He sat thinking about his father, as he had at midday, playing golf. Authoritarian and cold. He’d never touched his son. Never a kiss, not even a handshake. He used to put gloves on to make love to his wife — my mother. My mother who got plastered on booze and medicines to forget her husband — my father. The happiest moments of my childhood were those endless walks in the forest in the holidays at Grandmother’s. And then, in that same forest, the year he was thirteen — the rape. The year his mother died. Suddenly, an obsessive thought came into his head: I’ve no way of protecting Soleiman. And then the flash of an image: his tanned body, under the orange duvet. Asleep. Inanimate. I don’t want you to die, he thought.
5 p.m.Vincennes racecourse
At the wheel of his Renault 5 Martens drove into the car-park reserved for owners and trainers. Romero let him go on a little ahead, then introduced himself with his warrant card. The man at the gate raised his eyebrows, but allowed him through. But, just in the time it took to park, Martens had vanished. Romero entered the racecourse enclosure and bought a programme for the evening’s races, which were to begin in two hours’ time. In the second: Rheingold, owner D. Martens. He went along to the stable area, found where the horses in the second race were stabled. And there, inside the maze of looseboxes, he saw Martens, feverishly walking around a very pretty trotting horse, small build, burnt chestnut in colour. Just as Romero was passing them, the jockey’s stable lad pushed Martens gently but firmly out of the box.
‘Scram! You’re making the horse nervous. Go and have a drink, we’ll see you after the race.’
Inspiration. Romero caught Martens by the arm, gave him a big smile, and began: ‘Oh well, that’s that. I’ll take you away. Let’s go and have a drink.’
Martens leaned on his arm and followed him. Martens didn’t want to go up to the Panorama restaurant, he preferred to stay in the great hall where all the punters were, he felt more anonymous like that, he would have liked the ground to swallow him up. They went to the bar on the ground floor to drink a pastis together. It was crowded, but there was no risk of losing one another. Martens clung to Romero as if he were suddenly all the family he had.
‘You know, it’s the first time one of my horses is running at Vincennes.’
‘Do you have many?’
‘No, only two. They are trained in the Orne, 200 kilometres from Paris. I’ve had to put up with a lot of disruption to see them run, but I’ve never missed one of their races. And you?’
He would have to remain evasive, otherwise how could he explain his presence within the confines of the looseboxes. But the question and the reply were of no importance. Martens was only interested in his horses and himself. Romero ordered another round of pastis.
‘Have you placed your bets on the first?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Go and do it, quickly. I’ll wait for you here and then we’ll go and find seats in the stand.’
Romero had never gambled, not at a racecourse, or a betting shop, or at the corner tobacconist’s. He observed what others were doing in front of him and put two lots of ten francs to win on two horses, chosen at random, nos. 4 and 11. And for the second, 500 francs to win on Rheingold. I can’t do less, he thought. Whether it would be accepted as justifiable expenses would be another matter.
He climbed up to the stand. Martens was ashen, tense, and more and more silent. Romero was caught up in the spectacle. Projectors produced an unreal light in the dusk. The sulkys passed back and forth in front of the stands: horses like automatons, horses that flew, astonishing bursts of speed. And the roar from the stands began to mount. It was cold. The horses were under orders. They were off. Romero tried to find nos. 4 and 11. He never succeeded. Happily the loudspeaker was there, accompanying the race with a sort of recitative. The roar grew louder. No. 4 took the lead, the stands shouted, no. 4 had won, the stands emptied. Romero turned to Martens, astounded: I’ve won. A weak smile from Martens: Congratulations.
‘You seem pretty down in the dumps. I won’t desert you though. I’ll pick up my winnings a bit later.’
‘You know, to see my horse run at Vincennes is really important to me. I’d never have believed it possible. My colours on this course. But you’ve seen the odds aren’t good.’
‘Have you owned horses for a long time?’
‘Five years. Five years I’ve sacrificed all my money to them and every one of my weekends.’
Five years at least since his scam’s been in operation, Romero thought. The horses for the second race had entered the course.
Rheingold, no. 5, grey vest with two orange stripes, orange cap. Romero had a flashback: the girl’s dress at the lunch had had the same orange and the coat had been grey. Was it a present from Martens?
The horses were under orders. They were lining up at the starting gates. Martens clasped Romero’s arm. The loudspeaker took up its chant again. No. 5 made a mess of his start, vanished into the depths of the cluster. Romero was surprised with himself: at the tight feeling in his chest. Martens was swaying and muttering, talking to his horse like a mother to her sick baby. The horses passed in front of the stand. Thunder of hooves, roar from the stands. No. 5 in the anonymous mass. Romero couldn’t manage to track it down. Then in the line opposite, he saw no. 5 moving to the outside. The last lap: no. 5 was getting under way with a superior speed, all alone on the outside. Last straight, the speaker overexcited, no. 5 was passing the pack, and with a superb effort, a final burst of speed, it reached the finishing line, and crossed it in the lead. Romero was panting, and so hypnotized by no. 5’s race that he hadn’t even heard the stands this time. He turned to Martens, sitting as white as a sheet, tears in his eyes.
‘Excuse me. My head’s spinning.’
Romero looked at him: he had to stick to him like a leech now, he was going to crack. Instinct of the hunt. He caught him under his arms and put him back on his feet.
‘We must go and congratulate the winners.’
He held him up as he walked.
Jostling, laughter, kisses, congratulations. Officials. Cup. All that flew past. The jockey was running in the fourth. He hardly had any time to spend with Martens. Martens accompanied his horse to the loosebox. Romero took the opportunity to collect his winnings while the third race was starting. His winnings were more than he earned in a month. The evening was becoming surreal. He ran towards the looseboxes. Found Martens again, who was gazing at his horse, punch drunk and full of love. It really had been beautifuclass="underline" now, after the race, it had become a trotting horse, as though it had disintegrated through the effort. The stable lad was busy washing him, rubbing him down, protecting his legs.
‘Come on. It’s over. We’re going to celebrate now.’
Martens woke up.
‘OK.’ To the lad. ‘Tell your boss we’ll be at the Rendezvous des Trotteurs, if he wants to join us after the races.’
10 p.m. Closerie des Lilas
The pianist was beginning a jazz piece. Daquin sat down at Lenglet’s table in the brasserie where he was waiting for him on a red banquette, in suit and tie, very strict.
‘How did it go at the Quai today?’
‘So-so. At the moment, I’m fed up with the confined atmosphere of the motherhouse. I’d love to go back to the Middle East to be in one of the boxes in the dress circle for the start of the world war Giscard’s announced for the new year.’