Lorraine Connection

PART ONE

A room enclosed by four grey sheet-metal walls, bisected by a conveyor belt carrying two rows of television screens and their cathode ray tubes, under the glare of neon lights from which a stray electric wire dangles. Two rows of four women sit facing each other on either side of the conveyor. Autumn is around the corner and it is very chilly: when they took up their positions this morning it was still dark outside. All the women know each other and feel almost close in this confined space where they work as a team on collective output and bonuses, but no one feels like talking, since the prospect of long nights and short days dampens their spirits.

The women, also looking grey in their short overalls, lean forward, their eyes constantly moving from the aggressive oblong-shaped bases of the cathode tubes filing past them to the tilting polished-steel mirrors overhead. The same crushing images of the same tubes are reflected from a different angle, as if magnified. Holding tiny soldering irons, they add a few final spots of solder then, on leaving the production line, the finished cathode ray tubes are conveyed to the next workshop on the other side of the sheet-metal wall, where they will be packaged, stored, and ultimately despatched elsewhere, generally to Poland, where they will be given plastic casings and become television sets.

The girls can hear only muffled sounds from the factory floor, but the noise from the conveyor belt bounces off the sheet-metal walls and dictates the rhythm of their days. Clack, the conveyor starts up, hiss, two seconds, the tubes start moving, clack, stop. Each girl leans forward, the soldering irons sputter, one, two, three, four blobs, and in ten seconds they straighten up. Rolande, at the end of the line, gives the tubes a quick once-over to check the accuracy of the soldering. Clack, sssh, the belt moves forward, minds blank, their hands and eyes work automatically. Clack, one, two, three, four, glance, clack, sssh … Aisha’s face between two tubes, wan, twenty years old, should be in better health. Clack, one, I was in better shape at twenty, two, pregnant, ditched, three, alcoholic mother, violent, four, who was already sponging off me, glance, clack, sssh. Aisha, her eyes vacant, violent father. Clack, one, my son, ruffling his hair, two, caressing his face, affection, three, the factory no way, never, four, study, study, study, glance, clack, sssh. Aisha, work, can’t stand it any more, clack, one, since the accident, two, the accident, the blood, three, blood everywhere, four, throat slit, glance, clack, sssh. Aisha covered in blood. Clack, one, she’s afraid, two, me too, three, all of us, afraid, four, the sheet-metal walls exude fear, clack, sssh. Aisha, her father yelling, clack, one, blinding flash, from floor to ceiling. On the other side of the production line a tube explodes, the briefest scream, earsplitting.

Émilienne keels over backwards, Rolande’s palm automatically hits the emergency button, the production line comes to a halt, a wire is fizzling all the way up to the neon light, orangey-yellow sparks and a very strong smell of burning rubber or some other substance, sickening. Silence. Rolande clambers on to a chair and picks her way over the conveyor between two cathode tubes. Émilienne is lying on the floor on her back, white, rigid, eyes closed, lips blue. Six months pregnant. Her belly protrudes through her half-unbuttoned overalls. An alarm goes off somewhere on the other side of the partition. In the total silence of the cramped room, Rolande speaks quietly, in a precise monotone: ‘Aisha, run to the offices, grab a phone and call an ambulance, the fire brigade. Go, hurry.’ Aisha rushes off. Rolande kneels down, Émilienne’s hair is spread on the worn-out vinyl tiles. The floor’s filthy, when was it last cleaned? She feels ashamed, removes her overalls and places them under the head of the injured, possibly dead, woman. Émilienne doesn’t appear to be breathing. She leans over her, attempts mouth-to-mouth, senses a breath. She gently unbuttons the neck of Émilienne’s blouse and frees her legs from under the overturned chair. A scorch mark on the seat. The girls are all on their feet, staring expressionlessly, their mouths closed, leaning against the sheet-metal walls, as far away as possible from Émilienne. What was I thinking about earlier? Fear? This is its natural home. Réjane, who sits next to Émilienne on the production line, murmurs in a quavering voice, her hands trembling:

‘Maybe we should give her heart massage.’

‘Do you know how?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’

One women slaps Émilienne’s face and dabs at it with a wet cloth, the other massages her hands, weeping.

Antoine Maréchal, bespectacled and in blue overalls, is juggling schedules and attendance sheets in the personnel office. He is the foreman of the assembly-finishing-packaging section, and each day is a monumental challenge to maintain output with absenteeism ranging between ten and twenty per cent. Closer to twenty per cent on this autumn day. What dross, all bloody Arabs or women. They don’t know the meaning of work. The Human Resources Manager in person comes into the office, thirty-something, in a tailored suit, expensive shoes of Italian leather, an incompetent, cocksure young upstart, still wet behind the ears. Maréchal, in his fifties, a lumbering figure in his overalls and safety boots, shudders with repressed hatred.

‘Mr Maréchal, how convenient, just the person I wanted to see. The latest figures show an absenteeism rate of thirteen per cent in your section over the last month.’

‘I know. I’m dealing with it.’

‘It’s the highest rate in the factory. If you don’t do something about it, you’ll be jeopardising the survival of the entire company.’

Maréchal removes his glasses, snaps down the sides and puts them in his overalls pocket, next to the red ballpoint pen and the blue ballpoint pen, and rests both hands on the desk, which creaks.

‘Listen, Mr Human Resources Manager, you’re new here. I’ve been here since the day this factory opened, and not a month has gone by without the management threatening closure. Anyone would think they’d only opened it so they could close it down. So that kind of talk won’t go very far with me. I don’t give a damn if your place closes down. I’ve got my house, it’s not long till I retire, I’ll pocket my bonus and go off gathering mushrooms.’ The pager clipped to Maréchal’s belt starts beeping. ‘Excuse me, I’m wanted on the factory floor.’

He leaves the Head of HR casting around for a reply and goes next door into the main factory building. The clanging, clattering, scraping and the din of engines. Confused sounds, he thinks. Memories of the powerful, constant roar of the blast furnace, the roar of fire. Nostalgia? Not really. It cost my father his life. He was confused too. The main factory building, divided into numerous enclosed areas which you have to cross or skirt around to reach the long, central corridor, cluttered with a discarded Fenwick engine, empty pallets and dustbins. In front of him, a gaping doorway leading to a narrow room entirely taken up by a machine which, at the time of its installation, was to revolutionise the chemical treatment of microprocessors. A purpose-built room, specially insulated against dust and temperature variations to prevent the machine from overheating and breaking down for lack of ventilation. Idle for a year and a half. Some clever buggers must have dismantled it and nicked some of the parts, can’t blame them. A rush of anger. And it’s my section that’s jeopardising the future of the factory. Wanker.

Aisha’s running down the main corridor towards him. Trouble of one kind or another. Without stopping, she yells at him:

‘An accident, a short circuit, Émilienne’s dead! I’m going to call an ambulance.’

Maréchal catches himself thinking if she’s dead, it’s too late, and hastens his step, while Aisha runs on in the direction of the offices. He goes into the finishing workshop and the first person he sees, in the opposite doorway, is Nourredine, the packaging foreman. A good worker, fair enough, but a real troublemaker, always protesting, wanting to put forward his own ideas. What the hell’s he doing here? The place stinks. He immediately spots the scorch marks caused by the short circuit running from floor to ceiling. He looks down and sees Émilienne’s body lying at his feet, and, kneeling beside her, Rolande and Réjane, who is shaking, sobbing and wailing:

‘She’s been electrocuted, she’s dead.’

Émilienne, unconscious, pale, her lips blue, her body racked with spasms accompanied by groans. Right, she’s not dead. Women always exaggerate. I need to take charge of the situation and show that bloody Arab. A quick glance around the room. The girls are all there, pinned against the walls, white as ghosts. Rolande looks less shaken and anyway, she’s the production-line supervisor, a good worker, she’ll lead the others. He leans towards her:

‘Everything’s fine, the ambulance is on its way. Move away, you need to give your friend air. Until the ambulance arrives you must all go back to your places. Once the ambulance is here, we’ll see what has to be done.’

Rolande is still holding Émilienne’s head. Nobody’s paying any attention to the foreman. Rolande’s mesmerised by the puddle of water spreading between Émilienne’s legs.

Maréchal bends down and takes her arm.

‘Her waters have broken.’ Her head is bowed, her voice husky.

Maréchal doesn’t understand what she’s saying.

‘Ms Lepetit, do set an example. Go back to your seat. We must calm everyone down, let the paramedics do their job, and then get back to work. It’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see.’

Rolande seems to be waking from a nightmare, it’s nothing to worry about, bastard, get back to work, swine, don’t you dare touch me. She suddenly stands up, thrusts his hand from her arm and gives him a resounding clout that sends him sprawling on his back amongst the girls’ legs. Not one of them holds out a hand to help him to his feet. He gets up, crimson with rage. Nourredine has come into the room and he leaps over the conveyor, grabs the foreman’s shoulders and marches him outside.

‘Calm down! You’ve no idea what they’ve just been through. The short circuit was so powerful that next door we could see the flash through the partition. And the woman’s scream …’ he has difficulty finding the words ‘… was like something from beyond the grave.’

The fire brigade arrives at the double, led by Aisha. Nourredine continues to push Maréchal out of the way. Within seconds, Émilienne is hooked up to a drip, placed on a stretcher and carried away.

Aisha’s lying in the dark, in a cubicle in the medical room. Her production line has been halted, electricians have been called out urgently from Pondange to carry out repairs. The foreman said that everything would be sorted in time for the second shift. Meanwhile, the girls on the opposite line, supervised by Rolande, have gone back to work. To work. Aisha faints.

Between these sheet-metal walls, white from the flash of electricity, resonating with the scream, Émilienne’s body, a few feet away from Aisha, keeling over backwards, rigid, entangled in her chair. And the other accident, no more than a month ago, right in front of her, the headless body, standing there for ages before collapsing, blood spurting out of the neck, the warmth of the blood on her hands, her face. I am cursed. Forget Forget. Think about something else. I don’t want to go home before clocking-off time. My father at home with all his questions. Why aren’t you at the factory? I shan’t tell him anything. Not a word. Nothing happened. I can’t talk any more.

