Dominique Manotti: Lorraine Connection

‘I know. You’re financially overstretched, particularly under present circumstances. It’s a rash thing to do, and pointless.’ Quignard suddenly frowns. ‘Tell me, there’s no risk of the factory grinding to a halt in the next two days at least, is there? If you don’t honour that payment, it will be disastrous for our business at national level.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘Do more than be aware. Take precautions, immediately.’

At least a hundred workers are sitting around in the cafeteria, mostly men and most of them very young. No more than about twenty women. Small clusters have formed around the work teams arguing about the bonuses in raised voices, but there’s little communication between the groups. In fact the different shifts barely know each other and tend to be faintly wary. For nearly all the workers it’s their first stoppage. Now what do we do? Kader, the best-known shop steward is on sick leave, announces a staff rep. He is greeted by jeers. Amrouche skulks in a corner by the main entrance, keeping a low profile. Nourredine looks uncertainly about him, nobody’s rushing forward. He clambers on to a table. Who the hell’s he? The guy from packaging, a big mouth … Does he have a mandate? No, no mandate … He awkwardly describes Émilienne’s electrocution, his mouth dry. They pay him scant attention and seem more concerned with Rolande’s dismissal, a lot of them know her, a brave woman, for sure, but always sucking up. ‘Why don’t we talk about the bonuses?’ yells a young man. Nourredine calls Amrouche who scowls and refuses to climb on to the table. He announces, without comment, that the bonuses for the current year have been cancelled and that the first bonus will be paid next January. A chorus of angry muttering and the discussion spreads. Some refuse to believe it, an agreement is an agreement, there’s no going back on it. Others claim it serves them right for being so stupid as to have given those Korean sharks credit. A delegation is formed, led by Nourredine and Amrouche, tasked with meeting management to obtain information, demand prompt payment of the arrears and insist on Rolande’s reinstatement. They head off in the direction of the offices.

In the cafeteria, the clusters have re-formed. Some start playing cards. Étienne goes over to Aisha.

‘I’m Nourredine’s friend. I’ve been in packaging for two years. How come we’ve never met?’

‘I’ve only been in finishing for a month.’

‘Of course.’ Flashback: the pale face, the rotor. ‘Rolande took me on in finishing …’ Whatever you do, don’t mention the mangled body. I’ve put my foot in it.

Smile. ‘It did me so much good to talk about it, it’s the first time. And the first time too that I’ve ever spoken in front of so many people, at least ten people. I feel a lot better.’ She thinks: he’s different.

Relieved. ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’

There’s a queue in front of the coffee machines. Étienne picks up two scalding cups, puts them on a cardboard tray, takes Aisha’s hand and leads her across the eerily silent, deserted factory floor dimly lit by dreary daylight and the orange glow of the safety lights. So different, a bit strange, profoundly silent. Aisha does not withdraw her hand. In the wide, airy spaces of the packaging section, Étienne switches on a row of neon lights. He continues past the machines, which are strangely still, without pausing at the piles of polystyrene or wood, decorative as they are, or at the conveyor belt rising up to the ceiling with its load of packaged tubes, connecting to the warehouse. He leads Aisha towards an old wooden desk in a corner of the workshop and sets down the coffees.

‘This is where we have our snack at break times. The cafeteria is too far away, it wastes too much time. Take a look.’ Proudly, he opens a drawer that contains a gas ring. In the next drawer is an electric coffee machine. The back panel of the desk slides back to reveal a little fridge and a television set. ‘The TV’s only for the night shift.’ He laughs. ‘As for the rest, we have an agreement with Maréchal: he stays out of the workshop during breaks.’

They drink in silence. Aisha runs her finger over the stained desktop. A bit of freedom all to themselves, at the heart of the factory. The women’s workshop on the other side of the sheet-metal partition, a whole other life. The misfortune of being a woman.

‘You haven’t seen everything yet.’ Étienne sits her on one of the stools. ‘Here’s my work station, but the truth is we’re often on our feet, we move around a lot.’ He opens the top drawer of the desk, wide, deep, flat, crammed with miscellaneous cutlery and corkscrews, wiggles out a little board wedged at the back and takes out a tobacco pouch and rolling papers. ‘A quick joint.’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘It’s not a cigarette, it doesn’t do any harm.’

His hands work rapidly, a swift lick, cigarette lighter, he takes a first deep drag, smiles, passes her the joint. Her mind a muddle, Émilienne, Rolande, the strike, Étienne’s hand in her hair, in her hand, her body trembling, she takes the joint, raises it to her lips, takes a long drag, nostrils pinched, eyes closed, as she’s seen her brothers do, inhales the smoke, not very strong, not as strong as she thought, exhales through her nose, without coughing. An airy sensation of well-being.

‘A real pro,’ laughs Étienne.

He switches off the light and the workshop is plunged into a yellowish half-light. Aisha, in a spin, draws frantically on the joint. Randomly Émilienne’s voice comes back to her, helpless with laughter in the cafeteria, telling them about ‘her first time’, lying flat on her stomach on a dustbin under an archway, rain bucketing down. Rolande had smiled at her, then taken her by the arm and steered her to another table to eat her snack. ‘I didn’t even see his face,’ repeated Émilienne, between two outbursts of laughter. Followed by her father’s voice, grating and halting, cursing when she refused to go back to the village even for holidays. I know what can happen there. Étienne moves slowly towards her and takes her by the arm, the waist, to help her up. Fear, no going back now: After him, I’m not returning to my father’s house. He leads her behind a pile of packing cases. She sees a mat.

‘It’s Nourredine’s prayer mat.’

He smiles, kneels down. She sits down, feeling as if she’s floating. He loosens her hair, which spreads out over her shoulders. She thinks, ‘This is going from one man to another,’ and lies down, her eyes closed. A cocoon of darkness, silence, Étienne kisses her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. She tenses, he slides his hand down her neck, places it on her hip, runs it down her thigh, slips it under her skirt. She lies still, rigid, her heart pounding. His hand moves slowly up towards her belly where it stops, spread flat, hot, insistent. She waits: It’s going to happen.

Then everything moves very fast. Étienne pulls down his trousers, uses both hands to yank Aisha’s tights and knickers down to her ankles, lies on top of her, penetrates her after two or three attempts. It hurts, I’ve known worse, it’s all happening far away. He begins to move up and down, she feels a sharp pain, she cries out, then feels very little. He gets still more aroused, breathing heavily, lets out one last groan and rolls off to lie beside her, his face in her hair, smells nice and clean, little kisses on her cheeks, very sweet. She feels a warm liquid running down her thighs, laughs at the thought of the stains she’s going to make on Nourredine’s prayer mat, her recklessness. Her life’s beginning to change, and that has to be good.

The delegation returns to the cafeteria and immediately everybody crowds round. Nourredine clambers up on to the table without waiting.