Tarantula [Paperback]

"'Great art in nightmarish darkness' Michel Lebrun 'Jonquet manages to interweave various captors and captives into an immensely clever narrative web; the prose is sober and taut, the revelations effective, and the denouement utterly perverse' Rain Taxi 'Reads like an unholy collaboration between Sade and Sartre... Much like Poe's "tales of terror," Tarantula is a story that invites both respect and repulsion' Washington Post 'A poisoned bonbon of a novel... I was hooked on the third page' San Francisco Bay Area Reporter"

Richard Lafargue is an eminent plastic surgeon haunted by dirty secrets. He has an operating theatre in the basement of his chateau and keeps his partner Eve imprisoned in her bedroom, a room he has equipped with an intercom and 300-watt speakers through which he bellows orders. Eve is only allowed out to be paraded at cocktail parties and on the last Sunday of each month, when the couple visit a young woman in a mental asylum. Following these outings, Lafargue humiliates Eve by forcing her to perform lewd sexual acts with strangers while he watches through a one-way mirror. In alternating chapters, Jonquet introduces seemingly unrelated characters ? a criminal on the run after murdering a policeman, and an abducted young man who finds himself chained naked in a dark chamber, forced to endure all manner of physical torture at the hands of a mysterious stranger, whom he calls ?Mygale?, after a type of tropical spider. All of these characters are caught in a deceitful web, doomed to meet their fate.

Thierry Jonquet was born in Paris in 1954. An exponent of the hardboiled style of French noir influenced by post-May 1968 politics, Jonquet is one of France's best-known crime writers. Tarantula was published as Mygale by Gallimard in 1999 and by City Lights Publishers in the US in 2002.

Tarantula by Thierry Jonquet Leadtext: Richard Lafargue paced slowly along the graveled walk. It led to a little pond set amidst the trees alongside the wall surrounding the property. It was a clear night, an evening in July, and a shining rain of milky stars flecked the sky. Camouflaged by a group of water lilies, a pair of swans slept serenely, their necks folded beneath their wings, the slender female snuggled tenderly against the more imposing body of her mate. Lafargue plucked a rose, briefly inhaled its sweetish, almost cloying perfume, then retraced his steps. Beyond the alley of lindens stood the house, a compact, squat, graceless mass. On the ground floor were the servants' quarters, where Lise, the maid, would be taking her meal. To the right, a pool of light and a muffled purr signaled the garage, where Roger, the chauffeur, had the engine of the Mercedes running. And then there was the main drawing room, whose dark curtains allowed but a few thin streaks of light to escape. Lafargue looked up to the floor above and let his gaze linger on the windows of Eve's rooms. There was a delicate glow, and through a half-open shutter came a timid sound of music, the first bars of "The Man I Love"... Lafargue repressed a gesture of irritation and, striding briskly, went into the house, slamming the front door behind him, almost running to the staircase, and holding his breath as he bounded up the stairs. Once on the second floor, he raised his fist, but then held back and resigned himself to knocking gently with the knuckle of a curled index finger. He slid back the three bolts that, from the outside, barred the door to the set of rooms inhabited by the woman who was so determinedly turning a deaf ear to his calls. Without making a sound, he closed the door and proceeded into the dressing room. It was plunged in obscurity, the only light a glimmer from a shade-covered desk lamp standing on the piano. At the far end of the adjoining bedroom, brutal neon from the bathroom threw a bright white slash on the farthest wall of the flat. In the half-shadows, he made his way to the stereo and turned the volume down, interrupting the first notes of whatever tune followed "The Man I Love" on the record. He controlled his anger, then murmured, in a neutral tone quite devoid of reproach, a nonetheless biting comment about the length of time reasonably needed to make up her face, pick out a dress, and select jewelry appropriate for the kind of evening affair to which he and Eve were invited. He went on into the bathroom, stifling a curse when he saw the young woman luxuriating in a thick cocoon of bluish foam. He sighed. His eyes met Eve's for a moment; the defiance he thought he read there caused him to snigger. He shook his head in feigned amusement at her childishness and left the flat. Back in the main drawing room on the ground floor, he fixed himself a scotch at a bar set up near the fireplace and downed it in one swallow. The spirit burned his stomach and tic-like movements worked in his face. Going over to the interphone connected to Eve's rooms, he pressed the button, then cleared his throat before pressing his mouth against the plastic mouthpiece and bellowing: "For God's sake, hurry up, you piece of shit!" Eve started violently as the two 300-watt speakers set into the dressing room walls blasted out Richard's yell. She shivered, then unhurriedly got out of the vast circular bathtub and slipped into a black flannel robe. She went and sat at the dressing table and began to apply makeup, wielding the mascara brush with lively little gestures.