A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

  'Come this way please, monsieur Salazar.'

  I wink again at the secretary, who giggles delightfully, before I get up to enter Kuo's lair.

  Kuo has outfitted himself in the uniform of the French bourgeoisie; impeccable morning suit, jet black jacket and waistcoat; starched white shirt with brilliant white collar. His charcoal trousers look as if this is their first outing. His hair is a dark grey, greased back with Brilliantine, and not one strand is out of place. His hands are delicate; I doubt they have ever experienced a blister. Is his mother lurking somewhere in the office ready to straighten his little bow tie should the knot slacken? His every wish would be fulfilled if he could travel back through time to the Second Empire, and live under the auspices of Napoleon the Third. I imagine that each night he hangs himself up in the wardrobe whilst his wife makes a cuckold of him in the marital bed.

  This office is huge. We have to walk the length of it to reach Kuo's domineering walnut desk, where neatly aligned leaves of paper have made homes for themselves. His chair, suitably large to match the desk and embellished with carvings, looks as uncomfortable as it is ornate. Being a man both slight and short, the chair makes him look slightly comical - a Jack in the land of the beanstalk. I yearn to look under the desk to see if his feet reach the ground.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before Kuo can invite me to sit I have ensconced myself in the seat in front of his desk. I pull a cigarette from the case and start taping it on the silver lid. Kuo, noticing what I am up to, passes me an ashtray and says: 'Be my guest.'

  'I have come, monsieur Kuo, to talk about monsieur Gustave Marty,' I say.

  'Then you have wasted our time, for I shall no longer speak of him.'

  He pats his lips with a dainty white handkerchief, then looks furtively from side to side.

  'Are you ashamed at having had him in your employ?'

  'No, sir! Anything monsieur Marty may have done he did in secret and of his own volition, completely against the principles of this enterprise. Our clients can place their fullest trust in myself and this partnership.'

  'Monsieur Kuo, please keep calm; I don't give a shit about petty pilfering. I only want to know where I can find Marty.'

  Kuo turns red with feigned indignation. I wonder if he has trained himself to do that whenever he hears a rude word.

  'Don't blow a gasket, Kuo, we're not in a church and I'm sure you heard worse at the front. You were at the front, were you not?'

  Men like Kuo never went near the trenches, so why not rub some patriotic crap into his eyes? He coughs and shuffles in his seat. I watch unblinkingly, as if expecting him to regale me with a soldier's tales of scavenged food and makeshift latrines. The true story would be one of connections used and strings being pulled.

  'Erm, no, not the actual front. Of course I was ready to serve as a soldier. Unfortunately, I have incapacities which restrict my usefulness for active duty. I served my country, under difficult circumstances, at the Ministry for Finance. We often worked well into the night. We knew that the Ministry would be one of Big Bertha's targets as she rained death upon the city.'

  I've made him squirm, which puts me at the advantage. I'd enjoy seeing him squirm some more but I am here for a different purpose and mustn't allow myself to be distracted. Kuo dabs his forehead with his handkerchief, then he offers me a scotch.

  'You, monsieur Salazar, you did your bit at the front I suppose?'

  I detect a trace of hope in his voice – hope that I may have been a conscientious objector perhaps. Or does he want me to provide some Boy's Own adventure stories which he can then use for himself?

  'Yes, I was. I don't wear my ribbons as they remind me of those who died.' I pause to let my eyes rest upon his red Legion of Honour ribbon. 'I was awarded the Distinguished Services Order for jumping into a blast hole. Four Germans were about to execute six of my men. My six made it out, the Germans didn't.'

