Read Online Blood Wedding by Pierre Lemaitre - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
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Jeanne says as she passes. “Stupid little bastard!”
Jeanne, a thin girl with a vaguely cubist face is the only person she gets on with. As for the “stupid little bastard”, he is anything but little. He is about thirty, tall, dark-haired and clearly spends his evenings lifting weights. He wears a jacket and tielike a junior manager in a department store. He is particularly punctilious with three things: timekeeping, salaries and the arses of the female staff. During the lunchtime rush, he “marshals his team” like a legionnaire, and in the afternoon lull, he fondles the buttocks of any female staff members foolish enough to dawdle; the others have made a dash for the exit. His life is perfect. Everyone knows that he is running a scam with the franchise manager, that hygiene is a trivial consideration. And everyone knows why he loves his job: on average, he pockets 20,000 euros a year in backhanders and gets to fuck fifteen girls desperate to keep a job that scrapes the bottom of the employment barrel. As she mops the floor, Sophie can see he is watching her. In fact, he is not exactly watching her. He is sizing her up, with the air of someone who can have whatever he wants. His expression says it all. He treats his “girls” as objects. Sophie carries on working, telling herself she is bound to find another job soon.
She has been working here for six weeks. In her first interview, he was blunt and immediately offered a practical solution to her ongoing problem.
“On the books or cash in hand?”
“Cash in hand,” Sophie said.
He said:
“What’s your name?”
“Juliette.”
“O.K., Juliette, you’re hired.”
She started the next day, with no contract, no payslip, no possibility of choosing her own hours, she is given breaks so short she has no time to go home, is allocated more night shifts than the others, and rarely gets home before midnight. She pretends to suffer, but actually it suits her perfectly. She has found somewhereto stay, at the far end of a boulevard that is thronged with prostitutes as soon as it gets dark. No-one in the neighbourhood knows her, she leaves early in the morning and by the time she gets back, her neighbours are slumped in front of the television or are already in bed. On nights when her shift ends after the last bus has left, she treats herself to a taxi. She makes the most of her breaks during the day to explore the city, look for another apartment, another job where no-one will ask any questions. This has been her strategy from the start: no sooner does she arrive somewhere than she starts looking for another place to stay, a different job. Never stay in the same place. Keep moving. In the beginning, she found getting by with no papers was reasonably easy, though exhausting. She slept very little, was careful to change the route she took at least twice a week, no matter where she was. As her hair grew out, it was easy to style it differently. She bought a pair of clear glasses. She is constantly on the alert. She moves regularly. She has already spent time in four different cities. And this one is not the worst. The worst thing about it is the work.
*
Monday is the most complicated: a sixteen-hour day with three breaks of varying lengths. At about 11.00 one morning, as she was walking along an avenue, she decided to stop for a few minutes (“Never again, Sophie, ten minutes maximum”) and have a cup of coffee on the terrace of a café. She thought about the weeks ahead as she sipped her espresso. (“Always plan ahead. Always.”) She leafed through the newspaper. Whole pages of advertisements for mobile phones, small ads selling second-hand cars. And suddenly she stopped, set down her cup, stubbed out her cigarette and nervously lit another. She closed her eyes. “It’s too much to hope for, Sophie. You need to think carefully.”
Buthowever much she thought . . . It is complicated, but right here, before her eyes, she may have found a way out of her
Jeanne, a thin girl with a vaguely cubist face is the only person she gets on with. As for the “stupid little bastard”, he is anything but little. He is about thirty, tall, dark-haired and clearly spends his evenings lifting weights. He wears a jacket and tielike a junior manager in a department store. He is particularly punctilious with three things: timekeeping, salaries and the arses of the female staff. During the lunchtime rush, he “marshals his team” like a legionnaire, and in the afternoon lull, he fondles the buttocks of any female staff members foolish enough to dawdle; the others have made a dash for the exit. His life is perfect. Everyone knows that he is running a scam with the franchise manager, that hygiene is a trivial consideration. And everyone knows why he loves his job: on average, he pockets 20,000 euros a year in backhanders and gets to fuck fifteen girls desperate to keep a job that scrapes the bottom of the employment barrel. As she mops the floor, Sophie can see he is watching her. In fact, he is not exactly watching her. He is sizing her up, with the air of someone who can have whatever he wants. His expression says it all. He treats his “girls” as objects. Sophie carries on working, telling herself she is bound to find another job soon.
She has been working here for six weeks. In her first interview, he was blunt and immediately offered a practical solution to her ongoing problem.
“On the books or cash in hand?”
“Cash in hand,” Sophie said.
He said:
“What’s your name?”
“Juliette.”
“O.K., Juliette, you’re hired.”
She started the next day, with no contract, no payslip, no possibility of choosing her own hours, she is given breaks so short she has no time to go home, is allocated more night shifts than the others, and rarely gets home before midnight. She pretends to suffer, but actually it suits her perfectly. She has found somewhereto stay, at the far end of a boulevard that is thronged with prostitutes as soon as it gets dark. No-one in the neighbourhood knows her, she leaves early in the morning and by the time she gets back, her neighbours are slumped in front of the television or are already in bed. On nights when her shift ends after the last bus has left, she treats herself to a taxi. She makes the most of her breaks during the day to explore the city, look for another apartment, another job where no-one will ask any questions. This has been her strategy from the start: no sooner does she arrive somewhere than she starts looking for another place to stay, a different job. Never stay in the same place. Keep moving. In the beginning, she found getting by with no papers was reasonably easy, though exhausting. She slept very little, was careful to change the route she took at least twice a week, no matter where she was. As her hair grew out, it was easy to style it differently. She bought a pair of clear glasses. She is constantly on the alert. She moves regularly. She has already spent time in four different cities. And this one is not the worst. The worst thing about it is the work.
*
Monday is the most complicated: a sixteen-hour day with three breaks of varying lengths. At about 11.00 one morning, as she was walking along an avenue, she decided to stop for a few minutes (“Never again, Sophie, ten minutes maximum”) and have a cup of coffee on the terrace of a café. She thought about the weeks ahead as she sipped her espresso. (“Always plan ahead. Always.”) She leafed through the newspaper. Whole pages of advertisements for mobile phones, small ads selling second-hand cars. And suddenly she stopped, set down her cup, stubbed out her cigarette and nervously lit another. She closed her eyes. “It’s too much to hope for, Sophie. You need to think carefully.”
Buthowever much she thought . . . It is complicated, but right here, before her eyes, she may have found a way out of her
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