceling his latest commitments, tearing up his contracts, breaking with his record label, selling his back catalogue, and forgetting the whole thing. Having considered this, he decided to do it. He should plan to speak with Hubert about it.
There was nothing very audacious about this plan, nothing very risky. Tausk is, as we have already mentioned, in a very comfortable financial position, a position that allows him to live without taking care of anything at all—except for Nadine Alcover, who is now living in his apartment. It all happened very fast with her, and now the two of them are practically inseparable. They talk a lot, mostly in bed, where they are drawing up the classic plan of fleeing to the end of the world to live happily ever after. But where to flee to? Well, we’ll see. In the meantime, they are enjoying coming up with a list of possible world’s ends. There’s no rush to make a decision. So, as I said, they are mostly inseparable except that, every day, Nadine Alcover has to keep going to work for Hubert in Neuilly. And soon, every day seems too much. So they decide that she won’t go to work there anymore. One morning, they prepare to call Hubert. Better to talk on the telephone than in person; that way, he won’t be able to dust off our jackets, point out a new wrinkle, or inform us that one of our eyebrows is too bushy. Yes, we’ll call him.
In Neuilly, at that very moment, after typing the code into his fireproof safe, Hubert comes back behind his desk and collapses into his chair, which is swiveled toward the window overlooking the interior courtyard. Using his index finger to lift up one of the slats on the Venetian blinds that cover this view, Hubert watches as his last visitors walk over to a large cardinal-red Infiniti sedan. Those visitors comprise a small, neat man (belt, laces, tie, all tightly knotted) followed by a tall man in sports clothing who is carrying an empty canvas bag over his shoulder. The small man—serrated hair, bowlegs, rolling gait, frowning at his smartphone—stops and puts on a pair of sunglasses whose mirror lenses, as he turns around for a moment, shoot a dazzling reflection at Hubert’s eyes. His tooth-filled mouth cracks into an amphibological smile; then he signals to the tall man to open the Infiniti’s passenger door and dives inside, before the tall one, after tossing the bag in the sedan’s trunk, sits behind the wheel. The Infiniti sets off and the office telephone rings. Hubert picks up without taking his eyes off the vehicle. It’s me, announces Tausk. Louis.
My dear Louis, how wonderful to hear from you, exclaims Hubert, exaggerating his enthusiasm, though not by much. He seems to be in a good mood and Tausk takes advantage of this by getting straight to the heart of the matter. He has made the decision to put an end to his career. Age, fatigue, money put aside . . . basically, his argument is: I can stop, so I’m stopping. He is, he says, going to retire, in a way, if you see what I mean. He wants to cancel all previously concluded contracts, agreements, and other arrangements—you’re the one who has all the papers, how do we go about this? Nothing could be simpler, declares Hubert. I just saw your dossier in the safe. We’ll just invent some amendments and termination clauses; I know exactly what to do. So don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it all and it’ll be wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Tausk raises an eyebrow at this. All you need to do, Hubert continues, is drop by here to sign a few papers one of these days. Whenever you want. As you like. He swings back and forth in his chair as he says this. He really does appear to be in a very good mood indeed.
You seem very happy, says Tausk. What’s going on? How could I not be? Hubert smiles. My clientele is evolving and I am diversifying. I am opening myself up to new perspectives, accumulating excellent commissions, and I’m using the money to buy new works. I’ve been enriching my collection of art from the 1910s, you remember. And indeed he is, through the open door of his office, watching a factotum on a stepladder who is at this moment hanging a recently acquired work on the wall of the waiting room: a very large nude with a very long neck by Jean-Gabriel Domergue, intended to form a pair—same epoch, same school, same style—with the Tancrède Synave in the entrance hall. I’m pleased for you, says Tausk, but there is something else I wanted to talk to you about. Hang on two seconds, says Hubert, swiveling the chair back to face the window.
A massive black Hummer H2 with jacked-up wheels and tinted windows has just entered the interior courtyard. A man who looks like an accountant gets out. With his heavy eyelids and frameless glasses, he resembles the French actor Jean Bouise. He is followed by two guys who look like loss-prevention officers: dark suits, tinted sunglasses covering the kind of eyes you wouldn’t want to meet. As he walks, the supposed accountant opens a slender briefcase from which he extracts some stapled sheets of paper; behind him, each security guard carries two voluminous, apparently very heavy beige leather bags, and Hubert smiles again at their weight. Okay, go ahead, he tells Tausk, who in turn says, Hang on. Then: Here’s Nadine.
