One last time, I thumbed through 10 or 12 pages, still going backward in time. What my eyes saw next was a shock to my system. I had met Yves Dubreuil for the first time the day of my attempted suicide at the Eiffel Tower. The date was unforgettable because it was so painful, charged with anxiety and shame: June 27.
The paragraph before my eyes was dated June 11.
I
WAS STILL
transfixed, the notebook in my hand, when I heard a slight creaking behind me. I turned around and, overcome with fright, saw the door handle move. Leaving the notebook on the desk, I slipped behind the thick curtains, afraid that this had all been a waste of time, that my presence here was already known.
Despite its thickness, the drapery material was loosely woven, so I could see through it, which made me afraid that I could be seen.
The door opened partway and a face looked in, peering into the darkness. It was the young woman. My heart was in my mouth. What she saw must have corresponded to what she expected, because she opened the door wide and came in, quite naked, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet.
She came straight toward me, and I held my breath. She stopped in front of the desk, and I started breathing again, half-relieved, half-disappointed. Her eyes were searching the darkness, looking for something. I was less than a yard away. She leaned over the desk, her breasts rippling delightfully, and reached out toward the notebook. Her perfume enveloped me in its sensuality, making me melt with desire. I only had to reach out to caress her skin, to lean forward to place my lips on it.
She pushed the notebook aside and leaned over farther toward a rectangular box. She opened it and took out an enormous cigar. She left the box open and, to my great regret, went straight back toward the door, her delicate fingers closed around the cigar she was taking back to the master of the house.
I waited 20 seconds before moving. 10:29
P.M.
Suppose Dubreuil had taken advantage of the young woman’s absence to go and free his hound? What should I do? Try my luck, or hide in the house all night and leave when the dog was tied up early next morning?
The music started again. I felt a wave of relief. No time to lose. I would leave directly by the window. I opened it and hauled myself out. The air outside was cool compared with the stuffy air in the office. I was only on the first floor, but the height of the ceiling was such that I found myself balanced on a narrow ledge more than 12 feet above the ground. I inched forward, arms outstretched, trying to push out of my mind the painful memory that was surfacing. I made my way to the corner of the building, where I slid down the drainpipe. I charged back around the outside edge of the garden. When I arrived in sight of the kennels, I gave a sigh of relief: Stalin was still tied up, gnawing away at his bone. He saw me come out of the shrubbery and stood up at once, his ears pricked. I called him gently by name, trying to defuse his aggressiveness before he alarmed the whole neighborhood. He couldn’t help but growl nastily, his jowls aquiver, showing his threatening fangs before sitting back down with his bone. He never took his eyes off me. Ungrateful creature.
A light came on inside the house. I ran to the little door and pulled. Locked? My piece of metal lay on the ground at my feet. Worried about Stalin, I had let the door shut without paying attention to it. Now I was caught like a rat in a trap. It was only a question of seconds before I was discovered. Anxiety overcame me, violent and oppressive, to which was added the anger of impotence. No other way out! The whole garden was surrounded by impassable railings, ten feet high, with spikes on the top. There was no nearby tree I could make use of, no wall, nothing. I caught sight of Stalin. He was moving his head, his teeth fastened on the bone, which he was shaking every now and then, his fangs shining white in the night. Behind him, the four great kennels were perfectly lined up just under the fence.
I swallowed hard.
Dubreuil had said that in the business world, persecutors didn’t choose their victims randomly. And what about dogs? Would Stalin attack me if I weren’t tormented by fear as soon as I saw him? How would he react if I were perfectly calm, relaxed, and even confident?
It was the only way out.
A little voice spoke inside me, a tiny whisper telling me I had to face this trial. Doubtless, the piece of metal had fallen by chance, but chance, Einstein said, was God traveling incognito. I had a premonition that life was presenting me with a chance to change and that if I didn’t grasp the proffered opportunity, I would remain forever ensnared in my fears.
