Blood Wedding by Pierre Lemaitre Page B

into the staff room, hangs up her uniform, shuts her locker, walks through the kitchen. There is a corridor that leads to an alley behind the restaurant and, on the right, the door to the manager’s office. She knocks and goes in without waiting.
    It is a cramped concrete room, the breezeblocks have been painted white; it is furnished with cast-offs, a desk piled with papers, invoices, a telephone, a calculator. Behind the desk is a metal filing cabinet and above it a grimy window that looks outonto the yard behind the restaurant. The boss is at the desk, talking on the telephone. When she appears, he smiles and gestures for her to sit as he goes on with his call. Sophie remains standing, leaning against the door.
    He says simply “O.K., later . . .” and hangs up. Then he stands and comes over to her.
    “You come for your advance?” he says in a low voice. “How much was it again?”
    “A thousand.”
    “I should be able to sort you out.” He grabs her hand and presses it to his flies.
    Sophie no longer remembers the details now. He said something like, “We understand each other, yeah?” Sophie must have nodded, she understood, but in fact she was not really listening, she was overcome by a kind of vertigo, something that came from deep within her and left her mind a blank. She might easily have collapsed like a dead weight, right there, melted away, swallowed up by the earth. He must have put his hands on her shoulders and pushed, hard, and Sophie felt herself sink to her knees in front of him, but this is something else she cannot really remember. Then she saw his stiff penis moving towards her mouth. Perhaps she clung to him, she cannot remember what she was doing with her hands. No, her hands hung limp, she was reduced to a mouth wrapped around this man’s cock. What did she do? Nothing, she did nothing, she let the man pump in and out for a long time. A long time? Maybe not. Time is difficult to measure. It passes eventually. There is one thing she does remember: he got angry. Probably because she was not enthusiastic, he pushed deep into her throat and she recoiled, banging her head against the door. He must have taken her head in his hands, yes, that must be right,because his hip movements became jerkier, more feverish. One more thing. She remembers him saying, “Tighter, for fuck’s sake.” Angrily. Sophie tried to make herself tighter, she did what she had to do. She pressed her lips tighter. She had her eyes closed, though she cannot really remember. And afterwards? Afterwards, nothing – almost nothing. The guy’s cock stopped for a moment, he gave a hoarse grunt, she tasted his sperm in her mouth, it was thick and bitter and tasted like bleach, she let him come in her mouth while she wiped tears from her eyes, and that was all. She waited and, eventually, he stepped back, she spat on the ground, once, twice, and when he saw her spit he yelled “Slut!”, yes, that is what he said, Sophie spat one last time, doubled over, one hand on the cold concrete floor. And then . . . what? He was standing in front of her again, furious. She was still in the same position, her knees ached so she got up, but it was difficult to get to her feet. When she was finally standing, she noticed for the first time that he was not as tall as she had thought. He was having trouble getting his dick back into his trousers, he looked as though he did not know how to go about it, squirming and swaying his hips. Then he turned around, went to the desk, came back and pressed money into her hand. He was staring at the floor, at what Sophie had spat up, he said, “Go on, piss off.” Sophie turned, she must have opened the door and walked down the corridor, she must have gone into the staff room. No, she went to the toilets, she needed to rinse out her mouth, but she did not get a chance. Hardly had she taken three steps than she raced for the toilet bowl and vomited. This much she remembers. She vomited everything up. The