Not Exactly Allies

by Kathryn Judson

CHAPTER 12 – CHECKING OUT THE NEIGHBORHOOD

  Mostly, Durand talked directly to the father. Did the boy have any known enemies? Had there been any unusual trouble lately? Anyone hanging about who did not belong? Had the boy joined any groups? Had he made overtures to any gangs? Did the father have anyone who had promised revenge against him? Had the neighborhood in general expected any violence? Had it experienced any recently?

  The boy was something of a loner, the father said – a serious boy, but not fanatical about anything. Indeed, the family had thought he overlooked too many insults, was too willing to give strangers the benefit of the doubt. There had been threats in the neighborhood, but no violence past broken windows and slashed tires and of course some burned cars (did not all of France suffer torched cars?). There were often non-Arabs hanging about, mostly young men and boys who seemed to have no life of their own but to make life uncomfortable for other people.

  Nason, who had expected to translate, sat quietly, if nervously. To his credit, he kept his fidgeting to a minimum: mild and intermittent heel tapping, rubbing his hands on his pants, that sort of thing. To a large extent, he watched the family members other than the father. Their grief made him supremely uncomfortable. That Durand and the father were discussing the matter in a straightforward manner was even worse. It struck him as unreal.

  The little girl whispered in her grandmother's ear, was answered with a nod, and went into the next room. Nason was on his feet and over to the open doorway in a flash. The next room turned out to be the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, clearly on guard. The little girl poured coffee into two cups. She shyly offered one to Nason, and then walked quickly over to offer the other cup to Durand.

  "Thank you, little one," Durand said, as he accepted the offering. She shrank back into her father's shoulder, standing by his chair. Her father put his arm around her.

  "Forgive me, I should have offered it to you earlier," the father said.

  "But, no!" Durand said. "I do not expect such consideration under the circumstances!" He gazed at the little girl. "A wonderful daughter. You must be proud of her."

  The father shrugged and nodded, agreeing, but a bit embarrassed.

  "And thank God they did not get their hands on her," Durand said. "I did not tell you, but the ruffians were amusing themselves by stealing her scarf and waving it at her while they made taunts. She was magnificent the way she ignored them! I tell you, she walked down the street like she would not be trapped into acknowledging their sorry existence."

  The girl whispered in her father's ear. The father smiled through his sadness. "She says that you scared the boys away with just your look. She says that you remind her of her grandfather."

  "I was angry. I am still angry. And that was before we knew about what happened to your son. I have no use for young thugs. Speaking of which, I have an idea that some of them will want to see how the news is taken. Do you mind if I sit in that little alcove at the edge of your house? Just for a little while, to see with my own eyes? And perhaps to chat with some of the neighbors, if they think they have information that might be useful?"

  "My neighbors will not trust you. I will tell them to cooperate, but they may think that I am only saying what I think you want to hear."

  "I would expect that, I think," Durand said. "Nason, do you know the way to the morgue?"

  "Thank you, but no," the father said. "I will go by myself, with a friend or two."

  "As you wish," Durand said, rising as one man with the father. "I am sorry, but the identification must be formalized, and arrangements begun."

  The father nodded. Durand stuck out his hand, and the father shook it. Durand steered Nason out the door and left the family to their phone calls and planning and fury and confusion and tears.

  "I hate ghettos," Durand said quietly to Nason as they sat in the little alcove, which provided a shady spot from which to watch the world.

  Nason was surprised. "I am not so sure that I would call this a ghetto. Too prosperous, isn't it? And too clean, if it comes to that."

  "It could be all millionaires and castles, with paving you could serve food upon, and I would call it a ghetto," Durand said. "What I hate is the isolation, one group from another. It breeds misunderstanding and mistrust."

  "They all seem to trust you well enough."

  Durand sniffed. "An aberration, I would think. No, not that exactly. An accommodation to circumstances, that is more like it. Once the murder is solved, they will go back to not trusting anyone outside this neighborhood. No one outside the neighborhood who is likely worth trusting, anyway."

  "I do not understand you. If the murder is solved-"

  "When, not if. I do not let such things go unpunished."

  "When the murder is solved, surely that will prove to them what sort of people we are. Why are you smiling? I cannot see where any of this is amusing."

  "I am sorry. I just think that they will already think they know your true colors."

  "You think they know of my missionary work then? I did not see any recognition."

