Submission Read online

  I’d always loved the chapter in À rebours in which des Esseintes is inspired to plan a trip to London after rereading Dickens – then finds himself stuck in a tavern in the rue d’Amsterdam, unable to get up from the table. ‘An immense aversion to the voyage, an imperious need to remain calm washed over me …’ At least I had managed to leave Paris, at least I’d made it as far as the Lot, I told myself as I contemplated the branches of the chestnuts lightly tossing in the breeze. I knew the hardest part was behind me: in the beginning, the solitary traveller meets with scorn, even hostility. Then, little by little, people get used to him, whether they’re hoteliers or restaurateurs, and dismiss him as a harmless eccentric.

  Sure enough, as I was heading back to my room around midday, the hotel manager greeted me relatively warmly and informed me that the restaurant would reopen that evening. New guests had arrived, an English couple in their sixties. The husband had the look of an intellectual, she intimated, maybe even a professor, the kind who insists on seeing the most out-of-the-way chapels and can tell you all about the Quercynois romanesque or the influence of the Moissac school. You never had any trouble from guests like that.

  Like BFM, iTélé kept coming back to the political implications of the suspended elections. The top advisers of the Socialist Party were meeting, the top advisers of the Muslim Brotherhood were meeting, even the top advisers of the UMP had decided they ought to hold a meeting. The newscasters, with their vans parked up and down along the rue de Solferino, the rue de Vaugirard and the boulevard Malesherbes, more or less succeeded in hiding the fact that they had nothing of substance to report.

  I went out around five o’clock: gradually, the village seemed to be coming back to life. The bakery was open. People were walking around in Place des Consuls. They looked pretty much the way I’d have imagined, if I’d tried to picture the inhabitants of a small village in the Lot. At the Cafe des Sports business was slow, and the curiosity about current events seemed to have been exhausted. The TV at the back of the room was tuned to Télé Monte-Carlo. I’d just finished my beer when I heard a voice I recognised. I turned round: Alain Tanneur was at the cash register, paying for a box of Cafe Crème cigarillos. Under his arm was a paper bag from the bakery with a country loaf sticking out the top. Now Marie-Françoise’s husband turned and saw me, too, eyes wide in a look of surprise.

  Later, over another beer, I explained to him that I was there by chance, and I told him what I’d seen at the petrol station in Pech-Montat. He listened closely but without emotion. ‘I thought so,’ he said, once I’d finished my story. ‘I suspected that there had been unreported clashes, beyond the attacks on the polling stations. No doubt there were plenty of others across France.’

  He had good reason to be in Martel: he had a house there, which had belonged to his parents. He was a native, and soon he planned to retire there. If the Muslim candidate won, Marie-Françoise was certain to lose her chair – obviously, no woman could hold a teaching position in an Islamic university. But what about his job at the DGSI?

  ‘They sent me packing,’ he said, with suppressed bitterness. ‘I was sacked on Friday morning, me and my whole team,’ he went on. ‘They gave us two hours to clear out our desks.’

  ‘And do you know why?’

  ‘I certainly do … On Thursday I submitted a report to my superiors warning them of possible incidents in different parts of the country – incidents meant to disrupt the elections. They did exactly nothing about it, and I was sacked the next day.’ He let it sink in. ‘So? What conclusion would you draw?’

  ‘You mean the government wanted it to happen?’

  He gave a slow nod. ‘I couldn’t prove it in court … because my report wasn’t very precise. From what our informants were telling us, I was convinced that something would happen at or near Mulhouse, but I couldn’t say for certain whether it would be polling station two, or five, or eight. To protect them all would have required a huge allocation of resources. It was the same for every threat. My superiors could always say that the DGSI had cried wolf before, and that the risk they took was reasonable. But as I say, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Do you know who was behind the attacks?’

  ‘Who do you think.’

  ‘The nativists?’

  ‘Yes, partly. And partly young jihadists – it was roughly half and half.

