Lorraine Connection (3 page)

A twenty-minute break, just time to catch the girls as they head down the main corridor to the cafeteria and the men from packaging drag them out of the back exit to the waste ground behind the factory, where they all sit around on discarded
pallets
. A strange place, this hastily erected sheet-metal cube on wasteland in the bottom of a valley overgrown with weeds and scrub. It stands on the site where, less than a generation ago, the Lorraine blast furnaces roared, one of the world’s most
powerful
iron and steel industries. Now, the forests covering the hills slowly regain domination both of the landscape and the imagination of the people who live there. It’s very chilly. Nourredine’s friend Étienne watches the girls. They’re beautiful, all of them.
Why
didn’t
you
think
of
chatting
them
up
sooner?
Are
you
blind,
or
what?
Amrouche hangs around and goes to sit down with them.

Nourredine climbs on to a pallet, tall and slim in his grey work overalls, his ascetic face tense and ill at ease. He blurts out: ‘Maréchal got Rolande fired.’ Amrouche, uncomfortable, says nothing. A few moments of total silence. The girls are shivering with the cold and fear. Then Aisha stands up, her arms folded over her chest, her voice and lips trembling slightly.

At last she has found the words to describe the death of the Korean engineer, only a month ago. Everyone’s heard about it, but she witnessed it, she was at her work station in section four, next to the rotor when it broke down. The engineer came, he pressed the button at the end of the line to stop the conveyor, removed the safety housing from the rotor and got right inside the machine to repair it. Aisha was standing behind him. Another Korean was passing by, he didn’t understand why the conveyor had stopped, didn’t ask the women workers, and in any case, he
didn’t speak French. Then, before anybody could stop him, he pressed the button to switch the power back on and start up the conveyor again. There was no circuit breaker on the rotor, and the engineer’s head was sliced clean off.

‘I saw the headless body straighten up. People tell me it’s impossible, but I tell you I saw it, and the blood spurting out. I felt the blood on my face, my hands, and then the body
crumpled
at my feet. I keep seeing it, over and over again, that headless body jerking, every night. And when I wake up in the dark, I feel the warmth of the blood on my face. They wanted me to go back to work the next day, at the same station. They thought that was quite normal. They said it’s just an accident, clear up the mess, clean up, carry on. I could never have sat next to the rotor again. It was Rolande who arranged for me to come and work in
finishing
, so I could keep my job. And now, Émilienne’s been
electrocuted
, the baby’s dead, and Rolande’s been booted out.’

Silence. Everyone on this patch of waste ground behind the sheet-metal factory is staring at Aisha, smooth strands of jet black hair framing her chalky face and the rest tied back. Right now she’s tense, fiery, the embodiment of the tragedy in their
day-to-day
lives.

Amrouche closes his eyes. He too has his recurring nightmare. He’s twenty, he works on the gangway above the factory floor, the molten-steel ladle explodes thirty feet beneath him, thirty tonnes of molten steel swallow up some fifteen men, the wild yells, the smell of charred flesh, unbearable.
Stop,
snap
out
of
it.
Someone says:

‘My wife works in admin. She heard that they’re not going to pay us our bonuses in December.’ All eyes turn to Amrouche, who clears his throat.

‘I think that may be true. I believe they’ve decided not to pay the monthly bonuses that were agreed last February, which were supposed to be paid in a lump sum in December. No bonuses for this year. The first bonus will be paid next January.’

Why
on
earth
did
I
say
that?
Now
the
shit
will
really
hit
the
fan.
Too
late
now.
Perhaps
I
wanted
to
distract
Maréchal,
he’s
a
former
steelworker?
Most
of
all
I
wanted
to
stop
the
unbearable
agony
Aisha
’s
speech
caused
me,
the
rush
of
memories
of
molten
steel
engulfing
the
men,
my
horror
of
accidents,
and
death,
because
it
is
the
human
condition,
and
there’s
nothing
I
can
do
about
it
,
and
I’d
rather
forget.
But
the
bonuses,
suddenly
being
robbed
of
the
equivalent
of
almost
a
month’s
pay
in
accumulated
bonuses,
which
they’re
entitled
to,
which
they’ve
been
counting
on,
which
they’ve
already
decided
how
to
spend,
that’s
completely
different,
that’s
another
matter
entirely,
I’ve
moved
on
to
new
terrain,
famil
iar,
signposted,
strangely
reassuring.
The entire group, shivering with cold on this autumn day, is gripped by fear, anger, bitterness and dejection: the bonuses must be paid immediately. To which Nourredine adds: ‘Rolande must be reinstated immediately.’ The group returns to the building to do the rounds of all the
workshops
. Within half an hour, the entire factory has ground to a halt.

A discreet lunch in a hotel in Luxembourg, close to the French border, a table for two in a small private dining room. Maurice Quignard drinks a
pastis
while he waits. Sixtyish, tall,
broad-shouldered
, flat stomach, he is still athletic-looking. His tanned, lined face has a brutal look. After a long career in the steel
industry
, he has set up a consultancy advising on business
reconversion
. He works with a number of EU organisations and is an unpaid advisor to the board of directors of Daewoo Pondange on behalf of the European Development Plan committee. In a way, Daewoo is his baby. Thanks to his political connections in Lorraine, he acted as go-between with the Koreans, negotiated the conditions for the company to set up there, and ensures there is a plentiful supply of manna in the form of EU and French
subsidies
. Again, unpaid. In the interests of the region and of France. The idea of Daewoo and Matra making a joint bid to take over Thomson was born during an informal dinner with the
chairman
of the Lorraine region at his home, two years ago already. And now, he’s close to achieving his goal. He knows that after Daewoo’s takeover of Thomson Multimedia, the new company will be a global concern and there’ll be an influential role for him as human resources advisor. A glorious end to his career. Not to mention the financial rewards. So he follows Daewoo’s activities on a day-to-day basis, thanks to the contacts he’s developed at every level of the company.

