The Hanged Man of Conakry by Jean-Christophe Rufin

Author:Jean-Christophe Rufin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Europa Editions
Published: 2021-11-23T00:00:00+00:00

VII

At the hotel, there was a message from the commissaire. It was to inform them that the meeting with Mame Fatim had been approved. Jocelyne had until six o’clock that evening to go to the central commissariat. After that, the young woman would be transferred to the court to be presented to a judge.

“I’ll have them drive you there right away,” said Aurel.

“I’d like for us to go together. Please.”

“But I don’t think the commissaire—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Come.”

Aurel was overwhelmed by this further sign of trust. It was clear, now, that they were conducting the investigation together. Very moved, he wedged himself in the back of the Clio. The only fly in the ointment: he was dying of thirst. With all this emotion he would gladly have drunk a large, cool glass of white wine. He’d been thinking about it all the way to the hotel. And now that they were leaving the place, he was still thinking about it.

The police headquarters were located in the center of town. The sidewalks in this neighborhood were overrun by crude market stalls, and itinerant merchants walked around waving all sorts of items, from hairdryers to Spiderman costumes, children’s swim rings to tool kits.

Aurel cleared a path to the entrance for Jocelyne. The two policemen on guard let them in without saying a thing. Inside, a labyrinth of little corridors, stairways, and elevators brought them to the offices of Commissaire Bâ, but only after they had asked their way half a dozen times.

African administrative hierarchies have their own codes. One of them, perhaps the most important one, is temperature. The higher up an individual is in the pecking order, the colder their office. In the corridors there reigned a heat that came not only from outside but also from air conditioners, discharging the hot air extracted from private offices into the very place where the subordinates went about their business. Jocelyne Mayères was perspiring profusely. Halos of sweat darkened her shirt under her arms and around her neck. Aurel, still cinched tight in his raincoat, felt slightly unwell, despite his resistance. The only effect the heat had on him was to cause a tiny droplet to pearl on his temple.

Finally they reached the commissaire’s offices. Two women wearing the same dark blue boubou were typing away at antiquated computers. A tiny air conditioner lowered the temperature by a few degrees compared to the corridor. When the commissaire had been notified and the visitors were led into his office, it was as if they had suddenly changed continents. A glacial wind blew through the room, churned out by the wide open vents of three refrigerating machines.

Bâ was a tall, slender man, as Fula people often are. There was a simplicity about his person, one might even call it a sense of clarity, that was reflected in the décor. The room was painted white, and the mahogany desk was bare of any papers. Hanging on the walls were various diplomas from police academies in France, the United States, and Qatar.

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