The Empire Of The Wolves Read online

  Anna now knew that the truth was far simpler. This reminiscence was just another sort of hallucination set off by the lesion. She should not focus on what she could see or what she felt about anybody's face, because she no longer had a reliable system of references.

  The door of the shop opened. Anna jumped-she realized that the chocolates were melting in her clenched hands.

  Clothilde appeared in the doorway. She whispered between her curls: "It's him."

  ***

  Mr. Corduroys was standing beside the Jikolas.

  "Good afternoon," Anna said at once. "Can I help you?"

  "Two hundred grams as usual, please."

  She slipped behind the main counter, picked up the tongs and a glassine bag, then started to fill it with the pieces of chocolate. At the same time, she looked around at the man, her eyes veiled by her eyelashes. First she saw his large leather shoes, his overlong jeans crinkling up like an accordion, and then his saffron yellow corduroy jacket. Worn down in places into a threadbare lustrous orange.

  Finally, she dared a glance at his face. It was uncouth, square, framed with disheveled brown hair. More the face of a peasant than of a refined student. He was frowning in an expression of annoyance or else concealed anger.

  Yet Anna had already noticed that when he opened his eyelids, they revealed long feminine eyelashes and violet irises, ringed with gilded black: the back of a bumblebee flying over a field of dark violets. Where had she seen that look before?

  She placed the packet on the scales. "Eleven Euros, please."

  The man paid, picked up the chocolates and spun around. A second later, he was outside.

  Despite herself, Anna followed him to the door. Clothilde joined her. They watched the figure crossing Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honors, then diving into a black limousine with frosted windows and foreign license plates.

  They stayed there, on the doorstep, like two crickets in the sunlight. "So?" Clothilde finally asked. "Who is he? Don't you know yet?"

  The car vanished into the traffic. In answer, Anna said, "Got a cigarette?"

  Clothilde removed a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights from her trouser pocket. Anna inhaled the first drag, finding the same soothing sensation as she had experienced that morning in the hospital courtyard. Clothilde said, skeptically "There's something wrong about your story"

  Anna turned around, elbow raised, cigarette pointed like a weapon. "What?"

  "Let's suppose that you once knew this person, and he's since changed."

  "Well?"

  Clothilde puckered up her lips, making the sound of a beer bottle being opened. "Well, why doesn't he recognize you?"

  Anna watched the cars driving beneath the dull sky, splashes of light crisscrossing their bodywork. Farther on, she could see the wooden façade of Mariage Frères, the icy windows of La Margie Restaurant and its doorman, who was staring at her placidly.

  Her words vanished into the blue-tinted smoke: "Crazy. I'm going crazy"

  5

  Once a week Laurent met up with the same "pals" for dinner. It was an unchanging ritual, a sort of ceremony. They were not childhood friends or members of any particular circle. They had no shared passion. They were simply part of the same corporation: policemen. They had met at various stages of their careers, and today each of them had reached the top of his particular specialty.

  Like the other wives. Anna was excluded from these get-togethers, and when the dinner was held in their apartment on Avenue Hoche she was asked to go to the movies.

  Then, three weeks before, Laurent had asked her to join them at their next meeting. First she refused, especially as her husband had then added, in his male nurse tones, "You'll see. It'll take your mind off things." Then she changed her mind. She was in fact rather curious to meet Laurent's colleagues and to be able to see at first hand other examples of top-ranking policemen. After all, he was so far the only model she knew.

  She had not regretted her decision. During the party, she got to know men who were hard yet passionate, who talked to one another without fear or reserve. She felt like the queen of the group, the only woman on board, in front of whom the police officers competed with one another to find the best stories, feats and revelations.

  Since that first evening, she now attended all their dinners, and had gotten to know them better. She had spotted their tics and strong points -and also their obsessions. These parties provided her with a real image of the universe of the police force. A black-and-white world of violence and certainty, both clichéd and fascinating.