  He sits enthralled like a school kid and, I admit, so am I. I've never described it that succinctly before. It does sound a bit Boy's Own. Previously I'd remember the moment of the German officer's death. Time seemed to stand still and he caught me with a look which cried out against the pointlessness of it all. I'd recall the way his blood flew across the chest of his sergeant. The sergeant, beginning to realise what was going on, received a bullet in the guts. The other two Germans, distracted by my arrival, were killed by the captive Englishmen. I had to apply a coup de grâce to the sergeant. There I was, stood in a pit, with four dead men, none of whom had reached their thirtieth year. A vortex of war with me at the centre wallowing in blood and dirt. I've lost count of the nights I've lain awake, full of dread, thinking of their children growing up without their father's love.

  'Sir, I salute you!' Kuo says.

  These days most of France finds war abhorrent, yet one stumbles across these islands of despair who still salute the war. Kuo stands, holding his glass high, then proceeds to down his drink in one noisy gulp. This is enacted with all the flourishing extravagance of a Russian cavalry officer. I am expecting the glass to be thrown into the fireplace at any moment. There is no throwing of glass, instead he sits down and pours us out another drink.

  I feel like a real shit. I've used the deaths of those men for my own advantage. First I let that medal get pinned to my chest, now I drink toasts to their murder. I down my drink in silence. I take another and begin to brighten up. Kuo, it seems, has decided to get into the spirit of things by reciting some bawdy stories.

  At some point in his youth, Kuo seduced a girl from the typing pool. This girl enjoyed making love outside. According to Kuo, he ravished her over every statue in the greater Parisian area. I try to look suitably impressed while feeling suitably repulsed. Now I have to reciprocate with a tale of my own.

  I tell him about the hookers in Arras. The picture I paint is of seductresses in flimsy dresses and frilly underwear, giggling as they lead me upstairs. In reality the women were stout, middle-aged and wore frumpy patched-up dresses. But we were desperate, and so were they.

  Kuo goes on and I let him ride this wave for a while before directing the subject back to Marty.

  'So, monsieur Marty. Any ideas?'

  'That man is a shit - pardon my English. I have no idea where he may be and I'm perfectly happy for it to remain that way. I know he got another position, with Lacman Brothers. He lost that under a cloud. I would not be in the least surprised to learn that he is working as a gigolo along the Riviera, or that he is languishing in jail for fraud. Nor too would it surprise me to hear that he has been left for dead in some Montmartre gutter; killed by a jealous husband.'

  'A bit of a ladies' man was he?'

  'Yes, and he made it obvious in the most vulgar ways. Don't misunderstand me, monsieur Salazar; you and I are men of the world and,' he looks both left and right before leaning forward to whisper, 'you know that I enjoy a dalliance as much as the next man.'

  'But,' he says, returning to normal volume and pose, 'monsieur Marty was rapacious. I let him go due to irregularities in his conduct. It could have been because of the way he behaved with women. Mind you, he did have some decorum; he never once did anything untoward with a client and we were always able to recruit new secretaries.'

  I thank Kuo for his time and leave him pouring himself another scotch. There won't be much work done in that office this afternoon - if work is something that ever goes on in there. No sooner have I closed the door when Kuo's secretary pounces on me. I'd forgotten all about her. I had resolved that, when I started my agency, I wouldn't embroil myself with the women I encounter. I'm feeling somewhat resolute right now, as her hand travels up my inside leg.

  'Slow down, gorgeous.' I take her hand in mine. 'How about you and I go punish a bottle of wine?'

  'Meet me at six-thirty at the Café Bourbon on the rue Cambon.'

  I consider going straight home and forgetting all about The Café Bourbon. Is it my detective instincts or baser feelings which de
cide I should keep the rendezvous? I'll need to keep my mind on the task with her. For all I know she may be Marty's mistress ready to lead me a merry dance. Or she could be operating with a partner - the moment my trousers are down I'll be hit over the head and my wallet removed. There is also the distinct possibility that she is what she appears to be - a vamp. I walk about, growing sober, killing time before six-thirty. When we meet I'll cut out the flirting.

