Apocalypse Baby. Виржини Депант

left alone with her. The publicist had warned him there’d be photos, to which he’d replied that he’d prefer to do both together, the interview and the portrait, he’s taken care to wash his hair to destroy the ridiculous blow dry the TV makeup man had inflicted on him the previous day, in spite of his protests. The photographer accompanying the Italian woman is an ape. On the pretext of finding “a good spot,” with the right light, one that would inspire him, he was preparing to roll around on François’s bed, a move from which he had to be dissuaded practically by force. Occupied in making the acquaintance of the journalist, François has had no time to stop the photographer rushing into his bedroom, “to check what it’s like.” He keeps flashing around a black box, a light meter, he’s here, there, and everywhere, standing up against the windows, looking through every room with the air of a madman, muttering comments that are incomprehensible but not necessarily complimentary about the decor. A little ape let loose in the house, you feel like taking him by the scruff of the neck to shake him, as you would a kitten that’s peeing everywhere. Photographers are capable of anything. Earlier that week, a young idiot with acne had spent ten minutes insisting that François be shouting, with his mouth wide open, because “I only do that kind of shot.” “Glad to hear it, but I don’t shout in my photographs.” The young man had sulked, apparently convinced that anyone his magazine sent him to photograph was duty-bound to satisfy the slightest wishes of an untalented child. A year or two back, another one had wanted him to jump in the air in front of the Pyramid of the Louvre. “We need some movement, you see, otherwise it’s too static,” he’d explained in the tone of voice you might use to get a senile old man to go back to his nursing home. “We need the shot to look interesting, you see. I can’t take you sitting in a chair with your chin in your hands, we’d lose all our readers.” François couldn’t decently jump about in front of the Louvre, with all the people going past. He usually manages to hold out, but sometimes they cancel the article and his publicist scolds him. “It seems you wouldn’t play ball when it came to the photos.” He tries to check on the lunatic galloping around the house.

      “We usually do the photos in my office or in the library.”

      “Yeah, that’s just it,” says the imbecile, as he darts into the kitchen. “I’d like to find a fresh angle, more everyday, more human.”

      François wants to shout, “I write books, you fucking moron, why should I have my picture taken in the kitchen? I’m not going to appear in La Repubblica cooking a cassoulet!” The journalist realizes the situation is getting grotesque, so she tries to mediate, succeeding fairly well. She seems taller than she is, just coming up to his shoulder, although she looks long and willowy. She smiles as she tells him about her project, he hardly listens to the list of authors she hopes to include in the series, he presses a cup of coffee on her, unable to concentrate on what she’s saying while the photographer is scampering around the twenty-five hundred square feet of the apartment. He hears him opening the french doors to the balcony and joins him, feeling infuriated. The idiot is leaning over the guard rail. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer we stick to the library. I don’t like photo shoots and I want to get it over with.” The photographer turns around, holding the camera, and twisting himself into a ridiculous attitude, takes a picture, “from life,” while repeating, “Yeah, yeah, super, got it all, the light, need some light, turn your face a bit to the right, chin down a bit, no lower, like that, look at the camera, that’s super, face the light, yeah, yeah, got it, perfect, in the can!” All over in a minute, leaving François with the bittersweet impression that he’s being treated like some bimbo. “What do you mean, it’s in the can?” he asks, leaning across to the camera to see the result for himself. It’s all very well not liking photo shoots, he knows from experience that it normally takes longer than this. The degenerate ape shrugs, “I don’t do digital, it’s all about getting the atmosphere and the definition, sorry, can’t show you now, but I’ve got an eye for it, I felt it here, we’ve got it.” Con man. Italian. Half-wit. François’s sure he’ll end up looking like an idiot, surprised by the cretin waving his arms around on the balcony. Well, too bad, after all he isn’t there to look like a film star, he’ll concentrate on being brilliant in the interview. Just before leaving, the imbecile points to one of his bags. “You got Wi-Fi? Can I just check my email before I go?” François can’t suppress an irritable sigh. “I do have Wi-Fi, but it’s a bit of a nuisance to go and look for the code.” “No problem, I’ve got my own dongle, it’s just that it’s easier here than on my scooter.” François indicates the Mies van der Rohe chair in the vestibule—“Okay, you can sit here if you like”—and shakes hands, thanking him, in a manner that says don’t bother telling me when you’ve finished. He goes back to join the journalist in his study. She is calm, leaning forward slightly on her chair, with a carefully judged décolletage, just enough to be exciting, but too demure for one not to want to see more. He sits down opposite her. “At last we can start.”

      “Photos all right?” In an irritating tone of maternal concern.

      He tries to calculate how much genuine kindness there is as opposed to professionalism, and what his chances are of getting a dinner date with her.

      For some time now, many things have ceased to interest him. A veil of depression has come between him and the world. He’s plain exhausted. His daughter’s flight has proved that to him. She’s abandoned him, and in the end, he couldn’t care less. Even his inability to feel anything doesn’t bother him anymore. He has the feeling he’s lived thirteen lives and no longer has the slightest energy for the one he’s living at the moment. He feels defeated on all fronts. Only women can still rouse his full consciousness, from time to time, like delightful sirens binding him to the pleasures of life. He’s gone past the age of feeling remorse at cheating on his wife. It’s part of life, Claire knows it, they don’t need to talk about it. Women, a few glasses of wine, certain evenings in good company, the kind of thing that happens less and less often. He gives his answers while looking deep into the journalist’s eyes, affecting the air of condescending tranquillity, with occasional flashes of friendliness, which he knows women adore.

      SINCE I’VE BEEN WORKING FOR RELDANCH, I’VE always been careful not to take any interest in the kids I’ve been tailing. In our profession, you call the person you’re following, “the mark,” and the quicker you can forget their first name, the better it works. I have a cell phone with a Carl Zeiss lens, panoramic viewfinder, digital zoom, HD video camera, and an ultrasensitive microphone. I’m more interested in the state of the batteries for my gadgets or scratches on the lens than in the person I’m following. Asking me what Valentine’s like isn’t part of how I’ve learned to do the job. In fact that kind of thing seems unnatural.

      My phone rings just before midday, and I haven’t budged from the sofa where I collapsed after my morning coffee. When I sit up to reply, I realize I’ve got a crick in my back, I must have been lying too long in an awkward position, listening to the radio. I say “Uh, yeah, hello,” in a harassed tone, intended to make the caller think they’ve interrupted me in the middle of a task that needs all my concentration.

      “Hi, it’s the Hyena, where are you, kid?”

      As if we’d been hanging out together every day for years. I’m already sorry I ever asked her for anything, I’m realizing that it would be wise not to succeed in our search, instead we should just wait calmly for the inevitable ghastly fallout. I continue to act evasively. “Oh, hi, yeah, um, I’m going here and there, places I saw Valentine . . . hoping something’ll come back to me.”

      “You think you’re Inspector Maigret? Want me to bring you beer and sandwiches?”

      I don’t really get her sense of humor and her cheerfulness sounds too loud. I wonder whether she slept with that girl yesterday. I reply more sharply: “I was just going to call her father and try to see him as soon as possible, I think he can help me locate her mother.”

      “I’d rather you put the father off till tomorrow. I’ve got someone around there today. I’ll explain. Can we meet?”

      This woman’s a loser. Just wants someone to spend the day with. Her reputation must be even more exaggerated than I thought, she’s so much at a loose end that she hasn’t had work