In his anguish tinged with hope, Charles had not asked any of the common-sense questions that this strange phone call demanded: who was this Dr. Maboul giving consultations in a public garden? Why had he reacted so quickly to his GP's request? Shouldn't he call her back to ask for the name and references of this neuropsychiatrist she was sending him? How did he know it would take him an hour to get home from his office in Neuilly? Instead of asking himself the right questions, he rushed out into the street without informing anyone. The girls followed suit. They mimed trotting horsewomen holding imaginary reins. They raised their knees and jerked with each stride.
He decided to get off at Gare de Lyon station and walk to the park. He needed to calm his spirits, and he always hoped that with his big legs, he'd outrun the little ones. Alas for him, they showed neither fatigue nor speed limits. He was astonished that they followed him so smoothly, yet took twice as many steps as he did, without appearing to run. When they reached Rue de Bercy, one of the girls asked him why everything was so ugly. Without slowing his forced walk, he made a great circular movement of his head to look at his surroundings. He thought she was right, and that this four-lane street surrounded by soulless buildings and almost no shops was indeed hideous.
He mused: I could show you a much more beautiful Paris. "Oh yes, gladly," nodded one of the little voices politely. She hears when I think, which proves she only exists in my head," he reassured himself. Leaving behind the shadow cast by the colossal citadel of the Ministry of Finance, whose walls and moat deliberately mimicked a medieval fortress, they headed for the other fortress opposite. The Palais Omnisport de Paris-Bercy or POPB, now named after its sponsor, stood on its grassy mound. They skirted the blue metallic architectural aggregate that housed this giant concert hall and climbed the staircase to the park.
The gray slab that greeted them was hemmed in like a canyon between the POPB and a cheap hotel for salesmen. He was startled by the sound of falling on the steep grassy slopes to his right. Young people in PSG jerseys were climbing and sliding down these improvised slides, shouting at each other in French and Arabic. He reached the park, whose lawn was yellowed by the heat and gaunt from the soccer games. Surrounded by high embankments, the grassy landings of the Palais Omnisport and the buildings, the space was encased on all sides. This fifteen-hectare basin was too vast for a meeting place, especially between two strangers. On the cobbled paths, he reassured himself that the park was almost deserted on this hot mid-afternoon, apart from a few nannies with baby carriages and homeless people lying among their empty beer cans. It would be easy for him to recognize a doctor returning from a consultation. He looked at his watch. He was right on time. But there was no figure in sight to match the sketch he'd made. The park's tall trees and equipment didn't allow the view to set everything ablaze without moving. The wooden and concrete kiosks were completely tagged, the picnic tables and benches sealed, the Chinese hat lampposts combined to hide a good third of the landscape. So he wandered around to get a better view of the whole.
This little walk put him in a good mood, despite the two little girls on his heels who were rolling around in the grass, disdaining the risk of dog droppings. The joyful chirping of birds and the bell of artificial waterfalls soothed the senses. With no one coming, he wanted a bird's-eye view of the park. He climbed the wide staircase over the levee-dam that protected against the flooding of the Seine. He turned his back on the footbridge that led across the river to the great library and then, in the distance, to his apartment. He scanned the walkers below. From his vantage point, the air seemed less stifling. His confidence bolstered, he agreed to watch the children's antics. They were miming grotesque poses, and he turned to look at what they were modeling themselves on. Wrought-iron statues, human-sized, with disquieting figures, grimaced like spectres. Contemporary art at its best! he gritted his teeth. He realized that these figures represented the countries of the world, when he spotted one wearing a sombrero, the other a geisha dress beneath his skull. He couldn't help smiling as he noted the children's gift for mimicry.
Suddenly, in one motion, they turned and froze in the position of cats spotting a dog.
He swiveled to see what was interrupting their carefree mood. Two men were advancing towards him from the right-hand side of the hill's cresting path: a black colossus wearing a beret that hid his face, and a mustachioed man in jogging pants with a boxer's head. With the same feline speed, the girls turned to the left. Another man, a bald man in a suit, was striding in from the left. The girls' fixed, dilated pupils signalled danger. He realized the absurdity of this appointment with a mysterious psychiatrist. These three men had no good intentions for him. The retreat from the staircase and footbridge was now cut off. He was surrounded. In a simultaneous rush, the men drew their weapons. In a single bound, the girls flanked Charles, facing each other, their features concentrated like athletes on a starting line. He felt his veins freeze. His life was on the line, and these imaginary little girls, belly-button height, would not deflect the bullets.
