Dominique Manotti: Affairs of State

‘Coffee, is that all right with you? So to what do I owe this visit? I worked out that we haven’t seen each other for twenty-two years, not since my father’s death. Twenty-two years, exactly the age of the first brood mare that was born here. She didn’t get pregnant this year.’

She bites into a pain au chocolat .

He finds it very hard to approach her. Even though he prepared for this meeting, he’s not on top form as a result of the vodka and amphetamines.

‘I’m in a very nasty mess.’ Christine dithers, then takes a second pain au chocolat . ‘I got dragged into a deal selling arms to Iran that was borderline legal and which, for the time being, is costing me a fortune …’ not good, cut to the chase, you can see she doesn’t give a fuck … ‘worst of all it’s likely to get me into trouble with the law. Until the storm dies down, I’ve got to appear exemplary. But I’m not, and I never have been.’ Bite the bullet and get it over with quickly . ‘The woman who lives with me, or, to be more precise, in the apartment above mine, is my daughter …’

Christine knocks her coffee over onto her trousers, scalds herself, and groans.

‘… That has led to all sorts of rumours, unfounded of course. But I have to put an end to them. I’ve come to ask you if I might possibly come and stay here, or if you would accompany me to Paris, and live in my apartment for a few months.’

The telephone rings. Christine gets up, goes into the hall and picks it up. She calls:

‘François, it’s for you … have you already given your secretary my number?’

When he picks up the receiver, the caller hangs up. Françoise, without a doubt. Who else? She already knows? Who told her? I’ll sort that out when I get back .

Christine has poured herself another coffee and is smiling at him.

‘I don’t want to hear another word about that girl. You have no idea how delighted I am to learn you’re in the shit. How could you imagine for one moment that I would lift a finger to help you?’

‘We’re still married …’

‘We have never been married, François. You didn’t marry me, you were adopted by my father. Two very different things.’

Irritated, Bornand adds:

‘I meant we’re still legally married, and with a shared inheritance which your father insisted upon. Which means that this estate, for example, is as much mine as it is yours. Which means that we had better come to some agreement and support each other.’

He speaks in an assured, frankly menacing tone. Christine rubs her hand mechanically over her coffee-stained trousers. She remains silent for a long time, gazing at the fire. Then she gets up:

‘Wait here for me, I’m going to get changed.’

Once the door closes behind her, Bornand goes to sit in the old armchair and lets himself go, his body slumped, his eyes closed. Is it possible that I’ve won, once again? He feels a sort of numb indifference.

Noria rings the ground-floor bell of Bornand’s apartment. A man opens the door.

‘Police. I’d like to speak to Françoise Michel.’

He shows her into the drawing room, quite coolly, without offering to take her coat, and leaves her there without saying a word.

Noria walks around the room, fingering her card wallet. She feels so fundamentally foreign to the scenes of Venetian life that they make her want to laugh. Her intuition is to emphasise the difference between them, and so enhance her sense of superiority and safety. She pictures Bornand again, at the cemetery gate, pinning Françoise Michel to his side with a violent movement, which she accepted. I’m the stronger one .

Françoise Michel comes in, wearing a chunky white Arran sweater. You really have to be skinny to wear one of those. Noria looks at her with curiosity. She’s got class. I haven’t .

‘Antoine tells me you’re from the police …’

‘Officer Ghozali, Intelligence, Paris.’

Noria shows her ID.

‘What do you want of me?’

‘I have been asked to give you some information about an ongoing investigation which concerns you directly.’

Françoise Michel remains ostentatiously standing, propped against the mantelpiece.

‘I’m listening. Make it quick, please.’

Noria leans against the back of the sofa, to give an impression of composure, seems to falter, then takes the plunge:

‘The President was informed yesterday that you are Bornand’s daughter.’

Françoise Michel starts. Good point, I’m ahead, Macquart was right .

‘And what has my relationship with Bornand got to do with you?’

‘Me personally, absolutely nothing, but apparently, the President is not of the same opinion.’

‘What does he know of our private life? Nothing. And there’s nothing to know. We’re not married, as far as I know.’

‘That is not his view at all. He considers that a scandal among his entourage would be very damaging, with the elections coming up in March ’86, in a country which, as you know, still has a strong Catholic tradition and in which people take a dim view of incest.’

‘Who says we sleep together?’

‘Nobody. And I repeat that I don’t care. But Bornand didn’t react in the same way as you.’ She’s wavering. Go for it . ‘The President insisted on his going back home to live with his wife. To which he agreed.’

‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

Bingo. I’ve got her.

‘As you wish. He arrived at his wife’s place in Saumur at 08.50 this morning. And he’s still there.’

Shock. She hesitates, staring intently at Noria. Then she strides resolutely over to the telephone sitting on an occasional table, looks up a number in an address book and dials.

‘Hello … May I speak to François Bornand, please …’

‘One moment …’ A woman’s voice dripping with irony, at some distance from the phone. ‘François, it’s for you. Have you already given your secretary my number?’

She hangs up, ashen-faced, unplugs the telephone and goes over to sit on the sofa. Concentrate, she’s mine . Noria takes off her coat and lays it on the wooden seat. Then she settles in one of the armchairs. Françoise doesn’t have the energy to protest.

‘What do you want from me? You haven’t come here just to tell me I’ve been dumped?’

‘No, I haven’t …’

Noria takes a set of black and white photos out of the back pocket of her trousers, and lays them on the coffee table. Françoise Michel and Moricet, easily recognisable, in Geneva, in the lobby of the Hilton, in the street, outside the banks … She spreads them out and contemplates them. I swear she’s afraid.

‘… I’m afraid you may not be aware of who the man beside you is …’

Françoise Michel loses track for a second. A disappointing night, once the initial excitement was over. As is often the case. Rough and ready virility … She turns her attention back to Noria, who adds:

‘… Moricet, a French mercenary based in Lebanon, wanted by the police in several countries for murder. You’re the one giving him money, are you aware what that means? Money that we can easily trace, since we have the date the deposit was made and the name of the bank. Money which we assume is of criminal origin, arms trafficking, corruption, and murder. You are an accomplice.’

Françoise Michel, huddled on the sofa, says nothing. She stares at this girl who looks so young, she could be anyone, with such an ordinary face, and suddenly, such power … I’m honestly afraid I’m no match for her . She picks up the photos, slowly inspects them, trying to buy time to muster her thoughts.

‘Was it you who followed me to Geneva?’