Dead Horsemeat

Friday 14 July 1989

Annick, Jubelin and Nicolas arrive together at the private Maréchaux mansion bordering on Place de l’Étoile. They had to walk, for the whole district is in a state of siege. In less than half an hour, the 14^th July parade will begin, a special extravaganza to celebrate the bicentenary of the French Revolution of 1789. A beaming Perrot greets them on the steps. In the hall, Domenico Mori, elegant as ever, accompanied by three Italians. Perrot makes the introductions: Enzo Ballestrino, Mori’s financial advisor, Michele Galliano and Giuseppe Renta, Munich-based directors of subsidiaries of Mori’s consortium.

Then he takes them all on a guided tour of the mansion. The first-floor rooms, high ceilings, white oak Versailles floors, huge curved bay windows overlooking Place de l’Étoile, sumptuous walls and ceilings decorated with panelling and plasterwork. No furniture, just several buffet tables laden with food, drink and floral arrangements facing the bay windows. Between the tables are the TV monitors that will relay the procession. On the second floor, more empty rooms with a view of Place de l’Étoile, groaning buffet tables and TV screens.

Perrot turns to the Italians:

‘It’s thanks to my friend Jubelin and to Pama that I was able to buy this residence a month ago. It has already been sold to a Japanese insurance company, at the highest price per square metre of the entire Golden Triangle. In three months, I’ve made a net profit of fifteen per cent.’

‘And by underwriting the operation,’ continues Jubelin, ‘Pama gains a foothold in Japan, without spending a cent. Give me plenty of business like that, and we’ll remain good friends.’ Laughter.

The guests arrive in small clusters. When the parade starts, at around 10 p.m., there are about a hundred people there, businessmen, members of ministerial cabinets, ‘and their spouses’, jostling at the windows on the two floors. The procession formed in Avenue Foch winds round the Arc de Triomphe, passing beneath the windows of the mansion, then turns into the Champs Élysées to the continuous boom of drums and, from time to time, the whine of bagpipes.

At the head of the procession, under a vast banner ‘We fight on’, a grey, silent crowd and a float swathed in black symbolise the death of hope in Tiananmen Square.

Deluc throws an arm around Annick and Nicolas.

‘The sight of the defeated is always tedious.’

‘I can’t share your cynicism.’

‘I’m not cynical, my friend. Just realistic. And I don’t mix entertainment with politics.’ He steers them towards the buffet. ‘Champagne all round. This magnificent parade to celebrate our anniversary. Do you remember? It’s exactly twenty years since we three left Rennes to come to Paris. Something worth celebrating.’

Annick’s mind darts back to that last evening in Rennes. Deluc, running away, her stumbling, caught by the cops, dragged to the police station, fucked by a detective inspector… Were they supposed to be toasting that unforgettable night? She glances around the room. Let bygones be bygones, and any excuse to drink champagne is a good one.

The guests amble between the buffet and the windows, up and down the stairs. In the heavily soundproofed rear rooms, a hi-fi plays music and a few couples are dancing.

On the Place de l’Étoile, after the French regions come the Americans, Russians and Scots, parading to the sound of hurdy-gurdies, fifes, bagpipes and the persistent rumble of the drums.

Annick has joined Jubelin and his Italian buddies. Ballestrino touches Renta’s arm, and exchanges a look with him. Silent dialogue. Renta bows ceremoniously to Annick:

‘May I ask you to dance?’

He’s about thirty-five, average height, slicked-back dark hair, dark eyes, and an elegance that is just a little overstated. A close-fitting grey alpaca suit, light grey silk shirt, and a wide, brightly coloured tie. Annick finds there is something slightly vulgar about him. Amused, she takes his arm and they make their way towards the back rooms.

The minute they leave, Mori steers Ballestrino, Galliano and Jubelin over to a slightly isolated corner of the buffet. They attack the cold meats and talk business. A few remarks about the recent AGM. And Pama’s future growth prospects. Quick review. They soon come back to Japan. This Maréchaux mansion deal, the first contact with the Pacific region. But they must consolidate in Europe before embarking on strategic interventions in the Far East. Mori agrees.

‘By the way,’ says Ballestrino, ‘my friend Galliano told me about a nice little opportunity in Munich.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A.A. Bayern, a medium-sized insurance company, solid family business, well established in the region. Has business relations with certain East German circles, useful just at the moment with things starting to stir behind the Iron Curtain.’

‘Even in East Germany?’

‘Much more than they’re saying here. Right now, A.A.’s shares are fairly high, but they could plummet in the coming months, if we so wish. And pave the way for a takeover bid that will be both easy and very profitable.’ Ambivalent smile. ‘It’s not a business proposition, it’s a favour.’

‘Why don’t you keep it for yourself, Mori?’

‘My group concentrates on industry. Where insurance is concerned, my stake in Pama is enough for me.’

Taking out his diary, Jubelin turns to Galliano:

‘Shall we have a meeting before you leave for Munich?’

They move back towards the windows. Jubelin greets an official from the Ministry of Finance, who pumps his hand warmly. Congratulations. A huge float trundles past carrying a 30-metre steam engine, surrounded by the deafening Drums of the Bronx going wild, to the indifference of the crowd.

Annick dances with Renta. Lots of Latino and West Coast beats. He dances well, and flirts a little, as etiquette requires. His tie is Yves Saint Laurent. Actually more of a bore than a hoodlum. A pirouette and a smile. Annick escapes, dives into the toilet, a quick snort, and returns, ravishing, to the windows and the spectacle below.

She bumps into Deluc, cigarette dangling from his mouth, one of those horrid smelly Indian cigarettes he got into the habit of smoking when he was in Beirut, deep in an argument with an opposition deputy about the soaring share prices and rising Paris property values. The deputy ceremoniously kisses Annick’s hand and starts explaining what’s happening at Pama to her. He’s clearly had one too many. Deluc takes advantage to make himself scarce, the bastard.

Jubelin, Nicolas and Ballestrino are sitting in front of one of the TV screens watching Jessye Norman launch into the ‘Marseillaise’ at Place de la Concorde. Nicolas turns to Ballestrino.

‘I’ve heard you own a stud farm outside Milan.’

He sounds delighted. ‘I do. I’ve raised a few flat racing champions. Two of my colts ran at Longchamp last Sunday.’

Jubelin adds:

‘What a coincidence. I’m a great horse lover. I have several in training.’

‘Who with?’

‘Meirens, at Chantilly.’

‘I know him. If you’re ever in Milan, I’d be delighted to show you around my stables.’

Having rid herself, not without difficulty, of the inebriated deputy, Annick spots Nicolas and Jubelin in a heated conversation in a corner, slightly away from the others. She makes her way over to them, and they abruptly stop talking. Jubelin, on edge, turns to Nicolas.

‘We’ll talk about it in my office.’

Nicolas takes Annick’s arm.

‘Let’s go upstairs and watch the end of the procession.’

Now it’s the high point of the whole event. Women balanced on pedestals move forward with mechanical movements, revolving to the strains of a waltz. They are high above the ground, wearing huge wide-brimmed hats, crinolines with skirts several metres wide cascading down to the ground, each cradling a baby. Annick gazes at these stylised giants, which she finds threatening. Inexplicable feeling of discomfort.

The procession is winding up. Perrot moves from group to group. The single men are invited to round off the evening in the restaurant he owns, Rue Balzac, with some lady friends. Nicolas accepts, Jubelin, ever cautious, declines.