Eight

by James R. Vance

  “I know a delightful square near the cinema. It's a popular eating out area with a choice of reputable bistros and restaurants. Let's treat ourselves. You'll have an opportunity to enjoy yourself as a local. It will also allow us to get to know each other whilst enjoying the nightlife of Limoges.”

  “Alexis, what else have you planned?” Petra was suspicious of his motives.

  “Absolutely nothing.” A look of childlike innocence appeared in his eyes. “After the meal it will be your turn to make a suggestion. Surprise me.”

  “Hmm…How far is this gourmet's paradise?” She was still unconvinced of his sincerity.

  “Walking distance. If we go now, it will be easier to find a table. Later when the cinema empties, it can be difficult without a reservation. It's quite warm this evening. Maybe we could dine en plein air…alfresco. What d'you reckon?”

  Petra rose from her chair. “We'll see. I'll take a jacket, just in case.” She disappeared into the bedroom, where she swiftly changed into a more appropriate outfit to rival Alexis in his suit.

  Whilst she changed, his eyes wandered around the apartment. It was neat, tidy and functional. There was nothing relative to Petra, nothing to reveal or mirror either her lifestyle or her personality. He expected to see stacks of books and papers, as evidence of her university studies. There was nothing. He found it strange that the environment was so uncluttered. The normal habitat of a student was often untidy, littered with examples of academia. All such traits were absent here. She had said that she was a researcher; perhaps they behave differently, he thought.

  Petra emerged wearing a three quarter length black leather jacket over a grey and white flower print tunic and white hip-hugging jeans. She looked stunning. “Let's go and sample the local scene then.” She strode towards the door, attempting to take control.

  They walked the short distance towards the Rue des Filles Notre Dame, a narrow lane of café bars, restaurants and brasseries. It opened out into the Place de la Fontaine des Barres, a square dominated by half-timbered three storey buildings that added an atmosphere of nostalgia for a bygone era.

  Numerous all-encompassing sunshades covered the major part of the cobblestone eating out area. Below this vast linen canopy, scores of tables displayed place settings in readiness for the anticipated influx of clientele. Different styles of dining furniture and napkin colours denoted service areas specific to each establishment. Already, some early diners occupied several tables.

  Alexis stepped to one side as they approached the traffic-free zone. He turned to Petra. “Which restaurant do you fancy?”

  She guessed that each venue had its specialities. As it was her first visit, she was spoiled for choice. She would not know where to begin. “I would say that there are three options. We take potluck, we check out each restaurant's menu, or I bow to your expertise and local knowledge. I suggest the last option.”

  He smiled. “We'd better find a McDonalds, then.”

  She had warmed to him immensely. That frightened her. In an attempt to shrug off her inner emotion, she entwined her fingers with his, allowing his hand to clasp hers. “C'mon. It's your choice, but I don't want to find Double Cheeseburgers on the menu.”

  He guided her to a table outside the Restaurant La Bohème. Unusually for France, a waiter hurried towards them with menus as they took their seats. They chose an entrée of salade de gésier, a rich mixed salad, splashed with vinaigrette and dressed with strips of hot gizzard.

  Petra finished her last mouthful with an imperceptible lick of the lips. “When I was young, I would have called that scrummy.”

  Alexis reached across the table and touched her hand lightly. “You are still young, Louise. Tell me; were you just as delightful as a teenager?”

  She grinned. “You would have avoided me like the plague. I was a rebel, no respect for anyone, friend or foe. Whatever was expected of me, I did exactly the opposite, very selfish in my behaviour. Consequently, I am a rarity. No best friend, not one acquaintance from my school days.”

  She smiled, somewhat wistfully. “These days, most young people and even grown-ups are connected via the internet to some social network, where they keep in touch with friends everywhere. My only correspondents would be my sister and possibly my brother. That would be the sum total. How sad is that?”

  “You could certainly add me to your list of contacts. I would be honoured to join your elite circle.”

