Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

Annick has joined Jubelin and his Italian buddies. Ballestrino touches Renta’s arm, and exchanges a look with him. Silent dialogue. Renta bows ceremoniously to Annick:

‘May I ask you to dance?’

He’s about thirty-five, average height, slicked-back dark hair, dark eyes, and an elegance that is just a little overstated. A close-fitting grey alpaca suit, light grey silk shirt, and a wide, brightly coloured tie. Annick finds there is something slightly vulgar about him. Amused, she takes his arm and they make their way towards the back rooms.

The minute they leave, Mori steers Ballestrino, Galliano and Jubelin over to a slightly isolated corner of the buffet. They attack the cold meats and talk business. A few remarks about the recent AGM. And Pama’s future growth prospects. Quick review. They soon come back to Japan. This Maréchaux mansion deal, the first contact with the Pacific region. But they must consolidate in Europe before embarking on strategic interventions in the Far East. Mori agrees.

‘By the way,’ says Ballestrino, ‘my friend Galliano told me about a nice little opportunity in Munich.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A.A. Bayern, a medium-sized insurance company, solid family business, well established in the region. Has business relations with certain East German circles, useful just at the moment with things starting to stir behind the Iron Curtain.’

‘Even in East Germany?’

‘Much more than they’re saying here. Right now, A.A.’s shares are fairly high, but they could plummet in the coming months, if we so wish. And pave the way for a takeover bid that will be both easy and very profitable.’ Ambivalent smile. ‘It’s not a business proposition, it’s a favour.’

‘Why don’t you keep it for yourself, Mori?’

‘My group concentrates on industry. Where insurance is concerned, my stake in Pama is enough for me.’

Taking out his diary, Jubelin turns to Galliano:

‘Shall we have a meeting before you leave for Munich?’

They move back towards the windows. Jubelin greets an official from the Ministry of Finance, who pumps his hand warmly. Congratulations. A huge float trundles past carrying a 30-metre steam engine, surrounded by the deafening Drums of the Bronx going wild, to the indifference of the crowd.

Annick dances with Renta. Lots of Latino and West Coast beats. He dances well, and flirts a little, as etiquette requires. His tie is Yves Saint Laurent. Actually more of a bore than a hoodlum. A pirouette and a smile. Annick escapes, dives into the toilet, a quick snort, and returns, ravishing, to the windows and the spectacle below.

She bumps into Deluc, cigarette dangling from his mouth, one of those horrid smelly Indian cigarettes he got into the habit of smoking when he was in Beirut, deep in an argument with an opposition deputy about the soaring share prices and rising Paris property values. The deputy ceremoniously kisses Annick’s hand and starts explaining what’s happening at Pama to her. He’s clearly had one too many. Deluc takes advantage to make himself scarce, the bastard.

Jubelin, Nicolas and Ballestrino are sitting in front of one of the TV screens watching Jessye Norman launch into the ‘Marseillaise’ at Place de la Concorde. Nicolas turns to Ballestrino.

‘I’ve heard you own a stud farm outside Milan.’

He sounds delighted. ‘I do. I’ve raised a few flat racing champions. Two of my colts ran at Longchamp last Sunday.’

Jubelin adds:

‘What a coincidence. I’m a great horse lover. I have several in training.’

‘Who with?’

‘Meirens, at Chantilly.’

‘I know him. If you’re ever in Milan, I’d be delighted to show you around my stables.’

Having rid herself, not without difficulty, of the inebriated deputy, Annick spots Nicolas and Jubelin in a heated conversation in a corner, slightly away from the others. She makes her way over to them, and they abruptly stop talking. Jubelin, on edge, turns to Nicolas.

‘We’ll talk about it in my office.’

Nicolas takes Annick’s arm.

‘Let’s go upstairs and watch the end of the procession.’

Now it’s the high point of the whole event. Women balanced on pedestals move forward with mechanical movements, revolving to the strains of a waltz. They are high above the ground, wearing huge wide-brimmed hats, crinolines with skirts several metres wide cascading down to the ground, each cradling a baby. Annick gazes at these stylised giants, which she finds threatening. Inexplicable feeling of discomfort.

The procession is winding up. Perrot moves from group to group. The single men are invited to round off the evening in the restaurant he owns, Rue Balzac, with some lady friends. Nicolas accepts, Jubelin, ever cautious, declines.

Shortly before midnight, a slender crescent moon, clouds, strong winds. The stables are dark, nearly a hundred stalls around a huge square yard, on the edge of the forest. The trees groan in chorus, the buildings creak, the horses are a little restless. A hoof strikes the floor from time to time. On one side of the quadrangle are the grooms’ sleeping quarters, just above the horses’ stalls. Two windows are still lit.

In a shadowy corner opposite, a little explosion, barely louder than a banger, and a shower of sparks, then a blazing yellow flame, a pool of fire immediately in front of one of the stalls creeps along the ground and climbs around the door with a crackle. The horses whinny and grow restive. Lights come on in the grooms’ quarters. A panic-stricken neighing, pounding of hooves, the straw in the stall is now ablaze. The men are at the windows, the wind blows in sharp gusts.

By the time they descend, the fire has reached to the roof and is spreading from stall to stall with a roar. In the yard, half-naked men race to the doors to release the horses from their stalls. Wild with panic, the horses stampede towards the forest. A groom is knocked down and trampled. A horse, its mane on fire, whinnying in terror, hurls itself against a wall and sinks to the ground, its skull shattered. One whole section of the roof collapses amid a cascade of orange sparks. Along with the smell of burning, the wind carries the horrendous smell of scorched flesh and hide.

Soaking wet, blackened, desperate, the men, clutching every available hosepipe, sprinkle everything that is still standing to delay the fire’s progress. And the wind is still up.

A second row of stalls catches fire before the fire engine’s siren can be heard. The firefighters have to remove two dead horses blocking the path before they can reach the stable yard and turn their hose on the fire. After battling for an hour, they manage to put out the flames. Half of the stables are burnt out, reduced to heaps of charred timber and ashes, exuding a blackish fluid and a few wisps of smoke. A boy, his bare chest smeared black, lies sobbing beside the charred body of a horse, cradling its head in his arms.

Agence France Presse despatch:

As part of its crackdown on illegal drug trafficking, OCRTIS, the French antinarcotics department of the Ministry of the Interior, recently seized 53 kilos of cocaine found aboard an abandoned Renault van in a warehouse in the Paris suburb of Aubervilliers. Neither the vendors nor the buyers have been identified.

The curtain comes down on the end of the first act of Berg’s Wozzeck . The lights come up in the auditorium of the Opera Garnier. Daquin rises, desperate to stretch and yawn. A glance at his lover, walking up the aisle a few metres in front of him. Of course he wouldn’t appreciate it. And I have no reason… Rudi, always so polite and distant. German, Prussian even, tall, broad shoulders, slim hips, blond, a romantic forelock, square jaw and blue eyes. Mesmerising. Women nearly always turn their heads to look at him when he walks past. A rather amusing misapprehension, best witnessed from a distance.