At around ten a.m. today, Maréchal had come to his office in Pondange and briefed him about the internal situation. Worrying. Another accident, serious. What’s worse is the sacking of a good
worker, a well-liked woman, another unnecessary provocation by that idiotic Head of HR. During their conversation a phone call from the factory had informed them that a strike had broken out on the shop floor.
What
did
I
tell
you?
Maréchal wasn’t too
worried
: it’s a spontaneous and localised movement, not one of them has any sense of organisation, you know what those layabouts are like.
By
tomorrow
I’ll
have
everything
back
in
hand,
but
frankly,
we
really
could
have
avoided
this.
And Quignard was furious. He’s summoned the CEO to give him a piece of his mind. He’s late, which doesn’t help. Quignard is on his third
pastis.

Park, the Korean CEO, arrives, a smile on his smooth round face. His tortoiseshell glasses give him a permanent air of slight amazement. Quignard speeds things up and asks for the starter to be served at once – a selection of cured meats – accompanied by a good Burgundy. The minute they are alone, he attacks, tough, impatient.

‘A factory where there have been no incidents for two years, not a single hour’s strike, where the unions are kept out … How on earth did you manage to set the place on fire at the worst
possible
moment in terms of our affairs?’

‘On fire … I’d say that was a bit of an exaggeration.’ His voice is soft, cultured, his French impeccable, barely a hint of an accent. At the factory, he never speaks French, which he claims not to know, but English or Korean. ‘At present, two workshops have downed tools, less than twenty people.’
Out
of
the
question
to
tell
this
loudmouth
who
despises
me
that
an
entire
shift
has
just
gone
on
strike,
since
he
doesn’t
appear
to
have
heard.
There’s
plenty
of
time.

‘My contacts tell me that emotions are running very high in the factory. You have to admit that there have been a number of accidents, the rate of production is high and the pay isn’t good. As long as that only translates into absenteeism, there’s no
problem
. But in my young days, people used to say: one spark can set the plain on fire. So no sparks. You must keep your Head of HR in order.’

‘I understand.’

The smile wiped off his face, a bitter crease at the corners of his mouth.
That
Head
o
f HR
,
a
man
he
recommended
to
me
himself
The
son
of
a
local
big
shot.
Important
for
integrating
the
business
into
the
local
fabric,
he
said.
Totally
useless.

The waiter brings the next course – a copious stew – and a
second
bottle of Burgundy. Quignard continues, still on the attack.

‘Not the slightest ripple while the Thomson bid is pending.’

‘That’s a matter of a few days. We’ll hold out until then.’

‘No. Maybe just for a few hours until the government delivers its decision, and the main job will be done, granted, but we still have to see how the public will react and await the opinion of the Privatisation Commission. We need at least a good month of peace and quiet. It’s not asking for the moon.’

‘I can’t budge on pay. Our hands are tied by a major bank repayment due in one week’s time. I can only cover it through an advance on the delivery of our stocks, scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Finances are so tight that I haven’t even renewed the fire insurance policy which has expired.’

‘I know. You’re financially overstretched, particularly under present circumstances. It’s a rash thing to do, and pointless.’ Quignard suddenly frowns. ‘Tell me, there’s no risk of the factory grinding to a halt in the next two days at least, is there? If you don’t honour that payment, it will be disastrous for our business at national level.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘Do more than be aware. Take precautions, immediately.’

At least a hundred workers are sitting around in the cafeteria, mostly men and most of them very young. No more than about twenty women. Small clusters have formed around the work teams arguing about the bonuses in raised voices, but there’s little
communication
between the groups. In fact the different shifts barely know each other and tend to be faintly wary. For nearly all the workers it’s their first stoppage. Now what do we do? Kader, the best-known shop steward is on sick leave, announces a staff rep. He is greeted by jeers. Amrouche skulks in a corner by the main entrance, keeping a low profile. Nourredine looks uncertainly about him, nobody’s rushing forward. He clambers on to a table. Who the hell’s he? The guy from packaging, a big mouth … Does he have a mandate? No, no mandate … He awkwardly describes Émilienne’s electrocution, his mouth dry. They pay him scant attention and seem more concerned with Rolande’s dismissal, a lot of them know her, a brave woman, for sure, but always
sucking
up. ‘Why don’t we talk about the bonuses?’ yells a young man.
Nourredine calls Amrouche who scowls and refuses to climb on to the table. He announces, without comment, that the bonuses for the current year have been cancelled and that the first bonus will be paid next January. A chorus of angry muttering and the discussion spreads. Some refuse to believe it, an agreement is an agreement, there’s no going back on it. Others claim it serves them right for being so stupid as to have given those Korean sharks credit. A delegation is formed, led by Nourredine and Amrouche, tasked with meeting management to obtain information, demand prompt payment of the arrears and insist on Rolande’s
reinstatement
. They head off in the direction of the offices.