‘No. My shift finishes at two p.m. and until I have more information, I’m not on strike.’
‘So you can come with me to my office. Negotiations should begin very soon, and Park will keep me informed by telephone. I’d like to have your opinion.’
‘Got anything to drink?’
A smile. ‘As usual, your favourite brandy.’
‘There’s nobody’s waiting for me at home.’
On the waste ground behind the factory, Karim has set up his little business. He likes the place. Before him the valley’s verdant slopes stretch down to Pondange. When he was little, it was a street filled with blast furnaces — fire, noise, smoke and dust, day and night. His father wore himself out working at one blast furnace after another, and Karim’s destiny, as the eldest son, was all mapped out. At sixteen, a steelworker, alongside his father. Today, his father is slowly dying on a good pension, while he’s thriving on small time wheeling and dealing. The air is pure and the valley is green, life’s good, seen from the Daewoo waste ground. He makes kindling from the pallets, sets up a makeshift barbecue and, with the collusion of the cafeteria manager, is cooking the sausages he sells cheaply on improvised wire skewers.
Two burly, thuggish-looking strangers with close-cropped hair, aggressive thirty-year-olds, are walking slowly towards him, their hands behind their backs. They look like cops, and none too friendly thinks Karim, who hesitates, glancing around. Nowhere to run. Spots the navy-blue ‘Security’ jackets, the uniform of Daewoo’s security guards. Relieved, Karim smiles at them and proffers two skewers. ‘For you, no charge.’ The two men nod, take the sausages and walk off without a word. Karim continues serving his customers, and for a little bit extra, he slips a gram of hash into the paper napkin containing the pair of sausages he hands to his regulars. A smoking corner has been set up in the stockroom, in the midst of the polystyrene packaging, well away from the security guards’ path.
Rolande is in the cafeteria and has taken over the kitchen area. She sets to work with precise gestures, assembling crockery and cutlery. Cheerfully she peels, rinses, chops and stirs. Earth mother. To her it’s half a game, half sublimated desire. Her way of being part of the collective action.
The first car loses no time in leaving the executives’ car park on the right-hand side of the building. It heads for the gate between two lines of men and women workers who have come running from all corners of the factory to stand and jeer. They stare at the car’s occupant, lean over the bonnet, thump and occasionally kick the bodywork, feeling a real thrill at being the ones to instil fear. It’s all good-natured ebullience for the moment. Étienne, all psyched up, has a good laugh. Aisha, starting out in the front line, amazed at her daring, soon tires of the game, too many men up too close, she allows herself to be edged out of the crowd and goes into the porter’s lodge where the two inscrutable security guards are making coffee. They offer her a cup.
A first then a second car leave without hindrance. At the wheel are French managers, near strangers. They probably work in accounts. Then a Peugeot 606 driven by a Korean appears. A lot of people in the factory dislike the Koreans. That’s the way it is, no special reason. This guy’s reputed to make the women who clean the factory clean his apartment for no pay, the bastard. Someone shouts: ‘Search the car.’ One way of prolonging the fun. Suggestion adopted immediately, and executed. While a group of workers obstruct the saloon, Nourredine moves over to the door and glances at the back seat. Empty.
‘Would you open up the boot please, sir.’
The Korean, his face terrified behind his thin, steel-rimmed glasses, suddenly winds up the windows and locks the doors, and signals that he doesn’t understand. He turns green, blinks very quickly, and breathes haltingly, opening and shutting his mouth soundlessly. A fish in a goldfish bowl, ridiculous.
What happened? Did he panic? Or is it a deliberate attempt to force his way through? The car jumps forward and knocks down three workers. The crowd roars, around twenty men grab the bodywork and shake the car which bounces on its springs, almost lifts off the ground. One of the felled workers gets up and, standing in front of the bonnet, takes charge of the operation. Clear a space to my left, to my right, together, one … two … the car rocks … and three … one last push turns it on to its left side and it falls back with a crunch of crushed metal. The Korean, thrown against the left-hand door, hides his face in his hands and doesn’t move.
‘What’s he carrying that’s making him so scared? Drugs? Weapons?’
The boot’s locked and won’t open. Grab the key from inside the car? Nourredine’s against it, too complicated, and might end up in a fight. Karim stands beside him with a little half-smile, and nudges him with his elbow.
‘How much will you pay me to open it?’ There follows a howl of protest. ‘Just kidding. We’re entitled to, aren’t we? Today’s our big day.’
He takes a minute screwdriver from the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket and inserts it into the lock, turning it gently with his fingers, listening for the slightest reaction. He locates the notch, twists, applies some pressure. The boot opens with a grating sound and there, thrown in haphazardly are a computer and three boxes full of files. The game’s up. Nourredine, a man who’s never touched a drop of alcohol, feels intoxicated. Shapes sway around him. If you take one step, you’ll drop. They’re moving the files out. A hush falls on the little crowd. Haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning. His blood pressure rockets then falls. Want to puke. Quignard’s frank, direct handshake: Your boss, not a bad guy, huge misunderstanding … Bollocks, yes. And what about you, seeing everything through rose-tinted spectacles, you poor bastard. He shakes his head vigorously, the dizziness over, feels only rage.
Someone gives him a leg up and he climbs on to the car. All those faces turned towards him: Nourredine, the semi-skilled Arab worker, and beneath his feet, the Korean manager, cringing in his car. A surge of pride. The car rocks. Big smile.
‘Better not rock it too hard. Right, this is what’s happening. The Koreans are moving the files out in secret, to make it easier to close the factory down behind our backs. Are we going to let them get away with it?’
A hundred and fifty voices: ‘No way!’
‘I propose we occupy the admin section and confine the managers to their offices …’ The workers hold their breath. ‘… until our demand on the payment of our bonuses is met. There’s one solution to all this, just one. The warehouses are full. They sell the stocks under our control, and use the money to pay the agreed bonuses before they do anything else.’
The assembled workers discuss the idea, it offers something concrete at last. Selling the stocks is a good idea, they’re worth more than the total owed on bonuses. Maybe, but locking in the managers … ‘We need to check we have the backup.’ ‘Management leaves us no choice. It’s one provocation after another. Anyone would think they’re trying to …’ ‘That’s what worries me.’
‘Look, we’ve got to act fast and decisively. We all go there together, we lock them in: one night will be enough, tomorrow morning, they’ll cave in. Look at the Korean in his car.’ Gives a little kick to the roof which clangs. They all see the terrified face again, the car rocking, the power of concerted action. ‘They’re afraid of us. Let’s make the most of it. If we don’t get their respect today, then tomorrow, they’ll close down and we’ll be left with nothing. We lock them in now. All those in favour?’
There follows no more than an instant’s indecision. Étienne raises his hand along with the whole first shift from packaging. All the rest of the hands go up. Aisha finds it hard to believe, but she’s voting to lock the managers in. While four men retrieve the computer and the boxes of files from the boot (nothing that belongs to the company must leave the premises without our consent), the delegation re-forms and places itself at the head of the procession. The small troop starts to advance in a relatively ordered manner. The car lies abandoned on its side, facing the gate, the boot gaping. The Korean still hasn’t budged.