The stakes weren’t high enough. I couldn’t confront Batisti with what amounted to the daydreams of an angler. What cards did I have left? Four queens. Babette: friendship found. Leila: a missed opportunity. Marie-Lou: a promise given. Lole: lost but still awaited. Clubs, spades, diamonds, hearts. So much for the love of women, I told myself as I parked about a hundred yards from Batisti’s villa.
He was probably waiting anxiously for a call from Simone. After my call to Les Restanques, he must have made up his mind very quickly. To take us all out in one fell swoop. Acting in a hurry wasn’t Batisti’s usual style. He was cold and calculating, like all people who bear a grudge. But the opportunity had been too good to miss. It wouldn’t come again and it coincided neatly with the aim he’d set himself when he’d buried Tino.
I walked all the way around the outside of the villa. The front gate was closed and there was no way I could get through a lock like that. Not to mention that it was probably connected to an alarm system. I couldn’t see myself ringing the bell and saying: “Hi, Batisti, it’s me, Montale.” I was stuck. Then I remembered that all these buildings could be reached on foot, along old paths that went all the way down to the sea. Ugo, Manu and I had explored every inch of this area. I went back to my car, and drove down, with the engine off, as far as the Corniche. I engaged the clutch, drove another five hundred yards and turned left along Vallon de la Baudille. I parked and continued on foot up the steps of Traverse Olivary.
I was directly to the east of Batisti’s villa, facing the perimeter wall. I walked along it until I found what I was looking for. The old wooden door leading into the garden. It was covered in Virginia creepers. It couldn’t have been used in years. There was no lock, no latch. I just pushed open the door and walked in.
The ground floor was lighted. I walked around the outside of the house. A fanlight was open. I jumped, steadied myself, and slipped inside. The bathroom. I took out my gun and entered the house. In the big living room, Batisti sat in shorts and a leather undershirt in front of the TV screen. A video was playing. Don’t Look Now...We’re Being Shot At. He’d dozed off and was snoring quietly. I crept up to him and put my gun to his temple. He jumped.
“A ghost.”
He blinked, realized who I was, and turned white.
“I left the others at Les Restanques. I don’t care for family parties. Or for Saint Valentine’s Day. Do you want the details? The body count, that kind of thing?”
“And Simone?” he stammered.
“On top form. You have a very beautiful daughter. You should have introduced us. I like that kind of woman too. Shit! Manu gets everything, and his friends get nothing.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He was fully awake now.
“Don’t move, Batisti. Put your hands in the pockets of your shorts and don’t move. I’m tired, and I can easily lose control.” He did as I said, but I could see the wheels in his head turning. “Don’t build up your hopes. Your two wops are dead too.”
“Tell me about Manu. When did he meet Simone?”
“Two years ago. Maybe more. His girlfriend was away at the time, I can’t remember where. Spain, I think. I’d invited him for a bouillabaisse, at l’Épuisette, in the Vallon des Auffes. Simone joined us. Les Restanques was closed that day. They got on well, but I didn’t realize. Not straight away. I didn’t mind about Simone and Manu. True, I’ve never been able to stand the Poli brothers. Especially Émile.
“Then the girl came back. I thought it was over between him and Simone. I was relieved. I didn’t want any trouble. Émile was a violent guy. But I was wrong. They were still seeing each other, and—”
“Spare me the details.”
One day I said to Simone, “Manu’s doing one more job for me and then he’s taking off for Seville, with his girlfriend.”
“Oh!” went Simone, “I didn’t know.” I realized it wasn’t over between them. But it was too late, I’d blown it.”
“Are you telling me she killed him?”
“He’d told her they’d be going away together. To Costa Rica, or somewhere in that part of the world. Ugo had told him it was a great place.”
“Are you telling me she killed him?” I repeated. “Say it, for fuck’s sake!”
“Yeah.”