Maréchal draws back the curtain around the cubicle and comes in, almost on tiptoe.

‘How do you feel, Miss Saidani?’ No reply. ‘I realise what a shock this has been for you. The nurse told me you were feeling a lot better.’

Clumsy, bumbling Maréchal. Definitely not bright.

‘What do you want?’

‘OK. Ms Lepetit has gone upstairs to talk to management and as you’re the only one from the other production line to have stayed, I wondered whether you’d kindly take her place. Just while she’s upstairs. It shouldn’t be for long.’

Aisha sits bolt upright. To face all that right now — the sheet-metal walls, the production line, the neon lights, the dangling wires, the handle of the soldering iron in the palm of her hand — is to face her own death. But whether she does it today, or tomorrow … the girls will be around me, supportive, their eyes saw what I’ve seen. If I have to choose between the production line and going home to my father, I prefer the production line. Besides, I’m doing it for Rolande.

‘All right.’

‘The nurse will give you a little pick-me-up.’

In the admin section, Rolande is trying to walk straight and slowly. They’re probably going to ask me about the accident. That’s going to be difficult. Because right now, what I need more than anything is to forget, completely, for a few days, until I’ve got over my fear. Then talk about it … I must ask for a few days off for the girls. Flashback to the girls’ faces, ashen against the sheet metal. The shock was too brutal. Get them to understand. Find the words … and I’ll find out how Émilienne is. Miscarriage? Dead? Be prepared for the worst, and above all, don’t break down in front of ‘them’.

She is immediately shown into the office of the Head of HR himself. It’s the first time she’s set eyes on him. A quick glance to size him up. Young, flashy. Not my type.

‘Ms Lepetit, I have very little to say to you. After your inexcusable behaviour towards Mr Maréchal, your section foreman, you are being dismissed for serious misconduct, and this decision takes effect as of now. You may not return to your work station. You will be accompanied to the cloakroom to remove your personal belongings, and then to the exit. You will receive your final pay cheque tomorrow.’

Her insides turn to liquid, her mind goes blank, not a word, not a coherent thought, only images, violent feelings, the flash, the white light, the scream, the smell, the fear. And then my son’s smile, in his boarding school uniform, my mother, drunk, asleep on the kitchen floor, who’s going to pay? Work, pain, broken body, hands numb, hard, yes, but better than no job. Tomorrow, on the streets, homeless?

Half unconscious, she’s shoved out into the corridor. She leans against the wall, her eyes closed, dizzy, feels like throwing up. When she opens her eyes, Ali Amrouche is standing in front of her. He’s holding her hands, tapping them, a concerned expression on his face. Amrouche, the union rep, always hanging around management, that’s him.

‘Rolande, don’t you feel well? Rolande, talk to me.’

He places a hand on her shoulder, a gesture he’s never made, or dared make before. He has nothing but respect for Rolande, but she’s distraught. She feels the warm contact of his hand on her shoulder, it does her good, less alone, and the words return, jumbled at first. She leans against him, lets herself go, then the words come tumbling out and she tells him about the accident, in great detail — her every movement, Émilienne’s body, lifeless, rigid: ‘I touched death, Ali.’ The helplessness, not knowing what to do to save a life, and the violent contractions, the groans as if Émilienne were in immeasurable pain and a hope, the baby that died, almost as if that would bring the mother back to life. With the words come tears, what a relief. ‘And they fired me, Ali, because I knocked Maréchal to the floor.’ A hint of a smile. ‘For that price, I should have killed him, the fat bastard.’

‘I’m taking you home, Rolande, and I’ll come back and talk to management, straight away. It isn’t possible, it’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake.’

‘Thank you, but no. See me to the exit, that’ll help. I’ll go home by myself, it’s only a couple of minutes away.’

In the Head of HR’s office, Ali Amrouche tries to explain.

‘You can’t fire Ms Lepetit. The whole factory will be up in arms. She’s a courageous woman, everybody looks up to her. We all know that she has to support her son and her penniless mother single-handed. Everyone was shaken up by the accident this morning in her section.’

‘She’s not the one who had the accident, it was Émilienne Machaut who, let me take the opportunity to inform you, is safe and sound.’

‘What about the baby?’

‘Miscarriage. It happens. None of that in any way justifies Ms Lepetit’s behaviour in physically attacking her foreman.’ He straightens his upper body, pushes his shoulders back. I’m here to restore order and discipline in this factory, both of which are sadly lacking. I will not stand for this behaviour.’

The Head of HR shuffles a file around his desk, taps the telephone, folds his hands. ‘Mr Amrouche, my predecessor told me you were a reasonable man, a man of compromise, able to make allowances. So I am keen for you to be the first to know this: in one week, the works council will meet and the question of the last nine months’ unpaid bonuses will once again be on the agenda. If the company were to pay those bonuses today, plus the arrears, its financial stability would be jeopardised. The financial situation is still precarious, as you well know, and there’s a risk the factory will have to close. So, management is going to suggest — and when I say suggest, you know what I mean — that all bonuses be cancelled for this year and paid from next January.’ He spreads his hands and raises his eyebrows.

‘We’ve examined the figures from every angle. There’s no other solution. We are relying on people like you to get everyone to accept it.’

Amrouche stares at the Head of HR. What does this man know about it? Weariness. How to explain the poverty, suffering, fear, and then the eruption of consuming anger and hatred to this fine gentleman with his smart shoes about to be blown to pieces?

‘Does Maréchal approve of Rolande Lepetit’s dismissal?’

The Head of HR stands up and turns to face the window.

‘The matter is closed.’

Seated alone at a table in the empty cafeteria, Amrouche is drinking a coffee and thinking things over. The Head of HR, what a shit. ‘My predecessor spoke to me about you’ … and drops two bombshells, without even being aware of it. What do I do? ‘You’re a reasonable man’. So what? The bonuses can wait until the works council meeting, I’m not supposed to know about that. As for Rolande, by the end of the lunch break the whole factory will have heard. If the guys find out that I knew and that I didn’t say or do anything, they won’t forgive me. Rolande, a woman who’s been through the mill like me, and who gets on with things. Never off sick, a hard worker, tough, proud, honest. Better than me. A man of compromise, huh! A bitter taste of coffee on his tongue and at the corners of his mouth. A man who compromises? True enough: because I’m a broken man. Images of the nearby Pondange iron and steelworks where he worked for ten years flood back. He loved the heat, the noise, the physical exertion, the danger too, and the sense of comradeship that went with it. Not like here. And then the exhilarating struggle to save the works. They’d felt so powerful, all united. Followed by total failure. The works dismantled, obliterated from the valley. A working class dynamited, like the blast furnaces. Tears welled up in his eyes each time he walked along the swollen river banks, the concrete bases where the blast furnaces once stood now overgrown with grass. One thing was certain: they were the winners, them, the other side. You have to live with it. Be shrewd, hold out. For now, get Rolande reinstated. At least do that much. Go and see Maréchal, a racist bastard, but a former steelworker and capable of understanding, not like that arsehole Head of HR. He’ll get her reinstated even if she did knock him flat.

But no sign of Maréchal anywhere in his section, or in the offices. He ought to be here at this time of day. What shall I do? I’ll go and talk to Nourredine, he works in the same section as Rolande, he knows her and values her work. Nourredine is shocked when Amrouche informs him of Rolande’s dismissal. Rolande, with her tall, familiar form and her clear, warm, attentive gaze. Always ready to offer a sympathetic gesture or word in passing. She helped me get through my early days in the factory, when I was just a shy and miserable kid. It’s thanks to her I’ve found my place here. We can’t abandon her, after the horror of the accident, on top of everything. He asks the others to take over his job while he goes and has it out with Maréchal, who is nowhere to be found. Back to packaging and a brief collective discussion. The horror of the accident still hangs over them — the white light, the scream, the juddering sheet-metal walls, Émilienne’s lifeless body glimpsed in the crush.

And the outcome? The production line wasn’t even brought to a complete standstill. Some of the girls are back at work without a thorough safety check being done. Rolande is fired and that bastard Maréchal’s made himself scarce. It might even transpire it was his idea, to create a diversion so that everyone would be talking about Rolande’s dismissal instead of the accident. There’s electricity everywhere, in one form or another, at all the work stations. If we don’t do something, we’ll all get electrocuted. It’s vital to see the girls in finishing at coffee break.

A twenty-minute break, just time to catch the girls as they head down the main corridor to the cafeteria and the men from packaging drag them out of the back exit to the waste ground behind the factory, where they all sit around on discarded pallets. A strange place, this hastily erected sheet-metal cube on wasteland in the bottom of a valley overgrown with weeds and scrub. It stands on the site where, less than a generation ago, the Lorraine blast furnaces roared, one of the world’s most powerful iron and steel industries. Now, the forests covering the hills slowly regain domination both of the landscape and the imagination of the people who live there. It’s very chilly. Nourredine’s friend Étienne watches the girls. They’re beautiful, all of them. Why didn’t you think of chatting them up sooner? Are you blind, or what? Amrouche hangs around and goes to sit down with them.

Nourredine climbs on to a pallet, tall and slim in his grey work overalls, his ascetic face tense and ill at ease. He blurts out: ‘Maréchal got Rolande fired.’ Amrouche, uncomfortable, says nothing. A few moments of total silence. The girls are shivering with the cold and fear. Then Aisha stands up, her arms folded over her chest, her voice and lips trembling slightly.

At last she has found the words to describe the death of the Korean engineer, only a month ago. Everyone’s heard about it, but she witnessed it, she was at her work station in section four, next to the rotor when it broke down. The engineer came, he pressed the button at the end of the line to stop the conveyor, removed the safety housing from the rotor and got right inside the machine to repair it. Aisha was standing behind him. Another Korean was passing by, he didn’t understand why the conveyor had stopped, didn’t ask the women workers, and in any case, he didn’t speak French. Then, before anybody could stop him, he pressed the button to switch the power back on and start up the conveyor again. There was no circuit breaker on the rotor, and the engineer’s head was sliced clean off.

