Dominique Manotti: Lorraine Connection

‘I saw the headless body straighten up. People tell me it’s impossible, but I tell you I saw it, and the blood spurting out. I felt the blood on my face, my hands, and then the body crumpled at my feet. I keep seeing it, over and over again, that headless body jerking, every night. And when I wake up in the dark, I feel the warmth of the blood on my face. They wanted me to go back to work the next day, at the same station. They thought that was quite normal. They said it’s just an accident, clear up the mess, clean up, carry on. I could never have sat next to the rotor again. It was Rolande who arranged for me to come and work in finishing, so I could keep my job. And now, Émilienne’s been electrocuted, the baby’s dead, and Rolande’s been booted out.’

Silence. Everyone on this patch of waste ground behind the sheet-metal factory is staring at Aisha, smooth strands of jet black hair framing her chalky face and the rest tied back. Right now she’s tense, fiery, the embodiment of the tragedy in their day-to-day lives.

Amrouche closes his eyes. He too has his recurring nightmare. He’s twenty, he works on the gangway above the factory floor, the molten-steel ladle explodes thirty feet beneath him, thirty tonnes of molten steel swallow up some fifteen men, the wild yells, the smell of charred flesh, unbearable. Stop, snap out of it. Someone says:

‘My wife works in admin. She heard that they’re not going to pay us our bonuses in December.’ All eyes turn to Amrouche, who clears his throat.

‘I think that may be true. I believe they’ve decided not to pay the monthly bonuses that were agreed last February, which were supposed to be paid in a lump sum in December. No bonuses for this year. The first bonus will be paid next January.’

Why on earth did I say that? Now the shit will really hit the fan. Too late now. Perhaps I wanted to distract Maréchal, he’s a former steelworker? Most of all I wanted to stop the unbearable agony Aisha’s speech caused me, the rush of memories of molten steel engulfing the men, my horror of accidents, and death, because it is the human condition, and there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’d rather forget. But the bonuses, suddenly being robbed of the equivalent of almost a month’s pay in accumulated bonuses, which they’re entitled to, which they’ve been counting on, which they’ve already decided how to spend, that’s completely different, that’s another matter entirely, I’ve moved on to new terrain, familiar, signposted, strangely reassuring. The entire group, shivering with cold on this autumn day, is gripped by fear, anger, bitterness and dejection: the bonuses must be paid immediately. To which Nourredine adds: ‘Rolande must be reinstated immediately.’ The group returns to the building to do the rounds of all the workshops. Within half an hour, the entire factory has ground to a halt.

A discreet lunch in a hotel in Luxembourg, close to the French border, a table for two in a small private dining room. Maurice Quignard drinks a pastis while he waits. Sixtyish, tall, broad-shouldered, flat stomach, he is still athletic-looking. His tanned, lined face has a brutal look. After a long career in the steel industry, he has set up a consultancy advising on business reconversion. He works with a number of EU organisations and is an unpaid advisor to the board of directors of Daewoo Pondange on behalf of the European Development Plan committee. In a way, Daewoo is his baby. Thanks to his political connections in Lorraine, he acted as go-between with the Koreans, negotiated the conditions for the company to set up there, and ensures there is a plentiful supply of manna in the form of EU and French subsidies. Again, unpaid. In the interests of the region and of France. The idea of Daewoo and Matra making a joint bid to take over Thomson was born during an informal dinner with the chairman of the Lorraine region at his home, two years ago already. And now, he’s close to achieving his goal. He knows that after Daewoo’s takeover of Thomson Multimedia, the new company will be a global concern and there’ll be an influential role for him as human resources advisor. A glorious end to his career. Not to mention the financial rewards. So he follows Daewoo’s activities on a day-to-day basis, thanks to the contacts he’s developed at every level of the company.

At around ten a.m. today, Maréchal had come to his office in Pondange and briefed him about the internal situation. Worrying. Another accident, serious. What’s worse is the sacking of a good worker, a well-liked woman, another unnecessary provocation by that idiotic Head of HR. During their conversation a phone call from the factory had informed them that a strike had broken out on the shop floor. What did I tell you? Maréchal wasn’t too worried: it’s a spontaneous and localised movement, not one of them has any sense of organisation, you know what those layabouts are like. By tomorrow I’ll have everything back in hand, but frankly, we really could have avoided this. And Quignard was furious. He’s summoned the CEO to give him a piece of his mind. He’s late, which doesn’t help. Quignard is on his third pastis.

Park, the Korean CEO, arrives, a smile on his smooth round face. His tortoiseshell glasses give him a permanent air of slight amazement. Quignard speeds things up and asks for the starter to be served at once — a selection of cured meats — accompanied by a good Burgundy. The minute they are alone, he attacks, tough, impatient.

‘A factory where there have been no incidents for two years, not a single hour’s strike, where the unions are kept out … How on earth did you manage to set the place on fire at the worst possible moment in terms of our affairs?’

‘On fire … I’d say that was a bit of an exaggeration.’ His voice is soft, cultured, his French impeccable, barely a hint of an accent. At the factory, he never speaks French, which he claims not to know, but English or Korean. ‘At present, two workshops have downed tools, less than twenty people.’ Out of the question to tell this loudmouth who despises me that an entire shift has just gone on strike, since he doesn’t appear to have heard. There’s plenty of time.

‘My contacts tell me that emotions are running very high in the factory. You have to admit that there have been a number of accidents, the rate of production is high and the pay isn’t good. As long as that only translates into absenteeism, there’s no problem. But in my young days, people used to say: one spark can set the plain on fire. So no sparks. You must keep your Head of HR in order.’

‘I understand.’

The smile wiped off his face, a bitter crease at the corners of his mouth. That Head of HR, a man he recommended to me himself The son of a local big shot. Important for integrating the business into the local fabric, he said. Totally useless.

The waiter brings the next course — a copious stew — and a second bottle of Burgundy. Quignard continues, still on the attack.

‘Not the slightest ripple while the Thomson bid is pending.’

‘That’s a matter of a few days. We’ll hold out until then.’

‘No. Maybe just for a few hours until the government delivers its decision, and the main job will be done, granted, but we still have to see how the public will react and await the opinion of the Privatisation Commission. We need at least a good month of peace and quiet. It’s not asking for the moon.’

‘I can’t budge on pay. Our hands are tied by a major bank repayment due in one week’s time. I can only cover it through an advance on the delivery of our stocks, scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Finances are so tight that I haven’t even renewed the fire insurance policy which has expired.’