  ‘These jihadists were working for the Muslim Brotherhood?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘I’ve spent fifteen years of my life on this – and I’ve never found the slightest connection, the slightest contact, between the two groups. The jihadists are rogue Salafists. They may have resorted to violence, instead of prayer, but they’re Salafists all the same. For them, France is a land of disbelief – Dar al-Kufr. For the Muslim Brotherhood, France is ready to be absorbed into the Dar al-Islam. More to the point, for the Salafists all authority comes from God. To them the very idea of popular representation is sacrilege. They’d never dream of founding, or supporting, a political party. Still, even if they’re obsessed with global jihad, the young extremists do want Ben Abbes to win. They don’t believe in him – for them jihad is the one true path – but they won’t stand in his way. It’s exactly the same with the nativists. For them, civil war is the one true path, but some belonged to the National Front before they were radicalised. They’d never actively oppose it. From the beginning, both the National Front and the Muslim Brotherhood have chosen the way of the ballot. They’ve always wagered that they could take power and play by the rules of democracy. What’s odd – even amusing, if you like – is that, a few days ago, each side decided that the other was about to win, that they had no choice but to disrupt the electoral process.’

  ‘Well, who do you think was right?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’ Now he relaxed and smiled. ‘There’s a sort of legend, going back to the early noughties, that we have access to secret polls that never see the light of day. It’s a fairy tale, partly. But it’s also partly true, and the tradition has been kept up, to some degree. Well, in this case, our secret polls and the official polls show exactly the same results – fifty–fifty, give or take a few tenths of a per cent.’

  I ordered another round. ‘You’ll have to come over for dinner,’ Tanneur said. ‘Marie-Françoise will be so glad to see you. It’s hard for her, having to leave the university. It doesn’t make much difference to me – I’d have had to retire in two years anyway … Obviously, it leaves a bad taste, but they’ll give me my whole pension, I’m sure, and extra pay, too. Anything to keep me from making a fuss.’

  The waiter brought our beers and a bowl of olives. The cafe had begun to fill up. People were talking loudly, it was clear they all knew one another, some said hello to Tanneur as they passed our table. I nibbled at the olives, thinking. There was something I didn’t get. I could always just ask him, he might know, he seemed to know about lots of things. I regretted that until now my attention to political life had been so anecdotal, so superficial.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ I said, after I’d drunk some of my beer, ‘is what anyone hopes to achieve by attacking the polling stations. The elections are still going to take place, a week from now, under military protection. The balance of power hasn’t changed. The results are still up in the air. Unless maybe they manage to prove that the right is behind it, which would help the Muslim Brotherhood – or that the Muslims are behind it, which would help the National Front.’

  ‘Trust me, no one can prove anything, one way or the other – and no one’s going to try. Politically, though, big things are going to happen. And fast. We’ll see as soon as tomorrow. One possibility is that the UMP will decide to form a coalition with the National Front. So what, you say – the UMP are in free fall. Still, they’re enough to tip the balance and win the election.’

  ‘I don’t know. If they were going to ally themselves with the National Front, couldn’t they have done it years ago?’

  ‘Exactly right!’ he beamed. ‘A
t the beginning, the National Front was eager to team up with the UMP so they could form a governing majority. Then gradually, the National Front grew. Their numbers went up in the polls, and the UMP started to get scared. Not of their populism, or their supposed fascism – the leaders of the UMP wouldn’t have minded a few new security measures, a little xenophobia. UMP voters, such as they are, are all for that sort of thing. But as a practical matter, the UMP is very much the weaker partner in this alliance. If they make a deal, they’re afraid of being annihilated and simply absorbed into the National Front. And finally there’s Europe. That’s the deal killer. What the UMP wants, and the Socialists, too, is for France to disappear – to be integrated into a European federation. Obviously, this isn’t popular with the voters, but for years the party leaders have managed to sweep it under the carpet. If they formed an alliance with an openly anti-European party, they couldn’t go on this way, the whole thing would fall apart. That’s why I lean towards a second scenario, the creation of a republican alliance, where the UMP and the Socialists both get behind Ben Abbes – as long as they can get enough seats to form a government.’

