Apocalypse Baby. Виржини Депант

don’t know. No. I don’t have anything to do with what they get up to, once the tailing’s over.”

      “Okay. I want the five thousand euros in exchange for the kid, you can tell the clients to get it ready. And you can also tell them that there’ll be expenses. They’re rolling in it, you said?”

      “Yes, but I’m in no position to bargain, because I lost sight of her . . .”

      “You lost nothing of the sort. You know exactly when she went missing and where. If she decided to make a break for it, you weren’t being paid to stop her. If she was kidnapped, you weren’t being paid to act as her bodyguard, you were simply following her. What can you possibly blame yourself for? Pull yourself together, and tell her father it’s going to cost him plenty.”

      “It’s the grandmother I see for everything. She’s not an easy client to deal with, very aggressive, I don’t know whether . . .”

      “Perfectly normal. She wants the job done on the cheap, we’d do exactly the same in her place. But two can play at that game: just because she has a nice try doesn’t mean to say she gets away with it. Do you want me to call her for you? What’s your last name again?”

      At once, I’d like to go and get myself a shovel, dig a hole in the ground, bury myself there, and let time pass. The Hyena takes out her phone, asks me for the personal number of the client. She looks as if she’s enjoying herself. I’m not, on the whole. Madame Galtan answers at once. The Hyena adopts a firm and suave voice.

      “Madame Galtan? This is Louise Bizer, lawyer at the Paris Bar, I’m working with Mademoiselle Toledo, and please forgive me for troubling you so late, but we . . . Thanks for being so understanding. We have a little problem with the assignment, because Mademoiselle Toledo tells me that there has been no agreement about expenses . . . Of course, Madame Galtan, I quite see that, but you’ll understand that we can’t embark on a matter of such importance, and with such a short deadline, without running up a certain number of expenses, and it could have an unfortunate impact on the results if we had to take the metro all the time, or send you a justification ten pages long, before feeling entitled to take a plane . . . But Madame Galtan, I’m sorry to tell you that the contract you have with the Reldanch Agency doesn’t cover a missing person search . . . No, I don’t know what Monsieur Deucené saw fit to assure you, but what I have in front of me is a signed and sealed contract, which only covers a report on watching your granddaughter . . . Yes, I have been informed about the reward, and if you are aware of the standard procedures in these cases, you will know that it’s the absolute minimum for this kind of thing . . . Oh yes, I assure you. No, it’s not negligible, but it’s certainly well below the usual rate . . .”

      She stands up, takes her empty glass to the counter, and signs to Cro-Mag to get her another Coke. An amused smile playing around her lips, she winks at me from a distance. The old bat must be putting up sturdy opposition, but the Hyena looks as blissful as if she’s pulling on a really good joint. After a further ten minutes’ argument, she ends the call and comes back to me looking highly pleased.

      “A good sort in the end, our Jacqueline. She’s agreed, she’ll cover any expenses. And she’s given way on the ridiculous deadline of two weeks. We need to take a bit of time over this, or we’ll look like total idiots.”

      “I’d never have believed she could be persuaded . . .”

      “Don’t bother, the magic word was lawyer. Rich people always try to get away without shelling out, but at heart they believe you have to pay serious money, otherwise you’ll only get poor service, and vice versa. Why wasn’t it the father who asked to have the girl followed?”

      “Monsieur Galtan wasn’t too keen on the idea. I gather that it’s the grandmother who’s mostly been concerned with the kid.”

      “You don’t take a whole lot of interest in what you do, eh?”

      “I’m not used to working on this kind of case.”

      “In the future, try and listen to the client when they come to tell you about their case. For one thing it makes them trust you, if they get the impression you’re interested. But above all, if you listen properly, eight times out of ten, it’ll tell you where to start. This truth they’ve come looking for, if it didn’t hurt them so much in the first place, they wouldn’t need our services to hear it. And you’ll see, when you bring along your conclusions, even with photos under their noses, people will refuse to admit what they’re seeing.”

      I can see this is going to be a whole lot of fun: If she’s going to lecture me like this the first evening, what’ll it be like in a week’s time? She takes a USB from her pocket.

      “Put everything you’ve got on here, Okay? And when you’ve finished, come and find me at the counter. I need to see someone.”

      I’ve had my fifteen minutes. She dumps me there and then pats my shoulder as she goes past. Looking around discreetly, I see that it’s a girl, a little brunette with short hair and thick glasses, nothing special to look at, who now has all her attention. The Hyena has her Ray-Bans back on, and she’s listening without moving a muscle. Once the memory stick is loaded up, I go over to give it to her. She barely registers me. Even through the dark glasses, you can tell she’s eating up this girl with her eyes. I thank Cro-Mag and get away as soon as I can. At the door, I turn around and see the Hyena lean slowly toward the girl, interrupting her in mid-sentence to kiss her. It’s just her head that’s moved closer to the other woman’s, her arms and hands haven’t budged. Then she returns to her initial position. She still isn’t smiling, it doesn’t seem to be part of her repertoire.

François

      SHOWER. SHAMPOO. MOISTURIZER. IN HIS BATHROOM, standing in front of the mirror over the basin, he practices breathing through his nose, slowly. He regrets having agreed to this interview, his calendar’s already overbooked. There are dark circles under his eyes, he’s drunk too much these last few days. He thinks his complexion looks greenish. The sleeping pills probably. He can’t get used to graying at the temples. At least he’s not losing his hair, it could be worse. But seeing himself in the mirror is still an unpleasant shock. He can’t get used to being this middle-aged man. On the radio, a minister is talking about locking up pedophiles who might reoffend. Three psychiatrists have been invited along with him, to oppose the decision. François is irritated at their cautious tone. Are they afraid the pedophile might get bored in the end? The previous day, François recorded a TV broadcast at 9:00 a.m., with the minister of labor, who had just finished doing a radio show. He arrived accompanied by a team of four advisers. You wouldn’t have thought he was well-briefed though, seeing him on set. While they were doing his makeup, someone came to tell François Galtan that he must never reply directly to the minister, he must address all his comments through the presenter. It was a bit annoying, as if they were afraid he wouldn’t know how to behave. In any case, he could have jumped on the minister’s lap and given him a kiss and it wouldn’t have mattered, nobody watches the show. The places he gets asked when he’s just published a novel have about as much public exposure as the sandbox down in the garden. Le Figaro has still not published anything about his latest book. He calls his publicist, a bimbo who thinks she’s charming. She has big thighs and thick ankles, he can’t think where she gets her confidence from. She’s not there, of course. No doubt accompanying some author who’s farther up the best-seller list. He asks her to call back, knowing full well she’ll forget to. He can’t get used to the polite indifference that greets his books when they come out—three vaguely favorable reviews, two minor TV shows, three provincial radio stations, and that’s it. He can’t complain about being besieged by autograph hunters. Yet he believes in the book sincerely every time. A huge success, his comeback on the literary scene. He affects a dignified indifference to the pointlessness of his efforts, but in a few weeks he realizes it’s true, his novel has made no impact. Once more, he feels he’s going through hell.

      His first novel had been well reviewed by François Nourissier. His enthusiasm hadn’t surprised