A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

Breaking a long silence the Russian introduces himself as Mikhail. We shake hands. I cannot remember if we'd already introduced ourselves when he first came to the table. Mikhail tells me that he's been living in France since the end of the war. Before that he lived in Zurich. Whilst the other Russian émigrés were preparing a world revolution, Mikhail spent his time seducing as many women as he could lay his hands on. After the war those women returned to their native lands. Swiss women, he remarks looking bewildered by the concept, were immune to his physical charms. Allowing a coin toss to select his destination, Mikhail left Zurich for Paris. He tells me that his seductions recommenced three miles out from the Zurich main station. Over time his perpetual pursuit of women lost some of its allure. He explains that he has now settled into a form of domestic stability with a German girl called Astrid and an American called Helen. All three of them share an apartment not too far from the La Closerie des Lilas on the rue d'Assas.

  After talking and playing backgammon for an hour or so I realise that today I have achieved my talking to people quota. Feeling contented I decide to go home. Mikhail shakes my hand again and says he hopes I'll return soon.

  Outside the café, the day is fading. I stand for a moment, propping myself up against the wall. I want to go home and lie in my bed. This desire is not yet so great that it has been able to countermand the inclination to remain leaning against the wall. Two young women walk by laughing. Are they laughing at me? My head feels heavy; I'm having difficulty holding it upright. Concentrating my will, I hold my head up and cast off from the wall. Advance! To bed!

  Having traversed a few impossibly busy roads, and nearly being run over at least twice, I arrive at the end of my street. I have no idea how long it has taken me to walk the three kilometres between the café and my house, or indeed if I have only walked three kilometres, as I have undoubtedly done some drifting. At first I'd found it difficult to gauge the speed of automobiles and trams. Difficult, too, to anticipate the course of other pedestrians. Now I am growing used to it, so why go home?

  The evening has arrived, darkening due to the time of year, and Paris is awakening. I can feel her power as she comes to life. Cobbles shine beneath the street lamps. Excitement sparks across the city. The Eiffel Tower and the Sacré-Cœur broadcast a silent reveille. At this hour dreams still have the chance to be realised. Hope is permitted to reside over reason.

  On reaching the boulevard Saint Germain I can see the awnings of the Deux Magots. The terrace is already filling with customers. Flames from the braziers fight a battle with the wind. The scant amount of warmth these emit has enticed customers to sit outside. The Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés towers in the night sky and looks on in beneficent toleration at the sinners congregating below. Two nuns leave the church wearing beautiful white butterfly hats and long dark habits. They are laughing, as the two by the Café Copenhagen had laughed.

  I take a seat under the dark green awning and face the boulevard rather than the churchyard. Some of the other customers look at me askance. On arriving I'd been distracted by two ugly Chinese dogs. These statues so intrigued me that I forgot where I was and stood staring at them, blocking the doorway. The waiter comes to take my order. He exudes an indifference to my existence, developed from years of practice. Perhaps he ignores his reflection whilst shaving so as to keep his hand in. I order two orange juices, two grapefruit juices, a double espresso, and a glass of red wine – Côtes du Rhône if you have it.

  'Would you like me to bring an extra chair, sir?' he asks.

  'Only if I grow an extra arse,' I reply.

  Almost directly across the road is the Brassiere Lipp. That's the kind of joint a stockbroker would eat in. I should cross over there and ask if they know Marty. However, I don't have any inclination to move, so I sit and stare. The first batch of evening diners are arriving; diplomats, politicians, journalists. They all bow stiffly to one another. A doorman holds the door open as the customers remove their hats and make their way inside. Ensconced in leather-backed chairs they will commence to stuff their bulbous faces with chunks of sausage, and pig grease. They will wash this down with over-sized jugs of frothy beer. Perhaps they'll swill from a bottle of champagne. Every day is a feast day at the Brassiere Lipp. When fully sated they will pick bits of flesh from their teeth before sauntering out into the night, slapping each other on the back as they go. Even from across this broad road I find them quite disagreeable. For some people there are never any hard times: they can always click their pudgy fingers to summon a waiter or servant.

