Monday, 30 May
I woke up around six to find the TV working again: the reception was bad on iTélé, but BFM was fine. Naturally, every programme was devoted to the events of the day before. The pundits emphasised the extreme fragility of the democratic process: as a matter of electoral law, if even one polling station failed to report its results, anywhere in France, that invalidated the entire election. It was also emphasised that, until now, no group had ever thought of exploiting this weakness. Late in the night, the prime minister had announced that new elections would be held the following Sunday, this time with all polling stations under military protection.
As for the attacks’ political implications, there was complete disagreement. I spent half the morning following the various contradictory arguments, then I took a book to the park. Huysmans’ era had seen its own share of political strife. There had been the first anarchist attacks. There had been the anticlerical campaign of ‘Little Father’ Combes — so much more violent than anything in our day — when the government actually seized church property and broke up congregations. This touched Huysmans personally: he was forced to leave his retreat at Ligugé Abbey, and yet he barely mentions it in his work. He seems never to have taken the slightest interest in politics at all.
I’d always loved the chapter in À rebours in which des Esseintes is inspired to plan a trip to London after rereading Dickens — then finds himself stuck in a tavern in the rue d’Amsterdam, unable to get up from the table. ‘An immense aversion to the voyage, an imperious need to remain calm washed over me …’ At least I had managed to leave Paris, at least I’d made it as far as the Lot, I told myself as I contemplated the branches of the chestnuts lightly tossing in the breeze. I knew the hardest part was behind me: in the beginning, the solitary traveller meets with scorn, even hostility. Then, little by little, people get used to him, whether they’re hoteliers or restaurateurs, and dismiss him as a harmless eccentric.
Sure enough, as I was heading back to my room around midday, the hotel manager greeted me relatively warmly and informed me that the restaurant would reopen that evening. New guests had arrived, an English couple in their sixties. The husband had the look of an intellectual, she intimated, maybe even a professor, the kind who insists on seeing the most out-of-the-way chapels and can tell you all about the Quercynois romanesque or the influence of the Moissac school. You never had any trouble from guests like that.
Like BFM, iTélé kept coming back to the political implications of the suspended elections. The top advisers of the Socialist Party were meeting, the top advisers of the Muslim Brotherhood were meeting, even the top advisers of the UMP had decided they ought to hold a meeting. The newscasters, with their vans parked up and down along the rue de Solferino, the rue de Vaugirard and the boulevard Malesherbes, more or less succeeded in hiding the fact that they had nothing of substance to report.
I went out around five o’clock: gradually, the village seemed to be coming back to life. The bakery was open. People were walking around in Place des Consuls. They looked pretty much the way I’d have imagined, if I’d tried to picture the inhabitants of a small village in the Lot. At the Cafe des Sports business was slow, and the curiosity about current events seemed to have been exhausted. The TV at the back of the room was tuned to Télé Monte-Carlo. I’d just finished my beer when I heard a voice I recognised. I turned round: Alain Tanneur was at the cash register, paying for a box of Cafe Crème cigarillos. Under his arm was a paper bag from the bakery with a country loaf sticking out the top. Now Marie-Françoise’s husband turned and saw me, too, eyes wide in a look of surprise.
Later, over another beer, I explained to him that I was there by chance, and I told him what I’d seen at the petrol station in Pech-Montat. He listened closely but without emotion. ‘I thought so,’ he said, once I’d finished my story. ‘I suspected that there had been unreported clashes, beyond the attacks on the polling stations. No doubt there were plenty of others across France.’
He had good reason to be in Marteclass="underline" he had a house there, which had belonged to his parents. He was a native, and soon he planned to retire there. If the Muslim candidate won, Marie-Françoise was certain to lose her chair — obviously, no woman could hold a teaching position in an Islamic university. But what about his job at the DGSI?
‘They sent me packing,’ he said, with suppressed bitterness. ‘I was sacked on Friday morning, me and my whole team,’ he went on. ‘They gave us two hours to clear out our desks.’
‘And do you know why?’
‘I certainly do … On Thursday I submitted a report to my superiors warning them of possible incidents in different parts of the country — incidents meant to disrupt the elections. They did exactly nothing about it, and I was sacked the next day.’ He let it sink in. ‘So? What conclusion would you draw?’
‘You mean the government wanted it to happen?’
He gave a slow nod. ‘I couldn’t prove it in court … because my report wasn’t very precise. From what our informants were telling us, I was convinced that something would happen at or near Mulhouse, but I couldn’t say for certain whether it would be polling station two, or five, or eight. To protect them all would have required a huge allocation of resources. It was the same for every threat. My superiors could always say that the DGSI had cried wolf before, and that the risk they took was reasonable. But as I say, I don’t believe it.’
‘Do you know who was behind the attacks?’
‘Who do you think.’
‘The nativists?’
‘Yes, partly. And partly young jihadists — it was roughly half and half.
‘These jihadists were working for the Muslim Brotherhood?’
‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘I’ve spent fifteen years of my life on this — and I’ve never found the slightest connection, the slightest contact, between the two groups. The jihadists are rogue Salafists. They may have resorted to violence, instead of prayer, but they’re Salafists all the same. For them, France is a land of disbelief — Dar al-Kufr. For the Muslim Brotherhood, France is ready to be absorbed into the Dar al-Islam. More to the point, for the Salafists all authority comes from God. To them the very idea of popular representation is sacrilege. They’d never dream of founding, or supporting, a political party. Still, even if they’re obsessed with global jihad, the young extremists do want Ben Abbes to win. They don’t believe in him — for them jihad is the one true path — but they won’t stand in his way. It’s exactly the same with the nativists. For them, civil war is the one true path, but some belonged to the National Front before they were radicalised. They’d never actively oppose it. From the beginning, both the National Front and the Muslim Brotherhood have chosen the way of the ballot. They’ve always wagered that they could take power and play by the rules of democracy. What’s odd — even amusing, if you like — is that, a few days ago, each side decided that the other was about to win, that they had no choice but to disrupt the electoral process.’
‘Well, who do you think was right?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’ Now he relaxed and smiled. ‘There’s a sort of legend, going back to the early noughties, that we have access to secret polls that never see the light of day. It’s a fairy tale, partly. But it’s also partly true, and the tradition has been kept up, to some degree. Well, in this case, our secret polls and the official polls show exactly the same results — fifty — fifty, give or take a few tenths of a per cent.’