Just then, a motorcycle burst into view at full speed. It looted in an arc around him and the children.
- Get on if you value your life. The biker was wearing a full-face helmet. Charles recognized his gender by his voice and silhouette.
Without thinking, he stepped over the back seat and grabbed onto the woman's waist. She started off so hard that the wheels spun, throwing clods of earth high into the air.
Just then, a first shot rang out, followed by a second. The motorcycle's rear-view mirror exploded.
Despite the speed and his fear of motorcycles, Charles turned his head. He saw the three men shooting and the little girls waving their hands, smiling sadly, like a casual departure on a station platform.
The motorcycle was racing out of the park. He worried about the ghostly little girls he'd hated so much over the past 24 hours.
- Little girls, little girls..." he cried out, but his driver couldn't hear him and sped off over the Bercy bridge at unauthorized speed.
She stopped in a small street near the Porte d'Italie.
He immediately got off the bike and faced her.
- What the hell? I've had the fright of my life!
- I saved your ass," she retorted without removing her helmet.
- Shit and shit, what's going on?
- Go back upstairs and find out.
- No way, we're going to the cops together!
- Do what you want, man, I'm not going. Either you come with me and we'll explain it to you, or you go to the cops, I'll leave and you'll be dead tonight. Make the right choice.
- I mean, this is insane! How do I know you're not even more dangerous than those guys were back there?
- You don't. Do what you want, but make up your mind.
He grabbed the woman's black leather jacket.
- Explain, damn it!
With calm and surprising strength, she grabbed his wrist and withdrew her hand from his jacket.
- You can either go up or die, you choose.
This freedom of choice baffled him. On autopilot since the day before, his instinct was to choose the lone woman who had saved him over the three men who had shot him. He couldn't explain it afterwards, but he said to her:
- Okay, I'll go with you.
She opened the trunk of the motorcycle and handed him a helmet that fit.
Charles found the trip very long. First of all, he was a bit of a motor-sports nerd. Secondly, and more importantly, he felt caught in a spider's web, the trap of which was closing as he became more and more agitated. He'd been going over all these incoherent events since yesterday, and cursing his behavior since the affair began. At the same time, he couldn't see how he could have reacted any better. Asking for help from friends, family or the police to tell them this crazy story wouldn't have solved anything; even less would he have refused to accompany this unknown woman on her motorcycle: he'd have gone home where he'd probably have found those three killers. Come to think of it, his only way out would have been to flee: take a month's vacation or sick leave as soon as the girls appeared, and go as far away as possible to the other side of the world. He decided he'd do just that once the woman had stopped and explained the situation.
For the time being, after driving through endless suburbs and avoiding the main roads, she had reached the first country roads. Talking to him while driving was impossible. He stiffened at every bend and leaned awkwardly against the wind. He wondered how he'd get home after all this. They were driving south. Were they in Eure-et-Loir, Loiret or Yonne? He lost track of time and distance as they drove through farmland far from freeways. Signs indicated towns he didn't know. By dint of shouting, he finally got her to understand his only question, that of children going on vacation: "How much further is it?". "We're coming," she shouted back.
Just as he was starting to feel his buttocks go numb, the motorcycle slowed down at the bend in a field. They came to a halt in front of a large, rusty gate, the high wall of which closed off a forest estate. Sitting on the grass with his back to the wall, in the shade, was a young boy dressed in suburban fashion: baseball cap askew, jogging suit and brand-name sneakers. Eyes closed, he beat out with his head the beat of a tune that crackled through his headphones.
She honked and he straightened his head.
When he recognized her, he stood up nonchalantly and stalked over.
- Who's he?" he asked.
- Never mind. Open the gate.
With an even more indolent gait, as if to punish her for her answer, he opened the gate.
She started off again and threaded her way through the trees of the estate on a bad path of dirt and flat stones. She avoided the ruts without looking at the ground, like an old hand.
They emerged onto a vast meadow with a slightly raised center. On this esplanade stood a large mansion, not quite a château, but rather an 18th-century maison de maître. Outbuildings from the same period were spread around it without symmetry. The whole looked badly maintained. Ivy was attacking the stones, the ironwork was russeting, the paint on the shutters was peeling and tiles were missing. One wing had scaffolding.
