out laughing, and she looks at me sideways. It must be the first time I’ve laughed at one of her jokes. I ask, “But why don’t we just go straight to the mother right away?”
“Because we’re allowing some time for Rafik to find out where she is.”
“Oh. You know Rafik?”
Rafik is the cornerstone of the Reldanch Agency, the guy who runs our IT systems. Everything goes through him, so much so that it’s difficult to ask him anything.
“Of course I know Rafik. How would I survive without Rafik?”
IN THE BUTTES-CHAUMONT park in north Paris, there’s a little sunshine and a lot of dogs. We wait, sitting on a bench, for the famous Antonella to arrive. She’s a good twenty minutes late. The Hyena is in a chatty mood.
“Antonella is wicked, but funny. Everyone who met her when she first got to Paris knows she’s only a shadow of her former self. She was a diva. She was working for the newspapers, an Italian correspondent. In those days, if you were a journalist at that level, your address book filled up quickly, and if anything happened in town, it wasn’t hard to get to the spot. I don’t know when she started being an informer, I guess she had some relationship with a politician—her speciality was culture, but the two worlds often met. When I met her, she was consulted all the time and very protected. With all the internal infighting in the main parties, there was a huge demand for information for a few years. Antonella was in her element. But times change, the media empire collapsed, her protectors fell into disgrace. Now she does this and that. Same as everyone else, more or less. She comes pretty expensive though. The other journalists will trade information, but Antonella has no problem about sources, she only wants cash. I asked her to get ahold of the contents of all the computers in the apartment; she’s got a sidekick who’s good at that. Her own interest is that it allows her to peep around. You never know, she might pick up some interesting tidbit of information, just by chance . . .”
“How did she manage to get into his apartment so easily?”
“All artists like to give interviews to the press.”
YOU CAN’T MISS her when she does turn up: she’s wearing enormous fuchsia-pink après-ski boots. I suppose they must be the “in” thing, something that never ceases to surprise me. Without apologizing for being late, she throws a large envelope into the Hyena’s bag. She has an attractive husky voice which doesn’t fit her look of an ethereal slut.
“Wow, he comes on strong, your client. Still at his age, they’re all more or less nymphomaniacs.”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Antonella, you know you just knock them out.”
“Ah, don’t talk about the past. How are you?”
She hasn’t said hello to me, not even a glance. Humiliating but I’m starting to get used to it. It’s like when you’re a teenager and you go out with the school prom queen, after a while being in the shadows is restful. We all start walking toward the park gates and the Hyena asks, “Do you know the stuff he writes?”
“Domestic dramas among the bourgeoisie. Catholic, right-wing, but in a traditional way, not aggressive or racist or antisemitic. So nobody much is interested in him. He’d do better to write a blockbuster about the camps, if he wants to be taken seriously, that would make a change . . .”
“Is he successful?”
“Not so much now. He still has a bit of a profile. A little TV, public radio, does a few signing events in bookstores. He publishes a lot of articles here and there, wherever they’ll let him, he’s the right age and CV to get on the jury for literary prizes, and I couldn’t quite see why he’s so isolated. He’s not very aggressive, that always reduces your credibility. Publishers have fallen into the habit of looking after him, I’ve been told he gets an advance of fifteen thousand per book. He doesn’t sell more than five thousand. So you can see why he writes a lot.”
“He’ll be disappointed when he sees there’s no article.”
“No, it’s okay, I really was asked to put together a file for a book by this journalist for the Times who discovers every year that French culture doesn’t have any international influence anymore. Big deal, eh? I’ll pick up on this one malicious and well-aimed remark he made about Sollers and his importance, and that’ll do the trick. He’ll be annoyed at having chatted with me for a couple of hours, making eyes at me the whole time, and finding I’ve only included that one little jab, but basically he’ll be glad he’s quoted at all. If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t even get that.”
Antonella is flirting outrageously with the Hyena. I wonder whether they’ve slept together.
“Did he mention his daughter at all?”
“No. His father, yes, his mother a bit, his daughter not at all.”
“Protecting his privacy?”
“Men his age don’t often talk about their children. They are their parents’ children, but nobody’s parents. Unless there’s some drama, children aren’t very good subjects for novels, at least for men. If his kid were to die, then yes, there might be a novel in it . . . then again, a father’s grief isn’t best-seller material. But if she comes back home now and tells him off for being an old fusspot, what’s he going to do? He prefers to think of something else.”
WHEN CLAIRE LETS HERSELF SLIDE BACK IN THE bath, plunging her head under the warm water, she can hear sounds from the apartment below. As so often, the neighbors are having a fight. Amplified by the water, the sounds become strange, muffled, low. Often, the husband is violent. Claire hears the woman yelp two or three words, then she hears him retorting from another room, before he finally goes striding through the apartment, and that’s when he hits her. She screams and protests, sometimes trying to run away from him. Then the scene is punctuated by some louder sounds than the others, hard to identify, not necessarily blows. Followed by silence. The first few times, Claire was afraid he’d killed her, but in time she realized that it was the calm after the fight. You wouldn’t think, to look at them, that they were that kind of couple. Him, she often sees in the elevator, he’s an examining magistrate. Reddish face, rather puffy, a nose swollen by alcohol, but always well-dressed, polite, and smelling of aftershave. He was probably good-looking in his youth. He still acts like a gentleman toward women. He has two children, a boy and a girl, two years apart. When Claire moved in with François, she used to see them often, playing with the concierge’s little girl on the pavement out in front. They’re big now, no more scooters and marbles until they have children of their own. She never hears them intervene when their father raises his hand against their mother. Like all people this kind of thing doesn’t happen to, Claire is sure, (or so she thinks every time she meets someone from that family in the elevator) that she never would have put up with what the woman downstairs endures. If only for her two daughters’ sake, she’d have found the courage to leave, to pack her bags, whatever it cost, she’d have protected them from a violent father. Christophe had never laid a finger on Claire, nor on his daughters.
He left her just before the older girl’s sixth birthday. Claire had loved him unreservedly and obstinately for ten years. He’d come into her life when she was twenty-two, one New Year’s Eve at a friend’s house. She’d felt his eyes on her, trying to locate her wherever she was in the room, and then his large figure had kept appearing within a few feet from her, following her around from group to group. A mild form of stalking, which he hadn’t
