Underground Time (14 page)

Nothing in Mathilde's account seems to surprise him. Neither the situation in which she found herself, nor the time it had taken her to call.

He said, ‘In cases like this, people always wait too long. They try to fight and they run out of steam.'

 

If things turn nasty, you need witnesses. She'll need proof that she was taken off projects, that the content of her job was changed. She needs to bring proof that she no longer has objectives, that she has been marginalised. Other people need to stick their necks out and support her. Her colleagues. People in her team. People in other teams. Because nothing of course is written down or official. Nothing is verifiable.

Paul Vernon had to go to an industrial tribunal about a sacking on a production site. Mathilde promised to call him back.

That was a week ago and she hasn't done it. In spite of all the empty time before her, she hasn't begun writing the document he asked for either.

She didn't tell Laetitia that she called Paul Vernon because she no longer has the strength. Because it's too late. She isn't up to doing what he needs her to. She can't talk any more, she's got no more words. She who used to be feared for her rhetorical flair. She who was able to get her point of view acknowledged, alone against ten, when she stood in for Jacques at the management committee. On the phone Paul Vernon didn't realise it, but it's too late. Now she is one of the weak ones, in the sense that Patricia Lethu means it. The transparent, shrivelled, silent people. Now she is fading away in an office by the loos because it's the only place she deserves. There is no reason for this to stop.

 

Mathilde looks at the list she's just written, those tiny things that she can't manage.

 

Éric passes her office to go to the toilet and glances furtively in but doesn't stop.

She hears him on the other side of the partition: lock, ventilator, stream of urine, paper, flush, washbasin.

He passes her door again and Mathilde calls to him.

He comes in hesitantly, ill at ease, and she says, ‘Sit down.'

 

Over the past few weeks, Mathilde has developed a sort of intuition about the position of other people as allies or adversaries. In the world of Azeroth, on the threshold of the Dark Portal, it's important to recognise who's on your side.

She recruited Éric herself three or four years ago. She fought to get him appointed. He's become one of the best product chiefs on the team.

But Éric eludes her recognition system. He's a blur.

 

‘Éric, I'd like to ask you something.'

‘Yes?'

‘Could you write a letter with some precise, concrete facts. Not a letter against Jacques or against anyone, more like an account of the current situation. For example, that I don't have direct responsibility for the team any more, I don't run the planning meeting and that I'm not involved in any decisions. Just that. To record that I don't take part in anything any more.'

 

There was a silence. Éric's cheeks turned a deep red.

He looked around, the windowless office, the dusty furniture. He rubbed his hands mechanically on his thighs and moved his chair back. He spoke without looking at her.

‘I can't, Mathilde. You know that I can't risk losing my job, to . . . I . . . My wife's pregnant, she's not working any more, I . . . I'm sorry. I can't.'

 

Éric slunk out.

 

She won't ask Jean or Nathalie or anyone else. She knows when to let it drop.

 

The other fish are dazzlingly coloured, their scales look soft, their fins aren't damaged. They have moved away from her, they are swimming in brighter, clearer waters.

She has lost her colours, her body has become translucent, she's lying on the surface, belly up.

Mathilde doesn't look at her watch, nor at the clock at the bottom of her screen, nor the one on her phone. If she starts watching the time, it will stretch into eternity.

She mustn't count anything, not the time that's gone by nor the time left to fill.

She mustn't listen to the noises coming from the other offices at the end of the corridor, sudden sounds of voices, bits of conversation in English, the ringing of the telephones.

The sound of people working.

She mustn't listen to the torrent of the flushing lavatories either. On average every twenty minutes.

 

Being in this place seems less difficult to her. She's got used to it.

If she thinks about it, that's all she's done since the start – get used to it. Forget how it was before, forget that things could be different, forget that she knew how to work. Get used to it and lose her way.

 

Mathilde looks at the memory stick with her personal files on it. She hesitates to put it in the slot, then gives up on the idea. Why bother transferring her files to her new computer?

Tomorrow she may be somewhere else, somewhere in the basement, near the canteen kitchens or by the bins. Or she might be transferred to another department, another subsidiary, somewhere where she'll receive calls and emails, where people will expect projects and opinions and documents from her and where she'll rediscover the desire to be there.

 

She presses a key on her keyboard to wake the computer. Each machine has its own memory called the C: drive. The C: drive includes ‘My Documents', ‘My Music' and ‘My Pictures'. Her C: drive is empty since she has only just got her new machine. All the computers are linked to the company server. The server is called the M: drive. Each team has a directory on the network. The marketing and international department's directory is called MKG-INT. Everyone has to save all of their documents that relate to the team's activities there. For a few weeks, Mathilde has been looking at this directory to see the new action plans for the brands and the follow-up on promotional campaigns. She keeps herself up to date. Even if her view is no longer canvassed, even if she no longer participates, even if it is pointless.

 

Mathilde double-clicks on the M: drive icon. The server opens, she finds the directory and clicks again.

An error message comes up immediately:

‘M:\MKG-INT\ not accessible. Access denied.'

 

Mathilde tries again. The same message appears.

The IT people probably forgot to configure her authorisations on her new computer.

