The Man Who Risked It All (29 page)

Later, I searched my apartment from top to bottom, going through it with a fine-tooth comb to unearth any hidden microphones. I found nothing.

Then I went on the Internet. I typed
Igor Dubrovski
into Google and with a knot in my stomach launched the search. I found 703 results, most in unknown languages, probably Russian. I scrolled through the search results until I found one in French. The entry was a list of names, each one followed by a percentage:
Bernard Vialley 13.4%; Jérôme Cordier 8.9%; Igor Dubrovski 76.2% …

The URL was
societe.com
, a site containing financial information on companies. The Igor Dubrovski listed there was probably only someone with the same name, but I clicked on the link to be sure. The webpage listed shareholders in a company called Luxares SA. Probably no relation to the Igor Dubrovki I was looking for.

Back to Google and the list of results. Another in French, with the words “Did Dubrovski kill François Littrec?” I shuddered. The information was published on an online news site,
lagazettedetoulouse.com
. My heart was beating faster and faster as I clicked on the link.
Error message. Page can’t be found.
Damn. Why don’t people update their links? Back to Google.

I scrolled through listings for other news sites, clicking on articles reporting on what was in all likelihood the same incident. “The Dubrovski Affair: When the accused takes control,” read one post. I clicked on it. The text was a commentary on trial proceedings, but instead of revealing the charges in the case, it described the behavior of Dubrovski at the trial. He had constantly corrected his lawyer and, in the end, had spoken in his place. According to the article, the jurors had been visibly unsettled by his contributions.

The jurors … So it was a
Cours d’Assise,
an assize court. That’s the court that hears serious criminal cases, like murder.

I looked at another article, entitled, “Will We Know the Truth One Day?” The journalist explained the reversal of the court’s findings and expressed surprise that a man presented by the police as obviously guilty had managed to sow doubt in the jurors’ minds.

Several other articles said more or less the same thing. All dated from the 1970s, more than 30 years ago. An article from
Le Monde
was titled “Freud, Wake Up. They’ve Gone Mad!” I clicked on it. It was bylined Jean Calusacq and dated 1976. A long text, it was, above all, a denunciation of the psychiatrist Igor Dubrovski’s methods, described as dangerous. I shuddered. It was him. The author attacked the psychotherapeutic models, American in origin, that were preached by Dubrovski, virulently denouncing the validity of his work. The article left no doubt as to Dubrovski’s guilt: Evidently he had induced young François Littrec to commit suicide under conditions that were still mysterious. Calusacq wanted his head.

I was dismayed. I was in the hands of a dangerous psychiatrist, obviously crazier than the people he was supposed to be treating when he had still been practicing. My God.

I found other articles. The word
acquitted
suddenly leapt at me. “Dubrovski Acquitted,” said a headline in
Le Parisien
. “Dubrovski’s acquittal raises issues for the whole profession,” the article suggested. “How can the court have released a man whose guilt was so obvious?”

Another article wondered if the psychiatrist hadn’t hypnotized the jurors to influence their vote, reporting the disturbing testimony of people who had been present at the hearing. Two others ran headlines about Dubrovski being stripped of his license by the Medical Board, while also denouncing the board for refusing to make public the reasons for the sanctions.

I had read enough.

With a knot in my stomach, I switched my computer off. I had to protect myself and get out of this mess. But how? One thing was sure: It wouldn’t be by trying to carry out the mission impossible Dubreuil had given me.

33

I
HAD BEEN
going over all the possibilities in my head for two days without satisfaction. I had to face it: There was nothing I could do as long as the police refused to protect me. Finally I had to admit that my only hope was to convince Dubreuil to retract his demand and give up this final mission. It was the most sensible thing to do. I was going to turn his teaching to good account by using it against him, to make him change his mind.

I constructed a detailed scenario, preparing a series of attitudes, questions, and arguments, anticipating every possible objection and reaction he might have. I spent several days putting the finishing touches on my approach, until I realized that I had been ready for a long time and that my extensive preparations could be explained only as my desire to put off their implementation. Dubreuil frightened me, and I was afraid to go back into his lair and throw myself deliberately into his clutches.

I finalized the plan of action. I decided to turn up unannounced one evening after dinner, at a time when his energy would no doubt be at its lowest but before the departure of the servants.

So I reached the avenue around 9:30
P.M.
I got off the bus at the stop before his house, so I could breathe deeply and relax by walking. The lime trees perfumed the air, but the warm air smelled of thunderstorm.

The neighborhood was very quiet, even though a number of July vacationers had returned. In my mind I ran through the different possible scenarios. My chances were slim, but I remained hopeful, impelled by the pressing need to free myself from Dubreuil’s control.

The shadow of the château slowly rose before me as I drew near. The windows on the front were dark. A deathly silence reigned over the place, which seemed deserted. From time to time, lightning streaked the sky.

I waited, hesitantly, before ringing the bell, peering into the darkness. Suddenly, I heard violent shouting. A woman’s voice. The hall light came on.

“I’m sick of it! I’ve had enough!” cried the woman.

The front door opened, and her silhouette appeared against the light. I was paralyzed, seized by surprise and incomprehension. The young woman who ran down the steps toward me was none other than Audrey. Audrey, my love. Before I could make the slightest movement, the little door next to the gate flew open, and we found ourselves face-to-face. It brought her up short. I saw the amazement on her face.

“Audrey …”

She didn’t reply, but fixed me with a distraught look.

In the darkening sky, the lightning flashes multiplied.

“Audrey …”

Tears came to her eyes, as she drew back to escape.

