‘Escalopes, as it’s just us girls, with that cream that went sour – and grilled bananas.’
‘Oh – with rum …’
‘Never mind – Claudine is a good cook. Look after yourself, my love – and don’t worry. I’m on your side. Did you think I was against?’
‘For a little while.’
‘My love to the family.’
‘My love to Ruth.’ She smiled, happy at this. She had high heels, to kiss without stretching.
‘Alors bye-bye.’ He had found just the right phrase, before being sucked into the conveyor-belt.
Van der Valk had leisure to inspect Schipol, and would have even more to inspect Orly – and he loathed airports. No humanity. Railway stations were civilized; airports were not. The human was channelled and chivvied, stamped and docketed, squeezed through tubes like toothpaste and finally encapsulated in an abject little tunnel that cost the earth, so that a computer had calculated to the last milligramme the profit that could be made. The loss of dignity cowed one into accepting the conditions of a very bland, very humane slaughterhouse where one got a small gin before euthanasia. Worst was the fiction whereby airports pretended to set one basking in kissy luxury.
Airports always made him wish he were in Cuba.
In consequence he walked about Orly with a heavy forbidding step like Commissaire Maigret, looked at all the restaurant menus with a pouched and glaucous eye, had a meal that was all he had feared, found a corner so gloomy that even Americans in plastic overshoes slunk away from it, and settled down to read Playboy with an obscure notion that it was exactly suited somehow to his frame of mind. All that gigantic tit – took one straight back to the Zeppelin age … At last he could stagger back into the eager bustle, even get a peppermint, and be squeezed on another worm of toothpaste all the way to Marseilles. At Marignane the rain was like a dogwhip across his face, but Arlette must have phoned because Jean-Michel was there to pick him up, in a DS with swivelling headlamps of iode, whatever that was, a radio-telephone and an invisible deathray in front to clear the rubbishy cars out of its flight.
He often teased Arlette about her brother. Jean-Michel was so like ‘Monsieur-Tout-le-Monde’ in television serials, rich as a walking safe-deposit box but always a good laugh; absent-minded, gay, casual, irresponsible. Snappy clothes and a passion for toys and gadgets; the big engineer, slim and youthful in a bikini on the beach at Arcachon, blowing up the children’s inflatable canoe to play with it himself …
Jean-Michel had suddenly become middle-aged, but still in the correctly dashing way; his waistline had not thickened, he was beautifully tanned, but he had rimless glasses and a roguish little beard. Classically, ludicrously French, he ate noisily, talking through every mouthful, he smoked terrible tasteless cigarettes and drank whisky before meals busily ‘counting cubes’ according to official anti-alcohol campaigns, was terrifyingly intelligent and thought writing letters a shocking waste of time, got on with everyone, and could play bridge with the examining magistrate or pelota in a lorry-drivers’ pull-up with complete ease. He was pleasantly childish and got much innocent pleasure out of an engineer’s diary full of useful data all in Russian, and a pen which had ‘With the personal good wishes of Dwight D. Eisenhower’ stamped on it. His gigantic skyscraper flat in Super-Toulon amused Van der Valk intensely; more mirrors than the ladies’ lavatory in a Hilton …
The bathroom was green marble, with lots of spotlights recessed behind copper portholes, the hallway was full of little buttons commanding things, but the living-room was a prehistoric cavern, with huge stones and guaranteed-genuine Greek amphorae. One entered through an irregular arch of rough concrete and found that all the furniture had peculiar foetal shapes. Here one could be sure of finding transparent sofas filled with water, tables like huge fungoids containing fountains, bars, and high-fidelity apparatus, and hallucinatory mural paintings.
Claudine went with this; a thin supple woman with pale-silver shingled hair, curled bonelessly in a chair like someone’s left lung. She smelt delicious and loved giving people tiny complicated things to eat; there were quantities of hot ferocious bits of fried octopus and devilled chicken to greet him, together with ouzo, retsina, and frightful Macedonian brandy – hm, Claudine was having a Greek Week. He liked it here: spontaneous, warm-hearted, bursting with life. Claudine looked the total butterfly and was a kindergarten teacher. Every time he met them he remarked, staggered, how horribly rich they were. Yes, they agreed, beaming: stinking, madly rich, isn’t it lovely – and so it was.