‘I saw the headless body straighten up. People tell me it’s impossible, but I tell you I saw it, and the blood spurting out. I felt the blood on my face, my hands, and then the body crumpled at my feet. I keep seeing it, over and over again, that headless body jerking, every night. And when I wake up in the dark, I feel the warmth of the blood on my face. They wanted me to go back to work the next day, at the same station. They thought that was quite normal. They said it’s just an accident, clear up the mess, clean up, carry on. I could never have sat next to the rotor again. It was Rolande who arranged for me to come and work in finishing, so I could keep my job. And now, Émilienne’s been electrocuted, the baby’s dead, and Rolande’s been booted out.’

Silence. Everyone on this patch of waste ground behind the sheet-metal factory is staring at Aisha, smooth strands of jet black hair framing her chalky face and the rest tied back. Right now she’s tense, fiery, the embodiment of the tragedy in their day-to-day lives.

Amrouche closes his eyes. He too has his recurring nightmare. He’s twenty, he works on the gangway above the factory floor, the molten-steel ladle explodes thirty feet beneath him, thirty tonnes of molten steel swallow up some fifteen men, the wild yells, the smell of charred flesh, unbearable. Stop, snap out of it. Someone says:

‘My wife works in admin. She heard that they’re not going to pay us our bonuses in December.’ All eyes turn to Amrouche, who clears his throat.

‘I think that may be true. I believe they’ve decided not to pay the monthly bonuses that were agreed last February, which were supposed to be paid in a lump sum in December. No bonuses for this year. The first bonus will be paid next January.’

Why on earth did I say that? Now the shit will really hit the fan. Too late now. Perhaps I wanted to distract Maréchal, he’s a former steelworker? Most of all I wanted to stop the unbearable agony Aisha’s speech caused me, the rush of memories of molten steel engulfing the men, my horror of accidents, and death, because it is the human condition, and there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’d rather forget. But the bonuses, suddenly being robbed of the equivalent of almost a month’s pay in accumulated bonuses, which they’re entitled to, which they’ve been counting on, which they’ve already decided how to spend, that’s completely different, that’s another matter entirely, I’ve moved on to new terrain, familiar, signposted, strangely reassuring. The entire group, shivering with cold on this autumn day, is gripped by fear, anger, bitterness and dejection: the bonuses must be paid immediately. To which Nourredine adds: ‘Rolande must be reinstated immediately.’ The group returns to the building to do the rounds of all the workshops. Within half an hour, the entire factory has ground to a halt.

A discreet lunch in a hotel in Luxembourg, close to the French border, a table for two in a small private dining room. Maurice Quignard drinks a pastis while he waits. Sixtyish, tall, broad-shouldered, flat stomach, he is still athletic-looking. His tanned, lined face has a brutal look. After a long career in the steel industry, he has set up a consultancy advising on business reconversion. He works with a number of EU organisations and is an unpaid advisor to the board of directors of Daewoo Pondange on behalf of the European Development Plan committee. In a way, Daewoo is his baby. Thanks to his political connections in Lorraine, he acted as go-between with the Koreans, negotiated the conditions for the company to set up there, and ensures there is a plentiful supply of manna in the form of EU and French subsidies. Again, unpaid. In the interests of the region and of France. The idea of Daewoo and Matra making a joint bid to take over Thomson was born during an informal dinner with the chairman of the Lorraine region at his home, two years ago already. And now, he’s close to achieving his goal. He knows that after Daewoo’s takeover of Thomson Multimedia, the new company will be a global concern and there’ll be an influential role for him as human resources advisor. A glorious end to his career. Not to mention the financial rewards. So he follows Daewoo’s activities on a day-to-day basis, thanks to the contacts he’s developed at every level of the company.

At around ten a.m. today, Maréchal had come to his office in Pondange and briefed him about the internal situation. Worrying. Another accident, serious. What’s worse is the sacking of a good worker, a well-liked woman, another unnecessary provocation by that idiotic Head of HR. During their conversation a phone call from the factory had informed them that a strike had broken out on the shop floor. What did I tell you? Maréchal wasn’t too worried: it’s a spontaneous and localised movement, not one of them has any sense of organisation, you know what those layabouts are like. By tomorrow I’ll have everything back in hand, but frankly, we really could have avoided this. And Quignard was furious. He’s summoned the CEO to give him a piece of his mind. He’s late, which doesn’t help. Quignard is on his third pastis.

Park, the Korean CEO, arrives, a smile on his smooth round face. His tortoiseshell glasses give him a permanent air of slight amazement. Quignard speeds things up and asks for the starter to be served at once — a selection of cured meats — accompanied by a good Burgundy. The minute they are alone, he attacks, tough, impatient.

‘A factory where there have been no incidents for two years, not a single hour’s strike, where the unions are kept out … How on earth did you manage to set the place on fire at the worst possible moment in terms of our affairs?’

‘On fire … I’d say that was a bit of an exaggeration.’ His voice is soft, cultured, his French impeccable, barely a hint of an accent. At the factory, he never speaks French, which he claims not to know, but English or Korean. ‘At present, two workshops have downed tools, less than twenty people.’ Out of the question to tell this loudmouth who despises me that an entire shift has just gone on strike, since he doesn’t appear to have heard. There’s plenty of time.

‘My contacts tell me that emotions are running very high in the factory. You have to admit that there have been a number of accidents, the rate of production is high and the pay isn’t good. As long as that only translates into absenteeism, there’s no problem. But in my young days, people used to say: one spark can set the plain on fire. So no sparks. You must keep your Head of HR in order.’

‘I understand.’

The smile wiped off his face, a bitter crease at the corners of his mouth. That Head of HR, a man he recommended to me himself The son of a local big shot. Important for integrating the business into the local fabric, he said. Totally useless.

The waiter brings the next course — a copious stew — and a second bottle of Burgundy. Quignard continues, still on the attack.

‘Not the slightest ripple while the Thomson bid is pending.’

‘That’s a matter of a few days. We’ll hold out until then.’

‘No. Maybe just for a few hours until the government delivers its decision, and the main job will be done, granted, but we still have to see how the public will react and await the opinion of the Privatisation Commission. We need at least a good month of peace and quiet. It’s not asking for the moon.’

‘I can’t budge on pay. Our hands are tied by a major bank repayment due in one week’s time. I can only cover it through an advance on the delivery of our stocks, scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Finances are so tight that I haven’t even renewed the fire insurance policy which has expired.’

‘I know. You’re financially overstretched, particularly under present circumstances. It’s a rash thing to do, and pointless.’ Quignard suddenly frowns. ‘Tell me, there’s no risk of the factory grinding to a halt in the next two days at least, is there? If you don’t honour that payment, it will be disastrous for our business at national level.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘Do more than be aware. Take precautions, immediately.’

At least a hundred workers are sitting around in the cafeteria, mostly men and most of them very young. No more than about twenty women. Small clusters have formed around the work teams arguing about the bonuses in raised voices, but there’s little communication between the groups. In fact the different shifts barely know each other and tend to be faintly wary. For nearly all the workers it’s their first stoppage. Now what do we do? Kader, the best-known shop steward is on sick leave, announces a staff rep. He is greeted by jeers. Amrouche skulks in a corner by the main entrance, keeping a low profile. Nourredine looks uncertainly about him, nobody’s rushing forward. He clambers on to a table. Who the hell’s he? The guy from packaging, a big mouth … Does he have a mandate? No, no mandate … He awkwardly describes Émilienne’s electrocution, his mouth dry. They pay him scant attention and seem more concerned with Rolande’s dismissal, a lot of them know her, a brave woman, for sure, but always sucking up. ‘Why don’t we talk about the bonuses?’ yells a young man. Nourredine calls Amrouche who scowls and refuses to climb on to the table. He announces, without comment, that the bonuses for the current year have been cancelled and that the first bonus will be paid next January. A chorus of angry muttering and the discussion spreads. Some refuse to believe it, an agreement is an agreement, there’s no going back on it. Others claim it serves them right for being so stupid as to have given those Korean sharks credit. A delegation is formed, led by Nourredine and Amrouche, tasked with meeting management to obtain information, demand prompt payment of the arrears and insist on Rolande’s reinstatement. They head off in the direction of the offices.

In the cafeteria, the clusters have re-formed. Some start playing cards. Étienne goes over to Aisha.

‘I’m Nourredine’s friend. I’ve been in packaging for two years. How come we’ve never met?’

‘I’ve only been in finishing for a month.’

‘Of course.’ Flashback: the pale face, the rotor. ‘Rolande took me on in finishing …’ Whatever you do, don’t mention the mangled body. I’ve put my foot in it.

Smile. ‘It did me so much good to talk about it, it’s the first time. And the first time too that I’ve ever spoken in front of so many people, at least ten people. I feel a lot better.’ She thinks: he’s different.

Relieved. ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’

There’s a queue in front of the coffee machines. Étienne picks up two scalding cups, puts them on a cardboard tray, takes Aisha’s hand and leads her across the eerily silent, deserted factory floor dimly lit by dreary daylight and the orange glow of the safety lights. So different, a bit strange, profoundly silent. Aisha does not withdraw her hand. In the wide, airy spaces of the packaging section, Étienne switches on a row of neon lights. He continues past the machines, which are strangely still, without pausing at the piles of polystyrene or wood, decorative as they are, or at the conveyor belt rising up to the ceiling with its load of packaged tubes, connecting to the warehouse. He leads Aisha towards an old wooden desk in a corner of the workshop and sets down the coffees.

‘This is where we have our snack at break times. The cafeteria is too far away, it wastes too much time. Take a look.’ Proudly, he opens a drawer that contains a gas ring. In the next drawer is an electric coffee machine. The back panel of the desk slides back to reveal a little fridge and a television set. ‘The TV’s only for the night shift.’ He laughs. ‘As for the rest, we have an agreement with Maréchal: he stays out of the workshop during breaks.’

They drink in silence. Aisha runs her finger over the stained desktop. A bit of freedom all to themselves, at the heart of the factory. The women’s workshop on the other side of the sheet-metal partition, a whole other life. The misfortune of being a woman.

