A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

  Nathalie is chopping vegetables to the right of a huge stone basin. To her side is the cooking area. This consists of two brickwork arches painted white. They hold wood supplies and also some pans. Above them is a long red-tiled surface. There, over a hole where the fire sits, is a large cooking pot. She already has some wood burning.

  Our silence comes to an end with Dubois informing me that he detests city life. Long ago he used to live in Paris – to hear him you would think it were decades rather than a year. I guess time passes slowly here.

  He begins describing his old journey to work. Thinking I'm from England, and not too familiar with Paris, he goes into enough detail to allow me to place his house within a hundred metres. I know he is talking about the commute from his home in rue Léon to the Lacman Brothers' office. He has given away enough of himself for me to be quite certain that he is Gustave Marty. I guess a man in hiding is cursed with a desperation to unload his every trivial thought and feeling. I wonder if Nathalie knows his true identity. She brings me over some salad and chunks of bread. Marty has the same food as mine only it's littered with bits of flesh. She puts the plates down and tells Marty we can have some vegetable stew later – it will simmer in the pot and we should help ourselves.

  'This is the life, my friend.' Marty smiles and dabs his lips with a napkin.

  Nathalie comes over and kisses Marty on the forehead. 'I'm leaving now, my dear. I'll come around again tomorrow afternoon.' She turns to me. 'Goodnight, monsieur Nickson.'

  I raise my hat and smile at her.

  When she has gone: 'That is a most informal maid you have, Dubois.'

  'She is more than a maid, a little less than a wife.'

  'A little less?'

  'She spends the night at her home in the village. I have often asked her to move in here but she says it would be undignified. That does not mean we don't take occasional naps together in the afternoon.'

  'Why not marry her?'

  'I'm not the marrying kind. I value my freedom too highly.'

  Freedom not to reveal your real name on a marriage certificate. Perhaps Nathalie doesn't know who he really is.

  'The freedom to sleep alone at night?' I say.

  'No, that is freedom's price. I grew weary of the city and its confines. I moved down here in search of the simple life. I was lucky. I cashed in all my American stocks before the crash and I was never foolish enough to buy French bonds. I'd been planning to spend my days hunting and fishing. Then, about a month or so after my arrival, I was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. That put pay to most of my plans. I have found since then that my greatest pleasure is to sit in the garden and watch the sun pass overhead. We have become great friends, the sun and I. At night it's sleep I desire, not women. I shan't deny it would be nice to have someone's arms around me while I sleep.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that – about the disease.'

  'I suppose in some way I am reconciled to it. At least I'm reconciled to this life. It's more sedate than I'd planned but it isn't bad. Maybe I'll marry Nathalie someday; I have a horrible vision of myself passing away in bed and nobody noticing. But let's not get too maudlin. How about another glass?'

  We change the subject and talk for a while longer.

  'Time for my bed, Mr Nickson. Sad to say, but I rarely remain up past seven these days. You make yourself at home – I've shown you your room, go to it when you will. I'll bid you goodnight and don't worry, I'll fish you out some nightclothes. They'll be a bit too small for you but they'll do, I'm sure.'

  The chilled white wine has long since gone. I pour myself a glass of rough red and light a cigarette. For a time I hear creaking and the occasional cough before the house grows silent. Marty must be asleep or at least trying to sleep. The time has come for me to go through his drawers. I can't help feeling a little despicable - rummaging through his personal belongings and violating the trust of my host. I finger the bump on the back of my head, which still hurts slightly when I press it, and continue with my task.

  There is little of interest in the kitchen so I move on to the Versailles room. The darkness, with shadows cast by a candle I'm holding, makes this room quite creepy. There is a small trunk on the far side of one of the couches. The thing has been locked. I get out my penknife and start picking at the lock with one of the blade attachments. Aged thirteen, I would have had this open in a few minutes. Aged thirty-four, in a darkened room, it takes me ten. What sort of a man puts cushions in a locked trunk? I squeeze them in case something is hidden inside of them. There is – duck feathers. I empty everything out of the trunk by turning it upside down. The inside is made up of slatted wood. There is no lining to hide anything behind. He really does keep four cushions under lock and key. Perhaps it gives him a thrill, when there are guests over, to know that he has cushions held captive in the drawing room.

