Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [6]
“As you wish, Mr. d’Allier. And au plaisir de vous voir.”
The Hôtel de Police in Frislandia, a vast nexus of chiaroscuro corridors, muffled suites, and immense meeting rooms lined with gilt-framed mirrors and succulent plants, was like a five-star palace, except the shortest stay there was always deemed the best. The office in which they received Gabriel was, as promised, very comfortable. The floors were covered with thick woollen rugs, and the walls, of a subtle creamy tint, seemed to be padded with satin. A reproduction of Manet’s Bar des Folies-Bergères was hung on the wall and its barmaid contemplated Gabriel with an air of weary concern as he sat in an upholstered club armchair, holding a glass of Courvoisier that had just been offered to him together with a cigar, which he had declined.
“Would you care for some music, Mr. d’Allier?” asked Wynne, coming back from the drinks cabinet and pointing at a phonograph standing against the wall. “We have just received the latest record by the Clicquot’s Cub-Clubbers.”
“Are we yet at the point where my screams have to be drowned?” asked Gabriel, with an archness not quite devoid of nervousness.
“Ah, wit! The next best thing after wisdom!” said Wynne, sitting next to his silent partner behind the mahogany desk that was, Gabriel reflected, as wide and black as the stone slab of a mortuary. “No, no,” he continued, “we simply like our interlocutors to feel at ease. You see, Mr. d’Allier, our occupation, which should be counted among the noblest, as it deals with such valued and time-honoured notions as peace, order, and harmony, is too often marred by useless indelicacy, instead of the courtesy, protectiveness, and respect that would be only adequate. We see no reason why this should be so, and neither does the Council, in its generosity.”
“Does this generosity extend to my having a lawyer with me?”
“It does, indeed. I am the lawyer,” said the other fellow, standing up and offering his hand to Gabriel, who could not but take it. “Mr. Robert DeBrutus, to help and assist you in all legal matters pertaining to this interview and its consequences.”
“This gentleman is controlling my activity on your behalf,” said Wynne, as the other sat down. “I hope he has no reason to complain about the way things have been handled so far.”
DeBrutus, nodding his head, radiated some shortwaves of approval.
“I must say I have none, Nor, I suppose, has my client.”
Gabriel felt the arms of the Club chair tighten around him and the seat suck him down like some sort of tar pit. As far as he knew, he had not done anything really outside the law, but he was also aware, as Wynne himself had understated, that his own opinion was not of the greatest weight in the matter.
“And since we have your rights so much at heart,” Wynne kept on, handing a leather folder to Gabriel, “I will let you know, as it is my duty and pleasure to do, that you are entitled to see the file that we have been carefully putting together about your honourable self.”
Gabriel, casting a look dark enough to snuff out a candle, put down his glass, took the folder and browsed through it, his life passing in front of his eyes as if he were a drowning man. Everything, from his résumé and professional activities to his less official occupations, had been duly recorded and archived, including his (extremely rare) forays into “poletics” and his (more numerous) sexual proclivities and episodes of drug abuse.
“It is a truly engrossing read, isn’t it?” said Wynne. “You have had a very active life in our community. You should write a book about it sometime.”
“I can see it is already written,” said Gabriel, handing back the folder to Wynne with a shudder that was a blend of fear, disgust, and aggressiveness.
“In a sense, yes. Though I admit it sadly lacks style, the content is certainly instructive. I hope you appreciate the lengths to which our Recording Angels have gone to get the facts down as accurately as possible, so that we, the Guardian Angels, can act