My fears. Stalin terrified me. To what extent was his viciousness induced by the vision I had of him? Was my fear the fruit of his aggressiveness or the spark that set it off? Would I have the courage to confront my fear, master it, and then go up to him?
A brave man only dies once,
says the proverb,
while the coward has already died a thousand times.
I took a deep breath and then slowly expelled all the air from my lungs. I did it again and again, deep breaths, calming myself down, freeing the slightest contraction of my muscles. Each breath helped me relax more. After a while, I felt my heartbeat slow down more.
Stalin’s a good boy, a good dog,
I told myself.
I’m good. I feel good. I feel confident—confident about me, confident about him. I like him, and he likes me, too. Everything’s fine.
I started walking forward slowly, looking vaguely in the direction of the first kennel and breathing calmly, relaxing more and more. Everything’s fine.
I continued walking, paying no attention to the dog, directing my thoughts to the color of the kennel, the mildness of the evening, the quiet of the garden.
I never once looked at Stalin, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he had lifted his head. I continued walking forward, keeping my attention and my thoughts on harmless aspects of my surroundings, maintaining my feeling of confidence and calm. I finally hauled myself up on top of the kennel. The good dog didn’t move. I climbed over the fence, then dropped down on the other side before disappearing into the night.
F
OR MORE THAN
a month, I had been letting people I didn’t know govern my life. I had made it a point of honor to respect my promise. What had I been hoping for, exactly? That Dubreuil would keep his promise and make me a free and fulfilled man? But how could I become free by submitting to someone else’s will? I had closed my eyes, refusing to see this obvious paradox, blinded by the egocentric pleasure of having someone take an interest in me. And now I had discovered that our meeting wasn’t chance. These people had hidden motives I knew nothing about.
I could understand Dubreuil being concerned about my fate after the Eiffel Tower business. Saving someone’s life sets up something irresistible that makes you continue in the direction you have started. But it was impossible to explain him writing reports about me
before
our meeting. This incomprehension became a source of anxiety that was constantly with me. My sleep became disturbed, agitated. During the day I was tense and worried.
The wording of the terms of our pact was constantly on my mind:
You must respect our contract; otherwise your life will come to an end.
My life was entirely in this man’s hands.
Then there was the additional fact that now I knew I was being followed. It’s difficult to live normally under those conditions. Whether you’re in the Métro, at the supermarket, or even sitting quietly in an outdoor café, you’re constantly aware that someone is observing you. Those first days, it made me change my habits: I would leave the Métro at the last moment, just before the doors shut, or duck out of a movie theater by the emergency exit. But far from freeing my mind, these pathetic acts simply reinforced my disquiet, and in the end I decided to give them up.
I heard nothing from Dubreuil in the following days, which instead of reassuring me, made my imagination run wild and the questions multiply. Did he know about my intrusion? Had I been tailed that night? Had the naked girl revealed my presence? And what effect would it have on the pact that bound us? Would he give me back my freedom or, on the contrary, increase the pressure on me? I didn’t think he was the type to capitulate that easily.
I spent Saturday wandering around Paris, trying to forget the situation I had gotten myself into. I walked at random through the narrow streets of the Marais, where the medieval buildings sometimes lean so much you wonder by what miracle they’re still standing. I lingered under the arches of the Place des Vosges. I walked along the Rue des Rosiers, where I stumbled onto a Jewish pastry shop that had kept intact the charm and atmosphere of past centuries. The smell of the cakes just out of the oven made me want to buy out the whole shop. I left with an apple strudel that was still warm, which I ate while walking along the old cobblestone streets among the weekend crowds. When evening came, I went back to my own neighborhood, exhausted but satisfied with my day, fully feeling the healthy fatigue of the
flâneur,
the stroller.
Reaching the corner of two dark, deserted streets, I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. I was face-to-face with Vladi, who towered over me.
“Follow me,” he said calmly but without any explanation.
“Why?” I hurriedly replied, looking around me and seeing, to my annoyance, that we were alone.
