Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

“Is that all we can get out of this film?”

Claude hesitated. “No. I think it’s a vehicle for something else. For starters, why fifty frames a second? And what’s the point of that white circle in the upper right? It’s present on every frame. On top of which”—he shook his head, lips pinched—“there are those areas of fog, parts of the screen that are very dark, that omnipresent dullness, like a kind of film over the lens. The cameraman seems to be playing with contrast, light, things unsaid. I felt the same anxiety as you when I watched this. The porno images, or even the ones of the woman being tortured, aren’t enough to create such a powerful unease. And besides, let’s not forget that Ludovic is in a psychiatric ward because of this film. There must be something I’ve missed. I have to look at it all again very carefully. Every frame, every bit of every image. But that could take days…”

Lucie couldn’t manage to shake the vision of that maimed woman. A fat, black eye, like a gaping wound on her abdomen. She might have been holding the proof of a murder. Even if the case was more than fifty years old, she wanted to get to the bottom of it. Or at least understand.

“How could we find that woman?”

Claude didn’t appear surprised by the question. After all the films he’d handled, most of them lost or anonymous, he must have been used to this kind of request.

“I think you’d have to look in France. She’s wearing a Chanel suit, the 1954 model, in other words one year before the film was developed. My mother had the same one.”

Shot in France, developed in Canada? Or else, had the actress moved there—assuming she even was an actress? And why? How had someone convinced her to appear in this sick film? One more oddity to add to the pile, in any case.

“Large bust, pear-shaped hips… this is smack dab in the Bardot era, when filmmakers finally dared show women. Her face doesn’t ring any bells, but I can contact a film historian who specializes in the fifties. He’s in touch with all the film archives and revival houses in the country. The porno and erotica milieu was very closed off and censored at the time, but there was a circuit even so. If this woman ever appeared in any other films, my friend will find her.”

“Can you make me photocopies of the subliminal images off the film?”

“I can do you one better—I’ll digitize the whole thing for you. My 16-mil scanner can churn through two thousand frames an hour in low res. Don’t worry, the quality will be excellent, as long as you don’t try to show it on a movie screen. When I’m done, I’ll put it on a server, and you can download it from your computer.”

Lucie thanked her host warmly and dropped her business card in the basket.

“Call me as soon as you find out anything.”

Claude nodded and squeezed her hand between both of his.

“I’m doing this for Ludovic. It was thanks to his parents that I met my wife. Her name was Marilyn, like the other one…” He sighed, a sigh full of nostalgia. “I’d really like to know why this damn film drove him blind.”

Once outside, Lucie glanced at her watch. Almost noon. Her meeting with Claude Poignet had made her feel sick. She thought about those subliminal images, inside her now against her will. She felt them vibrating somewhere inside her, without knowing precisely where. The scene of the sliced eyeball had shocked her, but at least she’d been aware of seeing it. But the others… Just perverted filth that had been lodged in her brain, without any possible defense.

Who had seen this insanity? Why had it been made? Like Claude Poignet, she sensed that the cursed filmstrip still harbored sinister secrets.

Her head full of questions, she went to retrieve her car at the République parking garage. Behind the wheel, before turning the ignition, she took out young Szpilman’s want ad, which Ludovic had given her: “For sale: old films, 16 mm, 35 mm, silent and sound. All genres, short and full length, 1930s and after. 800+ reels, including 500 spy thrillers. Make offer on site.” The son might know something. It might be worth making the trip to Liège. But first, she was going back to the hospital to have lunch with her mother and Juliette—though calling that hospital food “lunch” was a stretch.

She was already missing her little daughter something fierce.

Sharko, beside himself, yanked open the toilet stalls at Rouen police headquarters one after another to make sure no one was inside. Sweat was pouring down his temples and the cursed sun streamed through the windows. It was awful. He spun around suddenly, his eyes full of salt and fury.

“Leave me the fuck alone, Eugenie, okay? I’ll get you your cocktail sauce, but not now! I’m at work, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Eugenie was sitting on the edge of the sink. She wore a short blue dress and red shoes with buckles, and her hair was tied with an elastic. She was taking mischievous pleasure in coiling a lock of it around her fingers. She wasn’t sweating a drop.

“I don’t like it when you do those things, dear Franck. I’m scared of skeletons and dead people. Eloise was scared of them too, so why are you starting up again and putting me through this? Didn’t you like it in your office? Now I don’t want to go away alone. I want to stay with you.”

Sharko paced back and forth, hot as a pressure cooker. He ran to the sink and stuck his head under the freezing tap. When he stood up, Eugenie was still there. He tried elbowing her aside, but she didn’t budge.

“Quit talking about Eloise. Get lost. You should have gone away with the treatment, you should have disap—”

“So then let’s go back to Paris, right away. I want to play with the trains. If you’re mean to me and go see those skeletons again, things won’t be so easy for you. That big dummy Willy can’t come bother you anymore, but I still can. And whenever I want to.”

Worse than a pot of glue. The inspector held his head in his hands. Then he rushed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He veered into a hallway. Eugenie was sitting cross-legged in front of him, on the linoleum floor. Sharko walked around her, ignoring her presence, and straight into the office of Georges Péresse. The head of Criminal Investigations was juggling his landline and his cell. Papers had piled up in front of him. He put his hand over the receiver and jerked his chin toward Sharko.

“What is it?”

“Any news from Interpol?”

“Yes, yes. The form was sent to Central last night.” Péresse returned to his conversation. Sharko remained in the doorway.

“Can I see that form?”

“Inspector, please! I’m busy.”

Sharko nodded and went back to his desk, a small area they had allocated him in an open space where five or six police functionaries bustled about. It was July, blue skies, holidays. Despite the importance of the ongoing case, the precinct was running at half speed.

The cop sat in his chair. Eugenie had set his nerves on edge; he hadn’t been able to channel her like at his office in Paris. She came back, her rucksack stuffed with old memories and obsessions that she loaded into his head. She knew perfectly well which buttons to push, and he knew what to expect: basically, she punished him the moment he became too much of a cop again.

He dove back into his files, pen in hand, while the little girl played with a letter opener. She was making noise incessantly, and Sharko knew there was no use stopping up his ears: she was inside him, somewhere under his skull, and wouldn’t clear out until she was good and ready.

Naturally, Sharko did everything he could to make sure no one noticed anything. He had to appear normal, lucid. That was how he’d managed to keep his ass covered in the Nanterre office. When Eugenie finally beat it, he was able to study his notes.