  "No, my young friend. When you leapt so earnestly to your feet to watch the girl when she headed out of the room, I think you told them much. When you began to bawl when she gave you the coffee, I think you made a big impression."

  Nason sulked. "I'm not sure that I would call it bawling."

  "All right. When the manly tears streamed down your face, then."

  "I don't know why, but when she handed me something to drink, it unnerved me."

  "People often crumble at a show of consideration. I, myself, nearly cried when she gave me the coffee. After what she had been through, and she is looking out for us? It is enough to rend a man's heart, and that's the truth."

  "I hate to think what they must think of me," Nason said, miserably.

  "I suspect that they think that you are surprisingly human, and I mean that in its good sense. One guesses that most of the outsiders who come here are not the least bit human, in the good sense. Take that man over there, across the street and down a couple of houses. He does not look like a nice man. And tell me, Nason, does he not look familiar to you? I feel like I should know him."

  "Blondet," Nason said.

  "You are right. It looks like Blondet. I wonder who he is."

  "I just told you. His name is Blondet, I think."

  "I did not understand you. The supervisor before Castelneau was named Blondet. That is who I thought you were talking about, but he is dead."

  "I think this is his brother, but I am not sure," Nason said, settling into a pose that let him watch the suspect out of the corner of his eye. "Perhaps it is a cousin. And perhaps I have the name wrong or am mistaking this fellow for someone else. And before I forget it, what in the world did you mean about people not trusting any outsiders who are likely worth trusting?"

  "It is very simple, Nason. It is neighborhoods like these that are prime targets for communists and socialists and other radicals and rabble-rousers, anyone who wants to tear society apart and needs frightened and angry people to do their dirty work for them. In America, they used the blacks against their fellow citizens. They still do, for that matter, although it is getting harder, since more blacks are moving into the mainstream and finding that they are not blindly hated after all. Here, they like to use immigrants. It is all the same. As long as they can find people who can be isolated, and then tormented and misled until they are seething with hatred and fear, it is all the same to them. They only want people to use and then discard, and this is the sort of neighborhood where they generally find the people that they consider the most expendable. It is despicable, all the more so because over the decades they have become so very good at it. It is not a good thing, Nason, when such evil becomes so sophisticated."

  "The communists make a point of learning from their mistakes, I have heard."

  "You have heard right. The top ones, they analyze everything. And I mean everything. And they- He is leaving, our possibly-Blondet?"

 
"I do not think he likes our company."

  "Ah, well, perhaps he would like us better if we had a little chat?"

  Nason grinned. "I doubt it."

  "Tough. I did not like the way he was looking at this home."

  "Neither did I."

  They strolled in the direction that possibly-Blondet had gone. When they reached a vegetable stand, the woman tending it said, "He turned north, at the end of the block. Sometimes he ambushes people there." She didn't turn her head or act like she even saw them.

  "God bless your family for generations," Durand said, almost as if it was part of a continuing conversation with Nason.

  "Thank you, from the bottom of my grateful heart," Nason added, almost as if he were talking with Durand.

  The woman didn't answer, but for a split second her downcast eyes betrayed a combination of defiance, pride, and motherliness.

  Durand and Nason adjusted course so they could meet the man from a direction he didn't expect. As they walked, Durand wrestled with a surge of memories about his long-dead grandfather, who had been fond of a theory that most successful retailers were braver than the public at large, and possessed of hearts that were sometimes too big for their own good. At any rate, that's what he'd said repeatedly to his grandchildren, trying by a combination of humor and pride to overcome their embarrassment at having come from merchant stock. The woman tending the vegetable stand reminded him of his grandfather in a surprisingly personal way. He shrugged the feeling aside, but didn't try to kill it. It was pleasant and reassuring, having one's grandfather connect with you at odd moments. It was also slightly embarrassing, in part because it had been so long since he had shared stories with his children about this particular grandfather.

  "It almost makes you believe in guardian angels, doesn't it?" Nason said, bringing Durand down from the clouds. "That a foreign woman would look out for us like that, I mean."

  "Keep your mind on the business at hand, will you?"

  "All right, don't get cross with me. I wasn't being entirely funny, you know."

  "I am sorry. I am more angry with myself than with you. I had let my own mind wander more than I should, and didn't like being caught out. That's all."

  "I wondered."

  "That's not to say I can't get more angry with you than myself, given a little provocation."

  "Noted," Nason said, with good cheer.

  They fell silent as they got close to the corner.