Underground Time (17 page)

‘Hello, SNCF, this is Nicole, how may I help you?’

This time it’s a real woman. She can hardly hear her over the hubbub made by Nicole’s colleagues, who all do the same thing for eight hours a day. A real woman who operates her computer and refers to herself in the third person.

Mathilde books four tickets for Marseilles, which have to be collected from the station before 9.20 a.m. on 6 June.

The real woman spells out each letter of the booking reference on her file:

‘Q for Quentin, T for Thibault, M for Matthieu, F for François, T for Thibault again and A for Anatole. QTMFTA.’

Her holiday is known by men’s first names.

Her system DLL user32.dll was relocated in memory.

The tall fair-haired chap is busy elsewhere.

The smell of Glacier Freshness is enough to make you vomit.

She’s right in the middle of the world’s absurdity, its lack of balance.

The man from computer maintenance has come into her office. He’s wearing his mobile on his belt and there’s a Stanley knife sticking out of his shirt pocket. His hair’s dishevelled as though he had just appeared suddenly from the tenth floor hanging from a rope. All he needs is a cape, a long red cape billowing in the wind. You can tell from his face that the computer-maintenance man is someone who’s necessary, from the furrow between his eyebrows, his preoccupied look. He can be contacted at any time, he travels ceaselessly between the ten floors, repairing, restoring, restarting. The computer-maintenance man brings help and assistance. Maybe he’s related to the Argent Defender in some way that’s imperceptible to the naked eye.

He’s been told that Mathilde has a problem.

With a weary gesture, she points to the computer. She moves the mouse and the error message appears again.

He reassures her. It’s nothing.

He’ll reboot the machine. These things happen.

Mathilde moves out of the way so that he can sit down.

While he’s working, she hesitates but ends up asking him the question.

‘I went out for a breath of air for twenty minutes a little while ago. Do you think . . . could someone have come in while I was away . . . and tampered . . . I mean, have interfered with my computer?’

The man from computer maintenance is looking at her. The line on his forehead has deepened.

‘No, no, that’s got nothing to do with it. It’s a configuration problem. No, really . . . I can assure you . . .’

He falls silent and keeps working. Then he turns towards her again and his voice is gentler.

‘Listen, sweetheart, if you don’t mind me saying . . . maybe you . . . maybe you should get a bit of rest.’

He makes a gesture towards her, as though he were about to put his hand on her shoulder, an interrupted gesture.

Does she look so fragile? So exhausted? So devastated?

Is her fragility overflowing, going beyond her?

She looks at the man’s agile hands, back on the keyboard again.

The man from computer maintenance has finished. He has rebooted the machine. The fish are back. They’re bumping into each other again.

Just as he’s leaving her office, Mathilde calls out to him: ‘About that card . . . I’ll talk to my son this evening, to see if it’s possible . . . I mean for yours, your son. I’ll see what we can do.’

The phone rang and Patricia Lethu’s internal number flashed up.

The HR director wanted to tell her that another subsidiary in the group had a vacancy in its research centre. A senior role in the New Products and Sensory Studies department, including the direct management of a team of four. The post had been vacant for two weeks because they hadn’t been able to find the ideal internal candidate. Given the economic situation, external recruitment was out. Patricia Lethu had trouble concealing her excitement.

‘I’ve sent your CV and I called the director of the centre myself as I know him personally. I recommended you. They have one or two other candidates currently under consideration, but it seems that your profile is the best match. I was most insistent. I’ll hear back very soon. He needs someone urgently. The post can’t remain unfilled much longer. I didn’t think it necessary to mention your current problem. That would have put you at a disadvantage. You’ve been with us for over eight years now, so it’s perfectly legitimate that you should want a change.’

Mathilde held her breath all the time that Patricia Lethu was talking. She said yes, of course. Of course she was interested.

Her cheeks had become flushed. When she put the phone down, it seemed as though her body was working again: there was an impatience in her movements, her blood was pumping more quickly, there was a strange sort of impulse which began at the base of her spine and went all the way up to her shoulders and made her sit up straight. She could feel her heart beating even in her wrists and in the veins of her neck.

She got up from her chair. She needed to move around. She paced her office and for a few minutes she didn’t hear any of the noises, not the torrent of the flush nor sounds of voices.

Mathilde needed more fresh air. She went back down in the lift; after all, what did it matter?

She remained outside for a moment, with her eyes closed and her face to the light. Above her rose the glass pyramid, so smooth-looking.

Another group had come out for a smoke. Among them she recognised some people from management control and admin. They greeted her. A young woman took a cigarette from her packet and turned to Mathilde to offer her one. After a moment’s hesitation, Mathilde said no. The young woman didn’t rejoin the others but stayed near Mathilde, on the other side of the entrance. The young woman asked which department she worked in, how long she’d been there. If she had tried the lunchtime gym class, if she knew a swimming pool nearby, if she lived far away. She was wearing a light dress with a geometric pattern and wedge heels.

Her name was Elizabeth. She’d been working for the company for a month.

Elizabeth was happy to be here, that’s what she said. She’d found her ‘dream job’. For a few seconds, Mathilde envied Elizabeth, with her youth and her confidence. Her way of combining a certain capriciousness with her feelings. She thought that she’d like to be in her position, wearing that dress, with those fine hands, that same ease, her fluid way of moving and of standing. And that it would be infinitely easier if she were someone else.

