Fatale - Jean-Patrick Manchette [8]
Aimée was far from bored. She distributed smiles; she offered opinions. Nobody was listening to the town worthy on the platform, who was now paying tribute to the New Fish Market Initiative Committee, whose members he named, beginning with Messrs. Lorque and Lenverguez of L and L Enterprises, and including M. Tobie, M. Rougneux, and M. Moutet.
“Nor should we forget these gentlemen’s lovely wives,” he added.
About ten meters from the group with whom Aimée was chatting, a guy of about thirty was looking at the young woman and smiling. He went on smiling as he came over to her.
“Sinistrat,” he told Aimée. “Dr. Claude Sinistrat. Let me introduce myself, because I know that that old Huguenot is not going to do it.”
“Oh, come off it, Sinistrat,” said Lindquist.
“Delighted,” said Aimée.
Sinistrat was tall and broad-shouldered, and by no means devoid of charm; his gestures were brusque and he had a big face, curly blond hair, and even teeth.
“I saw your opinion piece in the Dépêche de Bléville,” said Aimée.
“I didn’t pull any punches, did I?” Sinistrat puffed his chest out.
“Sinistrat,” said Lindquist, “you are a scoundrel. And let me tell you—”
The realtor broke off. He was staring at something that his interlocutors could not see, somewhere in the crowd. He pursed his lips.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, and coming from him the profanity was startling. “Shit! That lunatic!”
The Rougneux, the Tobies, and senior manager Moutet all turned around at his words and scrutinized the crowd. Their attitudes bespoke anxiety and disgust. Aimée turned around too, her eyebrows slightly raised, and surveyed the gathering without seeing anything out of the ordinary. Sinistrat was all smiles. He lit a Craven A with a Zippo lighter.
“I don’t see anything,” said Mme Rougneux.
“No! No!” responded Lindquist. “He was there—outside.”
“I don’t see him.”
“He’s not there now. He must have gone off to plan more mischief.”
“It’s simply outrageous,” said Rougneux. “I don’t understand how they could have let him out. Those doctors are idiots. Their clinics are a joke.” He spluttered after every sentence. He seemed mean, and pleased with himself.
“They are all drug addicts, leftists and that sort of thing,” said Tobie.
“Next time they ought to put him in an asylum,” said Mme Tobie.
“Be that as it may,” said Sinistrat, “don’t count on me to have him locked up.”
“But my dear man,” exclaimed Lindquist, irritated and contemptuous, “you might as well certify him as sane while you’re about it.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Aimée.
Lindquist and the doctor turned towards her, both somewhat at a loss. For a moment neither said a word.
“Oh, nothing very interesting,” said Lindquist.
“A little conflict,” said Sinistrat with a slight flick of the hand.
“I love conflicts,” said Aimée, but just then applause erupted, for the town worthy had concluded his speech and everyone was facing the platform.
Immediately after this, the talk turned to other things, and, leaving the vin d’honneur to the porters and small fry, the big fish repaired to the cocktail party they had arranged.
[1] The last three were all renowned navigators and explorers.—Trans.
5
“THAT LITTLE doctor really has his nerve, it’s unconscionable,” said Lindquist as his sea-green Volvo slowly traversed the town with the realtor behind the wheel and Aimée seated at his side. The man shook his head. “Coming to the inauguration like that! And I bet you any money he’ll be at the cocktail party too! He used to work at L and L, you know. The company doctor, or some such. They were obliged to let him go. And now he spews out his nonsense in the newspaper.”
“He seems like a very rude man,” said Aimée sweetly.
“He’s a sort of nihilist,” answered Lindquist. “He votes for that Trotskyite Krivine, you know.”
“You don’t say,” answered Aimée.
“He’s crazy,