that’s what he’s all about. He’ll put it better than I can. I’ll go out and call him.’
Because they still hadn’t had a telephone installed. It was eight months now, since they’d moved in, the four of them, to this dilapidated house, four men, almost drowned by the 1990s economic recession, with the impossible plan of clubbing together to keep their heads above water. For the moment, the irregular and uncertain resources they managed to contribute allowed them to survive by the skin of their teeth, but without being able to see more than three months ahead. So to make a phone call, they went to a nearby cafe.
And for three weeks now, Marc had been doing his job, conscientiously, Saturdays included, because newspapers were published on Saturdays as well. As he was a fast reader, he quickly finished his daily stack, which was a large one, since Kehlweiler received all the regional papers too. In them, all he had to do was spot echoes of criminal activity of any kind: political, financial, vice, drugs, domestic – and sort them into piles. In the reports, he was asked to pay attention to cold cases rather than recent ones, hard scandals not soft ones, the implacable rather than the crimes of passion.
Kehlweiler had kept the sorting instructions short, no point bothering Marc with the stuff about right hand, left hand. Marc had that built in, and could easily make the distinction between efficacity and muddle. So Kehlweiler left him a free hand in cutting up the newspapers. Marc did the necessary connections, classified and indexed by subject, clipped and put the articles into files, and once a week he wrote a general report. Kehlweiler seemed all right to him, but he wasn’t sure yet. He had only seen him three times, a tall guy with a stiff leg, good-looking once you got close to him. He was overpowering at times, which was disagreeable, and yet Kehlweiler’s manner was always gentle and slow. All the same, Marc wasn’t entirely at ease with him. He instinctively felt he had to be on guard, and Marc didn’t like having to do that, in fact it pissed him off. If he himself felt like losing his temper, for example, he usually didn’t hold back. But Kehlweiler didn’t give the impression that he ever lost his temper. Which annoyed Marc, who liked to meet people as nervy as himself, or, ideally, worse.
One of these days, Marc thought, as he used the two keys on the bunker door, he’d try to stop losing his temper. But at thirty-six, he didn’t see how he would manage that.
As he crossed the threshold, he gave a start. There was a bed installed behind his desk and an old woman with brightly dyed hair, who put down her book to look at him.
‘Come in,’ said Marthe, ‘and pretend I’m not here. I’m Marthe. You’re the one who comes to work for Ludwig? He left a note for you.’
Marc read a few lines, in which Kehlweiler summed up the situation for him. OK, but did he think it was so easy to work, with someone living her little life one metre behind your back? Hell’s bells.
Marc nodded a greeting and sat at the table. Best to keep your distance from the start, because this old lady looked as if she was chatty and nosy about everything. You had to think Kehlweiler wasn’t worried about leaving her with his files.
He could feel her looking at his back, and that made him tense. He’d picked up a copy of
Le Monde
and found it hard to concentrate.
Marthe was examining the newcomer from behind. Dressed entirely in black: drainpipe trousers, canvas jacket and cowboy boots, black hair too, a smallish man, a bit too thin, the nervous, agile type, didn’t look strong. His face was all right, a bit lined, a bit Sioux Indian, but not bad, delicate, attractive. Good. It would be all right. She wouldn’t bother him, he looked the jumpy kind who needs to be on his own to work. She had experience of men.
Marthe stood up, and put on her coat. She had some stuff to fetch.
Marc stopped halfway through a line,
Because they still hadn’t had a telephone installed. It was eight months now, since they’d moved in, the four of them, to this dilapidated house, four men, almost drowned by the 1990s economic recession, with the impossible plan of clubbing together to keep their heads above water. For the moment, the irregular and uncertain resources they managed to contribute allowed them to survive by the skin of their teeth, but without being able to see more than three months ahead. So to make a phone call, they went to a nearby cafe.
And for three weeks now, Marc had been doing his job, conscientiously, Saturdays included, because newspapers were published on Saturdays as well. As he was a fast reader, he quickly finished his daily stack, which was a large one, since Kehlweiler received all the regional papers too. In them, all he had to do was spot echoes of criminal activity of any kind: political, financial, vice, drugs, domestic – and sort them into piles. In the reports, he was asked to pay attention to cold cases rather than recent ones, hard scandals not soft ones, the implacable rather than the crimes of passion.
Kehlweiler had kept the sorting instructions short, no point bothering Marc with the stuff about right hand, left hand. Marc had that built in, and could easily make the distinction between efficacity and muddle. So Kehlweiler left him a free hand in cutting up the newspapers. Marc did the necessary connections, classified and indexed by subject, clipped and put the articles into files, and once a week he wrote a general report. Kehlweiler seemed all right to him, but he wasn’t sure yet. He had only seen him three times, a tall guy with a stiff leg, good-looking once you got close to him. He was overpowering at times, which was disagreeable, and yet Kehlweiler’s manner was always gentle and slow. All the same, Marc wasn’t entirely at ease with him. He instinctively felt he had to be on guard, and Marc didn’t like having to do that, in fact it pissed him off. If he himself felt like losing his temper, for example, he usually didn’t hold back. But Kehlweiler didn’t give the impression that he ever lost his temper. Which annoyed Marc, who liked to meet people as nervy as himself, or, ideally, worse.
One of these days, Marc thought, as he used the two keys on the bunker door, he’d try to stop losing his temper. But at thirty-six, he didn’t see how he would manage that.
As he crossed the threshold, he gave a start. There was a bed installed behind his desk and an old woman with brightly dyed hair, who put down her book to look at him.
‘Come in,’ said Marthe, ‘and pretend I’m not here. I’m Marthe. You’re the one who comes to work for Ludwig? He left a note for you.’
Marc read a few lines, in which Kehlweiler summed up the situation for him. OK, but did he think it was so easy to work, with someone living her little life one metre behind your back? Hell’s bells.
Marc nodded a greeting and sat at the table. Best to keep your distance from the start, because this old lady looked as if she was chatty and nosy about everything. You had to think Kehlweiler wasn’t worried about leaving her with his files.
He could feel her looking at his back, and that made him tense. He’d picked up a copy of
Le Monde
and found it hard to concentrate.
Marthe was examining the newcomer from behind. Dressed entirely in black: drainpipe trousers, canvas jacket and cowboy boots, black hair too, a smallish man, a bit too thin, the nervous, agile type, didn’t look strong. His face was all right, a bit lined, a bit Sioux Indian, but not bad, delicate, attractive. Good. It would be all right. She wouldn’t bother him, he looked the jumpy kind who needs to be on his own to work. She had experience of men.
Marthe stood up, and put on her coat. She had some stuff to fetch.
Marc stopped halfway through a line,
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