  “With my limited number of acquaintances, there are hardly enough to form a circle. As I have already told you, I lost my parents in the tsunami. That event changed my life. Consequently, friends, true friends are precious. I treasure those who are currently close to me. I have been let down too often in the past. As far as I am concerned, fickle friends are enemies in disguise…to castigate, to vilify for what they are. I have never possessed any tolerance towards my adversaries. Revenge is my antidote towards any form of disloyalty. In my opinion, people I meet are either for me or against me. Deep down, I suppose that it's sad to be so bitter towards the world in general, but shit happens.”

  She sipped some iced water. What is happening to me, she thought? Why am I baring my soul to a virtual stranger? She suddenly felt vulnerable in his company. His grandmother had a similar effect. Despite her misgivings, she continued.

  “Somewhere inside, I have a yearning to love and to be loved. I was close once, but events and circumstances transpired against me. I don't expect you to understand or to empathise with my inner complexities. I have experienced unimaginable tragedy and dreadful events during my short life. That was the hand dealt to me. There is such a fine line between happiness and misery…survival and death.

  “Some years ago, I found myself one step away from the point of no return; in fact, in retrospect, I believe that I died. I experienced visions that living people cannot see but only imagine. If the paramedics had not arrived at that precise moment, I would not be here now. I seek neither sympathy nor pity from anyone, but because of my experience, I value every breath I take. According to a fortune-teller, I have a destiny to fulfil. Her words often swirl around my head; they propel me forward in life. I believe that I have a goal…but until now, I'm not sure what it is. ” She hesitated slightly. “ Do you believe in fate?”

  At that moment, the main course arrived. Alexis was glad of the interruption and, instead of replying, immediately attacked a mini mountain of choucroute garni, an Alsatian dish of sauerkraut, Strasbourg sausages, smoked pork and potatoes. Petra had chosen côte de porc, a thick juicy chop served in a prune sauce.

  Petra glanced across at him. He's probably thinking that he's dining out with a complete nutter, she thought. Enough about me…it's time to turn the conversation. “I spent the afternoon chatting to your grandmother.”

  Alexis smiled. “That's nice. I expect that she bored you to death with her tales of Russian history.”

  “To some degree…she has certainly experienced an interesting life during a remarkable period of upheaval in the world.”

  “So, did she mention that she married some childhood sweetheart, a Soviet war hero?”

  “Your grandfather…yes.”

  “She romances too much,” Alexis said between mouthfuls. “She tells a different story each time. I put it down to her age and a vivid imagination. I suppose that it must be quite entertaining to hear her story for the first time.”

  “Do you not feel proud that you belong to a family touched by shattering historical events?” Petra asked, seeking a reaction.

  Alexis laughed. “Oh yes, along with millions of other ordinary Russians caught up in the struggle for survival. Like many, my ancestors disappeared either during the Great War or in the Siberian wilderness. Prior to Stalin's era, most Russians and I have little or no record of our genealogy. That's probably why I see myself as an American more than any other nationality within my mixed race family.”

  Petra was convinced by his words that he was unaware of his true ancestry. His grandmother had obviously rega
led him with her stories, but had avoided any references to his birthright. How would he accept that knowledge, she wondered? Would he really believe it? Perhaps he would refute the claims as another instance of his grandmother's confused mind. If he was unconvinced, how could others be expected to believe and buy into the saga?

  Pensively, she sipped more Chateau Margaux, determined to seek proof, evidence that he was a direct descendant of the Romanov family. However, how would he react when confronted by the truth, if she could provide some irrefutable facts?

  The ring tone of her mobile interrupted her deliberations. It was Jean-Marie. She excused herself from the table to take the call. She walked towards the stone obelisk that rose to a height of almost three metres in the centre of the square. She perched on an adjacent, low stone wall.

