‘That’s what I thought. And that’s what I like about you. Now tell me why you invited me for this drink.’
‘I’m a journalist. I’m writing a special report on Daewoo, its various factories in France. I’m interested in the strike and the fire, but also all the issues to do with working conditions and safety in the factory.’
‘Which paper do you work for?’
‘Not a paper, for Agence France Presse. Our reports are sold to the newspapers. At the moment, with Daewoo taking over Thomson, there’s a lot of interest.’
‘Who gave you my name?’
‘A staff rep, All Amrouche.’
‘He’s a good man too, and a friend.’ Bitterly: ‘He wasn’t at the demo.’ Montoya refrains from asking: Are you surprised? She pours another cup of tea. ‘You’ve come to the right person. I can tell you about working conditions at Daewoo.’
She launches into the story of Émilienne’s accident. Montoya listens attentively, his gaze riveted by Rolande’s square hands, her slightly swollen fingers, the skin worn and marked, her nails cut short. They appear to feel every sentence, emphasising and punctuating her words. After Émilienne, the clash with Maréchal. He’s taken aback: the same Maréchal who was at the demonstration and who you said was a ‘good’ man? Mocking smile, yes, yes, the same Maréchal. She moves on to the account of her dismissal …
‘I heard it caused some controversy …’
Rolande sits up straight with a slight smile, her hands are folded on the table.
‘In any case Quignard, the new boss, reinstated me. It was worth it.’
‘A new boss? Isn’t it an odd time to change bosses?’
‘All the Koreans left after the fire, very quickly within forty-eight hours. Quignard took things in hand and in my opinion is doing a good job.’
Amrouche, Maréchal, Quignard, all good guys, yet she still has that Stakhanova manner. Be careful. Why is she standing up for Nourredine? Doesn’t she get it? She stops talking and slowly drinks her tea. A powerful memory from the day of the strike comes back to her. Aisha, her arms folded across her chest, her face white, describing the headless body, the emotion they all felt.
‘I’m not a very good talker. I’ll have to introduce you to my young neighbour, Aisha.’ Her fingers drum on the table. ‘It won’t be easy. She hasn’t set foot outside her flat since the strike.’
‘Why not?’
The hands open, spread, hesitate. ‘She’s very young, her father is a strict man who tends to be violent, the mother’s dead, the older brothers and sisters are married and have gone looking for work elsewhere. He’s stayed here, alone with her, he gets a steelworker’s pension, does nothing all day long. Like that for years, a man who’s still able-bodied, he finds it hard to accept. He was furious with her for going on strike. And since then she’s allowed herself to be shut up without protest. It’s not like her.’ She clasps her hands. ‘I haven’t seen her since. This would be a good opportunity.’
A silence as she lays her hand on top of Montoya’s, skin on skin, pressing down. Her hand is soft and rasping like her voice. Montoya shivers with an unexpected thrill. Careful. Let Stakhanova come to you.
Rolande says, ‘I like the way you listen. Calmly, not in a hurry. You make it easier for me to talk.’ He thinks dark thoughts … Even in the drug squad, my grasses talked more than other people’s, fat lot of good that did me …
‘Come, I’ll take you to my flat, it’s the only place where you’ll be able to meet Aisha.’
As Rolande leaves the cafe, she bumps into a short young man who is going in. On seeing her, he shrinks back.
‘Karim. You weren’t at the demo either.’
He stammers: ‘I couldn’t make it, Rolande.’
Montoya steps aside to let him pass and stares at him. Not striking, the key prosecution witness. Before leaving, he turns around and meets Karim’s eye in the mirror observing him, prying and anxious.
Cité des Jonquilles, staircase A, first floor. Rolande leaves Montoya outside on the landing for a few minutes. He hears a brief conversation on the other side of the door, Rolande and another female voice, sounds of washing-up, doors banging. Then she shows him into a pleasant and well-lit living room. She keeps it impeccably tidy, spick and span in fact. Two windows, creamy white walls, pale wood furniture. On the wall facing the windows, there’s a panoramic view of Venice as it appears when you arrive by sea, suspended between sky and lagoon, painted in blue and pink hues, the light of certain September mornings. A break in the wall, a break in life. A souvenir? A dream? Rolande motions him to sit in one of the three chintz armchairs facing the television while she goes and telephones in the hall, with the door closed. On a coffee table in front of him there’s a photo of a smiling teenage boy wearing a polo-necked jumper and some books that look as if they’re from a library.
Rolande comes back: Aisha will be here in a minute. She lives upstairs on the fourth floor.
Aisha arrives and the two women embrace. Rolande keeps her arms around her for a moment. ‘I’m so pleased to see you. We haven’t seen each other since the strike. How long is it? Ten days? It feels ages. How are you, Aisha?’
Aisha dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. Wan-faced, she stares at the floor and perches gingerly on the edge of the armchair facing Montoya. Rolande introduces him: a journalist friend (no more friend than journalist, thinks Montoya with irritation) who’s writing a series of articles about Daewoo, about our strike. ‘I couldn’t tell him much because I stayed in the cafeteria kitchen all the time.’ She breaks off, smiles at Montoya: ‘Onion and potato omelettes, Spanish-style. But you were all over the place, you can tell him about it.’ Aisha leans forward, hugging her chest.
‘It’s still so painful. Do we really have to go back over it?’
‘Yes, we have to talk about it. Something’s eating you up, I don’t know what. Take advantage of my friend’s presence (she stresses the word again), he’s not from around here, he’ll be gone in a few days and will listen to what you have to say.’
Montoya hears moaning from inside the apartment. The two women are unruffled. Aisha turns slightly towards Montoya, her eyes still lowered.
‘I’ve been working in the factory for six years. People who haven’t worked on the production line, like Rolande and me, can’t understand what happened to me. When our shift came out on strike we all started walking around the factory, freely, the bosses had disappeared. I thought I’d go mad with joy. I felt as though I existed. I thought it was easy, and that I was changing my life. I’d already heard people say that, on the radio, on TV: nothing will ever be the same again.’ Still tense and huddled up, she turns towards Rolande. ‘I decided there and then that I’d never return to my father’s house. And then, I met Étienne.’ Montoya glances at Rolande, she seems to know who he is so leave out the questions. He mustn’t interrupt Aisha who’s talking as if under hypnosis. ‘We slept together in the packaging workshop.’ Rolande puts her hand on Aisha’s arm and the girl smiles at her. ‘It wasn’t amazing, but it wasn’t terrible either. I felt as though I was breaking away from my father once and for all. You know what he’s like. It was the worst thing I could do to him. In my own way, I was doing everything I could so my life would be different.’
Aisha sighs, leans back in the armchair, then looks up and grows animated as she describes the arrival of the lorries, her elation, the overturned car, the occupation of the offices, the women becoming increasingly marginalised, wandering around the deserted factory.
‘I bumped into Étienne in the cafeteria and we went back to the packaging workshop.’ A little smile. ‘Much better than the first time. While we’re putting our clothes back on, Étienne hears a noise coming from the direction of the waste ground. He goes out of the back door to see what’s going on. I hear him yelclass="underline" “What are you doing? Who are you? Stop! Stop!” and he comes back like a madman, grabs my arm and drags me to the cafeteria, running, and he keeps yelling, “Quick, quick, there’s a fire. I saw the guys who started it”.’