‘You haven’t seen everything yet.’ Étienne sits her on one of the stools. ‘Here’s my work station, but the truth is we’re often on our feet, we move around a lot.’ He opens the top drawer of the desk, wide, deep, flat, crammed with miscellaneous cutlery and corkscrews, wiggles out a little board wedged at the back and takes out a tobacco pouch and rolling papers. ‘A quick joint.’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘It’s not a cigarette, it doesn’t do any harm.’

His hands work rapidly, a swift lick, cigarette lighter, he takes a first deep drag, smiles, passes her the joint. Her mind a muddle, Émilienne, Rolande, the strike, Étienne’s hand in her hair, in her hand, her body trembling, she takes the joint, raises it to her lips, takes a long drag, nostrils pinched, eyes closed, as she’s seen her brothers do, inhales the smoke, not very strong, not as strong as she thought, exhales through her nose, without coughing. An airy sensation of well-being.

‘A real pro,’ laughs Étienne.

He switches off the light and the workshop is plunged into a yellowish half-light. Aisha, in a spin, draws frantically on the joint. Randomly Émilienne’s voice comes back to her, helpless with laughter in the cafeteria, telling them about ‘her first time’, lying flat on her stomach on a dustbin under an archway, rain bucketing down. Rolande had smiled at her, then taken her by the arm and steered her to another table to eat her snack. ‘I didn’t even see his face,’ repeated Émilienne, between two outbursts of laughter. Followed by her father’s voice, grating and halting, cursing when she refused to go back to the village even for holidays. I know what can happen there. Étienne moves slowly towards her and takes her by the arm, the waist, to help her up. Fear, no going back now: After him, I’m not returning to my father’s house. He leads her behind a pile of packing cases. She sees a mat.

‘It’s Nourredine’s prayer mat.’

He smiles, kneels down. She sits down, feeling as if she’s floating. He loosens her hair, which spreads out over her shoulders. She thinks, ‘This is going from one man to another,’ and lies down, her eyes closed. A cocoon of darkness, silence, Étienne kisses her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. She tenses, he slides his hand down her neck, places it on her hip, runs it down her thigh, slips it under her skirt. She lies still, rigid, her heart pounding. His hand moves slowly up towards her belly where it stops, spread flat, hot, insistent. She waits: It’s going to happen.

Then everything moves very fast. Étienne pulls down his trousers, uses both hands to yank Aisha’s tights and knickers down to her ankles, lies on top of her, penetrates her after two or three attempts. It hurts, I’ve known worse, it’s all happening far away. He begins to move up and down, she feels a sharp pain, she cries out, then feels very little. He gets still more aroused, breathing heavily, lets out one last groan and rolls off to lie beside her, his face in her hair, smells nice and clean, little kisses on her cheeks, very sweet. She feels a warm liquid running down her thighs, laughs at the thought of the stains she’s going to make on Nourredine’s prayer mat, her recklessness. Her life’s beginning to change, and that has to be good.

The delegation returns to the cafeteria and immediately everybody crowds round. Nourredine clambers up on to the table without waiting.

‘Bonuses will be discussed at the works council in a week’s time. We’ll get no information before then. They say no decisions have been taken. But the Head of HR didn’t deny the rumour. In our view, they’ve decided to cancel them and they’re simply putting off the moment when they’re going to tell us. As far as Rolande’s situation is concerned, the Head of HR will discuss it with the shop stewards only once we get back to work.’

A few protests, cries of ‘thieves’ and ‘bastards’. A short woman with permed hair calls the management ‘serial killers’. The big question: Now what do we do? At first there’s no answer. ‘A weeklong strike, until the works council meeting? That’s a long time. And besides, this isn’t really a good time, stocks are plentiful …’ Nourredine suggests waiting for the second shift, which will arrive in less than two hours, and deciding together whether to continue with the strike or not. A reasonable-sounding proposal, unanimously accepted.

The groups disperse. Some go back to their card games in the cafeteria, others go and play music in the staffroom. Amrouche vanishes, he’s probably gone back to hang out in the admin section. Small groups of women stand around chatting by the coffee machine. A few mothers unobtrusively slip away to get on with the washing and two men go off to pick mushrooms. With the arrival of the cooler weather there should be hedgehog mushrooms.

Nourredine is sitting at a table with Hafed, a member of the health and safety committee who was on the delegation. He’s a young technician: slim, elegant, and a know-all, highly valued for his technical skills. One of those men who can’t be intimidated by threats of losing his job. He lives with the certainty, justified or not, of being a man who is indispensable and sought-after. The two men, two different worlds, have never spoken to each other, but today they’re drinking coffee together with a shared feeling of impotence.

One of the women from admin cautiously enters the cafeteria, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She slides in beside Nourredine, leans towards him and says very quietly: ‘The CEO called a removals firm to clear all the stocks of finished products. I heard the interpreter, he was calling from the office next to mine while your delegation was waiting to speak to management.’

The two men exchange glances, instinctively clasp each other’s hands in a handshake. In it together, cut to the quick. Faced with contempt, they feel like shouting, hitting out, smashing something, showing they exist. And they can hear, very clearly, the threat behind the slap in the face: first the stocks, then the machines, then the closure of the factory, something management has been threatening constantly for the last two years. ‘It’s war,’ mutters Nourredine, gutted. Hafed smiles. ‘Keep calm, it hasn’t come to that yet, but we do have to agree on how to respond.’

An impromptu general meeting. Hafed, speaking in a neutral voice, informs the assembled workers. The collective reaction is immediate: ‘All this belongs to us as much as it does to them.’ ‘We won’t allow the lorries to enter the factory.’ No more hesitation, indecision, dispersed groups, everybody joins in the discussion. ‘How do we go about it?’ ‘Block the entrance gates.’ ‘Occupy the porter’s lodge, essential if we want to control the opening and closing of the gates.’ ‘That means occupying the factory?’ Yes, say it out loud, we’re occupying the factory. And we’ve got to move fast, there’s no shortage of removals firms in Lorraine. ‘We occupy until the second shift arrives,’ Nourredine decides. ‘Then we’ll discuss the next move with them.’ Unanimous agreement.

The cafeteria empties and a hundred or so workers including around ten women surround the porter’s lodge at the factory gates. Between it and the front of the building is a somewhat neglected open area of about thirty metres covered in unmown grass, wiry enough to withstand the Lorraine climate. Behind the tinted mirror glass façade are the executives’ offices. The senior and middle managers, Korean and French, must all be there, watching from behind the windows. They are invisible, but the awareness of their presence weighs down on the workers, they feel exposed. At least there’s no sign of any lorries, which feels like a small victory. Maybe there won’t be any lorries, it could all be a false rumour. They take what comfort they can from that. Carry out another recce. Two huge sliding gates are electronically operated from the porter’s lodge. One gate leads to the staff car park to the right of the factory; the left-hand one is the lorry route to the warehouse and the loading bays. To the right again there’s a pedestrian entrance. Between the two gates stands the porter’s lodge, a flimsy building with two huge windows. Twenty people should be able to fit in there. For the time being there are only two security guards, staring out of the windows at the workers without moving.

They must go in. Amrouche has joined the workers, his expression inscrutable. The delegation reconvenes and enters the porter’s lodge. Again it’s Nourredine who’s the spokesperson. ‘We’re occupying, we’re taking control of the gates.’ The security guards are two men the wrong side of fifty, beefy, pot-bellied and wearing navy-blue jackets marked ‘Security’. They shrug. ‘As you like, we’re not Daewoo employees and our chief has instructed us not to get involved. He simply told us to maintain a presence in the porter’s lodge, and he’s sending two colleagues as backup to patrol the premises. You’ll be able to identify them, they’ll be wearing the same uniform as us.’ Nourredine asks them to show him how to open and close the gates. It all seems simple. Outside, a feeble sun has finally broken through and the workers have resumed their conversations. They amble around in small groups, already at a loose end. A few women go inside the porter’s lodge to warm up, others start drifting back to the cafeteria.

The first workers from the second shift begin to arrive, mostly by car. Nourredine opens the right-hand gate. They leave their vehicles in the car park then return in small groups, and informal discussions break out between the two shifts. No bonuses this year. No, it’s not a matter of December payments being delayed, but of no bonuses at all. What about the February agreement? All bullshit. The women talk among themselves. With Christmas coming, no bonuses means no presents for the kids. Reactions veer between anger and disbelief, in an atmosphere of chaos.

Just then Nourredine, who’s still watching the main gate, sees a convoy of three huge articulated removal lorries emblazoned with their company logo crawling towards the roundabout in front of the factory gates. He presses the switch to close the gate, which doesn’t budge. A surge of adrenaline, sweat, turmoiled thoughts, the lorries’ arrival timed to coincide with that of the second shift, gates blocked open from the inside offices. If the lorries get in, there’ll be fights, the police, and we’re fucked. He rushes outside yelling:

‘The lorries, the lorries! The gate’s stuck, block the entrance, block the entrance.’

The lorries move forward in a slow, relentless convoy. The first one turns on to the roundabout in a majestic curve. The shapes of three men can just be made out in the cab. Two hundred or so workers, only the men, with Hafed in the front line, his jaws clenched. The rest race for the gate, arms linked, and grip the gateposts. They stand several lines deep, united, together, hearts pounding.

Behind the human barricade, Nourredine and five other workers all had the same idea at the same time. Pile up some empty pallets and set fire to them with lighters, that’s all we’ve got. Shit! Let’s hope they catch alight. They catch alight.

The first lorry turns into the factory access road. It’s now less than twenty metres away, nosing its way forward, its huge bonnet looming above their heads. The men close their eyes, speechless. We’re not afraid … Less than five metres, don’t think about bodies being run over, the wheel that crushes, don’t think. United. A solid wall, stand firm. And don’t fall Less than two metres. An order comes from the back, passed forward from row to row: ‘When you hear shouts of “Fire” scatter to the sides as fast as possible!’ The bumpers touch the men in the front line, and the lorry continues to inch forward. Who can hold back ten tonnes?

