The Man Who Risked It All by Laurent Gounelle

Author:Laurent Gounelle [Gounelle, Laurent]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781401938154
Google: ID9QAwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1401938140
Publisher: Hay House, Inc
Published: 2014-03-03T08:00:00+00:00

20

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT was eventful. Four times, I was woken up by the order to have a cigarette. The worst was the one at 5:00 A.M. I smoked it at the window, half asleep and numb with cold, in order not to let the smell invade the apartment. It was violently disgusting. Dubreuil prescribed a cigarette some 30 times a day, and I was beginning to find smoking unbearable. I anticipated with a certain dread the text message that was going to inflict it on me. At meals, I found myself eating faster and faster, for fear of being interrupted to go and smoke. When the alarm announcing the chore went off, I immediately felt a wave of nausea, before my hand reluctantly dived into my pocket to get the cursed packet.

As it was Saturday, I slept until 11:00, catching up on my sleep deficit. Saturday had always been my favorite day, the only day off that was followed by another day off. But today was a special day. I had stage fright—a latent, underlying fear that even when I wasn’t thinking about what was causing it, continued to tie a knot in my stomach. Today was the day I had chosen to carry out the mission involving Madame Blanchard that Dubreuil had assigned. I had to get it over with and the sooner the better. In an hour, I would have already forgotten about it. So before that I had to summon up all my courage.

Finally, I got up and crossed the room barefoot to my mini stereo. I nearly removed the headphones that were permanently plugged in but then changed my mind. Above all, I didn’t want to give Madame Blanchard a valid reason for complaining. I could have dispensed with music altogether, but I felt I needed it to get me in the right frame of mind. I needed something a bit … freaky. Let’s see, let’s see. What could I put on? No, not that, not that. There we are: a cover of My Way by the former bass player from the Sex Pistols—Frank Sinatra revised and updated via hard rock. I picked up my headphones—big headphones with earpieces that really covered the ears—and put them on. Sid Vicious’s deep voice sprang from the beyond, breaking into the first verse. I turned the volume up, moving with the headphone cord in my hands like a singer holding the wire of his microphone. Suddenly, the electric guitars sped up with a vengeance. I began to move in time, my bare feet slapping the floor. The singer’s voice exploded in every direction, as though he was vomiting up the song. Forget the neighbor, I thought. Turn the sound up higher. Higher. Let go. Close my eyes. Come on. Melt into the music. The music is in me, in my body. Move, vibrate, dance. All the way. Freedom from everything. Jump, feel everything.

It must have been several minutes before I realized that the drums didn’t seem to be keeping time with the song.

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