  The guests were always the same, barring the occasional exception. Generally it was Alain Lacroux who led the conversation. The thin, tall, upright fifty-year-old punctuated the end of each of his sentences with a stab from his fork or the wag of his head. Even the lilt of his southern accent added to this art of finishing, of chiseled expression. Everything about him sang, rippled, smiled-no one would ever have suspected his real responsibilities. He was second in command of Paris 's Affaires Criminelles.

  Pierre Caracilli was his opposite. Small, squat and dark, he was constantly grumbling in a slow, almost hypnotic voice. It was this voice that had put to sleep many a criminal's defenses and extracted confessions from the hardiest of them. Caracilli was Corsican. He held an important position in the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire (or DST).

  Jean-François Gaudemer was neither upright nor laid-back: he was a compact, solid, stubborn rock. Beneath his high, balding forehead, his eyes glistened with a darkness that seemed to announce an approaching storm. Anna pricked up her ears whenever he spoke. What he said was cynical. His stories were terrifying, but you experienced a sort of gratitude in his presence-the ambiguous feeling that a veil had been lifted on the hidden workings of the world. He was the head of OCRTIS, or the Office Central de Repression du Traffic lllicite des Stupéfiants. France 's Mr. Dope Trade.

  But Anna's favorite was Philippe Charlier. This six-foot-four colossus was squeezed into his expensive suits. Nicknamed the "Jolly Green Giant" by his colleagues, he had the head of a boxer, which was as dense as a stone and edged by a gray-flecked mustache and mop of hair. He spoke too loudly, laughed like an ignition engine and forced his listeners into sharing his funny stories by taking them by the shoulder.

  To understand him, you needed a sexual glossary. He called an erection a "bone in the pants," described wiry hair as "bollock fur," and when he spoke about his holidays in Bangkok, summed them up as follows: "Taking your wife to Thailand is like taking beer to Munich."

  Anna found him vulgar, off-putting, but irresistible. He gave off an animalistic power that was extremely "police." You could not imagine him anywhere other than in an office, dragging confessions out of suspects. Or else in the field, commanding men armed with assault rifles.

  Laurent had told her that Charlier had cold-bloodedly killed at least five men during his career. His field was terrorism. He had fought the same war in a number of different units, such as the DST, the DGSE (Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure) and the DNAT (Division Nationale Antiterroriste). Twenty-five years of undercover operations and raids. When Anna asked for more details, Laurent waved her questions away:”It would only be the tip of the iceberg."

  That evening, the party was being held at his apartment on Avenue de Breteuil. It was a huge old Parisian apartment full of colonial knickknacks and with varnished parquet floors. Anna's curiosity had pushed her into exploring those rooms that were accessible. There was not the slightest trace of a female presence. Charlier was a confirmed bachelor.

  It was 11:00 PM. The guests were slumped in nonchalant postprandial positions, encircled by the smoke of their cigars.

  In this month of March 2002, just a few weeks before the presidential elections, they were rivaling one another with their predictions and forecasts, imagining the changes that would take place in the Ministry of the Interior depending on which candidate won. They all seemed ready for a great battle but unsure whether they would participat
e.

  Philippe Charlier, who was sitting next to Anna, whispered to her, "Aren't you as pissed off as I am with their pig shoptalk? Do you know the one about the Swiss man?"

  Anna smiled. You told me it last Saturday"

  "What about the hillbilly at the train station?"

  "No."

  Charlier leaned his elbows on the table. "There's this hillbilly about to take the train for the first time. So he stands right on the platform edge waiting for it. An inspector sees him and goes. 'Watch out-if the express comes along, it'll suck you off'. And hillbilly goes. 'Come along, train!' "

  She took a second to get it, then burst out laughing. Policemen's jokes never got higher than the belt, but at least she had not heard most of them before. She was still laughing when Charlier's face started to distort. Suddenly, his features became unclear. They were quite literally undulating across his face.