I hit him. I’d been wanting to do it for a long time. Then I hit him a second time, and a third. Crying all the while. Because I knew I couldn’t press the trigger. Or even strangle him. There was no hate left in me. Only disgust. Could I hate Simone for being as beautiful as Lole? Could I hate Manu for fucking the ghost of a lost love? Could I hate Ugo for breaking Lole’s heart?
I’d put down my gun, thrown myself on Batisti, and lifted him. I just kept hitting him. He was completely limp now. I let go of him and he sank to the floor, on all fours. He looked up at me like a dog. A scared dog.
“I could shoot you, but you’re not worth it,” I said, though that was exactly what I wanted to do.
“You said it!” a voice yelled behind us. “Lie down on the floor, asshole. Legs apart, hands on your head. You, old man, stay where you.”
Wepler.
I’d forgotten about him.
He walked around us, picked up my gun, checked it was loaded, and removed the safety catch. His arm was dripping with blood.
“Thanks for showing me the way, asshole!” he said, kicking me.
Batisti was sweating buckets. “Wait, Wepler!” he begged.
“You’re worse than all the Chinks put together. Worse than the fucking Arabs.” With my gun in his hand, he walked up to Batisti and put the barrel against his temple. “Get up. You’re a worm, but you’re going to die standing up.”
Batisti got to his feet. He was an obscene sight, in his shorts and undershirt, with sweat pouring down his body over rolls of fat. And fear in his eyes. Killing was easy. Dying was something else.
The shot rang out.
And the room echoed with several reports. Batisti collapsed on top of me. I saw Wepler take a couple of steps, as if performing a ballet. There was another shot, and he went through the glass door.
I was covered in blood. Batisti’s rotten blood. His eyes were open, looking at me.
“Ma...nu..” he stammered. “I... loved...”
A gush of blood spattered my face. And I vomited.
Then I saw Auch. And the others. His squad. Then Babette running to me. I pushed away Batisti’s body. Babette kneeled.
“Are you OK?”
“Where’s Pérol? I told you to get Pérol.”
“He’s had an accident. They were chasing a car. A Mercedes with gypsies in it. Cerutti lost control of the car on the coast highway, above the Bassin de Radoub. It skidded. Pérol died immediately.”
“Help me,” I said, holding out my hand to her.
I felt dizzy. Death was everywhere. On my hands. On my lips. In my mouth. In my body. In my head. I was a walking corpse.
I swayed. Babette slipped her arm under my shoulder. Auch came toward us. His hands in his pockets, as usual. Sure of himself, proud, strong.
“How are you feeling?” he said, looking at me.
“Can’t you see? Ecstatic.”
“You’re just a pain in the ass, Fabio. In a few days, we’d have collared all of them. You had to go fuck it up. Now all we’re left with is a pile of corpses.”
“Did you know? About Morvan? About everything?”
He nodded. He was pleased with himself, when all was said and done. “They just kept making mistakes. Starting with your buddy. That was too much.”
“You knew about Ugo too? You let him do it?”
“We had to see things through. It would have been the haul of the century. Arrests all over Europe.”
He offered me a cigarette, and I punched him in the face, with a strength I’d found somewhere in the deepest of the black, damp hol
es where Manu, Ugo and Leila were rotting. I was screaming.
After that, it seems, I fainted.
EPILOGUE
NOTHING CHANGES, AND IT’S A NEW DAY
I woke around noon, wanting to take a leak. The answerphone display told me there were six messages. I really didn’t give a shit. I immediately sank back into the blackest darkness, as if I’d smashed my head on an anvil. By the time I resurfaced, the sun was setting. There were eleven messages now, but they could all wait. In the kitchen, there was a note from Honorine. Didn’t notice you were sleeping. I put some farci in the fridge. Marie-Lou called. Everything’s fine. She says hi. Babette brought back your car. She says hi too. She’d added What’s wrong with your phone? Is it out of order? Anyhow I say hi too. And then another postscript: I read the newspaper.
