Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
She has been working here for six weeks. In her first interview, he was blunt and immediately offered a practical solution to her ongoing problem.
“On the books or cash in hand?”
“Cash in hand,” Sophie said.
He said:
“What’s your name?”
“Juliette.”
“O.K., Juliette, you’re hired.”
She started the next day, with no contract, no payslip, no possibility of choosing her own hours, she is given breaks so short she has no time to go home, is allocated more night shifts than the others, and rarely gets home before midnight. She pretends to suffer, but actually it suits her perfectly. She has found somewhere
to stay, at the far end of a boulevard that is thronged with prostitutes as soon as it gets dark. No-one in the neighbourhood knows her, she leaves early in the morning and by the time she gets back, her neighbours are slumped in front of the television or are already in bed. On nights when her shift ends after the last bus has left, she treats herself to a taxi. She makes the most of her breaks during the day to explore the city, look for another apartment, another job where no-one will ask any questions. This has been her strategy from the start: no sooner does she arrive somewhere than she starts looking for another place to stay, a different job. Never stay in the same place. Keep moving. In the beginning, she found getting by with no papers was reasonably easy, though exhausting. She slept very little, was careful to change the route she took at least twice a week, no matter where she was. As her hair grew out, it was easy to style it differently. She bought a pair of clear glasses. She is constantly on the alert. She moves regularly. She has already spent time in four different cities. And this one is not the worst. The worst thing about it is the work.
*
Monday is the most complicated: a sixteen-hour day with three breaks of varying lengths. At about 11.00 one morning, as she was walking along an avenue, she decided to stop for a few minutes (“Never again, Sophie, ten minutes maximum”) and have a cup of coffee on the terrace of a café. She thought about the weeks ahead as she sipped her espresso. (“Always plan ahead. Always.”) She leafed through the newspaper. Whole pages of advertisements for mobile phones, small ads selling second-hand cars. And suddenly she stopped, set down her cup, stubbed out her cigarette and nervously lit another. She closed her eyes. “It’s too much to hope for, Sophie. You need to think carefully.”
But
however much she thought . . . It is complicated, but right here, before her eyes, she may have found a way out of her situation, a permanent solution. Expensive, granted, but absolutely dependable.
One last obstacle – a considerable one – and everything might be different.
Sophie spends a long moment mulling it over. Her mind is racing so fast that she is almost tempted to make notes, but that is not allowed. She decides to take a few days to think about it, and if at that point it still seems like a sensible solution, she will take the necessary steps.
This is the first time that she breaks her own rules: she spends fifteen minutes sitting in the same place.
*
Sophie cannot sleep. In her room, she allows herself the risk of jotting things down to get her thoughts in order. All the elements are in place. The plan can be summed up in five lines. She lights another cigarette, re-reads her notes, then burns them in the rubbish chute. Everything now depends on two conditions: finding the right person, and having enough money. Whenever she arrives somewhere new, her first precaution is to leave a suitcase at left luggage containing everything she might need if she has to vanish in a hurry. Aside from clothes and the various items she uses to change her appearance (hair dye, glasses, make-up, etc.), the case contains 11,000 euros. But she has no idea how much this might cost. What if she does not have enough?
How could she keep such a house of cards from collapsing? It is madness, there are too many conditions to meet. Thinking about it, she realises that, although her response to each individual
obstacle is “It should be O.K.”, the sheer number of her doubts and hesitations means that the plan is unrealistic.
She has learned to distrust herself. It is perhaps what she does best. She takes a deep breath, reaches for her cigarettes and notices that she has only one left. The alarm clock reads 7.30 a.m. Her shift does not start until 11.00.
*
At about 11 p.m. she leaves the restaurant. It rained during the afternoon, but the evening is cool and clear. At this time, she knows that with a little luck . . . She walks down the boulevard, takes a deep breath, asks herself one last time if there is any other way, knowing that she has already been through every possible solution open to her. And could think of nothing better than this. Everything will depend on her intuition. So much for intuition . . .
Cars prowl, stop, windows rolled down to enquire about prices and evaluate the merchandise. Some do a U-turn at the end of the boulevard and drive slowly back. At first, when she came home late, she was reluctant to take the boulevard, but the detour took her out of her way and, over time, she realised that she did not mind: she had reduced her contact with the outside world to a minimum and found something comforting about that, being a local, a familiar face, she was greeted with a nod or a wave by these women who, like her, were probably wondering whether they would ever get out of here.
The street is dotted with pools of light. The first section is known as the A.I.D.S. parade. Young girls, much too young, writhe and jitter, permanently anxious for their next fix. They are pretty enough to stand under the streetlights. Further along, others seek refuge in the half-light. Further still, almost cloaked
in shadow, are the transvestites whose painted faces sometimes loom out of the darkness like carnival masks.
Sophie lives a little further along still, in an area that is calmer but sleazier. The woman she thought of is there. About fifty, bottle blonde, taller than Sophie, with an ample bosom that probably attracts a certain type of clientele. Their eyes meet and Sophie stops.
“Excuse me . . . I just want some information.”
Sophie hears her voice ring loud and clear. She is surprised by her self-assurance. “I can pay,” she adds before the woman has time to answer and flashes the fifty-euro note crumpled in her hand.
The woman stares at her for a moment, then glances around, smiles vaguely and says in a voice made hoarse by years of smoking: “Depends . . . What kind of information you looking for?”
“I need papers,” Sophie says.
“What papers?”
“A birth certificate. The name doesn’t matter, all I care about is the date. Well, the year. I thought maybe you might know someone . . .”
Playing out this scenario in her head, Sophie imagined that her request might be greeted with compassion, perhaps even complicity, but that was sheer fantasy. It was only ever going to be a business transaction.