‘And how is Holland?’
‘Greatly upset this morning about the bastardly French.’ Happy shrieks.
‘What happens if I stick a pin in this sofa?’
‘I don’t think one could, it’s like elephant hide and it even resists a cigarette end, but one might try acid,’ said Jean-Michel, looking quite eager to start that minute.
‘Shouldn’t there be a naked woman?’
‘Oh but there is frequently; Claudine leaps about naked as a ball-bearing.’
He took a mouthful of something odd.
‘What’s in this?’
‘No idea; they’re communist. Something radioactive from the Sea of Japan, the tin said,’ replied Claudine.
‘I’ll tell you why I’m here,’ said Van der Valk when he had finished stuffing himself, and did, in bits.
‘I want to know all about the battle of Dien Bien Phu.’
‘Good grief.’ Jean-Michel was getting serious in stages. ‘A wilderness of unanswered questions. I was Génie, you know. We calculated that if the Viet had one-o-five artillery the camp needed thirty thousand tons of engineering material for protection. They found three thousand on the spot, chopping wood. Two thousand in bits and pieces were airlifted in. The rest was an embarrassment so was hastily forgotten.’
‘No no, not shop statistics. The men.’
‘Langlais is a general, Bigeard finally is too, Brèche left the army and I see him from time to time …’
‘Not now. Then.’
‘Then – everything was queer then. Double-think and let’s-pretend. Looking at it now one can hardly believe that ten thousand men were dumped in that pisspot with no protection whatever. The Viet could count the aspirins in one’s bottle – they knew every gun, every hole, every radio. That had no importance of course – we would massacre them with firepower the second their nose showed. What is astonishing is that despite everything we nearly did. In April, you know, after a month’s siege, Bigeard moved out with a thousand paras and knocked them arse over tit off the Huguettes and off Eliane. You know that to the last day we held Eliane? When I think that I volunteered to jump in! If ever there was a merdier … The thing to remember is that everyone who was there is loony on the subject. If your woman was machine-gunned – by someone who was there – (a) I’m not a bit surprised and (b) you’ll never find out.’
‘More or less my conclusion,’ murmured Van der Valk, ‘but I’ve got to try and get upstream to where all this started before I can draw any conclusions. I’ve nothing whatever to suggest that “he was there” – my elusive pimpernel. She was in Hanoi – that’s official sources. My first question is that she may have had a lover there. The thing is, can you think of someone who might know?’
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ said Jean-Michel a bit evasively, ‘I might.’
‘What does that mean, you might?’
‘People are loony on the subject, as I said. People have elaborate explanations for things they did then which seemed reasonable at the time but which would now be thought damn stupid. People clam up. Admit your girl had a lover, admit she did something daft, admit the improbable and say’ you find someone who knows – you’ll never get them to admit it.’
‘I want to go a very small distance at a time,’ said Van der Valk softly.
‘Come with me to the office in the morning and we’ll see what we can hunt up.’
‘But I don’t want to leave too much time between the ti
mes.’
Jean-Michel smiled.
‘I ought to know you by now, digging away like a solemn old badger. Let me think. You don’t really want someone who was there. The odds are that he was in charge of one small splinter like shoe polish and can think of nothing else. Somebody who was in Hanoi would be better.’ He looked for the phone book, which was hidden inside a splendid leather cover with ‘The Complete Works of the New Novelists’ on it in gold. He muttered and nodded over this for some time, before taking the top off a small fat leather pig which had been perplexing Van der Valk for some time.
‘When the bell rings his eyes light up – green to starboard and red to port … Monsieur Marie? Stressed Systems, in Toulon. Listen, Monsieur Marie, I’d like to ask a kindness, if you’d permit me. It concerns my brother-in-law, who is a commissaire of police, in Holland of all places, and who’s here on a visit, well, business in a sense. He has an odd question, and since you’re something of a specialist, I wondered if you’d consent to have a word with him … yes, of course; read it over … about seven thousand cubic metres, I’d say … no, of course they can’t, that’s out of the question … by all means, send the dossier along and I’ll give you an opinion forty-eight hours from then. A pleasure … Yes? The bar? Yes, I know it. Right. And many thanks … Woof.’ He was smoking furiously. ‘Nothing for nothing and not much for sixpence. Old bugger. But he’ll see you.’