I couldn’t stay like this for long. Beyond the door, the earth was still turning. There were a few less bastards in the world. It was another day, but nothing had changed. Outside, it still smelled bad. I couldn’t do anything about that. Neither could anyone. It was called life: a cocktail of love and hate, strength and weakness, violence and passivity. And people were waiting for me. My bosses, Auch, Cerutti. Pérol’s wife. Driss, Kader, Jasmine, Karine. Mouloud. Mavros. Djamel maybe. Marie-Lou who said hi. And Babette and Honorine who also said hi.
But I could take my time. I needed silence. I didn’t want to move, let alone talk. I had a farci, two tomatoes and three courgettes. At least six bottles of wine, including two white Cassis. A pack of cigarettes, barely started. Enough Lagavulin. I could hold out another night and a day. Maybe one more night after that.
Now that I’d slept, and had recovered from the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours, the ghosts were about to launch their attack. They started with a dance of death. I was in the tub, smoking, a glass of Lagavulin next to me. I’d closed my eyes for a moment, and there they all were. Formless, decomposing masses of gristle and blood. Supervised by Batisti, they were busy exhuming the bodies of Manu and Ugo. Leila’s too, tearing her clothes off. I wanted to go down and save them, get them away from these monsters. I couldn’t open the grave, though, and I was afraid of putting my foot in the black hole. But Auch was standing behind me, with his hands in his pockets, and kicking me in the ass, pushing me forward. I was falling, falling into the slimy hole. I pulled my head out of the water, and breathed hard. Then I sprinkled myself with cold water.
I stood at the window, naked, a glass in my hand, looking out at the sea. I was in luck: it was a starless night. I didn’t dare go out on the terrace for fear of meeting Honorine. I was washed and scrubbed, but the smell of death still clung to my body. It was in my head too, which was worse. Babette had saved my life. So had Auch. I loved one and hated the other. I still didn’t feel hungry. And even the sound of the waves was getting on my nerves. I took two Lexomil and went back to bed.
I did three things when I got up the next morning about eight. I had coffee with Honorine on the terrace. We talked about this and that, the weather, the drought, the forest fires that were starting up early this year. Next, I wrote a letter of resignation. I kept it brief. I didn’t really know who I was anymore, but I certainly wasn’t a cop. Then I swam, for thirty-five minutes. Unhurriedly, without forcing. As I came out of the water, I looked at my boat. It was still too early to take it out. I should have been fishing for Pérol and his wife and daughter, but now there was no need. Maybe I’d go out tomorrow. Or the day after. I’d get back my taste for fishing. And for simple pleasures. Honorine was watching me from the top of the steps. She was depressed to see me like this, but she wouldn’t ask me any questions. She’d wait for me to speak, if I wanted to. She went back inside before I climbed the steps.
I put on walking shoes and a cap, and took a backpack with a thermos of water and a terry towel. I needed to walk. The road through the calanques had always had a calming effect on me. I stopped off at a florist’s shop at the Mazargue crossroads, and chose a dozen roses to be delivered to Babette. I’ll call you. Thanks. Then I set off for the Gineste pass.
I got back late. I’d walked from one calanque to the next. Then I’d swum and dived and climbed. Concentrating on my legs and arms and muscles. And on my breathing. In, out. Putting one leg, one arm in front of the other. Then another leg, another arm. Sweating out all the impurities, drinking, sweating again. Pumping oxygen back into my blood. Now I could return to the land of the living.
Mint and basil. The smell filled my lungs, which were now as good as new. My heart started pounding. I took a deep breath. On the low table were the mint and basil plants I’d watered every time I’d been to Lole’s place. Next to them, a canvas suitcase, and another, smaller one in black leather.
Lole appeared in the doorway leading to the terrace. Wearing jeans and a black sleeveless top. Her coppery skin gleamed. She was just the way she’d always been. The way I’d never stopped dreaming about her. Beautiful. She’d moved through time, untouched. Her face lit up in a smile. Her eyes rested on me.
