She takes his hand and leads him over to the big square bed covered in a huge white duvet. He lies on his back, his bath robe open. Above the bed is a mirror; he contemplates the reflection of his naked body for a moment and begins to float. Evita, standing before him, undresses. With a gesture she unzips her dress which crumples at her feet, a pair of pneumatic breasts, with small, hard, dark nipples. She steps out of her shoes, removes her black tights and G-string. A penis, pubic hair meticulously plucked.
She comes and lies down beside Deluc. More sighs and whispers. He buries his face in her voluminous breasts, which loll from side to side, frenziedly grabbing her penis. She caresses him much more gently. Kisses, caresses all over. A magic moment, fulfilment, two bodies become one, with four arms and legs, passionately caressing itself. Evita slips a condom on him and he eventually takes her. She always hurries him a little at this point, he can’t hold out any longer. His real pleasure is before, and he would like to draw it out longer.
Then, lying on his back, his arms folded, Deluc contemplates, between the white of the bed and his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling, his elongated slender body, like that of an adolescent, his slightly hazy, slightly careworn vamp’s face. The image spins, revolves, no more inner tension, no more space, no more time, a slow, nebulous drifting sensation, his body feels liberated.
He rises, and returns to the vertical, a little unsteady. Evita is in the bathroom, washing and dressing. He comes and sits in front of the big mirror, and begins to remove his make-up. The ritual of the descent, before landing, bringing with it regrets, a fleeting shame, the tensions and anxiety come flooding back. Much worse this time than usual. Perrot’s caught up with me. When he closes his eyes, he distinctly hears Perrot say: ‘That’s better, now you’re being reasonable’. As if talking to a girl. He opens his eyes. There, in the mirror, staring back at him, is Perrot’s face, his cold, staring brown eyes. And a contemptuous smile. A surge of adrenalin and fury. Grabs a big pot of cream and hurls it at the face in the mirror, which cracks and shatters in a shower of dazzling stars. Deluc will never remember the noise it made. On the bare wall facing him is the lens of a camera.
Saturday 21 October 1989
A pleasant awakening. It’s already late morning. A grey light, drizzle, body aching slightly. Today, he can take his time. A long, hot bath, images from last night floating around his head. Fascinating, the packets of cocaine that Le Dem delivered, one by one, from the mares’ wombs. Then a cold power shower. And the shaving ritual, the whole works, since he’s in no hurry. A long, supple shaving brush, English soap, and the best razor in the collection, a Swedish-made open razor. The silky caress of the steel on his skin, the precision and tension of the gesture, no room for error. This face and this body suit him.
And then, a carefully prepared breakfast. Frothy eggs scrambled over a bain-marie, and a very fresh goat’s cheese with bread, washed down with steaming coffee, a whole pot. Daquin eats lounging on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table, flicking through yesterday’s papers. Fancies a fuck. A few precise images of certain lovers’ bodies, an especially tender gesture or caress. Need to go cruising. But for the time being, he’s got to go down to the Drugs Squad headquarters. A whole day of work ahead of him, in the office, in the utmost calm. Go through the files, read the statements carefully. Don’t overlook a thing, think, plan the next stage. A fresh pot of coffee. Good.
By evening, the rain has stopped, the whole city plunges from greyness into night. Leaning on the parapet of the embankment, he watches the Seine flowing past, dark and peaceful. Once again, like this morning, desire. For life, for sex.
The Marais district isn’t far. Barely more than five minutes on foot. He turns into a narrow little street between ancient buildings, full of memories like a familiar garment. The tarmac is drying out. Young men and women, mainly men, amble around amid the lit-up shops, shady bars and cafés spilling onto the pavements. The occasional burst of music. Dreadful music, but it’s part of the scene. Gorgeous boys walk in the middle of the road, tantalising arses and bright eyes, all attainable, all anonymous. Daquin walks behind a tall, slender fair-haired guy, tight sweater, hip-hugging jeans, with a slit below the buttocks. Couldn’t be more explicit. The outline of a pack of condoms discernible in his back pocket. His shoulders sway as he walks, exchanging greetings, smiles and banter with various people. A regular. Daquin slowly draws closer.
Ten minutes later they are together, leaning on the bar of a dark, overcrowded café, having a drink: Daquin a margarita, and the fair-haired Adonis – ‘My name’s Michel’ – fine features, huge eyes, delightfully calm and available, a rum.
Daquin slips his hand inside the slit jeans, feels his way to the inner thigh. A burning in his belly. Kisses the velvety base of his neck. Discovers the taste of his skin, a faint citrusy tang, or is it the margarita? His lips move very slowly round to the corner of Michel’s mouth. Not yet. Take his time, prolong the ache of desire until it becomes almost unbearable. And then, the cool lips under his tongue, the warm mouth. The ever new thrill of chance and discovery.
A few drinks later, Micheclass="underline" ‘A friend has lent me a studio flat just around the corner. Shall we go there?’
A small apartment on the top floor of a seventeenth-century building, exposed beams, white walls. Daquin slides his hands inside the tight sweater, smooth, narrow chest, nipples tautening at his touch. Removes the sweater, then pulls Michel by his jeans belt, has him kneel on the big bed in a dark wood frame with a white crotchet cotton bedspread. Undoes the buttons, one by one, very slowly, to reveal the paler skin on his stomach, feels a pang, the curly tuft rough to the touch, the pubes of a fair-haired man, sparser than usual. Slips the jeans down over his hips, then down his long, slightly too slender legs, which feel hard under the curly down that electrifies the palms of his hands.
Michel now completely naked on the bed, golden as warm bread. So happy to be gazed at, admired, caressed and licked. Your pleasure kindles mine. You are the one I’ve dreamed of.
Monday 23 October 1989
On arriving at his office on Monday morning, Daquin finds a note: Urgent. The director wants to see you. Immediately on the defensive.
And in fact the atmosphere is decidedly frosty. Daquin sits down, ensconces himself in the armchair and waits. The director opens fire.
‘A remarkable investigation. Bravo.’
Daquin, slightly taken aback.
‘You haven’t had my report yet.’
‘But I expect to receive it later today. Don’t forget we have a press conference on Transitex this evening.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
‘I wanted to see you before you finished writing this report of yours, to ask you to be discreet concerning Perrot. He’s the biggest property developer in the Paris marketplace, and it would be better if his name didn’t appear. Especially of course in front of the press.’
Daquin is flabbergasted. He thinks I’m mentally incompetent.
‘Perrot has already been mentioned in my earlier reports.’
‘What’s done is done. I’m talking about the report you’re about to write.’
So the intervention from on-high is recent, probably today. Say something.
‘Is that your opinion sir, or that of the Minister?’
‘It’s not an opinion, Daquin, it’s an order. That should be enough.’