‘He can have seven thousand cubic metres of my fresh air too.’
‘You’re not kidding; he’ll take them. He’s a funny old swine but he draws a lot of water in Marseilles. No don’t worry, it’s a thing I can do in ten minutes, the forty-eight hours is bullshit. As I was saying he knows everybody. Let’s see now – you know Marseilles? Know Les Catalans? Know the coast boulevard from there? About two kilometres along there’s a restaurant on the coastward side, sun-terrace affair called Le Clown Vert – be there at ten – little grey man. Was a logistics expert in Hanoi.’
Claudine, admirable woman, had said nothing for an hour.
Chapter Thirteen
Jean-Michel’s DS left him among the palm trees and policemen of Toulon station, in nice time to catch a commuter train to Marseilles. There was heavy continuous rain the whole way, so that the landscape of Provence was reduced to muddy ruts and pools of water, and a forest fire looked about as likely as Winston Churchill on roller-skates. Marseilles when he got there had a resemblance to Nottingham, and he was reminded of an airline pilot he had known, looking at the ancient historic town of Haarlem, simply reeking of Franz Hals and William the Silent, and saying thoughtfully, ‘Very like Staines on a Sunday.’ A taxi left him on the sea-boulevard; Le Clown Vert was a concrete blockhouse with Moorish leanings, one of a hundred such along the sea wall between the Vieux Port and the Prado beach. At the kitchen entrance a van was delivering potatoes; the front was shut and shuttered but a door surrounded by tourist-club emblems let him in grudgingly to a tiled floor being mopped by a cleaning woman.
‘’s closed,’ she said, ‘’n mind m’floor.’
‘I know,’ he said humbly, ‘but I’ve come to see Monsieur Marie.’
‘In the back – ’n mind my floor.’
‘Can’t fly,’ he said. He had a wish to add ‘no wings’ like Mr Jellyby, but she might hit him with her mop.
‘The back’ was carpeted, hushed, clean and neutral – a window had been opened facing the sea, to air out the clinging reek of anis and whisky. Piles of empty glasses stood on the bar, and a crate full of champagne bottles. Beyond the picture window was the dead concrete terrace, and beyond that the dark angry sea, a lot of rocks and islets, the Planier lighthouse, the Château d’If, a scruffy steamer plodding in towards the Joliette. On this side of the window, quietly drinking coffee, sat an old man reading Le Monde and paying no attention for the moment to anything else. One thing at a time. Before, it had been a croissant, eaten carefully without making any crumbs. When Van der Valk padded over he got the old man’s full attention; the paper was lowered, and a broad intellectual face all peaks and hollows, blanched like a skull, with fine dark eyes and a massive forehead, was lifted towards his. Monsieur Marie did not speak, but waited for him.
‘Ten o’clock,’ said Van der Valk.
‘Sit down then, Monsieur Brother-in-Law.’
‘I’m disturbing your breakfast.’
‘No.’ A half-empty cup of coffee was pushed aside and the paper went after it. The old man took a long filtertip Française from the breast pocket of a plaid woollen shirt which he wore open-necked under a blackish-brown corduroy jacket, and put it carefully between firm yellowish front teeth which were his own.
‘I haven’t presented myself properly. Van der Valk, Commissaire of Police.’
The weary experienced eyes showed no curiosity. He struck a match and lit the cigarette carefully.
‘I am in the dark, Monsieur Fanfan. What can I do to be of service to you?’
‘I am anxious to find out something of the past life of a former military nurse named Esther Marx, who was serving in Hanoi at the time of Dien Bien Phu.’ And he had thought of being oblique! Pat, his question had flapped out on the plate like a fried egg slid out of the omelette pan. Did it matter? This man could answer the question or he couldn’t. If he could he would or he wouldn’t.
‘Ah. Dien Bien Phu. A place of phantoms and chimeras and unmarked graves. The nest from which the eggs were stolen before the illusions hatched.’ A very short, abrupt, noiseless laugh. ‘Why do you come to me?’
‘She was killed – in Holland. It is reasonable to suppose that in coming to Holland she left her past behind her, and that some shadow of that past came again to touch her. She wanted nothing, you see, but to be left in peace.’