  The ceiling creaks and I hear Marty cough. I freeze, holding one of the cushions and looking up at the ceiling. His bedroom must be directly above this room. Don't come downstairs now, Marty, get back into bed. I can hear him walking around, then silence. The silence lasts around two minutes and is broken by the unmistakable sound of piss hitting an empty chamber pot. The torrent stops and the floorboards sound off before the bedsprings groan. I stick the cushions back in the trunk, listening out all the time until I hear him snoring.

  In the hallway, near the front door, is a bureau. In any other house I would say it was a strange place to have one. The drawers are unlocked. I pull out a bundle of bills and letters. They are all addressed to Dubois. Nothing in there says that he is Marty. I want something conclusive. Everything is pointing that way: the fact he is Belgian, where Dubois is supposed to be French; the route he described to work; he told me that he had worked as a stockbroker. There is also the fact that there are no other outsiders in Vaour. His illness has left him looking older and thinner than he had been described, but even then he nearly fits the bill. If I can find one thing that says Marty, I'll go home and claim my fee.

  Upstairs there's one long hallway with a few rooms coming off it. At the end of the hallway there's a window which overlooks the darkness between here and the village. The floorboards do their best to give me away. I walk along to my room which is next door to my host's. Oh, the devil take it!

  I walk past my room to Marty's. I place my ear against his door and listen to him snoring. I can feel an electrical surge coursing up and down my body – a fearful excitement. I'm beginning to enjoy the sensation.

  I would not have opened the door so carefully and slowly if I'd genuinely thought it to be my room. I doubt that Marty, in his drowsiness, will notice such a detail. The room is pitch black, except for the small amount of light following me from the hallway. Marty's breathing is low and guttural. My first step is onto a squeaking floorboard. I freeze. Marty is still breathing nice and slow. The wine must have sent him into a deep sleep. I leave the door open slightly so I can leave with as little noise as possible. Crouching down in the corner I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  I'm beginning to make out shapes in the room: a dressing table; a wardrobe; the bed. Upon the bed I can see the shape of Marty's curled-up body. The wardrobe is within arm's reach of me. I'm sitting between the bed and the dressing table. Let's get this over with. Stretching out my body and moving along on my elbows, I reach the dressing table. I open the drawers and feel around inside with my hands. Unable to see well enough I rely on my sense of touch.

  The next few minutes are spent groping socks, under garments, braces and handkerchiefs. Ready to give up I push my hand in as far as I can force it and hit upon a small bundle. They feel like postcards. Why would he be hiding postcards in the sock drawer? They must be personal and if they are personal they must be addressed to Marty. I take them out for a look - there are about ten. I can't see well enough in this light. I lie down again and stretch myself out towards the door. I push it open a fraction and, with the scant extra light it provides, I take a look at th
e card on top. Strange – it's blank. I turn it over to reveal a naked woman kneeling upon a piano stool. The next one shows a naked woman standing in front of a painted jungle scene. I go through them one by one and each reveals a naked woman in a compromising pose. I return them to the drawer and wait a moment for my eyes to readjust to the darkness.

  A cloud must have passed away from the moon allowing some light to get in through a crack in the shutters. Taking advantage of this light I stand up to get a good look around the room. On the far side of the bed I spot a cabinet with a drawer in it. I lie and crawl like a Boer commando. If it all goes horribly wrong I can run downstairs and get on my bike. Even if Marty has a gun he will be full of sleep. Christ, I hope he doesn't sleep with a gun though - a man silhouetted in the doorway makes for an easy target.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Crawling around the floor is an exceptionally uncomfortable way to travel. The unnatural position has caused my right leg to start aching. I'm on the verge of getting cramp, my leg muscles preparing to spasm. On the point of giving up I come face-to-face with his chamber pot. This is disgusting work. I should become an art dealer or an art thief – I could begin with that painting downstairs.

  There is no way to crawl past the pot without tipping it over so I get up and step past it. Then I tip-toe the rest of the way to the cupboard. Once there I crouch down and wait - no need to rush. The bed starts grumbling. I can see Marty, under a cover, about two feet away. Unnervingly, he is facing right at me. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open. In this slight light he resembles a waxwork model. I wish he would roll over and face the other way.

  I pull open the drawer. Medicine bottles and tins of pills ring out against each other. Nothing in there of use to me. I spend longer closing the drawer than I do shaving in the morning. The cupboard beneath the drawer opens with a click. A shelf divides it in half. On the top are cravats and silk ties – I dislike the sensation of the silk against my dry hands. The lower section holds a pair of shoes. I take them out to look inside; nothing but old newspaper. I place them back and, for want of any better ideas, I pull out the ties.

  One of the ties has a different texture to the others. I place it on the floor and return the rest. All the other ties had been made of pure silk - this one isn't. I hold it up so it catches the scant light reaching the room. This tie is frayed. Marty strikes me as a man who would throw out a frayed tie. I move closer to the shutters and take a better look. Hey presto! It's his old school tie and his mother has been kind enough to sew his name onto it: Gustave Marty. That'll do for me. I return the tie to the cupboard and begin to crawl out of the room. Sod it. I get up and walk out, leaving Marty snoring on the bed.

  *

  Marty is in a jovial mood at breakfast. Having a house guest seems to have brought out the best in him. When I first met him on the deckchair he'd struck me as a grumpy sot. Nathalie is here too, and she's fussing over him. She behaves like a caring elder sister, wiping away a line of drool from his chin while handing him a coffee. She greets me with a warm smile; perhaps she realises I have put Marty in a good mood. Maybe, later, she'll ask him for a rise.

  'Good morning, Mister,' she says in English.

  I reply in broken French. Having gotten this simple protocol out of the way she goes into the garden and leaves us to our coffee.

  'She really is a splendid woman, you know,' Marty says.

  'I'm sure she is, Mr Dubois.'

  'Please, call me Raymond.'

  'Raymond.'

  'I have been thinking about our conversation yesterday; maybe I ought to marry her. It wasn't so long ago I only thought of women as things for me to screw. Screw and, of course, perform the household chores. Now the illness, it has stolen much of my vibrancy.'

  Even through his waxen face an odd, impish smile punctuates his sentences. In his prime he would have been a real charmer. Despite the things he says I find myself endeared to him. In his presence I forget that he is a man who tried to have me killed and that two other detectives were not so lucky. Only if I close my eyes tight can I recall his thievery and brutality.

  I help myself to bread and jam which has been left on the table. Marty witters on about changes and new beginnings. Soon after he finishes I tell him I have to get going. He asks if I'd like to stay on for a couple more days. I tell him I have engagements elsewhere. Another few hours in his company and I might grow to like him.

  I'm waved off by the pair of them and ten minutes later I'm cycling into Vaour. The sleepy main road seems to call out from centuries past. Even the petrol pump and its narcoleptic attendant could have witnessed the Knights Templar as they rode into town. The place creates an illusion of perpetual stability.

  These pleasant daydreams burn away as I hit the hills to Saint-Antonin. Sweat and spit fall away from me as I reach the final summit. Downhill now, all the way to town. I will catch a train to Paris. I don't want to delay celebrating the end of the case by trying to cycle back.

  Catching a train means cycling for an hour to the nearest station. A guard stows the bicycle in the luggage van while I take my compartment. For a flicker of a moment I think about buying a second class ticket. But the first class carriage has enough space for me to stretch out my legs. Once duly stretched I fall asleep. The rocking of the train is as good as any cradle. I'm woken three or four times – as we pull into stations or the conductor checks my ticket. Four hours of sleep later I stretch my legs by walking to the restaurant car. I find a table to myself and order a coffee and some fruit.

  Having found Marty I'm left with one unresolved question: why? Why did Marie make me traipse around the country looking for this man? The more I think about it the less obvious it becomes. I had thought of her as being conned by Marty. I'm not so sure anymore. Maybe they were partners and he ran off with her share of the cash. She has money, not a lot, but she does not appear to work.

  I know how she'll react when I tell her I've found him. She won't smile. She might say thank you. Then she'll bid me a good day and that'll be the end of it. I want more than that sort of pay-off. I want to know why. I would take that knowledge as payment in full; she could keep the cash. Clients are secretive; detectives are inquisitive.

  If I can't finish a case without buying the lowdown I might as well shut up shop. I have to take the money as a point of principle. This should not stop me trying to find out why I was hired. I play over a few scenarios but fail to contrive a situation where Marie reveals her secret. Potential conversations are enacted in my mind. They never reach the point of her saying, 'Well, I suppose I should explain...'

  The train meanders through the outskirts of Paris as the late afternoon sun lights up the tracks. For the whole journey, in-between sleeping and eating, I've been smirking and thinking of myself as something special. I haven't told Megan I'm coming home yet. I want to see her face when I tell her I found Marty.

  My smugness is punctuated by the reality that it wasn't a great achievement. I only had to find someone. I didn't have to demonstrate how a seemingly impossible event actually occurred. I just followed a trail from one end of the country to the other. The achievement feels greater because it is the first thing I have completed since my demob. My other cases, and there have been two of them, left me with no sense of anything. For the first one I had to stand outside a hotel until a certain man entered and then I had to telephone his wife. The second one involved escorting an elderly gent to Reims. They didn't tell me why but I assume he was carrying a load of cash.

  The train comes to its final halt and I pass among the crowds on the platform. An idea strikes me - the creepy kid, Stefan. There's always a chance that his persistence may have allowed him to discover something. Or for Marie to confide in him in the way old spinsters confide in their cats. Given that our last meeting involved a lot of violence on my part I do not expect the kid to be forthcoming. I do expect him to behave like a lovesick pup and I can play that. I'll wager he spends his time writing her name o
n bits of paper and letting out feeble sighs; that is when he isn't spying on her or masturbating.

  I wheel my bicycle from the train to the street. People are giving me funny looks. I realise I'm muttering away to myself. I can't decide whether to ride home and drop off my bags or head straight to Montmartre and Stefan. I decide on Montmartre.

  The kid is not in or not answering the door. I can't be fagged to track him down, or do much else for that matter. I flop down in a café and order a coffee. It's cold today, and grey too, even for Paris. I feel it more as it was so warm down south. A few people pass by wearing thick coats; it'll be June soon. Are we not getting a summer this year? There aren't actually that many people about. Four o'clock - too late for the Montmartre tourists and too early for the party-goers. This is an in-between time where the district gets to take a breath before it all starts up again.

  The place is never actually empty, though. The area has its own stragglers - drunks, junkies and the insane. People wade about in their own vice and squalor. They stand on street corners talking to pet rats concealed in their coat pockets. They stare at you blankly; having lost all powers of recognition, every stranger could be an old friend come to help. The echo of the Communards' cannons has died, replaced by the shouts and laments of the street walkers. The struggling artists have crawled across to Montparnasse. Buildings lie empty which once held Zola, Maupassant, and Gambetta. The nightclubs dream their day-time dreams. An old man stoops to pick up a cigarette butt. The wind catches it making him stoop again further up the hill.

  I wait for hours, or minutes, I don't know which. The waiter has taken my early saucers and the sun doesn't shine. My stomach rumbles. Across the street I perceive the greasy ghoulish form of the kid as he slithers among the dustbins and iron rails at the side of the street. He takes up no space and moves with occasional jerks as if dodging flies. I leave some cash on the table and slip out of the café. I want to catch him as he reaches his front door.