He didn’t reply but merely pointed to the Mercedes parked on the sidewalk. The rest of his body remained as motionless as a rock.
I didn’t have the strength to break into a sprint. Shouting would have been pointless.
“Just tell me why,” I pleaded.
“Monsieur Dubreuil order.”
He could scarcely have been more laconic. I knew I’d get nothing more out of him.
He opened the car door. I didn’t budge. He, too, remained motionless, calmly looking at me without any aggressiveness in his eyes. In the end I reluctantly got in. The door closed with a dull click. I was the only passenger. Ten seconds later he set off.
The soft comfort of the seat transformed my fear into despondency. I felt like a fugitive, caught by the police, who is used to journeys in the police van and almost feels relieved. I found myself yawning.
“Where are you taking me?”
No answer.
“Tell me where we’re going, or else I’m getting out!”
No reaction. I felt a mixture of anger and apprehension.
The car finally stopped at a light. My muscles contracted, ready to leap out. I tried the door handle on my side. Locked!
“Me put child protection so you not fall this night on highway.”
“What do you mean,
highway,
this night?
”
“Me advise you sleep. Car all night.”
I stiffened instinctively, seized by a feeling of panic. What was all this nonsense? I had to get out of here!
We drove past Ste-Marie Madeleine and turned down the Rue Royale. There were no policemen I could try and signal through the window. The window. Yes, of course, the window! I could get out that way. Vladi’s window was already down; I could feel the air rushing in. He wouldn’t hear me opening my window if I did it while he was accelerating.
I waited nervously, my finger on the switch. We arrived at the Place de la Concorde. For a second, Vladi turned his head toward the Fontaine des Fleuves, where some teenagers were shouting and splashing each other. Conscious of playing my final card, I pressed the switch and the window came down. I held my breath. We passed in front of the Obélisque, and then the light turned red at the corner of the Champs-Elysées. The car stopped.
I dived out.
I was immediately gripped by the ankle, very hard, and felt myself being pulled back inside. I screamed, grabbing the door to keep my chest outside the car. I waved in the direction of some nearby cars, but the passengers were all turned the other way, admiring the lights of the Champs-Elysées. I struggled, shouted, banged on the body of the car.
Vladi managed to get me completely back in the car, almost ripping an ear off in the process.
“Calm down, calm down,” he said. There is nothing more annoying than hearing that. Especially coming from a man whose pulse is 25 while yours is 200.
I continued to struggle, landing a few blows in vain. Finally, I swallowed my anger, resigned myself, and the car set off again. Then, everything happened very quickly. We sped across the Seine and past the Assemblée Nationale, then along the Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the Luxembourg Gardens. Ten minutes later, the long, black Mercedes was speeding along the highway to the south, a bird of prey cleaving the night.
T
HE JOLTS WOKE
me up. I opened my eyes and sat up, totally panicked, not knowing where I was. Seeing the back of Vladi’s head brought me back to earth. The Mercedes was climbing a very steep, stony track. Vladi didn’t even bother to avoid the many potholes, and the beams of his headlights bobbed up and down in the night, lighting up stone ruins, then getting lost among the stars.
I had tried to remain awake, but the long, monotonous hours on the highway had gotten the better of me. My mouth was dry.
“Where are we?” I said with difficulty.
“Soon there.”
The car was climbing a barren hillside. No houses in sight, only the dark silhouettes of scrawny trees with tortured trunks that stood out against the stones and clumps of dried grass. I felt like I was on the way to prison.
The car stopped on a ledge near the top of the hill. The path was strewn with boulders from a wall that had partially collapsed. Vladi switched off the engine and suddenly everything was totally quiet. He remained motionless for a few moments and then got out. Warm air wafted into the car. My pulse began to race again. What were we doing in such a place?
Vladi stretched a few times to relax his back. A giant in his black suit, he resembled a huge scarecrow blown by the night wind. He opened my door. I shivered.
“Get out, please.”