  Anna looked around at the other guests. Their features also seemed dislocated, forming a wave of monstrous, contradictory expressions, mingling flesh, grins and screams…

  A spasm gripped her. She started breathing through her mouth. "Are you okay?" Charlier asked.

  "I'm… I'm hot. I'm going to freshen up."

  "Shall I show you the way?"

  She laid her hand on his shoulder and stood up. "It's okay. I'll find it."

  She edged along the wall, leaned on the corner of the mantelpiece. Then bumped into an occasional table, setting off a chorus of tinkling.

  When she reached the door, she glanced around. The sea of faces was still rising in a dance of cries and mingling wrinkles, distorted flesh reaching out to follow her. Holding back a scream, she left the room.

  The hall was unlit. The hanging coats formed disturbing shapes; the half-open doors revealed rays of darkness. Anna stopped in front of a mirror framed with old gold. She stared at her reflection: a pallid parchment, a ghostly gleam. Beneath her black woolen sweater, she seized her trembling shoulders.

  Suddenly, a man appeared behind her in the mirror.

  She did not recognize him. He had not been there at the dinner. She turned around to face him. Who was he? Where had he sprung from? He looked threatening. Something twisted and disfigured hovered about his features. His hands gleamed in the shadows like a pair of steel weapons.

  Anna pulled back, sinking into the hanging coats. The man stepped forward. She could hear the others talking in the next room. She wanted to cry out, but her throat was lined with burning cotton. The face was now just a few inches from her. A reflection from the looking glass glittered in her eyes, dazzling her pupils with a golden flash…

  "Do you want to go home now?"

  Anna stifled a groan. It was Laurent's voice. His face immediately recovered its usual appearance. She felt two hands holding her up and realized that she must have fainted.

  "Jesus." Laurent said. "What's the matter with you?"

  "My coat. Give me my coat," she demanded, freeing herself from his arms.

  The malaise did not diminish. She did not completely recognize her husband. Once again she felt sure that his features had changed. That his face was different, that a secret lurked there, a zone of darkness…

  Laurent handed her her duffel coat. He was trembling. He was clearly scared for her, but also for himself. He was worried that his friends would see what was happening. One of the top people in the Ministry of the Interior had a wife who was loony.

  She slid on her coat, savoring the feel of the lining. If only she could wrap herself up completely in it and vanish…

  Bursts of laughter could be heard from the lounge.

  "I'll go and say good-bye for both of us."

  She heard tones of reproach, then more laughter. Anna looked one more time in the mirror. One day soon, when faced with these features, she would ask. "Who is this?"

  Laurent came back. She murmured, "Take me home. I want to sleep."

  6

  But the fit pursued her in her sleep.

  Since the beginning of her attacks, Anna had had the same dream. Black-and-white images paraded before her at various speeds, like in a silent movie.

  The scene was also identical. Hungry-looking peasants were waiting at night on the platform of a station. A goods train arrived in a cloud of steam. A sliding door opened. A man wearing a cap appeared and leaned down to take a flag that was being handed to him. The standard bore a strange device: four moons arranged in a star pattern.

  The man then stood up, raising his extremely dark eyebrows. He harangued the crowd, waiving the banner in the air, but his words were inaudible. Instead, a sort of blanket of noise was raised: an awful murmur, made of sighs and children sobbing.

  Anna's whispering then mingled with that terrible chant. She spoke to the young voices: "Where are you? Why are you crying?"

  In reply, the wind rose on the platform. The four moons on the banner started to glow as if they were fluorescent. The scene descended into pure nightmare. The man's coat opened, revealing a bare chest that was sliced in two and emptied. Then a gust shattered his face. His flesh fell away like ash, starting from below his ears, revealing dark bulging muscles…

  Anna woke up with a start.

  Eyes wide open in the darkness, she recognized nothing. Not the bedroom. Nor the bed. Nor the body sleeping beside her. It took her several seconds to familiarize herself with these strange forms. She leaned back on the wall and wiped the sweat from her face.