  ‘I’d think that would be hard, too – or at least, very surprising.’

  ‘Right again!’ This time, as he smiled, he rubbed his hands together. Clearly, my questions amused him. ‘But it’s hard for a different reason; it’s hard because it’s surprising, because nothing like it has ever happened – at least not since the Liberation. We’re so used to the politics of right versus left that we can’t see another way for things to be. And yet what’s the problem, really? The UMP is much closer to the Muslim Brotherhood than the Socialists were. We talked about this the first time we met: the only reason that the Socialists gave way on education or reached a deal with the Brotherhood – the only reason their pro-immigrant wing won out over the secularists – is that they were cornered. They had no way out. It will all be much easier for the conservatives, who are in even worse shape, and who never cared about education – they hardly even know what education is. The only trouble is that the UMP and the Socialists would have to get used to the idea of governing together. That would be something completely new. It would undermine every position they’ve ever taken.

  ‘Of course, there’s a third possibility – that nothing will happen, no one will make a deal, and the run-off will take place with everyone in the same position as before, with the same uncertainty. In a sense, it’s the most likely thing that could happen – but that’s extremely worrisome, too. For one thing, no election has ever been so close in the entire history of the Fifth Republic. But what’s really problematic is that neither of the leading parties has any experience of governing, at the national or even the local level. As politicians, they’re all complete amateurs.’

  He finished his beer. When he looked at me his eyes glittered with intelligence. He wore a polo shirt under his glen check jacket; he was kindly, disillusioned and wise; he probably subscribed to Historia. I could just see a dog-eared Historia collection in a bookcase by the fire, sandwiched between more specialised works, maybe about French Africa, or histories of the intelligence services since World War II. No doubt he’d been interviewed by the authors of these books, or soon would be, in his Quercynois retreat. On certain subjects he would remain silent, on others he would feel authorised to speak.

  ‘So we’ll see you tomorrow evening?’ he asked, as he signalled for the bill. ‘I’ll pick you up at the hotel. Marie-Françoise will be delighted.’

  Evening fell on Place des Consuls, the yellow stones glowed gently in the setting sun. We were opposite the Hôtel de la Raymondie.

  ‘Martel is an old village, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very. And its name is no accident. Everyone knows Charles Martel – Charles the Hammer – fought the Arabs at Poitiers in 732, ending Muslim expansion to the north. That was a decisive battle, it marks the real beginning of the Christian Middle Ages. But it wasn’t all so neat and tidy. The invaders didn’t just pick up and go home. Charles Martel spent years warring against them in Acquitaine. In 743 he won another battle not far from here, and he decided to give thanks by building a church. It bore the three red hammers of his coat of arms. The village grew up around this church, which was later destroyed, then rebuilt in the fourteenth century. It’s true that Christianity and Islam have been at war for a very long time; war has always been one of the major human activities. As Napoleon put it, war is human nature. But with Islam, I think, the time has come for accommodation, for an alliance.’

  I shook his hand goodbye. He was laying it on a little thick – the intelligence veteran, the old sage in retirement, etc., but after all he’d just been sacked. It would take him a while to grow into the part. In any case, I was already looking forward to dinner the next day. The port was bound to be good, and I had high hopes for the meal itself. He wasn’t the type who took these things lightly.

  ‘Watch the news tomorrow,’ he said, before he walked away. ‘I suspect there will be something to see.’

  Tuesday, 31 May

  Sure enough, the news broke just after two in the afternoon. The centre-right and the Socialists had formed a coalition, a ‘broad republican front’, and were backing the Muslim Brotherhood. Frantic, the networks spent all afternoon asking about the terms of the deal and the division of ministries, and kept getting the same answer – about putting politics aside and unifying to heal the wounds of a divided nation, etc. All of which was predictable enough. More surprising was François Bayrou’s return to the political stage. He had agreed to share the ticket with Ben Abbes: in return he would be named prime minister if Ben Abbes won.