A prolonged shout, coming from six voices in chorus: ‘Fire!’ The human chains break apart: ‘Get the driver, quick!’ Six men armed with lengths of wood furiously push forward a heap of burning pallets, scraping the ground and sending out a shower of sparks. They slide them towards the bonnet of the lorry now level with the gate.

‘Let’s burn the bastards in their cabs!’ yells Nourredine, pouring with sweat, his hands burned, completely carried away.

Panic aboard the first lorry. The driver throws it into reverse, retreats a few metres, too fast, the trailer careers off the road, its wheels sink into the soft earth, it jackknifes. Armed with baseball bats, the other two men jump down from the cab to protect the lorry. Hafed and a dozen or so workers step in.

‘Stop now, that’s enough. We stay on the factory premises, on our own ground. We don’t set fire to the lorry. We’ve won. They’re leaving. We let them go.’

Behind their window, the security guards contemplate the scene without moving a muscle.

The mass of workers are clustered behind the blazing pallets. The wood is well-ventilated and dry, it gives off a lovely clear bright flame. They watch the heavy articulated lorries attempting to manoeuvre their way out. Laughter and jeers: ‘Watch out, you’ll burn out your engine!’ The drivers are none too adroit and a few clods of earth, a few stones, are hurled at the windscreens. It’s a way of letting off steam, nothing really nasty. Nourredine has torn off his grey overalls and thrown them into the fire. Then the lorries leave in slow convoy, the same way they came. As they disappear into the distance, hazy through the flames, silence falls and lasts for a few minutes after they vanish in the direction of Luxembourg. Each person pictures a section of bonnet, the edge of a bumper, the tip of a wing, a wheel, each person relives the feeling of serried bodies, battling fear, the heat of the fire, and the overwhelming joy at the routing of the juggernaut, savouring the shared feeling that together we are strong, the world is ours. Fists raised in the direction of the blind windows of the executives’ offices.

If we hadn’t been warned, the lorries would have got in easily, thinks Nourredine, dazed and elated.

Then Hafed grabs a chair from inside the porter’s lodge and clambers on to it.

‘Since they’ve declared war on us, we must get organised and fight back.’

Early on this sunny afternoon the news of the strike, the offensive action and the victory over the bosses has spread throughout the neighbourhood. The factory is like a magnet and people have come from all over — the unemployed, the retired, on foot, by bicycle and car, to catch up on the news, see how the youngsters are coping, relive their own memories. When all the surrounding valleys were involved in the steel industry, when the word ‘strike’ meant something, when they attacked police stations with bulldozers, when they went on a mass march on Paris, when intentions were far from peaceful … Memories that reduce what has just happened at Daewoo to a mere blip. People cluster outside the gates, on the central reservation all the way to the roundabout. Amrouche comes out to greet a few old acquaintances. Workers from the night shift chat to the veterans before going inside the factory. There are also a few skivers like Karim Bouziane, off sick for six months for a supposedly sprained back as a result of shifting furniture for the Korean CEO during working hours. He soaks up the atmosphere outside the gates for a while then enters the factory. Nourredine lets him through with bad grace. What reason could be given for stopping him?

Rolande arrives with a radiant smile, pushing a trolley laden with potatoes, onions, eggs and bread.

‘I heard about the occupation when I was at the supermarket, so I went round and asked the local shopkeepers for donations. All this is for you so you can have a hot meal tonight. My way of saying thank you.’

Nourredine, touched, lets her in.

‘Come in, Rolande. At least as long as we’re in charge, you’re welcome here.’

Then it’s the turn of the dignitaries, in their dark saloon cars and dark suits. All ill at ease, very ill at ease, the mayor with his tricolour sash, the deputy, more discreet, and the regional health and safety inspector who keeps a low profile. They shake a few hands, force a few smiles, tap Amrouche on the shoulder then come and talk to Nourredine and his crew in front of the gates.

‘The valley needs these jobs … Watch what you do … Mr Park, the CEO, is a reasonable man, we know him well … You should try negotiating …’

What do they know of life in the factory, these three? And this health and safety inspector, with his useless site visits, his reports that are always favourable, not a single infringement in two years, in the most dangerous factory in the whole region, what does he know about the man who had his head sliced off, about Émilienne, Rolande or Aisha? Nourredine feels self-conscious in his tight-fitting jacket and grubby jeans. He’s seized by a kind of rage and fantasises about grabbing the health and safety inspector by the lining of his jacket, shaking him and banging his head against the gatepost, smashing his forehead, his nose, seeing blood pour down his smart navy-blue suit, then letting him go and watching him crumple in a heap on the ground.

‘… If Daewoo were to close down as a result of this strike, which is a possibility, I warn you, it would be disastrous for the entire valley.’

‘We worked hard to set up this factory here,’ adds the mayor. ‘I know what it cost the town.’

Nourredine can’t think of anything to say to them.

The fourth man, who has kept in the background until now, goes up to Nourredine, smiling, and holds out his hand. Tall and sturdy, he has a direct, straightforward manner. And his handshake clearly states that he’s not afraid of sullying himself by shaking hands with a worker. The manner, the gesture, the tone of voice — imperceptible signals of kinship: they’re from the same world, that of the factory, not exactly the same, but similar.

‘Maurice Quignard. I represent the European Development Plan committee.’ European subsidies, the great cash cow, translates Nourredine. ‘I spoke to your CEO on the telephone before coming. You know, he’s not a bad guy. I think this business is all a big misunderstanding. From what he tells me, the immediate sale of stocks should make it possible to pay some bonuses …’ Nourredine reels, finds it hard to breathe. After all, it is possible we rushed into this without thinking … ‘We just need to find grounds on which to negotiate.’

‘Negotiate, that’s all we’ve wanted to do since this morning.’

‘There’ll be no negotiations while the managers are being held.’ Nourredine is frankly taken aback.

‘Nobody’s being held. We’re stopping people from coming in, not from leaving.’

‘And the negotiations won’t take place here, under pressure, but at the town hall.’

‘I’m not the sole decision-maker.’ He casts about. ‘We’ll have to discuss it. Speaking for myself, there’s no problem.’

Quignard steps inside the gate as if by right. Nourredine, caught unawares, wavers. Too late, Quignard is already in the porter’s lodge, one of the two security guards offers him a chair, holds out a telephone. He settles in, calls management, he’s very much at home. When he comes out again:

‘In a quarter of an hour, the managers will start coming out, in their cars, of course. The senior managers will meet you in two hours’ time at the town hall. If that’s agreeable to you, of course.’

Then Quignard walks off in the direction of the roundabout, where his chauffeur-driven car is waiting, a big black Mercedes. He exchanges a few words with the three state officials, it’ll all work out fine, no reason why it shouldn’t, nobody wants war. A little further on, he passes a grim-faced Maréchal who’s come to find out the latest.

‘Antoine, are you going inside the factory?’

‘No. My shift finishes at two p.m. and until I have more information, I’m not on strike.’

‘So you can come with me to my office. Negotiations should begin very soon, and Park will keep me informed by telephone. I’d like to have your opinion.’

‘Got anything to drink?’

A smile. ‘As usual, your favourite brandy.’

‘There’s nobody’s waiting for me at home.’

On the waste ground behind the factory, Karim has set up his little business. He likes the place. Before him the valley’s verdant slopes stretch down to Pondange. When he was little, it was a street filled with blast furnaces — fire, noise, smoke and dust, day and night. His father wore himself out working at one blast furnace after another, and Karim’s destiny, as the eldest son, was all mapped out. At sixteen, a steelworker, alongside his father. Today, his father is slowly dying on a good pension, while he’s thriving on small time wheeling and dealing. The air is pure and the valley is green, life’s good, seen from the Daewoo waste ground. He makes kindling from the pallets, sets up a makeshift barbecue and, with the collusion of the cafeteria manager, is cooking the sausages he sells cheaply on improvised wire skewers.

Two burly, thuggish-looking strangers with close-cropped hair, aggressive thirty-year-olds, are walking slowly towards him, their hands behind their backs. They look like cops, and none too friendly thinks Karim, who hesitates, glancing around. Nowhere to run. Spots the navy-blue ‘Security’ jackets, the uniform of Daewoo’s security guards. Relieved, Karim smiles at them and proffers two skewers. ‘For you, no charge.’ The two men nod, take the sausages and walk off without a word. Karim continues serving his customers, and for a little bit extra, he slips a gram of hash into the paper napkin containing the pair of sausages he hands to his regulars. A smoking corner has been set up in the stockroom, in the midst of the polystyrene packaging, well away from the security guards’ path.

Rolande is in the cafeteria and has taken over the kitchen area. She sets to work with precise gestures, assembling crockery and cutlery. Cheerfully she peels, rinses, chops and stirs. Earth mother. To her it’s half a game, half sublimated desire. Her way of being part of the collective action.

The first car loses no time in leaving the executives’ car park on the right-hand side of the building. It heads for the gate between two lines of men and women workers who have come running from all corners of the factory to stand and jeer. They stare at the car’s occupant, lean over the bonnet, thump and occasionally kick the bodywork, feeling a real thrill at being the ones to instil fear. It’s all good-natured ebullience for the moment. Étienne, all psyched up, has a good laugh. Aisha, starting out in the front line, amazed at her daring, soon tires of the game, too many men up too close, she allows herself to be edged out of the crowd and goes into the porter’s lodge where the two inscrutable security guards are making coffee. They offer her a cup.

A first then a second car leave without hindrance. At the wheel are French managers, near strangers. They probably work in accounts. Then a Peugeot 606 driven by a Korean appears. A lot of people in the factory dislike the Koreans. That’s the way it is, no special reason. This guy’s reputed to make the women who clean the factory clean his apartment for no pay, the bastard. Someone shouts: ‘Search the car.’ One way of prolonging the fun. Suggestion adopted immediately, and executed. While a group of workers obstruct the saloon, Nourredine moves over to the door and glances at the back seat. Empty.

‘Would you open up the boot please, sir.’

