Since that first evening, she now attended all their dinners, and had gotten to know them better. She had spotted their tics and strong points -and also their obsessions. These parties provided her with a real image of the universe of the police force. A black-and-white world of violence and certainty, both clichéd and fascinating.
The guests were always the same, barring the occasional exception. Generally it was Alain Lacroux who led the conversation. The thin, tall, upright fifty-year-old punctuated the end of each of his sentences with a stab from his fork or the wag of his head. Even the lilt of his southern accent added to this art of finishing, of chiseled expression. Everything about him sang, rippled, smiled-no one would ever have suspected his real responsibilities. He was second in command of Paris 's Affaires Criminelles.
Pierre Caracilli was his opposite. Small, squat and dark, he was constantly grumbling in a slow, almost hypnotic voice. It was this voice that had put to sleep many a criminal's defenses and extracted confessions from the hardiest of them. Caracilli was Corsican. He held an important position in the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire (or DST).
Jean-François Gaudemer was neither upright nor laid-back: he was a compact, solid, stubborn rock. Beneath his high, balding forehead, his eyes glistened with a darkness that seemed to announce an approaching storm. Anna pricked up her ears whenever he spoke. What he said was cynical. His stories were terrifying, but you experienced a sort of gratitude in his presence-the ambiguous feeling that a veil had been lifted on the hidden workings of the world. He was the head of OCRTIS, or the Office Central de Repression du Traffic lllicite des Stupéfiants. France 's Mr. Dope Trade.
But Anna's favorite was Philippe Charlier. This six-foot-four colossus was squeezed into his expensive suits. Nicknamed the "Jolly Green Giant" by his colleagues, he had the head of a boxer, which was as dense as a stone and edged by a gray-flecked mustache and mop of hair. He spoke too loudly, laughed like an ignition engine and forced his listeners into sharing his funny stories by taking them by the shoulder.
To understand him, you needed a sexual glossary. He called an erection a "bone in the pants," described wiry hair as "bollock fur," and when he spoke about his holidays in Bangkok, summed them up as follows: "Taking your wife to Thailand is like taking beer to Munich."
Anna found him vulgar, off-putting, but irresistible. He gave off an animalistic power that was extremely "police." You could not imagine him anywhere other than in an office, dragging confessions out of suspects. Or else in the field, commanding men armed with assault rifles.
Laurent had told her that Charlier had cold-bloodedly killed at least five men during his career. His field was terrorism. He had fought the same war in a number of different units, such as the DST, the DGSE (Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure) and the DNAT (Division Nationale Antiterroriste). Twenty-five years of undercover operations and raids. When Anna asked for more details, Laurent waved her questions away:”It would only be the tip of the iceberg."
That evening, the party was being held at his apartment on Avenue de Breteuil. It was a huge old Parisian apartment full of colonial knickknacks and with varnished parquet floors. Anna's curiosity had pushed her into exploring those rooms that were accessible. There was not the slightest trace of a female presence. Charlier was a confirmed bachelor.
It was 11:00 PM. The guests were slumped in nonchalant postprandial positions, encircled by the smoke of their cigars.
In this month of March 2002, just a few weeks before the presidential elections, they were rivaling one another with their predictions and forecasts, imagining the changes that would take place in the Ministry of the Interior depending on which candidate won. They all seemed ready for a great battle but unsure whether they would participate.
Philippe Charlier, who was sitting next to Anna, whispered to her, "Aren't you as pissed off as I am with their pig shoptalk? Do you know the one about the Swiss man?"
Anna smiled. You told me it last Saturday"
"What about the hillbilly at the train station?"
"No."
Charlier leaned his elbows on the table. "There's this hillbilly about to take the train for the first time. So he stands right on the platform edge waiting for it. An inspector sees him and goes. 'Watch out-if the express comes along, it'll suck you off'. And hillbilly goes. 'Come along, train!' "
She took a second to get it, then burst out laughing. Policemen's jokes never got higher than the belt, but at least she had not heard most of them before. She was still laughing when Charlier's face started to distort. Suddenly, his features became unclear. They were quite literally undulating across his face.
Anna looked around at the other guests. Their features also seemed dislocated, forming a wave of monstrous, contradictory expressions, mingling flesh, grins and screams…
A spasm gripped her. She started breathing through her mouth. "Are you okay?" Charlier asked.
"I'm… I'm hot. I'm going to freshen up."
"Shall I show you the way?"
She laid her hand on his shoulder and stood up. "It's okay. I'll find it."
She edged along the wall, leaned on the corner of the mantelpiece. Then bumped into an occasional table, setting off a chorus of tinkling.
When she reached the door, she glanced around. The sea of faces was still rising in a dance of cries and mingling wrinkles, distorted flesh reaching out to follow her. Holding back a scream, she left the room.
The hall was unlit. The hanging coats formed disturbing shapes; the half-open doors revealed rays of darkness. Anna stopped in front of a mirror framed with old gold. She stared at her reflection: a pallid parchment, a ghostly gleam. Beneath her black woolen sweater, she seized her trembling shoulders.
Suddenly, a man appeared behind her in the mirror.
She did not recognize him. He had not been there at the dinner. She turned around to face him. Who was he? Where had he sprung from? He looked threatening. Something twisted and disfigured hovered about his features. His hands gleamed in the shadows like a pair of steel weapons.
Anna pulled back, sinking into the hanging coats. The man stepped forward. She could hear the others talking in the next room. She wanted to cry out, but her throat was lined with burning cotton. The face was now just a few inches from her. A reflection from the looking glass glittered in her eyes, dazzling her pupils with a golden flash…
"Do you want to go home now?"
Anna stifled a groan. It was Laurent's voice. His face immediately recovered its usual appearance. She felt two hands holding her up and realized that she must have fainted.
"Jesus." Laurent said. "What's the matter with you?"
"My coat. Give me my coat," she demanded, freeing herself from his arms.
The malaise did not diminish. She did not completely recognize her husband. Once again she felt sure that his features had changed. That his face was different, that a secret lurked there, a zone of darkness…
Laurent handed her her duffel coat. He was trembling. He was clearly scared for her, but also for himself. He was worried that his friends would see what was happening. One of the top people in the Ministry of the Interior had a wife who was loony.
She slid on her coat, savoring the feel of the lining. If only she could wrap herself up completely in it and vanish…
Bursts of laughter could be heard from the lounge.
"I'll go and say good-bye for both of us."