“I really need it. And it has to be reasonable. All I’m asking for is a name, an address . . .”
“It don’t work like that, love.”
Before Sophie can react, the woman turns on her heel and stalks off. She is left standing there. Then the woman turns back and says simply:
“I’ll have a quiet word. Come back next week.”
The
woman holds out her hand and waits, her eyes fixed on Sophie who hesitates, delves into her bag and takes out a second banknote which is snatched away.
*
Now that she has settled on a plan, and since she can think of none better, Sophie does not wait for the outcome of the first step before moving on to the second. Perhaps it is a secret desire to tempt fate. Two days later, during a break in the middle of the afternoon, she goes on a reconnaissance mission. She is careful to choose a target far from both the restaurant and her apartment, on the other side of the city.
She gets off the bus on boulevard Faidherbe and walks for some distance, using a map so she will not have to ask for directions. She goes straight past the agency, walking slowly to give herself time to look in the window, but all she can see is an empty desk, some filing cabinets and a number of posters on the wall. She crosses the street, turns back and goes into a café from which she can watch the office without being seen. From here it looks as disappointing as when she walked past: it is the sort of place where there is nothing to see, the sort of office that strives to be impersonal so as to discourage passers-by. A few minutes later, Sophie pays for her coffee, strides across the street and pushes open the door.
The agency is still deserted, but a bell jangles above the door and a moment later a woman appears. In her forties, with dyed red hair in desperate need of attention and too much jewellery, she thrusts out a hand enthusiastically as though she and Sophie had known each other since childhood.
“Myriam Desclées,” she says.
Her name seems as fake as the colour of her hair. “Catherine
Guéral,” Sophie says and, paradoxically, it sounds genuine.
It is clear that the manageress likes to think she knows a little about psychology. She props her elbows on the desk, cupping her chin in her hands, and is gazing at Sophie, her eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and pain intended to demonstrate that she has spent long hours dealing with human suffering. Long, billable hours.
“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” she whispers gently.
“A little . . .” Sophie ventures.
“Tell me about yourself, Catherine.”
Mentally, Sophie thinks through the notes she has patiently prepared, in which every element was weighed and considered.
“My name is Catherine, I’m thirty . . .” she begins.
The interview could have gone on for two hours. The manageress is using every trick of the trade to persuade Sophie that she is “understood”, that she has finally found the patient, worldly mentor she has been seeking, that she is in good hands, the hands of a universal mother, a sensitive soul who can intuit what is left unspoken, a gift she communicates through small facial tics that signify “No need to say any more, I understand,” or “I feel your pain.”
Sophie’s time is limited. As awkwardly as she can, she asks for some information about “the nature of the process”, and makes it clear that soon she has to be back at work.
A situation such as this is always a race against time. One person wants to leave, the other wants her to stay. It is a struggle for dominance which involves all the phases of a small war: attacks, feints, redeployments, intimidation, tactical retreats, changes of strategy . . .
Eventually, Sophie has had enough. She has found out what
she wanted to know: the price, the type of clientele, the process of introductions, the guarantee. She stammers an embarrassed but convincing “Well, look . . . I’ll think about it”. She has done everything in her power not to leave an impression the woman will remember. Without a flicker of hesitation, she rattled off a false name, a false address and telephone number. As she walks back to the bus stop, Sophie knows that she will never come back here, but she has had the confirmation she was looking for: if everything works out, she will soon be able to have a brand-new, utterly flawless identity.
She can be laundered clean like dirty money.
Thanks to a genuine birth certificate issued under a false name. All she needs now is to find a husband to give her a married name that is untarnished and above suspicion.
It will be impossible to find her.
One Sophie the thief, the killer, will disappear. Farewell, Sophie the Psycho.
And out of the depths of the black hole.
Here comes Sophie the Saint.
Sophie
has not seen many gangster movies, but she can conjure images: a backroom bar in a sleazy neighbourhood, full of repulsive men playing cards in a haze of smoke; instead she finds herself in a large white apartment with a picture window that offers sweeping views of the city, standing in front of a man of about forty who, although he is not smiling, is clearly civilised.
The place is a caricature of everything she despises: the glass-topped desk, the designer office chairs, the abstract painting on the wall, the work of an interior designer without one iota of personal style.
The man is sitting behind his desk. Sophie is standing. A note in her mailbox summoned her here at the most inconvenient possible time. She had to take an unscheduled break from work and is already in a hurry to get back.
“So, you need a birth certificate?” the man says, looking at her.
“It’s not for me, it’s . . .”
“Don’t waste your breath, that’s no concern of mine.”
Sophie focuses on the man, trying to memorise his features.
More like fifty than forty, otherwise unremarkable. He could be anybody.
“Our reputation in the market is unrivalled. Our products are of the highest quality,” the man goes on. “That is the secret of our success.”
His voice is soothing and firm. It gives the impression of being in safe hands.
“We have a variety of good, solid identities we can offer. Obviously, they cannot be used indefinitely, but as a medium-term solution the product offers exceptional value for money.”
“How much?” Sophie says.
“15,000 euros.”
Sophie yelps, “But I don’t have that much!”
The man is a negotiator. He thinks for a moment and then, in an authoritative tone, he says, “We cannot go below twelve thousand.”
It is more than she has. And even if she could make up the difference, it would leave her without a cent. She is in a burning building, standing by an open window. Should she jump? She will not get a second chance. She tries to weigh the possibilities in the eyes of the man staring at her. He does not move.
“How does it work?” she says at last.
“It couldn’t be simpler.” The man smiles.
*
The
restaurant is heaving when Sophie arrives back twenty minutes late. As she rushes in, she sees Jeanne pulling a face and jerking her thumb towards the far end of the counter. Sophie does not even have time to take off her coat.