  Why did this dream keep recurring? What did it have to do with her illness? She felt sure that it was another aspect of what was wrong with her: a mysterious echo, an inexplicable counterpoint to her mental decay. In the darkness, she called out: "Laurent?"

  His back turned, her husband did not move. Anna grabbed his shoulder.

  "Laurent, are you asleep?"

  There was a slight movement, a rustling of the sheets. Then she saw his profile stand out in the shadows. She repeated softly: Are you asleep?”

  “Not anymore."

  "Can I, can I ask you something?"

  He half sat up, and leaned his head on the pillows. "Go on."

  Anna spoke even more softly -the sobbing from her dream was still echoing in her mind. "Why…" She hesitated. "Why don't we have any children?"

  For a second, everything was still. Then Laurent pulled aside the sheets and sat on the side of the bed, turning his back to her. The silence suddenly seemed full of tension and hostility. He rubbed his face, then announced: "We're going back to see Ackermann."

  "What?"

  "I'll call him. We'll make an appointment at the hospital."

  "Why are you saying this?"

  He said over his shoulder, "You lied. You said you didn't have any other memory problems. That there was only the problem of faces."

  Anna realized that she had made a mistake. Her question revealed a fresh gulf in her head. All she could see was the nape of Laurent's neck, his vague curls, his straight back. But she could guess how low he felt, and also how angry.

  "What did I just say?" she hazarded.

  Laurent turned a few degrees toward her. "You never wanted a child. It was a condition when we married." He raised his voice and lifted his left hand. "Even on our wedding night you made me promise that I'd never ask you for that. You're losing your mind. Anna. We have to do something. We have to have those tests done. To understand what's happening. For Christ's sake, we have to stop it!"

  Anna curled up on the far end of the bed. "Just give me a few more days. There must be another possibility"

  "What possibility?"

  "I don't know. Just a few days. Please."

  He lay down again and hid his head in the sheets. "I'll call Dr. Ackermann next Wednesday"

  There was no point thanking him. Anna did not even know why she had asked for this reprieve. Why deny the obvious? Her illness was gaining ground, neuron by neuron, in each region of her brain.

  She slid beneath the covers, a good distance from Laurent, and thought over this mystery about having child
ren. Why had she demanded such a promise? What had motivated her at the time? She had no answers. Her own personality was turning into a stranger.

  She thought back to her wedding. Eight years ago. She was then just twenty-three. What could she really remember about it?

  A country manor in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, palm trees, broad lawns yellowed by the sun, the laughter of children. She closed her eyes and tried to recover those sensations. A circle of Chinese shadows lengthening across the grass. She could also see bunches of flowers and white hands…

  Suddenly, a tulle scarf floated into her memory. The material danced before her eyes, disturbing the circle, reducing the greenness of the grass, picking up the light with its fantastic movements.

  The material came nearer, until she could feel its weave on her face. Then around her lips. Anna opened her mouth in laughter, but the cloth pressed into her throat. She was panting, as it now stuck to the roof of her mouth. And it was not tulle, it was gauze.

  Surgical gauze that was suffocating her.

  She screamed into the night. Her cry produced no sound. She opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep, her mouth pressed into the pillow.

  When would it all end? She sat up and felt the sweat on her skin once more. It was this sticky veil that had set off that suffocating feeling.

  She got up and went to the bathroom, next to the bedroom. On tiptoes, she found the way inside and closed the door before turning on the light. She pressed the switch, then turned toward the mirror over the basin.

  Her face was covered with blood.

  Red streams covered her forehead. There were scabs beneath her eyes, by her nose, around her lips. Her first thought was that she had hurt herself. Rut when she took a closer look she saw that she just had a nosebleed. By wiping her face in the darkness, she had covered herself with her own blood. Her sweatshirt was soaked in it.

  She turned on the cold tap and put out her hands, flooding the basin with a pink whirlpool. She was sure of one thing: this blood symbolized a truth that was trying to wrench itself free from her flesh. A secret that her consciousness refused to recognize or formulate but that was escaping in an organic flood from her body.