The Korean, his face terrified behind his thin, steel-rimmed glasses, suddenly winds up the windows and locks the doors, and signals that he doesn’t understand. He turns green, blinks very quickly, and breathes haltingly, opening and shutting his mouth soundlessly. A fish in a goldfish bowl, ridiculous.

What happened? Did he panic? Or is it a deliberate attempt to force his way through? The car jumps forward and knocks down three workers. The crowd roars, around twenty men grab the bodywork and shake the car which bounces on its springs, almost lifts off the ground. One of the felled workers gets up and, standing in front of the bonnet, takes charge of the operation. Clear a space to my left, to my right, together, one … two … the car rocks … and three … one last push turns it on to its left side and it falls back with a crunch of crushed metal. The Korean, thrown against the left-hand door, hides his face in his hands and doesn’t move.

‘What’s he carrying that’s making him so scared? Drugs? Weapons?’

The boot’s locked and won’t open. Grab the key from inside the car? Nourredine’s against it, too complicated, and might end up in a fight. Karim stands beside him with a little half-smile, and nudges him with his elbow.

‘How much will you pay me to open it?’ There follows a howl of protest. ‘Just kidding. We’re entitled to, aren’t we? Today’s our big day.’

He takes a minute screwdriver from the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket and inserts it into the lock, turning it gently with his fingers, listening for the slightest reaction. He locates the notch, twists, applies some pressure. The boot opens with a grating sound and there, thrown in haphazardly are a computer and three boxes full of files. The game’s up. Nourredine, a man who’s never touched a drop of alcohol, feels intoxicated. Shapes sway around him. If you take one step, you’ll drop. They’re moving the files out. A hush falls on the little crowd. Haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning. His blood pressure rockets then falls. Want to puke. Quignard’s frank, direct handshake: Your boss, not a bad guy, huge misunderstanding … Bollocks, yes. And what about you, seeing everything through rose-tinted spectacles, you poor bastard. He shakes his head vigorously, the dizziness over, feels only rage.

Someone gives him a leg up and he climbs on to the car. All those faces turned towards him: Nourredine, the semi-skilled Arab worker, and beneath his feet, the Korean manager, cringing in his car. A surge of pride. The car rocks. Big smile.

‘Better not rock it too hard. Right, this is what’s happening. The Koreans are moving the files out in secret, to make it easier to close the factory down behind our backs. Are we going to let them get away with it?’

A hundred and fifty voices: ‘No way!’

‘I propose we occupy the admin section and confine the managers to their offices …’ The workers hold their breath. ‘… until our demand on the payment of our bonuses is met. There’s one solution to all this, just one. The warehouses are full. They sell the stocks under our control, and use the money to pay the agreed bonuses before they do anything else.’

The assembled workers discuss the idea, it offers something concrete at last. Selling the stocks is a good idea, they’re worth more than the total owed on bonuses. Maybe, but locking in the managers … ‘We need to check we have the backup.’ ‘Management leaves us no choice. It’s one provocation after another. Anyone would think they’re trying to …’ ‘That’s what worries me.’

‘Look, we’ve got to act fast and decisively. We all go there together, we lock them in: one night will be enough, tomorrow morning, they’ll cave in. Look at the Korean in his car.’ Gives a little kick to the roof which clangs. They all see the terrified face again, the car rocking, the power of concerted action. ‘They’re afraid of us. Let’s make the most of it. If we don’t get their respect today, then tomorrow, they’ll close down and we’ll be left with nothing. We lock them in now. All those in favour?’

There follows no more than an instant’s indecision. Étienne raises his hand along with the whole first shift from packaging. All the rest of the hands go up. Aisha finds it hard to believe, but she’s voting to lock the managers in. While four men retrieve the computer and the boxes of files from the boot (nothing that belongs to the company must leave the premises without our consent), the delegation re-forms and places itself at the head of the procession. The small troop starts to advance in a relatively ordered manner. The car lies abandoned on its side, facing the gate, the boot gaping. The Korean still hasn’t budged.

Park, his face sallow, is clamped to his phone.

‘They’re on their way, they plan to occupy the offices … There’s going to be trouble.’

‘What kind of a damned stupid thing have you gone and done? It’s a disaster. Explain what’s going on.’

‘When I started here, I set up a system of bogus invoices so as to pay the Korean managers a relocation allowance …’

A roar from the other end of the phone. Quignard leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair. He bangs his fist down on his desk, making the brandy glasses jump and knocking over a vase of chrysanthemums, soaking the files sitting on the desk. Maréchal grabs the glasses, puts them out of danger, and rights the vase.

‘Delete the lot, for fuck’s sake, what are you waiting for?’

Tell him they tried to smuggle the computer out and that it’s in the hands of the strikers? Better to die.

‘The bookkeeper who deals with it isn’t in today, we don’t know where the files are, we can’t delete all the accounts …’ Park squeals like a frightened rabbit, and the line goes dead.

The management block, a cube of reflective glass with two steps up to the main entrance, a rather unimpressive glorified hangar, is only a few minutes’ walk away, but it’s enough to give them all time to think about what they’re doing. We’re venturing on to their territory, invading their space, barricading our bosses made of flesh and blood, pushing them around, locking them in with us, talking to them as equals. We’re disrupting the social order. At least for a while. So each step counts, we’ll remember each step. And they keep close together, in silent, closed ranks. The women bring up the rear, hanging back a little, anxious, hesitant — too many men, too close together. Some discreetly slip away, through the factory and across the waste ground.

Amrouche marches despite himself, borne along by those behind him. This is it, now, the explosion, the anger, my years of dread, the other side is so much stronger, they’ve always won, they’ll always win. Lambs to the slaughter. He leans towards Hafed.

‘We’ve got to stop all this, it’s going to be a disaster.’

‘I don’t understand why the management scumbags haven’t already all gone home. What are they playing at? We can’t do a thing.’

Nourredine, pushed forward by his comrades, stands in front of the door: locked. Tries to slide it open: jammed. He doesn’t have time to turn around before a surge from the back of the group, gathering momentum from row to row, lifts the men at the front off the ground and flings them against the glass door which gives way and shatters. A moment’s pause as Amrouche stumbles before ending up spreadeagled on the blue carpet amid shards of glass. Nourredine, his nose fractured and his face cut and bleeding, finds himself alone face to face with the Korean CEO who’s standing in the middle of the lobby, rigid and pale. A voice shouts: ‘Let’s drag them out of their hiding places and bring them down here.’ The men rush forward, trampling Amrouche underfoot, and disperse through the offices, flinging open doors, pulling the occupants out of their seats, half carrying them down to the lobby which gradually fills with panic-stricken suits. Winded, Amrouche has got to his feet and pushes the CEO towards the boardroom. He knows this room well, so many useless, never-ending discussions, those arseholes who never listen, and now … Hafed, slightly groggy, joins him. They bring the executives in one by one: ‘No, not all the workers, there isn’t room. Only the shop stewards, but we’ll keep the door open. Immediate payment of the bonuses, everyone knows why we’re here. We won’t allow anyone to leave until our demands are met, but let’s all calm down, we’re not hooligans.’

Nourredine is sitting on a chair in the lobby, leaning forward, trying to plug his bleeding nose with a roll of toilet paper. His eyes are closed, his hands covered in blood, his brain sluggish and his thoughts confused. Hafed crouches beside him.

‘Amrouche and I will deal with the management in the boardroom. You must get up to the offices. Do you hear me?’ Groan. ‘It’s important. Organise the occupation. Pickets on the doors, patrols in the factory and the offices. OK?’ Nourredine silently nods. Give the guys something to do. Then he repeats: ‘It’s important,’ and goes back inside the boardroom.

Quignard tilts his chair back into the upright position, sits down, eyes closed and makes himself breathe slowly, regularly, exhaling through his mouth, his large hands placed flat on the desk. Maréchal has picked up his glass and is taking little sips to disguise his urge to laugh while waiting for Quignard to regain his composure.

‘So now what’s he done, your pyromaniac firefighter?’

‘This is a nightmare, Antoine. I left them less than an hour ago. They were setting up a meeting to start negotiations, only now the workers are invading the managers’ offices.’

‘It’s already happened to other bosses, and it didn’t kill them.’

‘Maybe, but Park takes the opportunity to tell me that he’s siphoning off money via a system of bogus invoices to pay his gang of useless Korean managers bonuses. And to make matters worse, the evidence is there for all to see in the company’s accounts … If some bright spark decides to snoop around … The factory has to be evacuated.’ Quignard reaches for the telephone. ‘I’m calling the superintendent …’

Maréchal halts his hand in mid-air.

‘Don’t do that. You’ll end up with a massive fight, and the cops won’t have the resources to deal with it. It takes time to get the riot police out, and you have to be able to give good reasons.’

The two men drink in silence. Quignard broods.

‘Pyromaniac firefighter you said. That’s an idea, the fire brigade. A fire breaks out and everyone’s evacuated.’ Renewed silence. The two men drink. Quignard mutters to himself: ‘Especially as there’s no danger of those shit-stirrers from the insurance company poking their noses in.’ Then Maréchal, who’s finished his drink, gets up.

‘Karim Bouziane has set up a barbecue on the waste ground behind the factory. With the strike on, he must have been doing a roaring trade throughout the afternoon. Right, I’ll let you get on, I’m going home. Thanks for the brandy.’

A farewell wave and the door slams.

Think, fast. A brandy. Tomaso, the right man for the job? Quignard thinks back to their first meeting. A business contact had taken him to the Oiseau Bleu in Nancy. A very special place, he’d been told. A restaurant, the best in Nancy. The boss, Tomaso, had come to greet him. Behind the tall elegant form Quignard had sensed a relentless hardness, a blue-tinged steeliness that had immediately appealed to him. After the succulent dinner, they went downstairs to the nightclub in the basement of the restaurant, known for its whores, the best Nancy had to offer. He had become a regular at the Oiseau Bleu where he spent a lot more time than he did at home, and a friend of Tomaso’s, who’d opened up to him a little. He was an old warhorse in the process of adjusting to civilian life, still bearing the scars of the battles and injuries that Quignard had dreamed of as a youth during his brief stint in the OAS, fighting underground in the doomed bid to maintain French rule in Algeria. Nostalgia, nostalgia. Besides Tomaso was forty. He could almost be his son, the son he’d never had. So Quignard had ensured that his security firm was awarded certain contracts, including that of Daewoo Pondange, and was very glad he had. Whether dirty tricks against troublesome trade-unionists, the transfer of suitcases full of cash, a spot of financial espionage — Tomaso had never turned down an assignment. On the contrary, he operated with the utmost efficiency and discretion. Of course he was the right man for the job of starting a dustbin fire in a factory under occupation.