  Seven o'clock; I'm on my third coffee, no sign of Kuo's secretary. I take out my pad to re-read my notes from the meeting with Kuo. I haven't made any notes. To rectify this I scribble out an account of our conversation. I jot down certain phrases; ladies' man; disreputable; fraud (within the law?). I'm not positive on that last point. He may have done something untoward but not actually illegal. I have the impression that Marty operates in that legal grey-area inhabited by politicians and advertising men. I look across the road at a large sign which declares 'Great Tasting Flavour' above a drink which tastes like piss.

  Her arrival is heralded by a musky perfume. The atmosphere in the café transforms with her presence. I have become the subject of a hundred how-did-he-manage-to-get-a-girl-like-that glances. Most of the male clientèle are either looking at us now, or have been looking at us. This must be what it's like having dinner with Lillian Gish, only I guess we'd be somewhere classier where the people don't stare so openly. I feel like picking my nose and unleashing a loud fart just to confound them all. I decide to show decorum instead; I stand to greet her.

  'I ordered champagne on the way over darling,' she says. She blows me a kiss and takes the seat opposite mine.

  The waiter arrives promptly with the bottle then dallies. I watch him for a moment. He's had long enough to take in the view and I don't want the extra company.

  'We've got your address, Charlie – we'll write you if we need anything.' He takes the hint.

  She smiles at me over the bubbles from her glass. The drink has wetted her deep red lips. I yearn to lean over and lick them. The smell of her perfume mingles with the champagne and her foot starts to rub slowly up and down against my leg. Who am I that I must resist such temptations? I make no claims to sainthood and most certainly don't claim to be decent. I bite my lip to try and regain focus. I hope I'm not drooling too much.

  'Did you know Marty?' I ask.

  'Not half as well as he'd have liked.'

  'Not your type?'

  'Listen, darling, everyone is my type on the right day if they ask in the right way. His way of asking was taking - for that all you get is a slapped face and, if required, a knee in the vitals. Besides he was a real creep.'

  'What sort of a creep?'

  'Are there different sorts? I guess there are. I don't know. Suppose you had a twelve-year-old sister, you wouldn't want him to meet her. He tried it on with everyone but he really went for the younger girls. Guess it gave him more of a thrill, more of a chance to play the big man. I gave him the cold shoulder. When that didn't work I explained that my brother was likely to give him a good hiding if he didn't stop bugging me. To make sure he got the message, I arranged for Freddy, my brother, to pick me up a few times. He's as sweet as a kitten but he could probably lift a cart horse and toss it across the Seine, if he were ever so minded.'

  'So, a regular kind of creep then,' I say.

  I hope Freddy is out of town.

  'That's about as nice as I'd ever be about him.'

  She places her hand on my knee with serious intent.

  'Look, I hope you don't think I am a creep too but-'

  'You're not interested in me?'

  'I am, very, that's the problem.'

  'You've got a wife? I can't believe that's a deterrent.'

  'No, I don't really have a good reason.'

  'Ah! Don't worry, sweetie, I have some friends like that. If you ever get curious you know where to find me.'

  The champagne wins back her attention. She takes a sip and then giggles as if the glass had whispered a joke.

  'Can you remember anything else about Marty?'

  'Sure, loads. First you might want to tell me why you're asking.'

  I decide to be truthful and tell her I am a detective working on a case. This has the unfortunate side-effect of making me appear more attractive. I haven't regained control over my primal urges as she moves around the table to sit on the chair besides mine. She draws it up a little closer.

  'We wouldn't want people to overhear our detective talk,' she whispers.

  I am facing the daunting prospect of a nymphomaniac in a tight dress, sitting so close I can feel the heat of her breath. I'm finding it hard to keep my hands off her. I want to get up and shout 'everybody out!', then ravish her right here on the table. I'm shaking and find it hard to breathe properly. Whatever I do now, I've a feeling I'll regret it one way or the other.

