THAT SOUNDS FINE, Pognel says, but on one condition. I want to be able to impose my own conditions.
No conditions, Objat replies. You won’t be imposing anything at all.
They are sitting on a bench, two feet apart. They are speaking in low voices, barely moving their lips and not looking at each other at all, as is customary during spy meetings. The few people who stroll past cannot imagine that they are deep in discussion, as they don’t appear to know each other at all; they look like two strangers who happen to be sitting on the same bench by chance or because they’re tired or idle, or because they want to observe three swans splashing around on the surface of the lake—which is, in fact, not a lake but an artificial pond with an equally artificial island at its center, in the shape of a half-melted sugarloaf, crowned with a peripteral rotunda inspired by the Temple of Vesta in Tivoli. Even Faust, busy watching the pigeons around the bench (and wondering if their latest physical-chemical status renders them still edible), seems unconcerned by these two men, as if, obeying their instructions, he did not know them either.
Late morning, midweek, steel-gray sky, forty-three degrees Fahrenheit: the park is practically deserted. Even if it is the richest park in Paris in terms of varieties of flora, they all look artificial and everything here is fake: the lake, the island, its rocks, and its grotto decorated with reinforced cement stalactites. To the right of Pognel and Objat, we can see the traces of a ghostly bandstand. To their left, a bridge composed of a single semicircular arch vaults over the lake. In the background, toward the northeast, we can hazily make out the tall buildings that line the Canal de l’Ourcq.
Of course I can impose them, my conditions, says Pognel. You’ve got nothing over me. I did my time in prison, I paid for my crimes, and I don’t owe anybody anything. Oh really, says Objat, and what about the hairdresser? Icy silence from Pognel: the temperature suddenly plunges by three degrees. There’s overwhelming evidence against you where the hairdresser is concerned, continues Objat. Your DNA on the door . . . Even someone like me, who has no experience in such matters, I might have thought to wipe the door handle. And that thing with the bathtub . . . Frankly, a first-year forensics student would have seen that in an instant.
The sweat freezes on Pognel’s forehead as he stammeringly attempts to whisper the word careful. Forget it, Objat advises him. Where murder is concerned, you’re just an amateur, but I do acknowledge that you have your qualities. You did okay with the girl’s kidnapping; you did what I asked. That’s why I wanted to see you. I have another proposal for you. Pognel shrinks backward. Objat calms him: Still the same girl, don’t worry. Nothing complicated. And you have no choice anyway. For now, I’m blocking the hairdresser investigation, but I could set it in motion again like that [finger snap]. So, anyway, I’m sorry to put it like this, but I think I have you by the balls. All right, mutters Pognel, go ahead.
It’s simple, Objat reassures him. For the hairdresser, I’ll hush it up. The investigation will be suspended and you’ll have nothing to fear. For you, we’re just talking about a brief trip and some instructions to follow. But where is it, this brief trip? Pognel asks. Far away, says Objat. I’ll tell you more later. Okay, but just one more thing, says Pognel uneasily as he gets to his feet. Could I take my dog with me? As you like, shrugs Objat, but I wash my hands of all responsibility. I’ll take him, come what may, Pognel stiffens. I’ll take him wherever I go because I love him.
I think we’ve covered everything for now, concludes Objat, lifting the collar of his coat. Meet me next week for instructions. Same day, same place, same time. Okay, repeats Pognel, before whistling for Faust and zipping up his jacket. In the meantime, I’m going to take him for a walk, seeing as we’re in the park already. I have to make him run, you see, a little bit every day. Objat watches him limp away, then starts walking back to the Mortier barracks, which—if you go up Rue de Crimée and Rue de Belleville—is only three or four stations from Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.
And not much farther from Couronnes station, from where Tausk emerges at that moment to head over to his studio. He’s been going there more and more frequently recently. He even sleeps there sometimes and is a regular at the Pensive Mandarin again. Yes, I’m afraid things are not going well with Nadine Alcover. When Tausk goes home to his apartment on Rue Claude-Pouillet, either she’s gone out for a walk or she’s there but barely says a word except on the telephone; she can sometimes lock herself up with the telephone for hours before going out for a walk again. In the end, Tausk starts wondering if maybe she’s having an affair or something.
In fact, it is precisely that subject which she is discussing at the moment with Lucile on the phone: I’ve known him for two months, yeah, replies Nadine Alcover. No, he’s older than the other one, but he’s still great. Very attentive, very well dressed, very discreet. What about money? Lucile asks. Lots, summarizes Nadine Alcover. Seems to have lots, anyway. Married? asks Lucile, alarmed. I don’t think so, Nadine Alcover reassures her, I see him more as a widower. What does he do? wonders Lucile. I’m not sure about that, admits Nadine Alcover, he never really talks about it. Maybe retired. Sometimes I think he’s like an old soldier, but not at all the rough, brutal type. He’s more the elite type—you know, Saint-Cyr, Cadre Noir, that type of thing. Where did you meet him? asks Lucile. In a museum, Nadine Alcover remembers. One afternoon, I think it was the Jacquemart-André Museum. We were both standing in front of a Caillebotte painting. You know who that is, Caillebotte? Not a clue, admits Lucile. Doesn’t matter, shrugs Nadine Alcover. So anyway, we talked about the painting, we talked about Caillebotte and lots of other things and then he invited me to have some tea with him, and there you go. I see, Lucile nods. Sorry, will you hang on for a second?
As the bedroom door has just been opened by Lessertisseur, holding a shopping basket, Lucile turns away and covers the mouthpiece of the old, dusty Alcatel phone with her hand. Listen, Maurice, can’t you see that I’m busy? Lessertisseur gestures questioningly at the shopping basket. I was thinking of broccoli, he says in a low voice, but what would go with it? I don’t know, Lucile says exasperatedly, just get a couple of escalopes. With broccoli, good, good, I’ll see you later. Sorry again, Nadine, she breathes, it was just Maurice, going out to buy groceries.
So how are things with him? asks Nadine Alcover. Still the same, more or less, says Lucile, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He’s not a bad guy, Maurice, you know, but I have the feeling I don’t love him as much as I did before. And as I told you before, sexually, he just has one thing on his mind and that, sometimes, frankly . . . They’re so egotistical. I know, agrees Nadine Alcover. Wait a second, I’ve got another call, let me just get rid of them.
Nadine Alcover touches her Samsung Galaxy Trend: Yes, Georges, no, not at all, on the contrary, I’m delighted to hear from you. Excellent, seven o’clock, as we said. I don’t know, wherever you like. Place du Palais-Bourbon? You mean the large café at the end of Rue de Bourgogne? Perfect, it’s just next to Philippe’s place. Oh, no, not at all! He’s my hairdresser. I’ll be there. See you later, Georges. Excuse me, Lucile, that was him, the other one. The new one, I mean.