The Man Who Risked It All (26 page)

“Hello! Hello!” I called.

No answer.

Suddenly, I made out a slight humming noise. It seemed to be coming from under the car. Then the sound of voices outside. When you can’t see, your other senses become more acute. The humming intensified. Yes, that’s it, the sound was coming from … inside my crate! But, good God! Surely it wasn’t …? Yes, a BEEHIVE!

I stood up at once and banged my head on the roof. At that moment, the front door slammed, the engine coughed, and the van leapt forward. I was thrown against the back door and fell down, stuck between the door and the hives.

We must have been going down a dirt track, as the ride was so bumpy. Staying where I was seemed the best thing to do. I had only one worry: being stung by my thousands of traveling companions. Could they get out of their hives?

We finally stopped again, not without a final shake from the engine. The front door slammed. I waited. The back door opened suddenly, and I fell to the ground at my liberator’s feet.

“Yes, I thought I smelled wine on you! You don’t eat anything, but you have to have your little drink, right?”

I looked up at him, completely blinded by the light.

“It’s not what you think.”

“I believe what I see, like Saint Thomas, or rather, what I smell!”

I got up, blinking to get used to the strong light.

The view that offered itself was dazzling. At my feet were laid out opulent rows of lavender, flooding the valley we were in with blue, caressing the bases of the fruit trees that bordered it, and rising up the hill in the distance. From this colored beauty came a delicious perfume that almost made me forget the awkward situation I was in. But the most impressive thing was the song, or rather the din of the cicadas! The chirring sound was so loud it seemed as if all the cicadas in Provence had come here to greet me.

“Come on, out of the way, I’ve got things to do!”

The driver leaned inside the van and grabbed one of the hives.

“Here, help me! We can take one each.”

I followed him, carrying my hive at arm’s length.

“We’ll put them there,” he said, pointing to a space in the middle of the flowers.

“You make lavender honey?” I said, marveling. “I never imagined that people moved hives to put them in lavender fields.”

“What do you think? That it’s enough to give them a road map and tell them not to stop on the other flowers on the way?”

With that, he turned back to the van.

“So tell me the truth,” he said. “Why are you in such a hurry to get the train in Avignon?”

“Actually, it’s a bit complicated. Let’s say I’ve been given a sort of challenge. My identification and my money were taken away, and I’ve got to find a way of getting back to Paris. To succeed, I’ve got to be back by the end of this afternoon at the latest.”

“A test? You mean it’s a game?”

“Sort of, yes.”

He looked at me sideways, and then a light shone in his eyes.

“Ha! I’ve got it, you’re doing the qualifying tests for a TV show like
The Amazing Race!
Is that it?”

“Actually …”

“Well, I never! When I tell my wife about this, she’s never going to believe me!”

“Yes but—”

“And then, if you’re selected, we’ll see you on TV this winter.”

“Wait, I didn’t—”

“She’ll never believe it! Never!”

“Listen …”

“Wait, wait …”

He suddenly had an inspired look.

“Look,” he said, “suppose I take you straight to Avignon station? Does that mean you’re sure to win?”

“Yes, but …”

“Right. Here’s how it is: I’ll take you straight to the station if you’ll come back with me and pose for photos with the family. What do you say?”

“Well, actually …”

“Just a few photos, and we’ll be off to the station! That way, you’ll be selected, and we’ll see you on TV!” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, off we go! Hurry up!”

He opened the back door again, all excited. “Stay in the back. I can’t move everything. We haven’t got time. You’ve got a challenge!”

I sat on the floor, glad to be traveling on my own this time. I could hear talking on the other side of the thin metal partition. My driver was on his cell phone.

“Hi, Josette! Get out the aperitifs; I’m bringing a contestant from
The Amazing Race.
No,
The Amazing Race,
I’m telling you. Are you there? We’ll see him on TV this winter. Yes, I’m telling the truth. Go and get the camera, and check that there are batteries in it! Batteries, I said. Yes. And tell Michel; he’ll never believe it. And call Babette as well and tell her to get a move on if she wants to be in the photo. There’s no signal. Hurry up. You there?”