Around twenty workers have gathered in the doorway, trying to see inside. Amrouche’s voice can be heard opening the meeting in solemn tones.

While Nourredine sits there dazed, his head in his hands, finding it hard to breathe, the rest of them disperse among the offices, taking possession of the premises with obvious pleasure. The fitted carpets, walls, clean, furniture, tidy, soft pastel colours, a well-ventilated space, reveals another world to that inside the factory. They want to play around, sit in the swivel chairs, put their feet on the desks, use the metal filing cabinets as instruments for a novel kind of drum kit, set all the internal phone lines ringing. They’re at home, or rather, they’re acting as though they’re at home. Then, tired of messing around, they come across a bottle of whisky in a drawer, which they serve in coffee cups. They telephone friends overseas, and a few trifles — electronic diaries, mobile phones, coloured felt-tip pens, souvenirs for the kids, a Montblanc fountain pen — vanish into anonymous pockets. Two men help themselves to a state-of-the-art computer and all its gadgets through a window overlooking the factory floor.

In the boardroom, the discussion is drawn out in endless preliminaries, as the interpreter translates each intervention into Korean or French. Amrouche goes through a list of grievances that have accumulated since the factory opened. The group of spectators in the doorway slowly dwindles. The afternoon drags on and people are beginning to get bored. The security guards patrol the main corridor, to general indifference. A group is sitting in a circle in the Head of HR’s office, passing spliffs around. Pity the secretaries have already gone home, they’d have made the evening more fun. ‘What about our women, where are they?’ ‘They’ve chickened out, I bet you.’ Sniggers, male camaraderie. Around the coffee machine, others have resumed their perpetual card games. There’s a TV in the boss’s office. It proves impossible to find the remote and the TV set is thrown on the floor. Nourredine has fallen asleep in his chair, his head on his knees.

Étienne has brought back the computer seized from the Korean executive’s car. He finds a quiet office and plugs it in. He knows a thing or two about computers, he does. Here’s his chance to see what they get up to in the offices. It amuses and interests him. He opens up the computer, no problem, and starts tapping away. In the folder labelled ‘management purchases-sales suppliers’ there are several files, identified by numbers. He opens one at random, and discovers lists of names: French names, foreign names, all unknown. He clicks on one of them. In an inset on the left of the screen, a close-up of a woman giving a man a blow job, repetitive, forceful, animated graphics. Étienne clicks on another file, another graphic, blow job again, but different angle and position. He flicks gleefully through folders and files, jumping from masturbation to sodomy, threesomes and other variations. Étienne’s jubilant: those bureaucrats, got to hand it to them, they’re well organised. The image of Aisha lying on the floor in the dark comes back to him, he smells the fragrance of shampoo in her mass of black hair, and then the overpowering smell of blood. A virgin, a special feeling, a good feeling. Massive hard-on. He jumps. Karim is leaning over his shoulder with the easy familiarity between a supplier and one of his regular customers, and slips a ready-rolled joint into the pocket of his overalls.

‘Little present for you. I’m shutting up shop and going home.’

His gaze lights on the screen. The image shows a woman on all fours being mounted by a dog — a white Great Dane with black patches, and he’s panting, tongue hanging out. It takes Étienne’s breath away. You don’t often see that around here in Pondange.

There’s a pause in negotiations. The managers have asked to be allowed to consult each other and Amrouche and Hafed have left them alone in the boardroom. During the break in discussions they do the rounds of the offices and take stock of the occupation. Amrouche enters the room where Étienne and Karim are chortling and thumping each other, glued to the computer, shoulder to shoulder. In one corner of the screen, a man is fucking a woman doggie-style, medium-close shot of their arses moving. Amrouche, deeply shocked, mutters a few exorcisms and goes out, slamming the door behind him. The noise makes Karim jump. He emerges from his reverie and his business instincts kick in.

‘Can you make me a quick copy of the images? You’re good at mucking around with these machines, then you enlarge them, we make a nice little diskette that I can sell for a good price. I’ve got the customers, and we go fifty-fifty.’

‘Brilliant. Wait, it won’t take a minute.’

Étienne rummages in the cupboards, finds some diskettes, inserts one, starts copying. The operation takes three minutes, the time it takes to light the joint and have a few tokes with Karim who pockets the diskette and vanishes in the direction of the cafeteria.

Étienne carries on smoking and daydreaming. How much would he make on the deal? A thousand francs? More? He looks back at the screen. The images have disappeared and his gaze is drawn to the name of a file he recognises. Nourredine Hamidi. Nourredine, my friend in packaging? Beneath the name is a sort of bank statement, a series of dates scrolls past, figures listed as debits, credits, and at the bottom of the list, the total assets: a hundred thousand francs. He toggles from file to file, suddenly paying close attention. Other names appear, also with bank statements, mostly unknown, but here’s one with the name of holier-than-thou Amrouche. Not bad, a hundred and fifty thousand francs. And a little further down, Rolande Lepetit, fifty thousand francs only, poor old Rolande, always unlucky. And Maréchal, another two hundred thousand francs. Seniority has been taken into account. Initial reaction: They’ve got a stake in the company, they’ve done better than me, even Rolande with her prissy air. Second reaction: Hold on a minute, if Nourredine’s got a packet in Daewoo, why’s he going on about bonuses? He doesn’t give a shit about bonuses. Who’s side is he on? And Rolande, made redundant? I’d be surprised. Have to get to the bottom of this.

Étienne finds Nourredine asleep on a chair in the lobby and shakes him.

‘You didn’t tell us you had a packet stashed away in Daewoo, you dark horse.’

Nourredine surfaces groggily.

‘Will you stop pissing around.’

‘Come with me, let me show you your bank statement. Right now, you’ve got more than a hundred thousand francs.’

‘You’re either drunk or stoned.’ Nourredine gets to his feet heavily, shaking his throbbing head, and makes for the toilets.

Drunk or stoned. What kind of an answer is that? Shocked, Étienne runs up and down the corridors to round up the guys.

‘Nourredine, Rolande, Maréchal, and a load of others are receiving millions from the bosses of Daewoo, come and see, I’ve found the list of payments on one of the computers …’ They laugh, and nobody moves … ‘There are porn movies too.’

‘Why didn’t you say so to start with?’

Just then, two women come running in from the cafeteria.

‘Come quickly, a fire’s broken out in the main corridor.’

The offices empty. Nourredine dithers then goes into the boardroom. Silence falls at the sight of his swollen face and bloodstained clothes.

‘Hafed, you’re in charge of security. Come on, you’re needed here.’ Hafed leaves the room and the two men disappear in the direction of the factory.

Étienne is disgusted. Nobody’s interested in the things that matter. A fire’s broken out, you’ve got to be kidding. Another dustbin fire. I’ve seen one or two a month since I’ve been here. Whereas finding out whether Nourredine’s getting money from Daewoo, yes or no … Ah well, it’s their problem. Find Aisha, she’s bound to be in the cafeteria and suggest another visit to Nourredine’s prayer mat. And then, he’s going home, he is. Pissed off with all these arseholes.

Karim’s tired too, and beginning to feel bored. Rolande is standing over the cooker in the cafeteria and there’s a lovely smell of fried onions. I’ll have a bite to eat, and I’m off. Nothing more doing around here.

Dense black smoke fills a section of the central corridor. People are running in all directions looking for fire extinguishers. Many are missing, others are empty. Hafed finds one, removes his shirt and ties it around the lower part of his face like a mask, puts his jacket back on next to his bare skin and dives into the black cloud. He gropes his way to the blazing bin and douses it with foam, then knocks it over and kicks away the smouldering rubbish. Then Nourredine arrives with an extinguisher found underneath all the stocks and finishes the job. The smoke slowly disperses through the door at the end. Breathless, the two men stand a few metres back. Nourredine gazes at the blackened sheet-metal wall, the floor strewn with rubbish and mounds of foam melting into puddles seeping towards the factory floor. Is he perhaps thinking of the offices with their fitted carpets and pastel decor? He slides down on to the floor and sits cross-legged with his back against the sheet metal, his breath still rasping.

‘It’s disgusting.’

‘Don’t complain. We had a narrow escape. The sprinklers in this place don’t work and the extinguishers are either empty or not working. We bring it up at every health and safety meeting, and it makes no difference.’

Nourredine, who recalls larking around with a bunch of guys on the waste ground squirting each other with foam from the extinguishers, looks away. Hafed walks towards the dustbin now lying on its side, and indicates a dozen or so charred remains with his foot.

‘Maybe someone added some embers to this dustbin.’ A silence. ‘I suddenly feel as if I’m sitting on a bomb.’

‘Didn’t the security guards say that they’d take care of security?’

‘Yes, you’re right. We’ll go and have a word with them at the gate.’

Outside, the night is pitch black. The overturned car is still there, but at first glance it looks as though the Korean has managed to extricate himself. The porter’s lodge is brightly lit from the inside, and the two security guards watch them approach with a little smile. Nourredine is immediately on his guard: something smells fishy.

‘Aren’t there supposed to be some of our people in here round the clock to control all the comings and goings?’

‘Yes. But I suppose in the excitement everyone went off to occupy the offices.’

‘We’re really useless.’

‘More to the point, we’re new at this. You can’t make things up as you go along. And those with the experience, who’ve done it all before and could help us, aren’t here. We’re doing our best.’