“Audrey …”

I took a step toward her, overcome by emotion, torn between my unchanged attraction to her and the unbearable pain of her rejection.

She put up a hand to stop me and said between two sobs, “I …

I can’t.”

The she ran off without turning around.

My pain rapidly turned into violent anger. Forgetting my fear, I threw myself at the door beside the gate. Closed. I called like a madman on the entry phone, pressing the button dozens of times and then keeping my finger pressed on it.

No one replied.

I grasped the gate with both hands and shook as hard as I could, venting my anger, shouting with all my might, my voice covering the flood of barking from Stalin.

“I know you’re there!” I shouted.

I called again, in vain. The storm burst at last; there was a muffled rumble of thunder. The first drops were scattered, then quickly became more intense, and the clouds burst.

Without thinking, I threw myself at the gate again. Propelled by an anger that gave me the energy of ten, I hauled myself up by the strength of my arms and managed to stand on top. I jammed my feet between the spikes and then jumped into the yard.

The bushes cushioned my fall. I got up and rushed to the heavy door, out of breath. I entered the cold entrance hall. Light was coming from the main drawing room. I strode across the hallway, my feet pounding the marble. The noise rang out in the enormous space. I entered the drawing room. The subdued lighting contrasted with my anger. I saw Dubreuil at once. He was sitting at the piano with his back to me, motionless, with his hands on his knees. I was soaked to the skin; water was streaming down my face and my clothes, dripping onto the Persian rug.

“You are angry,” he said as calmly as anything, without turning around. “That’s good. You must never keep your frustration or your resentment to yourself. Go on: Express yourself. Shout if you want.”

His words cut the ground from under my feet. I had planned to shout at him but shouting now would be obeying his command. I felt trapped, my momentum broken. I felt like a marionette whose emotions and actions were being manipulated by someone pulling on invisible strings. I decided to thwart his influence and let my anger burst out.

“What have you done to Audrey?” I screamed.

No reply.

“What was she doing here?”

Silence.

“I forbid you to interfere with my love life! Our pact doesn’t give you the right to play with my feelings!”

Still no answer. I noticed Catherine on one of the sofas in the corner of the room.

I went on, “I know you despise love. It doesn’t count for you. The truth is, you’re not capable of loving. You have repeated affairs with women half your age because you’re afraid of abandoning yourself and really loving one of them. It’s great to know how to get what you want in life, to have the courage to assert your will and pursue your dreams. I owe you that, and I acknowledge it’s precious. But it’s pointless if you’re not capable of loving, of loving a person, of loving others in general. You smoke in public places, drive in bus lanes, park on the sidewalk. You despise other people’s well-being. But what’s the point of knowing how to get what you want if you cut yourself off from others? You can’t live just for yourself, or else life has no meaning. All the luxuries in the world can never replace the beauty of a relationship, the purity of a feeling, even just the genuine smile of a neighbor or a passerby you hold the door open for, or the touching look of some stranger. Your fine theories are perfect, effective, brilliant even, yet you’re forgetting one thing, just one thing, but it’s essential: You’re forgetting to love.”

I turned around. When I got to the door, I looked back.

“And leave Audrey out of this!”

34

T
HE NEXT DAY
, my rage gradually gave way to the incomprehension that was eating away at me.

The more I advanced, the more inexplicable were the events that followed, and the more enigmatic my relationship with Dubreuil, or rather Dubrovski. How could he have infiltrated my life to that extent? And what was he up to? He wasn’t just a former psychiatrist who wronged his patients. He was dangerous, manipulative, and capable of anything.

Even so, I thought I had put my finger on his weak point: his theories about human relations. For something magical to happen in a relationship, you had to allow yourself to love the other.
Love the other
. It was the key. The key to all relations, whether friendly or professional. The key that Dubrovski lacked. And which I lacked, too, when it came to convincing my boss. I didn’t like him, and he was bound to feel it. All my efforts were in vain, pointless. I should have found a way of forgiving his hateful behavior enough to like him a little, just a little. And then he might have opened up to me, to my ideas and my proposals. But how do you find the strength to like your worst enemy?

I was still deep in thought and reflections about love, when I caught sight of my old neighbor walking toward me, dressed, as always, in black from head to toe. Since her last visit to my apartment, she had avoided talking to me.

Our eyes met, but she turned away and pretended to be interested in the nearest shop window. Unfortunately, it was the window of a particularly alluring lingerie shop. She found herself staring at G-strings and garter belts displayed on models in very suggestive poses. In the center of the window, where she couldn’t fail to see it, was an enormous poster that revealed the charms of a curvaceous beauty, with the advice given by a famous brand of underwear: “Lesson number 36: Give your angular form some curves.” She abruptly turned her head away and walked on, eyes on the ground.

“Hello, Madame Blanchard!” I called out gaily.

She slowly looked up.

“Good day, Monsieur Greenmor,” she said, blushing slightly, no doubt remembering our last encounter.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Well, thank you.”

“Lovely day, isn’t it? Makes a change from last night.”

“Yes, you’re right. Now that I see you, I must tell you: I’m sending around a petition about our neighbor on the fourth floor. Her cat walks along the ledge and goes into people’s apartments. The other day, I found it lying on my sofa. It’s quite unacceptable.”

“Her little gray cat?”

“Yes. As for Monsieur Robert, I’ve had enough of his cooking smells. He could at least close the window when he’s cooking. I’ve already talked to the managing agent three times, but I’m the only one who’s complained.”

Right. Let’s change the subject. I so wanted to get her onto something positive. “You’re out shopping?”