My God, he was rounding up the whole planet. Oh, no, what was I going to tell them?

After a quarter of an hour, the car finally stopped, and I heard lively conversation.

My door was opened, and once my eyes got used to the dazzling light again, I saw about a dozen people gathered in a welcoming committee.

“Hey, what’s your name, by the way?” asked my driver.

“Alan.”

“Alan? That’s an American star’s name. It’ll look good on the TV.”

“Alan …” murmured a pregnant woman in the group, looking transported.

I don’t think I’d ever been photographed so much in all my life. I could already see myself ensconced on any number of mantelpieces, until the next season of the TV game show started.

My driver was jubilant. He was the center of attraction. He was drinking aperitif after aperitif and beginning to turn quite red. Three times, he ignored my request to leave for the station.

“Look, I really must go. Otherwise I’m going to miss the train, and all this will have been pointless.”

“Wait, wait … Oh, they’re so stressed, these Parisians!”

He picked up his phone.

“Mom, hurry up, I said. And tell Grandpa, he’ll never forgive me otherwise!”

“No,” I said. “This is no good. You must keep your side of the deal.
Now!
”

He didn’t appreciate my remark at all, and his red face went purple.

“Listen, I didn’t make you get in my van, right? I think it was rather the opposite, wasn’t it? So don’t be ungrateful now, or else I’m not going to Avignon!”

Now he was really getting fired up.

Perhaps it was already too late to arrive at Dubreuil’s for 7 o’clock dinner. Dubreuil. He said it was important to be able to get things from other people. But how could I do that here? What would Dubreuil do?

Push him, he’ll push you back. Don’t push, pull.

I immediately had an idea, but something held me back. Up till now, I had been riding along on a misunderstanding, but I didn’t want to openly lie. Right. Let’s put things differently.

“You know, if I end up on TV one day, I’ll probably be allowed to invite a guest or two,” I said.

He looked up, suddenly all ears.

“But,” I went on, “I don’t want to build up false hopes.”

“If I take you straight to the station, you promise to invite me on the set?” the driver asked, suddenly as serious as if he was negotiating putting a hundred beehives on my lavender field.

“Yes, but I’m reluctant to break up your little party.”

He turned to the others and spoke in a loud voice.

“My friends,” he said. “Carry on without us. I’ll be back in less than an hour. I’m taking Alan to Avignon. He’s got to win his challenge.”

Half an hour later, I was getting on a high-speed train for the capital, my stomach still as empty, my only euro still in my pocket.

I knew the regulations: Traveling without a ticket meant a fine; with no ID on me, it was the police station on arrival.

I had a plan, which was worth trying. I remained standing, looking out for the ticket inspector in the distance. When I saw him appear at the other end of the car, I ducked into the bathroom and shut the door without locking it. If he thought it was empty, he’d go past without stopping. I waited. The minutes went by, and nothing happened. I was alone, shut in with the continuous noise of the train and the dreadful smell of the toilet.

Suddenly, the door opened, and a surprised passenger found himself face-to-face with me. Over his shoulder, my eyes met those of an obviously very satisfied little man with a black moustache and dark, frowning eyebrows, wearing a navy blue cap and uniform.

27

F
ROWNING
, C
ATHERINE LEANED
forward slightly. “I’d like to talk about the way you helped Alan stop smoking.”

Yves Dubreuil sank back in his teak armchair and swirled the ice cubes around in his glass of bourbon, a slight smile on his lips. He loved going back over his exploits and commenting on them.

“You made him smoke more and more until he was disgusted by it, is that right?”

“Not at all,” he replied, with the satisfaction of someone whose actions are so clever that not even a professional can understand them.

“I thought …”

“No, in fact, I simply reversed the current,” he said.

“Reversed the current?”

He took his time answering, savoring the bourbon as much as the wait he was imposing on Catherine. The day had been particularly hot, and now they were enjoying the mild evening in the garden, comfortably seated in front of a tray of cookies.