As Elizabeth went off with her colleagues, she said, ‘See you.’

‘Hope I see you again.’

That was strange. This woman had come over to her, had spoken to her. She had asked her questions and laughed.

Mathilde went back up in the lift. When she got back to room 500–9, it didn’t seem so small any more.

She'd just sat back down when her phone rang again. It was the director of the research centre. He had looked at her CV and wanted to meet her as soon as possible. Would tomorrow work?

She didn't know by what miracle or desperate mustering of her remaining resources, by what last effort or burst of energy, she managed to respond calmly to his questions. And, it seemed to her, with relative self-assurance; not like someone who's pretending to be mentally healthy, but someone for whom nothing more than a possible transfer is at stake.

She was able to describe her projects, her responsibilities and her main achievements to him exactly as though they still existed, as though they had never slipped away from her. She forgot about the nine empty months, a vague gap in the continuity of time. She rediscovered words that she no longer used, the appropriate vocabulary, deliberate, proactive phrases; she mentioned figures, budget totals and didn't make any mistakes.

 

The director of the research centre knew of her; he'd really enjoyed her articles in the group journal.

‘I confess that I used to look out for your name! It's a pity you don't write any more, but I suppose you don't have the time. We're all in the same position: nose to the grindstone. Well, I'd be delighted to see you tomorrow if you'd like to meet. I'll be in a meeting all afternoon, so would half past six suit you?'

There was something straightforward in the way he spoke to her, a sort of kindness.

 

She put her Paris transport map on the desk in front of her to work out how to get there. She studied the distance between the research centre and home, considered the different options, calculated the journey time. It wasn't far. Half an hour at the most.

She'd wear her grey suit, or maybe her black one, set it off with a red scarf. She wouldn't have coffee after lunchtime. She'd leave at around half five to make sure she wasn't late. She'd make herself smile, wouldn't talk about Jacques, would avoid any reference to working with him, explicit or implicit. She'd talk about her own successes, the repositioning of the L. brand, the launch of the B. food supplements, the recent loyalty scheme. She'd iron her white blouse. She'd get up earlier than usual. She'd avoid subjects that risked making her get emotional. She'd mention the creation of a consumer panel, the test products she put in place a few years ago. She won't cross her legs, will put on clear nail varnish, won't talk about her children unless he asks. She'll use verbs of action and avoid the conditional and any phrases that smack of passivity or a wait-and-see attitude. She'll sit up straight, she'll . . .

 

Mathilde had been deep in her strategic planning for a while when a chime announced the arrival of an email in her inbox. The director of the research centre's assistant had sent her confirmation of their meeting along with a map of the site. The email had been sent with high priority, which she noticed at once and felt touched.

She remained motionless for several minutes in front of the screen. A possibility was opening up before her and it seemed real.

She thought that her life might get back on track. That she would become herself again, make expansive gestures again, regain the pleasure of going to work and coming back home. She would no longer spend hours lying in the dark with her eyes wide open. Jacques would depart from her nights as quickly as he had come into them. She would once again have stories to tell the children. She'd take them to the swimming pool and the ice rink; she'd invent meals from leftovers again and give them funny names; she'd spend whole afternoons with them at the library.

She thought that life would recover that sweetness. That nothing was lost.

She thought she'd buy a flat-screen for their DVD evenings and would renew her membership of the film club. She thought she'd invite her friends over for dinner. They could celebrate her transfer with champagne. Maybe they'd push back the furniture and dance in her little living room. Like they used to.

She couldn't wait for it to be tomorrow.

She had the courage to go. She could do it.

 

She called Théo and Maxime to make sure that they'd got home OK, and then she rang Simon on his mobile to remind him not to take too long because his brothers were home alone.

She called her mother, as she'd left her several messages over the last few days which she hadn't responded to. She talked about the boys; they were fine, yes, the twins were getting ready for a school trip to the seaside and Simon had got his brown belt in judo. Her mother said: ‘You sound in good form.' She promised to call her back at the end of the week.

 

On the way home this evening she'll buy some fish, or maybe a chicken, and some little fruit tarts for dessert.

She'll give this evening a foretaste of celebration, without telling the children about it, just to see their eyes light up. Just to give herself strength.

She visited the research centre's website, took notes and prepared questions.

In her cardboard boxes she found several market studies and various thoughts on strategic analysis which she'd written under her own name in the past two years. She made a list, with on one side all the points in favour of her application, the obvious transferable skills, and on the other the skills that she would have to acquire. The balance was in her favour.

 

She gave a start when the phone rang.

Patricia Lethu wanted to clarify that, in the event of Mathilde being appointed, she would do all she could to see that her transfer went through at once. Given the circumstances.

 

She imagined a new life, new faces, a new setting. New possibilities.

She imagined a sort of sweetness; poetic justice.

When Thibault got back into his car for the tenth time, his next appointment had come up on his mobile. He didn’t pull off. Sitting there, he had an uncontrollable desire to go to sleep, all of a sudden. He would have been content to slump against the headrest. He waited for a few minutes with his hand on the key and then he got out again. A queue had formed at the baker’s all along the window. He had no idea what time it was. People were beginning to emerge from their offices, walking quickly.