As soon as Nourredine pushes open the door, the older of the two security guards launches an attack:

‘So, you’ve let the prisoners go already? Maybe it wasn’t worth all the fuss, guys.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The CEO has just left the factory with the entire management team.’ Nourredine feels himself deflating like a burst balloon, crumpling into himself. ‘No more than ten minutes ago.’ Sounds reach him muted and distant, Hafed and the two security guards shrink and retreat in silhouette. ‘Amrouche opened the gates for them, and they left on foot, scarpering like rabbits.’ The man laughs. ‘We didn’t lift a finger, guys. This is your affair, not ours.’

Nourredine sits down, his head aching more and more, his vision blurred. He’s suffocating. The temptation is to drop the whole thing and go home. The women there: his mother and his sisters, his very young wife … Move to another job, the little chip stall in the market square …

‘I don’t get it, Hafed. Can you explain?’

‘What do you expect me to do? I was with you when the fire broke out, remember? When you came to get me from the boardroom, Amrouche was suggesting we let the junior executives depart. We’d just done the round of the offices, and there were only about twenty of us occupying. That seemed too few to hold so many managers. We were deciding to hold the five most senior managers. I don’t know what happened after that.’

No, I can’t drop it now, not after we forced the juggernauts back, the overturned car, the invasion of the offices, this strength, never felt it before, men among men, the friends who listen to me, the trust, I’m someone else, I talk, I act. Not now. He gets up, takes a couple of steps, grabs the day book. No mention of the managers’ departure and the opening of the gates, nothing about the dustbin fire. Only one rather terse entry: 17.15, the security patrol notifies us of cannabis dealing on the waste ground behind the factory. Given the general insecurity caused by the personnel’s occupation of the factory, and after having taken orders from our superiors, we feel it is wiser not to include the waste ground in our round. He feels a surge of anger, and suddenly his energy comes rushing back.

‘You’re not doing your job. Where were the security guards during the fire alert? Where is there any mention of the fire? The only thing you’re interested in is damaging the workers’ reputation.’

He tears the page out of the day book and holds it between two fingers, at eye level.

‘Hafed, have you got a lighter?’

He takes it and emphatically sets fire to the sheet of paper, then watches it go up in flames very quickly. A few charred remains fall to the floor. Then he gives the lighter back to Hafed, spits on the ground and leaves the porter’s lodge.

Nourredine and Hafed head towards the cafeteria, where they presume everyone will have gathered. Nourredine walks on in silence, frowning, letting out the occasional groan or odd word. Hafed watches him out of the corner of his eye, concerned to see him seething.

In the brightly-lit cafeteria, small groups are sitting around tables shouting, heatedly debating and making a great deal of racket. The two patrol guards are standing in front of the coffee machine, rummaging in their pockets for change. Amrouche is sitting alone in a corner, drinking coffee. Nourredine strides across the room, making a beeline for him. He’s cleaned the blood from his face and hands, but his nose is caked with dried blood. There are blue and green rings under his eyes and his clothes are covered with dark red and blackish stains. Some people didn’t recognise him when he came in. He is greeted with silence. He stops beside Amrouche, climbs on to a table, turns his back on him and addresses the group gathered in front of him in a loud voice.

‘You’re a traitor, Ali. We held a weapon in our hands, and you disarmed us.’ Amrouche throws away the empty cup. He looks tired but placid.

‘We took the only sensible decision that’s been taken all day. If you would just calm down …’ Nourredine pretends not to hear him.

‘There’s one option left, since you stole our boss from us. There are the chemicals stored behind the factory. First we go and get them, then we can break the warehouse door down. We remove them and store them in the packaging section, under close guard, and if the bonuses aren’t paid, we pour them into the river tomorrow at midday. Maybe tomorrow evening, but no later.’

Amrouche gets to his feet and plants himself in front of Nourredine, at the front of the tight group surrounding him.

‘Nobody will do that in this factory. Over my dead body, do you hear? How many of us are there here, have you counted? Eighty at the most. How many should we be? Three hundred and sixty to three hundred and eighty. Where are the others? At home. Your strikers are already in a minority. We wanted Rolande to be given her job back, and now all the talk is of bonuses. We’re not capable of occupying the factory properly. The workers are wandering about all over the place and getting up to all sorts of stupid things. Anyone can just walk right in, there’s no proper security. When we heard that a fire had broken out, I decided to have the managers evacuated. Do you think you’re capable of preventing a nutter from setting fire to the place? You know damn well you’re not. Each time you run into difficulties, you become more violent and fewer and fewer people follow you. Your idea of pouring chemicals into the river is a terrorist tactic. Pour a barrel of acid into the river and we all go straight to jail, and for as long as they like. You also know as well as I do that no one — no one, do you hear? — in Pondange will lift a finger to defend us. Because we’re Arabs, because this factory is seen as a mere annex of the unemployment office. There’s no real work here, we’re being kept off the streets, and we’re paid out of taxes. You know very well what the people of Pondange say. What’s more, to them Arab and terrorist are one and the same thing.’ He turns to the audience in silence. ‘To be slung into jail like terrorists, is that what you want?’

Nourredine goes pale and gasps for breath. He stutters: ‘Terrorist, terrorist, I’m no terrorist.’ Hafed puts his arm around his shoulders and makes him come down from the table and sit down, then he speaks.

‘What’s done is done. We can’t undo it and we must stay united. As long as we’re in occupation, we hold on to the stock and that’s our bargaining tool. Tomorrow, we resume negotiations. Now, the most important thing is to get organised. Organised,’ he repeats. ‘All day, we’ve rushed around non-stop. Now it’s time to stop and get organised. We need a team in the porter’s lodge coordinating everything. A team in the offices, to restore some order, find out where the records are kept, sort out the documents we seized from the car. Tomorrow we’ll examine them to find out why they wanted to smuggle them out. And two teams to patrol the building all night, to completely empty the factory, gather all the people hanging around here, in the cafeteria, and take care of security. Those who are not on the first watch stay here and sleep, and take over at three a.m. Tomorrow at seven a.m., general meeting here to decide on the next step.’

Hafed and Amrouche are standing side by side: ‘Let’s vote. Those against?’ Only five hands are raised in opposition to Hafed’s proposal. Proposal accepted.

Nourredine, who is so choked he can no longer speak, leaps to his feet and punches Amrouche in the stomach. Hafed steps in, touches his arm and steers him outside to the car park. They walk in silence. As he gets his breath back, Nourredine slowly becomes aware of the moonless night, the pungent smell of damp earth, trees and mushrooms, the abnormal silence filled with furtive sounds, birds most likely, or animals, on the river banks. A light wind has risen, blowing down from the plateau. A night filled with stories of another life. He starts to breathe again, slowly, painfully, feels his broken nose.

‘I’m knackered, Hafed. I want to lie down and sleep here for a bit.’

‘No way. We’ve decided to get everyone together and you’re not going to set a bad example. If you’ve calmed down, we’re going back in, you’re going to have a wash, eat something and then sleep. I’ll take the first guard duty. You’ll take the second. Tomorrow, think about tomorrow. We’ll win.’

Nourredine is sleeping on a table in the canteen covered by tablecloths with a pile of napkins under his head while Amrouche goes to supervise the restoration of order to the offices. In the porter’s lodge Hafed is collecting reports from the various patrols and writing them up in the day book, when Étienne bursts in yelling:

‘Fire behind the warehouse … It’s spreading everywhere … Help …’

By car, bicycle, on foot, the entire valley has turned out to watch the factory blaze. The police and the fire brigade have erected a safety barrier and onlookers are gathering on the roundabout, having abandoned their cars wherever they happened to be. It is a spectacular sight. The warehouse, the entire left section of the factory, is on fire. Brilliant yellow flames light up the dark wooded slopes of the valley. The fire roars majestically, punctuated by explosions of varying degrees of intensity, sometimes a whole series of them, and plumes of black smoke drift on the wind towards the bottom of the valley. Suddenly part of the roof caves in giving off a huge shower of sparks which momentarily illuminates the shaft and gaping mouth of a disused iron mine halfway up the hillside, a ghostly silhouette which is again soon engulfed in blackness. The crowd lets out a sigh of wonder and fear.

Among the front rows of spectators are the striking Daewoo workers. They are in trauma. Aisha has found Rolande and is sobbing in her arms in uncontrolled, wordless despair. All sorts of things must have happened in the course of the day, thinks Rolande, who does not attempt to console her but just tries to envelop her in a little human warmth, without being able to take her eyes off the blaze. We are lost souls. Close by, Nourredine and Hafed face the fire, its flames are reflected on their distraught faces as they clutch each other’s hands, their knuckles white from the force of their grip. ‘Our strength is going up in smoke,’ murmurs Hafed, his voice crushed. ‘It’s us burning in there, we’ve been murdered.’

Étienne, ashen, goes from group to group repeating tirelessly: ‘I saw the guys who started the fire, I saw the guys who started the fire.’ People are mesmerised by the spectacle, and no one pays any attention to him. Amrouche, sitting on a mound some distance away, away from the crowd, his head in his hands, weeps silently.

Quignard has slipped an anorak and trousers over his pyjamas and borrowed his wife’s car. Sitting on the bonnet, a woollen hat pulled down over his eyes, he watches the blaze, seemingly unperturbed. How did a dustbin fire, the pretext for evacuating the premises rapidly, turn into this inferno? Tomaso comes and sits down beside him, a tall figure in a military parka. He gazes at the fire without a word, his long, bony face obscured by the shadow of the hood, impassive and mute. Quignard is grateful to him for being there. A gust of wind, the fire intensifies, roaring. It still makes less noise than a steelworks, he thinks with a half-smile.

Étienne walks past the two men, seeking a bit of attention.

‘I saw the guys who started the fire, you know.’

A crushing moment of silence, then Quignard, icily: ‘If that’s true, young man, I advise you to keep your mouth shut here and save your statement for the police.’

Disappointed, Étienne decides to go home. Tomaso gets up and disappears. Maréchal comes and leans against the car, next to Quignard.

‘I’d never have believed things would move so fast.’ A few minutes’ silence. His face is turned towards the factory, furrowed, his skin looks yellow in the light from the blaze. A smile glints in his eye. It seems that after all fire has returned to his valley.