  Dismiss these thoughts! It's vital I think of something else and I must do it right now. I'm on the cusp - Dr Jekyll one second before his transformation to Mr Hyde. I picture a bridge, the Pont Neuf. A simple stone bridge, nothing more than a bridge. Now water, the Seine, flowing beneath it. Silence too, the bridge in silence and water flowing beneath it. Water slightly muddied. I hold the image and use it to block any other thought which tries to invade my head. I have learnt that by doing this I can control myself. If I fail, the resentment will grow in to a rage which will then consume me.

  My equilibrium returns. I shouldn't be too resentful; after all I have decided to take my army captain's pension. Previously it had been a point of pride with me that I would not profit from the war. I had also resolved I would not profit from my birth. That false pride lasted for too long. There are only so many times you can pick yourself up after weeping in the dirt before you have to change your way of life. Taking the pension was easy. Taking the trust fund was not. It meant contact with my family. I can't think too much about that right now. I re-summon the bridge. For a moment it is empty, and then it is crossed by those laughing girls from outside the Copenhagen. There is something about them, something I feel I am on the edge of grasping...

  *

  I wake early the next morning feeling refreshed. At the very least I normally wake up cursing a mild hangover. The hashish took away my desire for both wine and coffee and I slept as soundly as a corpse encased in an Egyptian sarcophagus.

  Today I'll head up to Saint-Denis. If I have no luck there I'll follow that with a tour of fancy restaurants – taking a supply of bills in different denominations to bribe the staff.

  Downstairs I share a morning coffee with Filatre. He'd been rummaging about in his office wearing a dressing gown. I hope he doesn't decide to take my rooms back so he can sleep in a proper bed. If he does, I suppose I could rent out his house. Then I guess I'd end up sleeping on a chaise longue in my office.

  We are halfway through our second cups when Hervé arrives. I've never met Hervé in person before, our previous dealings having been conducted over the telephone. He's a shabby, paunchy man, sporting a torn pale-blue jacket. He wears a pair of grey flannel trousers which have seen better days, but probably not during Hervé's ownership of them. Instead of customary going-about-shoes he sports a pair of tennis shoes. His face and his shoulders slouch in the same way his moustache droops. He is most deferential, going so far as to touch his forelock on entering the room. That is a gesture I have not seen for many years.

  'Pleased to meet you, Hervé.'

  I reach out my hand to shake his. Hervé only has one arm, but judging from his grip it is as strong as two.

  'You too, sir.'

  His accent is pronounced and southern. Langue D'oc, he informs me.

  'I have found something out about monsieur Gustave Marty and thought I should inform you right off.'

  He takes off a shoulder bag and pulls from it a dog-eared, buff coloured folder. Next he produces a piece of paper with small but very precise handwriting.

  'I copied this from a newspaper. It's not much, though I reckon it could be useful. It was dated slightly over a year ago.'

  The message is a notice which reads: Maurice Kuo and Partners wish to make it known that monsieur Gustave Marty is no longer in their employ. We also wish to make it known that we have no forwarding address for the said Gustave Marty.

  CHAPTER S
EVEN

  I cannot work out why Maurice Kuo and Partners would print a notice like that. They have paid good money to ask potential customers not to visit them. They're certain to have another broker there who could take over Marty's old clients – leeches like that usually come by the jar full.

  'It looks to me,' says Hervé, 'as if they are distancing themselves from him.'

  'Distancing?'

  'Yes, sir. It's as if they are trying to say, "Monsieur Marty isn't here and we don't know where he is, so leave us alone, why don't you." They don't say when he stopped working for them.'

  'And you think this implies something nefarious?'

  'If that means crooked, then yes I do,' Hervé says.

  'Did you find anything else out?'

  'No, sir. That is also a little bit odd. I looked through all sorts; birth announcements, wedding announcements, death notices, and bankruptcy hearings – there are a lot of those nowadays. He isn't registered with the stock exchange or with any of the préfectures in central Paris. Foreigners require permits to work in France. Of course, I haven't got access to their historical records, so he might have been registered at one time.'