Like someone tiptoeing through a minefield, Nadine Alcover loses herself in fearful circumlocutions as she attempts to express her desire to quit her job at Hubert’s office, anxious as she is that her employer will take the news badly. But no, not at all: I understand completely, Nadine, the lawyer interrupts her. You have your own life to lead. Even going so far as to offer her a severance payment, he implies that replacing her will not pose any difficulties: I have someone else in mind, in fact, a blonde, quite attractive, not as pretty as you, Nadine, obviously, but she works very well, so don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Could you pass me back to Louis? I wanted to ask you something. Go ahead, says Tausk. Tell me, Louis, says Hubert, have you had any news about Constance? No, replies Tausk. Then they hang up without further comment. What did he want? asks Nadine Alcover. Nothing, says Tausk.
Hey, suggests Nadine Alcover, why don’t I organize a dinner party to celebrate? Celebrate what? asks Tausk. Well, you, says Nadine Alcover, me. You know, us. To mark the occasion. With guests. I’ll invite a friend of mine. She’s a bit unusual, but you’ll like her. And she’s in love with an older guy too. What do you mean by that? Lou Tausk says, frowning. He touches one of his cheeks and, without replying, Nadine Alcover brushes her fingers against his temple, which is, let’s be honest, graying. Ah yes, Tausk admits, I’ll take care of it. I have plenty of time now, after all. It is ten in the morning.
At about eleven, he returns to the hairdressing salon, where the employee, wriggling excitedly at the sight of him, expresses her surprise at seeing him again so soon after his last visit. It’s for my temples, says Tausk, pressing his fingers against them as if he had a headache, to color them. First time? asks Marie-Odile. First time, confirms Tausk, sitting down. I’m going to start by opening up your cuticles a little bit, explains the hairdresser as she picks up a bottle of peroxide, to help the dye get into the roots. She applies the product to his hair, first with a brush and then with a tail comb. I’m going to put you under a dryer for a little while now. Under a dryer? Tausk panics. Well, yeah, she says, it helps to even out the pre-softening. Would you like some magazines to read while you wait?
Once the lengths and tips are dry, Tausk returns to the chair and Marie-Odile picks up her brush again. Tongue sticking out sideways from her mouth as she coats each hair in turn with dye, she brings up a few obvious topics of conversation: the weather, the places they live, the vacations they’re planning. Then, venturing into more intimate terrain: And are you married? Tausk avoids the question. We’re going to pause for a little while again, decides Marie-Odile, to give the pigments time to take.
After which, standing next to her customer and contemplating his reflection, she appears satisfied and starts coating the hairs again. As for me, she confides, I have a steady boyfriend now, and believe me, that changes everything. I’m pleased for you, Tausk responds politely. Is he good to you? Good to me? Oh, like you wouldn’t believe, the hairdresser exclaims before starting to list the virtues of her steady boyfriend, his habits, his tastes, his physical appearance down to the tiniest details, among them the fact that he has a W-shaped scar on his cheek. Tausk shivers. Don’t move like that, Marie-Odile orders him, or it’ll go everywhere. The word good doesn’t do him justice, she goes on. In fact, his name really suits him. Clément—it’s a nice name, don’t you think? Well anyway, that’s him, down to a tee. And this time, Tausk jumps as a flashback runs through his mind: thirty years earlier, Avenue de Bouvines, the bank, the security guard lying in a pool of blood, the desperate getaway. Pognel, he says, through gritted teeth. The name escapes his lips before he can prevent it. Instantly he regrets it, but it’s too late. She heard.
Do you know him? cries Marie-Odile. Not at all, blusters Tausk, it’s just what you said vaguely reminded me of someone. You know him, of course you do, Marie-Odile exclaims delightedly, you just said his name. No, he insists, no, but she is not listening anymore, too busy marveling over the vagaries of fate, the odds against such coincidences, and the smallness of the world. Hey, she decides, I’m finishing earlier than usual this morning. I’m going to pick him up from his job. He always says he doesn’t want me to meet him there, but I’m sure he’ll be happy. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him about this. Alas, it is too late for Tausk to say no. No. Absolutely not.