  “Bonsoir, Louise…ça va? I am sorry to call you so late, but I am busy earlier. It is good for you to know that the police judiciaire arrest Monsieur Roche earlier today. They also ‘ave the authorisation to search the ‘ouse and to interrogate him. I call you tomorrow as soon as I know the result of the investigation. Maybe you tell the news to the English detectives. A demain, Louise.”

  He rang off abruptly, giving her no time to inform him that the detectives had decamped to Marseille. I suppose that it can wait until tomorrow, she thought. What a nice, considerate man is Jean-Marie. I doubt that he's on a social network.

  She returned to rejoin Alexis who was still coping with his choucroute. She apologised for the interruption. “My sister, just checking up on me,” she lied.

  More tables were now busy as exiting cinema patrons swelled the increasing numbers of visitors to the square. At the same time, the noise of nearby traffic diminished, drowned by the raised volume of diners’ conversations. The French do have a tendency to talk over each other, Petra reflected. There appeared to be animated discussions at every table.

  Alexis, almost in tune with her observations, interrupted her reverie. “You seem lost in thought. Are you enjoying your time in France or are you missing home?”

  She reached across the table, placing her hand gently on his. “It's improving with every minute.” Withdrawing her hand, she wafted it towards the other diners. “Alexis, why do the French talk so noisily?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “They're very opinionated. Each individual wants to make his or her point. They love debating issues, especially on political or economic topics. The political system is close to every French person's heart. Let's face it; most of them work in some civil service capacity at various levels, whether nationally for the state or regionally, within a department or a commune. The whole of France is a bureaucratic jungle where they all have a stake in its function. The state is the population and the French are the state. To quote the musketeers of Alexandre Dumas, ‘All for one! One for all’.”

  “You said earlier that you saw yourself as more American than French or Russian. Do you not subscribe to France as your home?”

  “It's a great country…in my opinion, probably the most stable and safest in Western Europe, a powerful leader in the European Community. Like everywhere else, however, where there's power, there's corruption. Having said that, the levels of malpractice in France are to some degree acceptable compared to the systemic problems in other countries, particularly those in Eastern Europe.”

  “Unlike my country at the moment…parliamentary sleaze grabs most of the headlines. Little wonder that migration from the U.K. to other European countries is on the increase, mostly to escape increasing taxes, diminished services and the huge influx of ethnic races.”

  “France has similar issues. Here in Limousin, we have a multi-cultural influx and, in recent years, large numbers of Brits have settled in this region. It's not long since there was one flight per week from Limoges to the U.K. Now there are four or five per day. Did you fly to Limoges from London?”

  Petra smiled. “I let the train take all the strain. It provided an opportunity to taste a morsel of French life en route. I forced the taxi driver to take me on a mini tour of Paris between Gare du Nord and Austerlitz. He probably thought that I was an eccentric.”

  They laughed as Petra described her travel experience. The conversation drifted to topics that were more mundane until they finished the evening with coffee and cognac. Alexis insisted on paying the bill, arguing that he was earning whereas she was a poor researcher. How could she contradict him?

  Petra rose from the table. “Well, I'm afraid that this poverty stricken researcher of cultural studies can only offer you a nightcap of wine, coffee or tea, if you would like to join me.”

  Alexis took her arm, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Louise, I would be delighted.”

  They disappeared into the cool night air and the bright lights of the city centre. They walked through the busy streets like a couple of teenagers in love, holding hands and laughing with genuine abandon. Occasionally, Petra would snuggle her face onto his shoulder and gently kiss his neck.

  The last time that she had behaved in this way had been in Phuket following her first encounter with Rob. They had left the party on the beach to sample the nightlife in the bars and clubs. Their euphoric escapade had preceded the most horrific nightmare of her life when the tsunami destroyed so many lives. She shuddered as they approached her apartment. Surely, a similar traumatic event could not possibly happen again.

