‘Look,’ said Marc, raising his voice. ‘Five bundles where the paperclips have been moved.’
He took three and Lucien took two. They read quickly and silently for a while. The articles were long.
‘Did you say all the reviews were good?’ said Lucien. ‘Here’s one that isn’t very kind to Sophia.’
‘I’ve got one too,’ said Marc. ‘He’s really nasty. That won’t have pleased her-or her father. He’s written in the margin “stupid bastard”. Wonder who the stupid bastard was.’
Marc looked for the signature. ‘Hey, Lucien,’ he said, ‘the “stupid bastard” critic, he’s called Daniel Dompierre. What d’you make of that!’
Lucien picked up the review. ‘So, our Dompierre, who’s dead, must have been some relation? Nephew, cousin, even son perhaps? Was that why he knew something about this opera?’
‘Something like that, I suppose. We’re getting warm. What’s the name of your reviewer who didn’t like Sophia?’
‘René de Frémonville. Doesn’t ring any bells. But I don’t know anything about music anyway. Oh, wait, this is really something!’
Lucien started reading again, with a changed expression. Marc looked hopeful.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘No, don’t get excited, it’s nothing to do with Sophia. It’s on the back of the review. Another article by Frémonville, but about a play, a real flop, a totally incoherent piece about the inner life of a guy in the trenches in 1917. A monologue nearly two hours long and boring as hell, it seems. Bother, the end of the article’s missing.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lucien, don’t start doing this to me. We didn’t come all the way to Dourdan to read about that stuff, d’you hear me.’
‘No, shut up, listen. Frémonville says here that he’s kept his own father’s war diaries and that the author of the play would have done better to consult some real documents, instead of making up imaginary stuff. Do you realise what this means? Authentic diaries, written at the time from August 1914 to October 1918, seven notebooks! My God, it’s fantastic. A whole series. Oh, if only the father was a peasant, please let him be. It would be a goldmine, Marc, it’s so rare. Oh, please God, let Frémonville’s father be a peasant. Oh, wow, what a good thing I came with you!’
Elated and hopeful, Lucien had got to his feet and was walking round the dark cramped room, reading and rereading the torn piece of old newspaper. Exasperated, Marc went back to the documents Dompierre had consulted. Apart from all the favourable reviews, there were three bundles containing more gossipy pieces about a serious incident which had affected the performances of ‘Elektra’ for several days.
‘Listen,’ said Marc.
But it was pointless. Lucien was completely oblivious, unreachable, so full of his discovery and unable to think of anything else. And yet he had been equally full of goodwill to start with. What bad luck that he’d found that reference to the war diaries. Marc sat down crossly and read to himself what had happened. Sophia Siméonidis had been in her dressing-room on the night of June 17, 1978, an hour and a half before the performance, when she had been attacked and an attempt had been made at a sexual assault. According to her, the attacker had fled on hearing a noise. She could not provide a description. He had been wearing a dark jacket, a blue woollen balaclava, and had punched her, forcing her to the ground. He had taken off the balaclava, but she was too dazed to be able to identify him and he had turned off the light. Sophia Siméonidis, badly bruised and in a state of shock but not seriously injured, had been taken to the hospital for observation. In spite of that, she had refused to lodge a formal complaint, and there had been no police enquiry. Reduced to conjecture, the press had supposed that the attack had been by someone from the chorus, since the theatre was closed to the public at that hour. The five principal singers had immediately been ruled out. Two of them were well known, and all of them had arrived at the theatre later, as had been confirmed by the janitors, who were elderly men and also not suspects. Reading between the lines, it was also clear that the sexual preferences of the five male singers eliminated them more certainly than their renown or their time of arrival. As for the many members of the cast with walk-on parts, since Sophia had not been able to provide a clear description, nothing in particular pointed to any one person. Nevertheless, reported one journalist, two of them had not reported for work next day. But he admitted that this was not unusual in the world of part-timers, where extras were paid daily rates and might disappear now and again for an audition somewhere else. And he also granted that the technicians could not be ruled out.
The number of possible suspects was large. Marc frowned and returned to the reviews written by Daniel Dompierre and René de Frémonville. They were both music critics and did not go into details about the attack, but did report that Sophia Siméonidis, who had been the victim of an incident, was replaced for three days by the understudy, Nathalie Domesco, whose dreadful imitation had really finished off the production. The show was not rescued by Sophia’s return: the singer, once out of hospital, had yet again demonstrated her inability to sing this great dramatic soprano role. They concluded that the interruption could not excuse the inadequacy of her technical performance and that she had indeed been most unwise to tackle the demanding role of Elektra in the first place, because it was beyond her vocal talents.
Marc felt exasperated. Sophia had told them herself that she was no Callas. Maybe she should not have attempted Elektra. Maybe. He knew no more about music than Lucien. But the devastating hostility of these two critics infuriated him. No, Sophia had not deserved this. Marc pulled down a few more box-files and looked through other operas. The critics were generally favourable, or flattering, or satisfied, but there was invariably a hostile and barbed review from both Dompierre and Frémonville, even when Sophia stayed within the repertoire of a lyric soprano. These two had really had it in for Sophia, from the very beginning. Marc put the boxes back and thought, his head in his hands. It was almost dark and Lucien had lit the two desk-lamps.
Sophia had been attacked. She had not made a formal complaint, despite suffering grievous bodily harm. He returned ‘Elektra’ and leafed through all the other articles on the opera, which all said more or less the same thing: the staging was mediocre, the sets were unimpressive, Sophia had been attacked, she was expected back, with the difference that the other reviewers all appreciated Sophia’s performance, compared to the demolition jobs by Dompierre and Frémonville. He really did not know what to make of the 1978 file. Perhaps he ought to compare and check over the reviews which Christophe Dompierre had singled out. But that would mean transcribing each one. At least those which Dompierre appeared to have read. It would mean hours and hours of work.
Just then, Siméonidis came back into the room.
‘You’re going to have to hurry up,’ he said. ‘The police are looking for some way of stopping me opening my archives to people. They haven’t got time to look at them themselves, and they’re afraid of being beaten to it by the murderer. I heard that idiot downstairs telephoning while I was taking my siesta. He wants seals put on the room. It sounds as if he’s getting his way.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Lucien. ‘We’ll be finished in another half-hour.’
‘Good. Are you making progress?’
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Marc. ‘Did your stepson have a part in “Elektra”?’
‘The Toulouse production? I think so,’ said Siméonidis. ‘He was in all her shows between 1973 and 1978. It was later that he gave up. But don’t waste time on him, it’s not worth it.’
‘When Sophia was attacked that time, during “Elektra” did she say anything to you?’
‘Sophia didn’t like talking about that,’ said Siméonidis after a silence.