Her eyes. On me.
“I called. There was no reply. About fifteen times. So I took a taxi and here I am.”
Here we were, face to face. Just a few feet between us. Neither of us moved. Her arms hung by her sides. It was as if the surprise of finding ourselves in this situation had rooted us to the spot. We were alive, and we were too scared to move.
“I’m glad. That you’re here.”
I talked.
I came out with more trite phrases than I ever knew existed. How hot it is! Would you like to take a shower? How long have you been here? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you want to put on some music? Would you like a scotch?
She smiled again. No more small talk. She sat down on the couch, in front of the mint and basil plants. “I couldn’t leave them there.” Another smile. “Only you could have done that.”
“Someone had to. Don’t you think so?”
“I think I’d have come back, whatever you did, or didn’t do.”
“Watering them was my way of reviving the spirit of the place. It was you who taught us that. If the spirit is alive, the other person can’t be far away. I needed you. Without you, I couldn’t live, couldn’t move forward, open doors. I was living an enclosed life. Out of laziness. You always make do with less. One day you make do with what you have, and you think that’s happiness.”
She stood up and came toward me. With her ethereal walk. My arms were open. All I had to do was hug her to me. She kissed me. Her lips had the velvety quality of the roses I’d sent that morning to Babette, and they were more or less the same dark red. Her tongue searched for mine. We had never before kissed like this.
The world was falling back into place. Our lives. Everything we’d lost or forgotten, all our failures, finally had a meaning. With one kiss.
That kiss.
I reheated the farci, and drizzled olive oil over it. We ate it with a bottle of Terrane, a Tuscan red that I’d been keeping for a special occasion. The souvenir of a journey to Volterra with Rosa. I told Lole everything that had happened. In detail. It was like scattering the ashes of someone who’s died, to be borne away on the wind.
“I knew. About Simone. But I didn’t believe in Manu and Simone. anymore than I believed in Manu and Lole. I didn’t believe in anything anymore. When Ugo showed up, I knew it was all going to end. He didn’t come back for Manu. He came back for himself. Because he was tired of chasing after his own soul. He needed a good reason to die.
“You know, if Manu had stayed with Simone, I’d have killed him myself. Not out of love, or jealousy, but for the principle of the thing. Manu had lost all his principles. Anything he could have was good. Anything he couldn’t have was bad. You can’t live like that.”
I packed some sweaters and blankets and the bottle of Lagavulin, and took Lole by the hand and led her to the boat. I rowed out as far as the sea wall, then started the engine and set sail for the Frio
ul islands. Lole sat down between my legs, her head on my chest. We shared the bottle, passed each other cigarettes. We didn’t talk. Marseilles was getting closer. I left Pomègues, Ratonneaux and the Chateau d’If on the port side and continued straight ahead toward the channel.
Once past the Sainte Marie sea wall, beneath the Pharo, I cut the motor and let the boat drift. We’d wrapped ourselves in blankets. My hand rested on Lole’s stomach. Her soft skin glistened.
At last Marseilles was revealed. From the sea. The way the Phocian must have been seen it for the first time, one morning many centuries ago. With the same sense of wonder. The port of Massilia. I know its happy lovers, a Marseilles Homer might have written about Gyptis and Protis. The traveler and the princess. In a soft voice, Lole recited:
O procession of Gypsies
May the sheen of our hair guide you...
One of Leila’s favorite poems.
Everyone was invited. Our friends, our lovers. Lole placed her hand on mine. It was time for the city to burst into flame. White at first, then ocher and pink.
A city after our own hearts.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jean-Claude Izzo was born in Marseilles in 1945. Best known for the Marseilles trilogy (Total Chaos, Chourmo, Solea), Izzo is also the author of The Lost Sailors, and A Sun for the Dying. Izzo is widely credited with being the founder of the modern Mediterranean noir movement. He died in 2000 at the age of fifty-five.
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