  I use some of the mental training I'd previously applied to my angry thoughts. I close my eyes and picture a green field, rolling meadows, butterflies fluttering, and cow bells jingling in the distance. It's beginning to work. I am able to block out her alluring smell and the sound of her deep sensual breathing. Opening my eyes to her smile and those large, dark, bedroom eyes, I have to pinch myself on the thigh to distract myself. I'm drowning in a sea of desire.

  'Look, miss, you are sitting too close and it distracts me, please move back before I forget myself.'

  She laughs and returns to her original seat and I give thanks for that. Like Wilde I can resist anything but temptation. I drink a beer as she sips at the champagne. She leans across the table to speak to me; I have to focus intently on her nose so as not to be drawn to the cleavage.

  'There are a lot of people in this city looking for monsieur Gustave Marty.'

  'Really?'

  'He must have ripped off fifty or more while he was working with us; they weren't all little amounts either. Those people have families. You steal twenty thousand francs from some old bird and all of a sudden her son and grandson are interested. They couldn't give a hoot that she's been ripped off, but that money is their inheritance.'

  'Did he actually steal?'

  'Not legally. Legally they signed it all over to him. Legally they can all go to hell in a handcart. A couple of blokes came round looking for him once - they weren't seeking legal retribution.'

  'That's fifty at your place with perhaps fifty more at the Lacman Brothers. Marty must have a tallied up a number of enemies.'

  I can imagine my client being taken in by some sweet talking banker – especially as she knew him of old. I doubt she'll get any of it back even if we do find him.

  'Have I been of assistance, monsieur Salazar?' She asks this with such a coquettish voice I'm not sure if she wants paying.

  'A great help, thank you. By the way, I never got your name.'

  'My name is Céline, and, if I may be excused, I'm going to find a man to screw. See you around kiddo.'

  She winks, turns, and wiggles away. How many in this café will dream of her tonight? Her silhouette fills the café doorway and then moves into the street. I drop some cash on the table and make a dash for it. A girl like that could easily meet someone else in the time it takes to tie a shoe lace.

  'About that man...' I say.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nights without sleep can be joyous – provided you are kept awake by Céline and not insomnia. I steal away from her sleeping body at four o'clock. Meeting in the morning is rarely pleasing. I leave my card on her table so she won't think me a heel. Céline lives off the rue des Batignolles in the 17th arrondissement. It appears to be a cheerful place. I can easily imagine Édouard Manet creeping around in similar circumstances all those years ago. I wonder which house was his.

  There is precious little to do at this hour except go home. I don't feel ready to go home. I could walk all the way down to the all-night cafés of Montparnasse. That would involve walking past my apartment, but I want something sooner. With a slight deviation my route could ta
ke me to Les Halles. Something must be open down there; the market operates on a different clock from the rest of us.

  By the time I reach Les Halles I have descended enough hills to have reached the upper levels of hell. This hell is chilly and comprises of a series of cafés, all of which are shut. One of them has even left a light on to provide a moment of false hope. I light a cigarette and read a tatty poster advertising a flea circus. Behind me there's a bench with a man slumped over on it. He's wearing a nice suit and shoes. I stand closer to check he's breathing. I doubt he'll still be wearing those shoes when he wakes up.

  There is a time to continue foolish pursuits and a time to head home. I have abandoned all prospect of a night cap and plod on towards the river. Not having travelled more than a few hundred metres I see two men walk around a corner up ahead. I quicken my stride to catch a glimpse of what they are up to. Part of the pleasure of a night time ramble lies in indulging your curiosity. I reach the corner and see them enter a café. What luck! And the drink will taste twice as sweet from my having given up on it.

  I enter the café and nearly vomit. All eyes are upon me. The place stinks like an open sewer. Worse than an open sewer; this stench could only come from a covered cesspit. I retch a couple of times to the sound of laughter.

  'Get him a cognac,' I hear someone shout.

  A man with long slender fingers passes me a glass. I hold it to my nose, letting the drink's pungent aroma obscure the stench of the café. I look around the room still holding the glass beneath my nostrils. The place is packed, all men and all filthy.