She dials their number. She recognises the voice of the technician who came that morning, the one who asked her for her Argent Defender card.

She tells them who she is and explains her problem. She hears tapping on a keyboard, the man breathing in the handset. He's checking.

‘It's got nothing to do with your new machine. You don't have authorisation to access that directory.'

‘Pardon?'

‘We got a memo on Friday and you're not on the list any more.'

‘What list is this?'

‘Each department has been asked to update its access authorisations at directory and sub-directory level . . . The request from your team doesn't give you access to this directory.'

‘Who signed off on it?'

‘The manager, I guess.'

‘Which manager?'

‘Mr Pelletier.'

 

There comes a moment when things have to stop. Or it's no longer possible.

She'll call him. She'll let it ring as long as necessary, twenty minutes if she has to.

But first of all she has to calm down. She has to breathe. Has to wait for her hands to stop trembling.

First she has to shut her eyes, leave the domain of anger and hatred, move away from the stream of curses that have come into her mind.

 

After about a hundred rings, Jacques finally picks up.

‘It's Mathilde.'

‘Yes?'

‘Apparently you have withdrawn my authorisation to access the departmental directory.'

‘Yes, that's right. Patricia Lethu told me that you've asked for a transfer. Therefore, as you know, I cannot allow you the same access as the other members of the department. You know that marketing policy obeys particular constraints of confidentiality, in-house included.'

Sometimes when she is upset her voice becomes shrill, climbing octaves in the space of a few words, but not this time. Her voice is low-pitched and composed. She is astonishingly calm.

‘Jacques, we need to talk. Give me a few minutes. This is ridiculous. I wouldn't have put in for a transfer if things hadn't taken this turn, you know very well that I no longer have . . .'

‘Huh . . . yes, well, listen. That's the result. We're not going to get lost going back over what happened when I think we both have better things to do.'

‘No, in fact, Jacques, you know very well I have nothing to do.'

 

There's a silence that lasts a few seconds. Mathilde holds her breath. She glances at the Argent Defender. He is scrutinising the line of the horizon far in front of him.

Her heart is no longer beating fast. Her hands aren't trembling any more. She is calm and everything is perfectly clear. She has come to the end of something.

And then Jacques suddenly begins to shout.

‘Don't talk to me in that tone of voice!'

She doesn't understand. She had spoken softly to him. Not one word louder than the rest. But Jacques is off again: ‘You do not have the right to speak to me in that tone!'

She's no longer breathing. She looks around, looks for a point of anchorage, something fixed and tangible, she's looking for something that has a name, a name that no one can dispute, a shelf, a drawer, a hanging file, she's incapable of uttering a sound.

He is beside himself. He goes on: ‘I forbid you to talk to me like that. You are insulting me, Mathilde. I am your line manager and you are insulting me!'

 

Suddenly she understands. What he's up to.

His door is wide open and he's shouting so that everyone can hear. He repeats: ‘I forbid you to speak to me in that tone. What's come over you?'

Everyone can vouch for the fact that Mathilde Debord insulted him on the phone.

She's speechless. This can't be happening.

Jacques goes on. He responds to her silence with indignant exclamations, takes offence, gets enraged, exactly as though he were reacting to what she was saying. Eventually he says: ‘You are becoming coarse, Mathilde. I refuse to have this conversation with you.'

 

He has hung up.

Then the image comes back. Jacques's face, swollen, with a trickle of blood coming from his mouth.

No, there has never been any ambiguity between her and Jacques. No misty-eyed glances or footsie under the table, no out-of-place comments, not the slightest emotion. No gestures or innuendos.

Of course people have asked her about it. They’ve suggested she think it over. There must have been something. All the same. For things to get out of control so suddenly and drastically. So irrationally. Something to do with feelings and desires, something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Mathilde searched her memories of those years for a detail that has escaped her. She found nothing. All the times the two of them had stayed late at the office, all the times they’d had lunch or dinner together in a restaurant, all the nights they’d spent each in their own rooms in hotels, all the hours in cars, trains and planes so close to one another, all the perfect opportunities, yet there had never been the slightest touch of skin on skin, nothing appeared on the surface that could have alerted her. It’s true that once or twice at the end of the day Jacques had addressed her in the familiar form. Jacques, who addressed everyone formally. After several years, what could she conclude from that?

No, Jacques wasn’t in love with her.

It was something else. From the start, he had taken her under his wing, he had got her a management job, had personally negotiated her pay rises with the management. He had made Mathilde his closest collaborator, his right hand, he had granted her the esteem with which he was so parsimonious and the trust he refused others. Because from the start he and she had agreed, without anything ever knocking it off course or getting out of control.

In her job interview Mathilde hadn’t mentioned that she was a widow. She told Jacques what she told the others – that she was a single parent. That was true. She refused pity, compassion, she couldn’t bear the idea that anyone had to be careful or indulgent towards her. She hated those words.

She had told him later, without going into detail. One day on the train to Marseilles in a digression from their conversation. They had been working together for over a year. Jacques behaved discreetly and didn’t try to find out more. His behaviour to Mathilde didn’t change and she was grateful to him for that.