Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

The brightly lit foyer is crowded, noisy and stuffy. Daquin pauses by a window and gazes at Place de l’Opéra glistening in the rain, studded with lights and swarming with people and cars. Enticing. Rudi comes back from the bar with two glasses of champagne. And picks up the conversation exactly where he had broken off when the curtain went up.

‘Thousands of people are leaving East Germany, through Poland and Czechoslovakia, and still not a word about it in your press. Incredible. My parents wrote and told me that a surgery unit in the biggest hospital in East Berlin has just closed because all the nurses have left the country. Theo, are you listening to me?’

‘Not really.’ He smiles. ‘I’m thinking over the evening.’ Drains his glass. ‘I hate wearing a tie, the sets are enough to make you weep, the staging is pretentious, I don’t like the music and the champagne’s lukewarm. I’m going to find a taxi. How about I take you home with me?’

The phone rings insistently. Daquin takes a while to surface. A glance at his watch, it’s 2 a.m. He kicks off the duvet. In the vast bed, Rudi’s sleeping on his stomach, his face turned to the wall, his arms above his head. Fair hair against the dark green sheet. Straight out of an aftershave ad. Odd thought. It must be exhaustion. The phone keeps ringing. He picks up the receiver.

‘Superintendent Daquin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Superintendent Janneret, 16 tharrondissement. I’ve just had the Drugs Squad on the phone…’

‘What do you want?’

‘Can you come over to the station?’

‘Now?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘Send a car for me, 36 Avenue Jean-Moulin in the 14th. In half an hour.’

‘Will do, and thank you.’

Getting up is no easy matter, groping around in the dark so as not to wake Rudi. The bathroom, privacy regained: first of all a long shower, hot, then cold, power jets full on, painful awareness of every muscle. Then, naked in front of the big mirror, he shaves meticulously, enjoying the feel of the metal razor on his skin, the pleasure of watching each familiar feature slowly emerge from the lather, the tingle of the aftershave. That’s better. Now the wardrobe, to something to slip into quickly. No idea what’s in store, an all-purpose outfit: leather jacket, linen trousers. And Daquin leaves. The ivy-covered houses of the Villa des Artistes make the night seem even blacker and more silent. A car driven by a uniformed police officer is already waiting at the entrance to the Villa on Avenue Jean-Moulin.

The superintendent is pacing up and down outside the police station.

‘So what’s going on?’

‘We did one of our routine swoops in the Bois de Boulogne and my men picked up the usual bunch of transvestites. Plus a young man, half naked in a bush. A punter. And in the pocket of his jacket hanging from a tree, six hits of coke. We bring him in, and he kicks up an unbelievable stink, demands that we inform his father, Christian Deluc, presidential advisor. If it had been up to me, I’d have packed him straight off home, I’ve got my hands full enough, I don’t need any additional complications. But he made such a nuisance of himself that the trannies started getting pissed off and threatened to inform the press if we just let him go. Can you imagine the scandal? Anyway, coke’s a matter for the Drugs Squad and the duty officer seemed to think you were the best person to sort the matter out quietly.’

‘Is the kid a minor?’

‘No. He’s just turned eighteen.’

‘Have you informed his father?’

‘No, we were waiting for you.’

‘Don’t. Select two of your men to help me do a body search and find us some rubber gloves.’

Daquin enters the station. At the back of the duty office is a lockup with three cells. In the first two, ten or so transvestites in their work clothes. They bang on the bars, harangue the cops, yell and sing. Daquin goes over to them, his step purposefully heavy, his gaze expressionless. He raps sharply on the bars of one of the cells.

‘Cut it out, girls. Let me work in peace.’

A lull.

Daquin has the third cell opened, brings out a thin, sullen youth, points to the door of the office just opposite and follows him, accompanied by two subordinates assigned to him by the station chief.

‘Leave the door open, the girls want to watch the fun.’

One cop at the typewriter. The other perches on the corner of the desk. Daquin stands.

‘Name, kid?’

‘I insist on being treated with respect.’

A sweep behind his legs, one hand pressing his head down. The boy falls to his knees. Daquin bangs his head on the edge of the desk, not too hard. His skin splits. Drops of blood splash onto the floor.

‘Listen, arsehole…’ keeping the boy’s head down towards the floor with one hand: ‘…you just don’t get it. You haven’t fucked Catherine Deneuve. You didn’t steal billions. You sold mini-doses of adulterated coke to trannies in the Bois de Boulogne, probably in return for a free trick. Daddy can’t get you out of this mess, it’s too sordid for the corridors of the Élysée Palace. Capisce ?’

Daquin grabs him by his collar, jerks him upright, and steps back slightly.

‘Now, your name?’

‘Olivier Deluc.’ Blood trickles down his nose, touches the corner of his mouth, he licks it, to taste.

‘Date and place of birth? Address?’

The youth replies.

‘Get undressed.’

The boy stares at him open-mouthed.

Daquin moves closer.

‘Are you deaf?’

Hesitantly, he starts to undress, the taste of blood in his mouth.

‘Faster. Your underpants too.’

He is naked now. Daquin to the cop sitting on the corner of the desk:

‘Body search. Put on the gloves.’ To the kid. Open your mouth.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Can’t I?’

Daquin stands behind him, presses on his jaw joints and yanks his head up. Searing pain in the jaw, the boy’s mouth drops open. The cop runs a finger between the gums and the lips and under his tongue. Nothing. Daquin relaxes his hold and dictates to the cop sitting at the typewriter:

‘A body search was conducted…’ To the kid: ‘Now, lean forward, hands on the desk, legs spread.’ The same cop, still wearing rubber gloves, explores his anus.

‘Cough. Perfect.’ To the cop at the typewriter: ‘… and nothing was found. The suspect was therefore arrested in possession of six doses of cocaine.’

Blood runs down his neck, onto his shoulder. The boy, tears in his eyes, reaches for his trousers. Daquin stops him sharply.

‘You’ll get dressed when I say so. First of all you’re going to give me the name of your dealer. If you do, I’ll consider you as a consumer. If not, as a pusher. Six doses is more than enough. Do you need me to explain the difference to you?’ The boy shakes his head, snivelling. ‘Besides, squealing to the cops gives you a high, you’ll enjoy it. Go on, we’re listening.’

A mumble.

‘Louder, I didn’t hear, nor did the girls.’

‘Senanche. He’s a groom at Meirens, a racing stable in Chantilly.’

‘How am I going to find him?’

‘He’s a wrinkled old man who hangs out around the stables every morning around six, when the jockeys arrive.’

‘Has he got a lot of customers?’

A glance to the left, a glance to the right, still naked. Get the hell out of here.

‘Ten or so, I think.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘I sometimes exercise the horses in the morning.’

‘You can get dressed. Sign your statement before you leave. And don’t set foot on this patch again.’

Daquin quits the office and closes the door. The trannies burst out clapping. A gorgeous creature, muscular shoulders and dizzying plunging neckline, long legs and high heels: