by Cara Black
“Entrez,” a voice said.
A young man wearing a T-shirt in red, white, and green, the Basque colors, and a wool cap sat behind a computer screen, humming to himself. Posters on the wall showed the picturesque harbor of Saint Jean de Luz and caramel stone castle fortresses in the Pyrénées, proclaiming LE PAYS BASQUE, VIVE LA DIFFéRENCE.
“Bonjour, Monsieur.” She smiled.
He pointed to the twilight descending over the jagged rooftops outside the window. “More like bonsoir, Mademoiselle.” He gave her a big grin. “I’m Edrigu. You’re here for tickets to the fête? We’ve got a special top DJ from Pau.”
“I wish, but I’m out of town then,” she said. “But my friend Irati.… ”
“That’s my daughter’s middle name,” he said. “Beautiful, eh? Means fern, you know.”
“Vraiment? Then you know my friend?” she asked, hopeful. “She gave me this.”
He shook his head. His brow creased as he perused the leaflet in Aimée’s hand. Gave a snort. “Old news. The Euskadi Action?” He stood up from the computer, glanced at the time. “Haven’t seen them for a while. We disagree with these protests. Not worth your while.”
“But it lists your center.… ”
“We pulled out,” he said. “Those types ruin the dialogue, stop progress for Basque autonomy. We’re progressive here.”
“How’s that?” she said.
“Simple. The referendum passed, and our consul Goikoetxea’s brokering negotiations for a Basque peace settlement,” he said. “Euskadi Action’s staging a protest. So what? For once, the Progressives gained a majority. Almost a done deal. Goikoetxea’s here to seal it.”
She recalled the article in Le Parisien. But how did it involve Irati?
“So you’re saying Goikoetxea’s a force for peace—”
“And progress, modern thinking,” he said. “Unlike ETA or the splinter group Euskadi Action. There’s more to Basque nationalism than our famous Ixtapha cherries and bombs. He’s making the official announcement of the new accord at the Marmottan reception.”
Piped strains of tinny music drifted in from outside the window. The music of childhood. “Aahh, the orgue de Barbarie,” he said.
Down on the cobblestoned street, an older man was turning the handle of an organ barrel. A few children looked out their windows, pointing. Aimée reached in her bag and threw down a coin from the window, as she’d done as a child.
Edrigu shut down the computer and pulled on his windbreaker. “My daughter would love to see this. I’ve got to pick her up from l’école maternelle.” He paused at the door. “If you want to know more, ask the mecs at the bistro.”
“Where’s that?”
“On the corner.”
* * *
FOR ALL THE bistro’s turn-of-the-century decor—pale nicotine-stained ceilings, an out-of-commission charcoal-burning stove with a flowerpot of asters crowning it, age-spotted mirrors above the red-and-white—checked tablecloths, lace curtains over faded lettering on fogged-up windows—the clientele surprised Aimée. Not the usual upscale wedge of the 16th outfitted in Hermès scarves, pearls, and tweeds.
Here the men at the bar wore flat black berets and loose suit jackets, and they perched over shot glasses of a pale yellow liquid. Everyone was smoking.
She’d kicked the habit. Three days and three hours short of a month. Not that she missed it.
To a man, they all turned, gave her a once-over that lasted a second, then turned back without a break in their conversation. A closed world, and she’d been noted as an outsider to their camaraderie. Her palms tingled; she felt as if she’d time traveled and been dropped into a Basque bistro in Bayonne. Complete with locals, pelota playing on the télé, and the aroma of something simmering in a red wine sauce.
At one of the tables, two older men—one wore a pinstriped suit, the other a cashmere overcoat—were selecting from a plate of green and black olives. The air lay thick with the tang of Gauloises and a dialect that she figured was Basque.
The only other female, a young woman in jeans and an apron, was sweeping the floor and didn’t look up.
Still, Aimée had to concentrate, use this as a route to find out about the Euskadi Action group and its link to Irati.
If Irati was receiving flyers from a Basque group down the street that didn’t meet any more, Aimée doubted it could be linked to Xavierre’s murder. Yet Xavierre would be known in this Basque community. Hadn’t René said that everything with the Basques was political? A peace announcement seemed to be imminent; little good that info did her. But right now she was clutching at straws, anything to point in a different direction regarding Xavierre’s murder. Any suspect instead of Morbier.
“Something to chase the cold, Mademoiselle?” The barman gestured to a stool. “This gentleman offers to buy you a drink.”
Time to learn whatever she could here. And a drink sounded good.
Aimée knocked back the shot of Izarra, the sweet Basque liqueur with its signature star on the bottle’s label.
“Forty different herbs; good for the heart, the digestion, and the spirit,” said the short white-haired man next to her.
More like forty proof. The herbal taste burned the back of her throat. He winked and pushed his beret farther up his flushed forehead. “Now, if I was forty years younger.… ”
“But you’re not, Citu,” said a man from the table. “Quit boring the young lady.”
The man at the table cocked his fist by his nose, the gesture meaning tipsy. Like most of the ones leaning on the bar, she’d noticed from their glazed eyes and high-octane breath. So far, they’d muttered in a Basque dialect and were more interested in the handball game than conversation.
“Some olives, Mademoiselle?”
But an idea sparked into her head. No doubt inspired by the Izarra.
“Why not?” She gave a big smile and sat down at their table. “Maybe you can advise me. The Basque center’s closed. I wasted a trip here, but my niece wants to learn Basque,” she said. “I promised her a visit to Bayonne. Irati suggested the Center might give classes. But is it safe?”
“You’ve never had an olive like these. Taste.” Like a command, the man in the cashmere overcoat with a poker face rivaling film star Lino Ventura’s pushed the bowl toward her. Wrinkled black and green olives glistening with oil. “From my cousin’s grove in Navarre, aged, then cured high in the Alta Pyrénées.”
She chewed, tasting a deep explosion of herbs, almost the warmth of the sun, the meaty olive.
“Voilà, look at her face. She understands.” He gave a knowing look to his friend, jabbed him in the rib. Close-cropped white hair, rugged cheekbones, he let out a big laugh that splintered his face. “Ours is a language of the eyes. Oui, you already speak a little Basque.” Deep laughter erupted from his chest. “You Parisians don’t know from olives, don’t know from our country. Always worried, for what? Our people respect the land; we live with nature, not that old bloodshed.”
She spit the pit into her palm, dropped it in the ashtray.
“Didn’t I tell you, eh?” he said. “I’ll leave some with the owner. Bring your niece. The girl must visit the Basque country. Learn our language, the oldest language in the world, our customs; not even the Romans ruled us. She’ll never come back.”
“You’re from the tourist board?” She smiled. A high-powered broker of a sort, she figured, with his long black cashmere coat, well-cut suit underneath. A type to move in Xavierre’s circles.
He jabbed his friend again. “I like her.” He extended his hand, gripped Aimée’s in a strong handshake. “Beñat. My friend Paulo.”
“Aimée. But maybe you know my friend Irati,” she said. “Irati’s involved in the Euskadi Action, lives nearby.”
Paulo shrugged. “We’re here on business.”
“Her mother Xavierre came from Bayonne,” she said, lowering her eyes. “It was … terrible. It was on the news last night. Her murder.”
“Aah, a tragedy. I
heard.” Paulo shook his head.
“My family knew hers, but years ago,” Beñat said. “Who’d ever think this could happen? Mademoiselle, how can you worry about the Basque country when you’ve got murder here on the streets?”
Beñat erupted in a salvo of coughing and covered his mouth. Racking coughs came from deep in his chest. His eyes watered. “Excusez-moi,” he said when he recovered. “Chest cold. Can’t seem to shake it.”
She didn’t know the man, but she felt sympathy.
“Has the doctor checked that out?”
“We have a deal, the doctors and I,” he said. “I don’t bother them; they don’t bother me.” He shot her a grin, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.
“You sound like my godfather,” she said. Her shoulders tensed, thinking of Morbier in a cold cell in the damp, dripping underground.
“Tell him to try this. Puts the doctors out of business.” He downed a shot glass of Izarra, waved to the barman. “We’re late, Paulo.” He stood, his chair scraping back over the mosaic tiles. He buttoned his coat. “Take your niece to Bayonne, Mademoiselle.” He gave a brief bow. “Enchanté.”
At the bar, Aimée caught the barman’s attention. “What do I owe you?”
He waved her francs away. “Taken care of by the gentlemen.”
“Great olives. May I order some?” she said, hoping to get more of a take on them. “That’s their business, non?”
“And I’m Franco’s bastard love child,” he said, a current running in his voice. No amusement glittered in his eye. “Bayonne business bigwigs. Money coming out of their pores. Ones who moan that the Paris-to-Madrid high-speed train will carve up the Basque countryside, ruin the culture. That’s until their lobbyists bribe planning commissions to build a station near their factory. Then they change their tune. Or ETA stops bombing the tracks.”
“Sounds political.”
“What isn’t?” he said.
That phrase again.
“Or grist for business?”
“Like I said.… ” He trailed off.
Tuesday Early Evening
LEAVES SCUFFLED OUTSIDE the atelier. That detective again? Shaking, Agustino parted the maroon curtains.
Jorge, stoop-shouldered and rail-thin, in jeans and a brown hoodie, with a growth of a sparse reddish stubble on his long face, grinned, waved, and gave a thumbs-up from the brick-andgrass-tufted path.
“The color pops, Agustino.” Jorge shut the studio’s glass door, a Sennelier bag under his arm. “The painting jumps out from all the way—”
“Get out!” Agustino grabbed the Sennelier bag, the veins in his neck pulsing. “Take all this … you piece of shit!”
Jorge’s face fell. His round brown eyes took in the open trunk. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”
“Wrong idea? Think I’m blind, do you? And stupid?”
Agustino heaved out the blue sacks, knocking the easel aside, sending it crashing against the wall. “Putano, you betrayed my trust. Again.”
“I had no choice, Agustino.” Jorge’s eyes batted in fear; then he gave a pleading look. “I had to.”
“Had to put me at risk: my commission, the residency, the Corbusier Foundation grant … stealing again!”
“But they’ll kill me, Agustino.” Jorge’s shoulders shook. Sweat dotted his brow.
Agustino stepped back. What had his nephew gotten into now?
“Who?”
“No one knows; no one saw.” Jorge’s voice rose to a squeak. “I promise, Agustino.”
Agustino shot a glance through the atelier’s windows to the green lawn, the canopy of chestnut-tree branches wavering in the evening wind. The rear lighted windows of belle époque apartment buildings overlooked the park-like enclosure and the eighteenth-century hôtel particulier that somehow had escaped demolition. Fear coursed through Agustino. Who knew what eyes were lurking behind those windows?
“Don’t you realize, you fool, stealing this, it means prison?” Agustino swallowed hard, imagining national security forces swooping into the atelier.
“Just until tonight, please,” Jorge said. “The concierge’s gone, everyone’s still enjoying the long weekend at their résidence secondaire.” He gave a little shrug. “Rich people.”
“What do you know about that?” Agustino’s eyes narrowed. “Or do you case their apartments, steal, and then fence what you’ve stolen?”
“That got me into trouble before,” Jorge said.
At least he didn’t deny it this time.
“Not now, I swear,” Jorge said, a catch in his voice. “But that’s how they found me.”
“Liar.” Agustino didn’t believe a word. “Get out.”
“Maman asked you to help me.” He used that plea over and over.
Agustino’s weak sister couldn’t handle him, nor Jorge’s worthless father, Agustino’s brother-in-law. How many times had he bailed Jorge out of juvenile detention?
“You’re in the big time, Jorge, stealing official documents. I can’t help you now.”
He rubbed his sweat-stained shirt, envisioning Jorge graduated to organized crime, the atelier as a depot for stolen goods to be sold on the Eastern European black market. Good god.
“But the mec followed me from the café.”
“And just like that, he—”
“Stuck a gun in my ribs,” Jorge interrupted. “Shoved me in the back of a van. Drove it right up to the rear entrance. But I wasn’t going to involve you.… ”
Agustino spit in disgust. “What kind of fantasy … ?”
“He knew about you.” Jorge gulped. “If you got angry, he said to tell you Remember ’74. That he was just a messenger, but you’d understand.”
A cold vise clutched Agustino.
“Does he mean the time you lost your fingers in jail?” Jorge said in that trembling, innocent, lost voice of the little boy he’d once been.
Merde! It couldn’t be. Xavierre, and now.…
Agustino’s mind went back to the dank blood-smeared cell, moisture dripping from the stone. Twenty of them sweating, crowded inside with one chipped enamel pot to piss in. The gangrene blackening his fingers. But that had happened in another lifetime.
“A political action years ago? That’s over. My life’s changed, Jorge,” he said. His throat caught, remembering that day: the hoarse shouts, the acrid black smoke winding through glazed silver leaves on the olive trees, the thwack of police truncheons on the demonstrators. Xavierre’s high-pitched screams. The policeman caught in the bombing. The mistake.
Jorge trembled. “He gave me no choice. I’m sorry, Agustino.”
“But that’s all over. My art celebrates peace, the cease-fire we’re working to achieve, our Basque traditions.”
“One thing never changes, Agustino. We’re Basque.”
One hell of a payback. Had Xavierre refused to cooperate and paid the price? From outside came the rustling of branches, the skitter of birds in bushes.
“If you dont …” Jorge swallowed, then looked down at his Adidas, “… he’ll slit my throat, Agustino.”
Tuesday Night
IN THE OFFICE of Leduc Detective, Aimée banked more juniper logs on the fire to combat the damp chill. Determined to catch up on work, she made un express on their office machine, then monitored the relay data feed from the suspect VP and filed a status report. All of which took her half an hour. Restless, she completed René’s two security proposals and got a jump on their accounts. Working on a Tuesday evening, and it would still take an hour before she could make much of a dent in the work piled on her desk. But it didn’t keep her mind off Xavierre’s lifeless eyes. The questions.
She wished to god none of this had ever happened. That she hadn’t failed Morbier. But wishing wouldn’t bring Xavierre back or vindicate Morbier. Or do anything about the guilty feeling that she could have prevented it.
Somehow.
She took a roll of fax paper, unwound it, and taped it like a banner across the wall. Her mind worked better when she
could see in black and white what made sense and what didn’t. With a black marker, she drew a grid for a chart listing Xavierre, Irati, Robbé, Cybèle, Agustino, and Madame de Boucher, leaving blanks for guests. She sketched a rough map of Xavierre’s street, the high-walled back lane; diagrammed the town house layout, the garden.
She drew a column for evidence, under which she taped pieces of gravel from her pocket, the Euskadi Action flyer, and the photo of Xavierre and Irati by the Mercedes. Under a question mark, she wrote Heels at Lab, Footprint, Tiepin, Lyon Driver, and FRAMED? in bold letters. Under unknowns she wrote The Murderer.
Things began to form a pattern, in a confused sort of way. The flics, calling this a crime of passion, hadn’t been so far off the mark. Xavierre couldn’t have been out of sight five minutes, if that. The attack reeked of desperation; she felt that too.
Something had gone very wrong.
Under The Murderer she wrote Wounded? Man arguing, guests. But she felt she’d missed something.
She raked her memory, pacing back and forth. If Irati blamed Morbier, what explained her almost palpable fear? Nothing added up.
Did Irati hold the key? But Irati wouldn’t talk to her. Unless.…
Bon, then she’d listen. She checked her Rolodex, found a number she hadn’t called in several years. Busy.
She tapped her high-heeled boot. Impatient, she checked the time, dialed again. Busy, always busy. She shut down her laptop.
In the rear armoire, she found her stonewashed suede leggings, warmest cashmere sweater, and red high-tops. She pulled on her faux fur to combat the cold.
Down on rue de Rivoli, her breath frosted in the night air. Before she turned the corner to her parked scooter, her cell phone vibrated in her bag.
Thesset with news of the Mercedes? Anxiously she hit ANSWER.
“Oui?” Her breath came out in puffs of frost. “You found it?”
“Found what? But perfect timing, Aimée.”
She knew that voice. Her spine tingled, jolting her back to that evening haze of candlelight, the empty Champagne bottle, his clothes on the floor.