  Putting her negative thoughts behind her, she unlocked the door before stumbling happily up the staircase. As she closed the door to the apartment, Petra found herself slipping comfortably into Alexis's gentle embrace. He kissed her slowly on her lips, lightly stroking her neck. She allowed her leather jacket to slip from her shoulders. Without any conscious intent, her arms drew him closer. With eyes closed, a flood of sensation enveloped her receptive body. In an instant she knew that she was in love.

  8888

  Massey broke the good news about discovering the yacht to Harcourt over breakfast. In his bid to end their visit as soon as possible, he resigned himself to eventually accepting her decisions. Though content to support her actions for the sake of expedience, he was still prepared to question her game plan. “What are your intentions now?”

  “Let's invite ourselves on board and front it out with him. We will ask him to his face about his relationship with Ludovic Roche.”

  Massey shook his head. “He'll just deny it.”

  “If that's the case, we contact the local police, introduce ourselves and say that we have evidence connecting him with the two dead French guys in Manchester. We'll demand that they bring him in for interview.”

  “What evidence? We don't have any yet, unless the police at Limoges have unearthed something.”

  Harcourt was showing some impatience towards his constant prevarication. “There has to be some accusation that we can slap on him. Contact that Rebovka girl. She's supposed to be liaising through her retired police officer friend. He admitted that there was a history between Dumas and Roche. If it can be proven that they are still in touch, we have a connection.”

  “Just contact between them is insufficient. There's no point in approaching Dumas, until we have some hard evidence. Even with the remote prospect of questioning him, with our limited knowledge of the language, we'll also need an interpreter.”

  Harcourt was determined to confront Dumas at any cost. “No problem. I should imagine that they could arrange that. In the meantime, let's take a walk along the quayside to see if he's in situ. We can pass ourselves off as tourists, admiring his boat. There's no rush. We can stop off at a bar for a coffee, phone Rebovka and decide on our course of action, depending on what she has to report.”

  “And if there's no evidence?”

  “Worst scenario, we'll just have to fake it. Already we can say that we have knowledge about his connection with Roche. That man manages a football club that illegally licensed two French youths found dead in the U.K. We don't have to give anything more specific than that. Let's just watch his immediate reac
tion.”

  Massey shook his head again in disbelief.

  Harcourt was quite resolute. “Look, we know that there's a connection. Rebovka heard it from the footballer that she contacted and the gendarme confirmed it, otherwise we wouldn't be here.”

  “We're here because you damn well insisted.”

  “I thought that you were a winner, out to get your man at all costs.”

  “I'm also a realist. There are too many grey areas. I like to be prepared with total conviction in both my strategy and the presentation of my case. You're leaving far too much to chance. If we were back at home, C.P.S. wouldn't wear it. Even over here, it wouldn't be acceptable to a public prosecutor or to an investigative judge. We'll be a laughing stock.”

  Harcourt smiled. “As the saying goes: ‘He who dares, wins’. Look at it this way. Even if we don't get an immediate result, he'll know that we're on to him. He may be forced to abort any further activity.”

  “Whatever.” Massey was beginning to regret the day that Superintendent Richardson had forced him to team up with her. “I need to grab a jacket from my room. Meet you down here in ten minutes. When and if we find Dumas, you can do the talking. This is your show.”

  A short time later, they strolled along the Quai du Port, soaking up the atmosphere created by a hive of early morning activity. How different from the previous evening, thought Massey. Busy traders, port workers, inquisitive tourists and snap-happy holidaymakers had replaced the microcosm of languid drinkers and relaxed diners. The air was thick with the fishy smell of the sea, the taste of brine and the aroma of strong coffee that percolated from the numerous café bars and restaurants.

  The two detectives threaded their way through this vibrant cosmopolitan mêlée until they reached the far end of the quayside where Massey had discovered the yacht. The mooring was empty. It had obviously set sail.

  Massey feigned annoyance but felt somewhat relieved. Maybe they could now return to Limoges. “It was definitely here last night. Perhaps the party was a pre-voyage celebration. There's little point in hanging around now.”