Dubreuil finally broke the silence. “Remember, Alan said his problem was freedom. He really wanted to stop smoking somewhere deep down, but what was holding him back was the feeling of freedom he associated with cigarettes. Everyone was advising him to stop, so he didn’t feel free to choose. Stopping his habit would have made him feel he was giving up his freedom in order to submit to the will of others.”

Catherine was listening closely, concentrating on his words.

“So I reversed the current,” he continued. “I made it so that smoking became for him a restrictive act imposed from outside. From then on, freedom changed sides. It was by stopping that he could satisfy his thirst for freedom.”

Catherine said nothing, but an attentive observer might have seen a gleam of admiration in her eyes.

28

T
HEY WAITED UNTIL
the waiter from the Intercontinental Hotel had finished serving them. “Please call if you need anything whatsoever, Monsieur Dunker,” he murmured before withdrawing.

The brown leather padded door to the private room closed silently. Marc Dunker looked around him at the opulent mahogany bookcases filled with books bound in red leather a little too shiny to be old. Lamps with gilt bases and emerald-green opaline shades added to the intimate, rather somber atmosphere of the room.

Dunker had chosen this place on Andrew’s advice. Situated on the Place de l’Opéra, not far from the office, the hotel offered, according to Andrew, a setting that commanded respect and a certain reserve—very English qualities favorable to productive negotiations. It was the third time the trio had met there, and Dunker was still pleased with the choice. He particularly appreciated the large leather armchairs that seemed to swallow up his two principal shareholders, while his height enabled him to enjoy an advantageous position. He was convinced this arrangement had an impact on their relations that was far from negligible.

“We’ve reached agreement,” said the pudgier of the two men meeting with Dunker, casting a glance at his colleague. He smiled as he spoke, from time to time raising his eyebrows, which created waves of creases on his nearly bald head. Short and plump, David Poupon, despite his age, still looked like a big smiling baby, with a friendly manner that Dunker was enormously suspicious of. The CEO preferred the other shareholder, Rosenblack, who was much leaner and less friendly. Never looking up from the papers he was going through, Rosenblack didn’t make the slightest effort to hide the fact that he had no interest whatsoever in Dunker as a person.

Dunker screwed up his eyes, concentrating on Poupon, who was announcing their demands. “We have reached the conclusion that for both the investment fund I run and the pension fund represented by our friend here,” he said, smiling in the direction of Rosenblack, who was still absorbed in his papers, “your company must produce fifteen percent profits in the next quarter, and the market price of the shares must increase by at least eighteen percent annually.”

Dunker remained silent until he was sure Poupon had finished. He then gave himself a few seconds to drink a sip of cognac. He knew the power of silence.

“I can’t promise an eighteen percent increase in the stock price, because I don’t control all the parameters, as you know. And then …”

He took a second sip of his drink, keeping his audience in suspense.

“And then, there’s that stupid bastard of a journalist, Fisherman, who continues to undermine our image by repeating nonsense about us. Unfortunately, his analyses influence the financial markets.”

“We are convinced you are capable of managing this sort of situation,” Poupon said. “It’s for that very reason that at the last annual meeting we chose to keep you as CEO.”

Dunker heard the barely veiled threat loud and clear. “You know as well as I do that journalists can’t be controlled,” he told Poupon. “Try as we might to feed him good news at every opportunity, Fisherman repeats in article after article that our teams are not productive enough, which is quite untrue. I keep them under pressure, and they work hard,” he said, with the pride of a captain defending his troops.

“There’s rarely smoke without fire,” said Rosenblack without looking up.

“I have every confidence in your ability to find a solution,” said Poupon.

After several minutes of silence, Dunker announced, “I’ve got an idea, but I need your agreement beforehand, because it’s not without consequences.”

“Ha! See what you can do when you want to?” Poupon was clearly satisfied to have been right.

Dunker ignored the dig. “My idea is based on an artificial inflating of the turnover.”

Rosenblack at last raised a glum eye in Dunker’s direction, like a sleepy old dog lying by the fireside, who wonders, without really believing it, whether the word
walk
hasn’t just been slipped into the conversation.