Lorraine Connection Read online

  ‘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.