‘So you come to Marseilles. It seems a long way round.’
‘Oh, you know, I think – better than most if I am any judge – that official sources of information tend to have one thing in common, which is to inform no one.’
Monsieur Marie took his time. He looked for some time at the sea by his right hand, said ‘Nobody any longer cares’, and again studied the outline of the Château d’If as though he might be thinking of making a bid for it. Van der Valk decided he had better not interrupt. Finally the eyes came back to Van der Valk and the voice came dragging up out of the leathery throat.
‘Back along the boulevard is a monument, of no great artistic value to be sure. Marianne in a helmet, soldiers, cannon, wreaths of corn and laurel leaves. And a dedication – to all who served the colonial cause. Those who left their bones in the empire. How many left Marseilles wondering whether they would again see these rocks, this water that we hear and smell as we sit? A lot of blood, a great deal of blood.’
Seven thousand cubic metres, thought Van der Valk.
‘A half-hearted monument in a dreary, dusty corner. It is of no importance, now, how many died. One more – and in Holland.’
‘People still care sufficiently, it seems, to prefer me not to come rooting about among the souvenirs – just as somebody cared enough to kill.’
‘Somebody in a subordinate position,’ suggested the old gentleman dryly. ‘I offer you a piece of sound advice – always go to the top.’
‘Like you.’
‘Yes, like me.’
‘Did you know Esther Marx?’ He was rewarded again with that abrupt, noiseless cough of laughter.
‘I recall her well. Not a pretty girl but vivid.’
‘What kind of a girl? I only saw her dead.’
‘Caring for no opinion, counting no cost – the right one for an empire. A nice girl.’ Fille bien gentille – in the old man’s mouth the banal phrase had unexpected weight.
‘And what happened to her?’
‘How should I know? Our Indochinese adventure finished shortly afterwards.’
‘You never saw her again?’
The old man shrugged.
‘I took up other interests. I entered politics. I re-entered politics,’ he amended, so th
at it should all be quite clear.
‘And did you know Esther’s lover?’
The answer was so direct and so simple that he wondered whether Monsieur Marie had decided to rock him to sleep.
‘Lieutenant Laforêt. A pleasant boy. You are interested? I do not think he was very interesting. Good-looking, dashing, brave – a little noisy. Like many other gallant and picturesque young men whom one got accustomed to not seeing again.’
‘He was at Dien Bien Phu? And got killed?’
‘He was taken prisoner, if I am not mistaken. He used to write poems, I believe. One of these young men who have visions.’
Monsieur Marie gave way to a harsh little cackle of laughter. Having visions was plainly an undesirable trait.
‘He survived the prison camp?’
‘I think he died,’ with no great interest. ‘You understand that I took my place in a different world, somewhat more demanding. I ceased to have the time for sitting in bars and noticing the antics of young officers,’ indulgently.
‘Some of these young officers later took an interest in politics.’
The old man looked amused. ‘Not politics, Monsieur Fanfan, not politics.’
‘Visions, if you like. But you think Laforêt died? He didn’t, to your knowledge, serve in Algeria?’
‘I fear there is no more I can tell you. These people dropped – out of my sight.’ He stood up, neat and trim in the shabby jacket. ‘I regret that there are other calls upon my time.’
‘Je vous en prie,’ said Van der Valk with the same formal politeness.
The old boy walked with a brittle step, as though his legs were getting fragile, but the shoulders in the rough jacket were broad and resolute. He shuffled across the room; he was wearing woolly bedroom slippers. He took a warm-looking beige overcoat that might have been camel down from a hanger, a white silk scarf, and a black trilby hat. As he turned to say goodbye Van der Valk saw that the coat had a mink lining. Suddenly Monsieur Marie looked quite another person.
‘Good morning to you. I hope you catch your murderer,’ he said very civilly. Van der Valk opened the door for him. On the pavement outside was parked an official-looking DS, black and shiny. It had not as many gadgets as Jean-Michel’s but was even grander because a uniformed chauffeur was holding the door open. It went off down the boulevard like a rocket, reaching a shocking speed in five seconds. Van der Valk blinked. When he stopped blinking it had vanished. Perhaps Monsieur Marie did not exist at all but was simply a figment of his imagination.
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