  'Ah yes, I had to register. And I let the British Embassy know my address.'

  'Quite so, sir. All foreigners should do this, else we can't tell what you are getting up to.'

  I pay Hervé's fee and give him a decent tip. Maybe that's what the forelock-touching is all about, generating a good tip. Filatre gestures toward the chess board. I would love to play but, for a change, I have work to do. I head upstairs to make some notes.

  In my office I have a very large, very empty, filing cabinet. I'd spotted it outside a bric-a-brac store and paid them extra to deliver it for me. They earned their fee that day – they hadn't bargained on the stairs. Currently this cabinet contains a single folder with the address of my client and her brief description of monsieur Marty. I write out an index card and put Marty's name at the top. Then I write out 'known employers'. I put the name and address of Maurice Kuo and Partners under this title. Their office is on the boulevard Rivoli. A well-to-do address on a road which runs parallel to the river, passing the Hotel de Ville and the Musée du Louvre. I'll have to pay them a visit, forwarding address or no forwarding address.

  Fifteen minutes of brisk walking sees me across the river and into central Paris. In certain states of mind a busy city can be quite intimidating. People bustle along intent on their business as if their courses have been preordained. They proceed with a determination which leaves me doubting my right to exist. Losing all sense of certainty I begin to roam aimlessly from street to street. I ought to take cover before I fall prey to the religious sects who hunt the crowds for lost souls like mine. I take refuge in a seedy café.

  I order a glass of red. The waiter obliges, I feel a little guilty that he is working whilst I am shirking. Well, it would have been no good visiting Kuo and Partners in the state I'm in. When facing people who have no vested interest in your case, it is preferable to exude confidence and authority. They won't take heed of a man who ambles up looking bemused. I signal the waiter to bring more wine. I shall make him one of my three conversational targets for the day.

  'Ever been in love?' I ask.

  'Yes, sir, but that's really none of your business.'

  'I thank you for your honesty. Honesty and candour. May I buy you a drink?'

  There are no other customers so he condescends to join me. He pours himself a glass of wine then insists on standing and drinking it while looking over at the door.

  'My good sir, you are nowt but a disappointment.'

  'I beg your pardon, sir?'

  He looks slightly offended which rather pleases me.

  'Before, when I asked if you were in love, you were both honest and blunt. "Good for you," I thought, "buy the man a drink". Now look at you. You don't want to drink with me or talk to me, yet you knew by accepting the drink you would be obliged to do those things. So you stand instead of sitting, you look at the door instead of at me. Well, fuck! Why not say, "no, sir, I do not want your sodding drink". Better still, "yes, sir, I will take the drink and consume it over there and if you don't like me doing so you can shove it up your arse!".'

  'Very good, sir.'

  He walks away leaving behind his glass of half-finished wine.

  That conversation didn't go as well as I'd expected, yet I did find it satisfying. I'm now prepared to face Maurice Kuo and his gang of financial miscreants. If I weren't being hired to track down one of their kind I would quite happily arrange for all stockbrokers to disappear. The Black Hole of Calcutta isn't in use at the moment.

  Back on the street I feel ready to deal with the city's challenges. I'm also a little drunk. I must get some food. I stop at a boulangerie and order some bread. I eat it dry. I walk merrily along the street and catch myself whistling Tipperary. Spotting another café I step inside and order a coffee. I settle down to read for an hour or two – no point arriving at Kuo's when he's itching to get to lunch.

  Three o'clock finds me walking up the stairs outside the offices of Maurice Kuo and Partners. The overt grandness of the entrance rubs me up the wrong way. What right have these people to marble staircases, Doric columns and classical façades? The ostentatious waste of money, spent making this building look like a Greek brothel, is in poor taste in this age of poverty. Less than one mile from these steps there are children who have learnt to ignore the pains of hunger.