  These days the old mayor of Pau, who’d been beaten practically every time he ran for office over the last thirty years, was cultivating an image of integrity, with the connivance of various magazines. Which is to say, Bayrou was regularly photographed leaning on a shepherd’s crook, wearing a beret – like Justin Bridou on the sausage labels – in a landscape of meadows and fields, usually in Labourd. The image he kept trying to promote, from interview to interview, was that of the man who said no, on the model of de Gaulle.

  ‘It’s genius, picking Bayrou – sheer genius,’ Alain Tanneur said, the moment I showed up. He was literally quivering with enthusiasm. ‘I admit, it would never have occurred to me. This Ben Abbes really is something.’

  Marie-Françoise greeted me with a big smile. She wasn’t just glad to see me, she was thriving. To see her bustling around the kitchen in an apron bearing the humorous phrase ‘Don’t Shout at the Cook – That’s the Boss’s Job!’ (or words to that effect), it was hard to believe that just days ago she’d been leading a doctoral seminar on the altogether unusual circumstances surrounding Balzac’s corrections to the proofs of Béatrix. She’d made us tartlets stuffed with ducks’ necks and shallots, and they were delicious. In his excitement, her husband uncorked a bottle of Cahors and one of Sauternes – then remembered his port, which I absolutely had to taste. On the face of it, I couldn’t see what was so ‘genius’ about bringing François Bayrou back into politics, but I was sure Tanneur would fill me in before long. Marie-Françoise gazed at him lovingly, clearly relieved that her husband was handling his dismissal so well, and adapting so easily to the role of armchair strategist – a role that would win him the admiration of the mayor, the doctor, the notary and all the other notables still to be found in provincial towns. For them he’d always retain the glamour of a career in the secret services. The Tanneurs’ retirement was off to a decidedly promising start.

  ‘What’s amazing about Bayrou, what makes him irreplaceable,’ Tanneur enthused, ‘is that he’s an utter moron. He’s never had a political agenda beyond getting himself elected to the “highest office in the land”, whatever that might take, and he’s never had an idea of his own – he’s never even pretended, which is unusual. If you’re looking for a politician who can embody the humanist spirit, he’s perfect: he thinks he’s Henri the Fourth bringing peace through interfaith dialogue. Plu
s he plays well to the Catholic base, who find his stupidity reassuring. He’s exactly what Ben Abbes needs, since he wants above all to embody a new humanism, and to present Islam as the best possible form of this new, unifying humanism – and by the way, he happens to mean it when he proclaims his respect for the three religions of the Book.’

  Marie-Françoise called us to the table. She’d made a salad of fava beans and dandelion with shaved Parmesan. It was so delicious that for a moment I tuned out of the conversation. The Catholics had all but disappeared in France, her husband was saying, but they still enjoyed a certain moral authority. In any case, from the beginning Ben Abbes had done all he could to court them. Over the last year he’d paid no fewer than three visits to the Vatican. He appealed to the Third World types simply by being who he was, but he also knew how to win over conservative voters. Unlike his sometime rival Tariq Ramadan, who’d been tainted by his old Trotskyite connections, Ben Abbes had kept his distance from the anti-capitalist left. He understood that the pro-growth right had won the ‘war of ideas’, that young people today had become entrepreneurs, and that no one saw any alternative to the free market. But his real stroke of genius was to grasp that elections would no longer be about the economy, but about values, and that here, too, the right was about to win the ‘war of ideas’ without a fight. Whereas Ramadan presented sharia as forward-looking, even revolutionary, Ben Abbes restored its reassuring, traditional value – with a perfume of exoticism that made it all the more attractive. When he campaigned on family values, traditional morality and, by extension, patriarchy, an avenue opened up to him that neither the conservatives nor the National Front could take without being called reactionaries or even fascists by the last of the soixante-huitards, those progressive mummified corpses – extinct in the wider world – who managed to hang on in the citadels of the media, still cursing the evil of the times and the toxic atmosphere of the country. Only Ben Abbes was spared. The left, paralysed by his multicultural background, had never been able to fight him, or so much as mention his name.