They parked the motorcycle in a sort of lean-to with loose boards.
Finally, she took off her full-face helmet and placed it on the handlebars. He didn't have time to see her face, for she immediately turned her back on him and headed for the house without looking back. Standing upright, her build and height seemed more that of a man than a woman. Long, beautiful curly black hair sprawled over her shoulders. She walked with the suppleness and ease of a professional dancer. He followed in her footsteps. She called out to a kid dressed like the one at the entrance, who was sitting on the steps of the grand staircase.
- Where's the father?
- At the boars.
She pointed to a dirt track that wound around the building to the left, through the tall grass of the meadow:
- Come here!" she ordered her passenger.
He caught a brief glimpse of her lower face, which seemed fine and even. He wondered if she was going to meet her sire. The expression "THE father" reminded him more of an old-fashioned country name for a peasant patriarch: the image of a sort of Gaston Dominici.
They set off down the path. A middle-aged woman in the flowery blue blouse of our grandmothers' market towns, sitting on a bench in the distance, barely above the grass, watched them pass. She was manipulating small green objects and throwing them into a salad bowl. She's shelling beans or shelling peas, Charles surmised. Her face seemed vaguely familiar. A pudgy, balding man in his thirties, all smiles, was heading in the opposite direction. He was wearing a complete school canteen cook's outfit, complete with charlotte, apron, blue plaid pants and white plastic clogs.
- Hi Seb," said the motorcyclist, kissing the cook.
- Good evening, Fatima. How did it go?
- Well, there he is.
Seb turned to the newcomer and offered his hand with a big smile.
- Welcome to the Hanse, I'm Sebastien the cook. I was going to start dinner, but I'll take you to the father. He works with the punished... Watch out for the mud. Go around the side.
After a bump in the road that hid their view, they saw a long, thick-walled old farmhouse about fifty yards along the edge of the wood. They headed down the path in this direction. Charles recognized it as a disused stable with a central open-air riding arena containing muddy earth instead of sand. He suddenly smelled the acrid odor of manure. Shouts, grunts and laughter were heard. A gang of wild boar were scurrying around the paddock, gorging themselves on grain poured into large stone troughs. Opposite them, two groups of humans in dirty overalls were hurling projectiles at each other. The scene resembled a snowball fight with brown balls. One of the kids saw the visitors and immediately adjusted his aim. Charles was hit in the shoulder. He put his hand to the point of impact and noted with disgust that the soft bundle on his jacket smelled of manure.
- Stop it, you can't shoot my guests!" shouted a half-amused, half-cocked old man with long white hair curled on the side and bald on top. Brown-spotted, he advanced towards them with the embarrassed gait of a rheumatist.
- Ah, here's the father," said the guide, "I'll leave you to it. Then turning to the young woman, he said: "I'll see you later.
- Bienvenu à la Hanse, les parigots. I'm not very presentable. We had to clean up the boar pen. There were two tons of manure to shovel out. Finally, to let off some steam, we played a bit of a game with each other. I won't shake your hand, but my heart's in it. You can go to the shower, kids.
The four punished men, who must have been between 15 and 20 years old, put away their tools and paraded in front of the arrivals, giving them a defiant look.
- With young people," said the old man, "if you want to be respected, you must never refuse a fight. That's why I've only got one tooth left to hold my two dentures. How did it go, Fatima?
- Fine, Father.
He's too old to be her father or he got it very late," thought Charles. With a startled look on his face, while rubbing his jacket with a paper handkerchief to remove the manure, he couldn't think of anything else to say except: "What's here?"
The old man answered in a matter-of-fact, administrative tone that La Hanse was an "EPE", i.e. an educational placement establishment where juvenile delinquents were reintegrated. Removed from their natural environment, they were taught effort through work and study, under the joint supervision of the Ministries of Justice and National Education and Youth.
- Our method here is reinsertion through wild boars. The most violent young people love to go after the most aggressive animals. Gentle animals, like chickens or horses, bore them. They want someone who can hold their own. Racking a schoolboy to steal his smartphone is easy; cleaning up "Robert", the two-hundred-kilo male boar, is something else. They respect an animal with an aggressive temperament. That's zootherapy, my friend!