  The lobby is chequered with black and white ceramic floor tiles. The effect is pleasing, like a chess board or a Moroccan courtyard. The rest is a vast desolate expanse, speckled with occasional chairs and coffee tables. Behind a reception counter sits a middle-aged woman and a more elderly man. They are gargoyles peering across a lifeless domain, motionless and silent. My appearance on the scene has not registered with them. Approaching the desk I look from one vacant face to the other. The man is wearing a black suit with a waistcoat and silver watch chain. His hair is a pepper grey, which matches his face rather well. He still hasn't moved. If he opens his mouth, will words or dust fall from the void? The woman, who does at least blink a few times, is wearing tweed. I am perturbed by her hat, which contains a long pheasant feather; it looks like the one Douglas Fairbanks was wearing in Robin Hood.

  Standing in front of the counter I address the space between the two. I explain that I am here to see monsieur Kuo, and that, no, I do not have an appointment. The old man looks at the woman, who in turn looks at me. I put on what I imagine to be my charming smile. Neither of them look as if they are charmed, so I drop it. The old man catches my attention by coughing. For a moment he looks as if he is about to speak. All he does is remove a handkerchief from his pocket and then look at his shoes. I can tell they are unsure what to make of me; that is to say they have an inkling but aren't quite certain of the depth of my depravity. They are obviously aware that I am under the influence. My coffees at that last café transmuted into wine. Still, the boardrooms of Paris are filled with executives who consume more than their fair share at lunch.

  In my favour I am dressed in an exceedingly fine linen suit with a natty waistcoat. This is accompanied by a shirt and tie, each of which is at the zenith of Parisian fashion. My shoes are polished as only an ex-soldier can polish - even under the dull light of their reception area they gleam. The receptionists are obviously astute enough to realise I am both very rich and disreputable; two conditions which make for a prized company client. Instead of asking me to leave, the old man stands up and beckons for me to follow him.

  Travelling at the speed of a continental shelf, we make our way to the ante-chamber of monsieur Kuo's private office. During this overtly time-consuming voyage the old man tells me that his son had once worked here as an apprentice before being called up and then killed. I have no idea why he relayed that story to me. The information is trotted out as if he had been informing me that the banisters are made of mahogany. He brushes aside my sympat
hetic replies and offers no further details as to where or how his son died.

  We arrive at the ante-chamber and the old man introduces me to Kuo's secretary. She greets me and invites me to sit anywhere I fancy. I take a seat near her desk as she slips into Kuo's office for a few minutes. Unlike the two downstairs, this woman is both attractive and lively. I'm not sure why he hired them but I have no doubts about this one.

  She returns to the desk and watches me while pretending to work. I am obviously more interesting than paperwork. I wink at her; it buys me a salacious smile. She could easily pass for Louise Brooks - a perfect black bob and breasts straining to break free from her blouse. If only they could rent asunder that flimsy silken cage, even momentarily, I would die a happy man. I must look away; I feel like a sailor being lured by the song of the harpies, drawn despite fore-knowledge of the consequences. Am I really so feeble-minded that a beautiful woman, with positively perfect breasts, in a blouse a little too tight, who licks her lips and smiles seductively, can distract me from my work? Of course I am. If all I had were a photograph of her I'd be compelled to take it out and ogle it every ten minutes. What hope have I with the living, breathing version sat but a few feet away?

  To distract myself from these unproductive thoughts I try to read one of the economic journals which have been deposited on a coffee table in front of me. I do this while pulling cross-eyed faces at the secretary. Gaining a satisfactory response, I proceed to one of my Chaplin impressions. I do believe I'm getting good at Chaplin. She laughs out loud, and the more she does, the more I pretend to read the journals.

  Kuo, peering out of his office, looks annoyed. The secretary tries hard to contain her mirth while I nonchalantly replace the magazine. Kuo beckons me with a little wave of his hand. He hovers around, unsure as to what to do. He'd like to chastise his secretary as he can sense she hasn't been working. He can't do this until he has ascertained exactly who I am. If I am rich and want to invest, and his secretary has helped me pass the time pleasantly, which she has, then what better use of her time could there be? He is loitering at the doorway, not quite coming out and not quite going back in. He obviously can't make me out. If he really suspected that I'd become a valued client he'd already be at my side, pumping my hand and asking if I'd like anything to drink.