He couldn’t sleep. Just as he wanted to look away from the chaos but couldn’t, he also wanted to look away from what Bulnakov had done and what he was still likely to do. And yet there was nothing to be seen. Or there was something to be seen but nothing that could be done about it. To face the disarray meant rolling up his sleeves and putting everything back in its place. But what would it take to face Bulnakov? Getting a gun and shooting him and his henchmen? Georg pulled the blanket up to his chin. I can only hide under the blanket and hope they’ll just give up and go away. As for my life-I don’t think it would do them much good to kill me.
He got up again and turned on the light. He went downstairs to where he had found the telephoto lens, looked for his camera, which he also found undamaged, and a new roll of film. They’ve been very systematic, he thought; I just have to look on the floor in front of the appropriate closets and chests of drawers. Georg put the film in the camera and set the alarm clock for six in the morning.
He couldn’t shoot those guys, but at least he could photograph them, in case he got involved with the police or wanted to tell someone about all this and needed something to back it up. He knew though that shooting pictures of them was really a substitute for shooting them with a gun.
The following morning at seven-thirty he was already lying in wait in Cadenet. He couldn’t keep an eye on both the side-street entrance to the office and the parking lot by the statue of the drummer boy, so he opted for the parking lot. If he could catch them in their cars along with their license plates, perhaps the police might be able to do something with it.
He’d been in Cadenet since seven, had parked his car by the church some distance away, and looked on the square for a place to hide. Street corners, doorways, abutments-but every place where he could get a good view, they could also get a good view of him. Finally he went to the building across from the parking lot and rang the bell of the apartment on the second floor. The family was at the breakfast table. He told them he was a journalist and that he wanted to take pictures of the square in the morning light for Paris-Match. They were also eager for him to take some pictures of their building. He promised he would, and they offered him a cup of coffee. He fiddled with the lenses by the window, and began to act as if he were preparing his photo shoot.
That morning, when he had driven past her house, Françoise’s car was still not there. At eight he saw it pull into the parking lot. Two men got out. Georg knew them from Bulnakov’s office. He was gripped by panic. Had they done something to her? First the cats, then the break-in, and now-oh God!-now Françoise? The men were still standing by the car when Bulnakov arrived. He parked his Lancia but didn’t get out, and the two men walked over to him. Georg took one picture after another: Bulnakov resting his arm on the open car window, facing the camera; Bulnakov with the other two standing by his car, then by Françoise’s car; and then Bulnakov standing alone in the parking lot, watching the two men drive off in her Deux Cheveaux. If the pictures were to be of any use, he had to have clear shots of the faces, the license plates, and the faces together with the license plates.
Georg drove to Marseille and checked his answering machine for messages. Nothing from Françoise. That evening there was no sign of her, nor was there a note on the door from her. He had bolted shut the broken-down kitchen door and was using the door to the living room to get into the house. Françoise didn’t have a key for that door. Might she think he had locked her out and was now furious at him? But she’d still have left him a note. He had called Bulnakov’s office a few times, but she hadn’t answered. Her car hadn’t been in front of her house, and she hadn’t opened the door when he rang. The curtains were drawn.
This went on for the next few days. There was no sign of Françoise. He didn’t see or hear from Bulnakov or his men. They left his house alone, didn’t vandalize his garden or his car, and didn’t harm him. Georg spent one more morning in Cadenet, lying in wait. This time he waited at the end of the small side street that led to Bulnakov’s office, and photographed them as they entered: Bulnakov himself, the two others, and a young blonde he hadn’t seen before. Françoise didn’t show up, nor did she go to his place, or to hers, or pick up the phone at Bulnakov’s when he called.
In the end Georg was so frayed from waiting for Françoise and his fear for her that he was on the verge of calling Bulnakov and giving in: You can have it all, I’ll send you whatever you want, I’ll do whatever you want, steal, copy, take pictures! I just want her back.
16
IN THE MORNING GEORG WENT TO HIS OFFICE and opened the safe where he kept the originals of the plans, intending to transcribe what he had translated.
The cigarettes were missing-the pack of Gauloises he specifically remembered placing on the plans in the safe the day before yesterday. He always did this; as a smoker, there was nothing worse than being caught short without a cigarette. There were times when he worked late into the night and couldn’t buy any downstairs once the bar closed.
It wasn’t just about the cigarettes. He had some on him, and even found the pack he’d put on the plans on one of the lower compartments. Someone had gotten into the safe.
His secretary, Chris, Monique, Isabelle? Why would they want to break into the safe? They had all known one another for a long time. They had worked for Maurin long before Georg had, and at better pay. They had come to Provence from elsewhere seeking a quieter life, which they had found with their translation work, and were relieved to be able to work under Georg after Maurin’s death. They didn’t envy his running the firm, and sometimes poked fun at him for being so industrious. Why should they want to make trouble for him?
Unless Bulnakov had bribed or blackmailed them. We all have our price, Georg thought; it’s just a question of the amount. What’s surprising is not the number of people being bribed or what they are prepared to do, but for how little most people are prepared to do it. It’s a matter of putting the money and morals in relation to each other: when the bribe is high enough, the success is so inevitable that bribery is no longer immoral. What is immoral is selling oneself cheaply. Georg was not angry that his coworkers might let themselves be bribed by Bulnakov for a substantial sum; what annoyed him was that he would have to arrange for a new lock and be more careful. He was relieved, feeling that he and Françoise would no longer be in trouble since Bulnakov had gotten what he wanted. But the question remained: Where had she disappeared to and what had happened to her? Might she be in Marseille, and now assigned to Chris?
He looked out the window. A courtyard, clothes hanging to dry from windows, one newly painted building and paint flaking on others, tall brick chimneys on the roofs. Loud voices of playing children. Beyond the roofs he saw taller buildings and a church tower. Might Françoise be somewhere in this big city waiting for Chris, or getting ready to spend the night… You’re crazy, Georg said to himself. These are delusions! You’ve never seen Chris with a woman. You’ve often wondered if he’s gay.
Things had become easier for Bulnakov’s men. When they had searched Georg’s house, they had made copies of his office keys. He always left them in the briefcase in which he carried his translation work to and from Marseille. Needless to say, when he’d gone to Cucuron shopping he hadn’t taken his briefcase with him. Just you wait, he thought. I’m not going to make things so easy for you, Monsieur Bulnakov! He called a locksmith and had him change the locks on the door and the safe. He urged the locksmith to work as fast as he could, and by evening the job was done. In a store earlier that day he had happened to find a postcard of a tongue sticking out. When he left his office to go to dinner he pinned it to the door.