Twenty-Four
Louis fingered his phone, pointedly not looking at his mother standing next to him in front of La Cave au Cassoulet. She had guilted him into coming to the restaurant, and in a moment of weakness, Louis said yes. A whole night with ten of the deputy mayors; if they were all as convinced as the new mayor that Louis would go into politics, it promised to be a fun night.
He opened the folder with recent texts from Catherine on his phone. Still no answer.
Once he’d gotten over the shock of being ejected so rudely from her house, he’d sent her a message to explain why he’d laughed. He’d made so many mistakes in English himself during his ten years in the States, he had assumed she would also laugh when she realized what she’d said. Instead of saying she’d pass on the dinner invitation—je vais faire l’impasse—she had said she would go ply her trade as a prostitute, je vais faire la passe. They sounded similar so it was an easy mistake to make. But he’d not gotten the opportunity to explain because she’d gone straight into a wild rage and thrown him out. He must have hit a sore spot with the mention of money, but Louis was mystified at how she could be short on money if they’d had the funds to buy a house in the city center.
After much thought on how to formulate it, he’d sent an explanation and apology to Catherine by text. He’d had one reply; a short, “Apology accepted. I hope you’ll be able to do as much tomorrow.”
He’d asked her what she meant by that, but there was no reply.
“Marie-Pierre,” Louis’s mother said, “how nice of you to come tonight.” She did la bise with the towering deputy mayor.
“Bonsoir, Michelle,” Marie-Pierre replied. “How are you holding up? Are you sure you’re up to eating with all of us tonight?” The two women stood close, arms entwined. They had known each other for a long time.
Louis’s mother brushed away her friend’s concern. “I’m much better here than alone at home. I see you’re the only one on time as usual?”
Marie-Pierre laughed. “Give them fifteen minutes. It wouldn’t do to show up before the quart d’heure Toulousain is up.” The Toulouse fifteen minutes, also used in most other regions in France, each with their own name on it, was the rule that nothing ever started on time since everyone was at least fifteen minutes late.
Turning to Louis, Marie-Pierre shook his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Louis.” Her voice clashed with her physique; though her body was almost masculine in build, her voice was soft and high-pitched. “Are you back in Toulouse for good, then? Have you found a job yet?”
Louis shook his head. “No, I haven’t gotten that far yet. But I’ve been thinking about sending my resume to Airbus or some of the sub-contractors to see what might come of it.”
“I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you,” Marie-Pierre said. She looked him up and down. “If you’re not too busy these days, perhaps you would like to help out for the good of the city?”
There they went again, supposing he’d want a political career. Hadn’t he just said he wanted to work in aeronautics? As politely as possible, Louis replied, “I’m really not that interested in politics. You should ask Audrey.”
At this, Louis’s mother gave him a sharp look from behind Marie-Pierre’s back. It was the look she used to reprimand him in public when he was growing up. If they were in a public place and she didn’t want everybody to witness her putting him down, she’d give him that look and Louis could be sure there’d be a more lengthy explanation when they got home—unless he amended his ways immediately. She could reprimand him all she wanted, he was not going into politics.
Marie-Pierre threw back her head and laughed. “Your father would turn around in his grave if he heard you say that. But don’t worry, I won’t tell him. Actually”—she put a big hand on Louis’s shoulder—“I would like to recruit you to check on some elderly citizens from time to time.”
Louis was disconcerted by her casual reference to his father’s death and noticed his mother putting a hand to her heart, but was also relieved he’d misunderstood what she wanted. He smiled weakly. “You want me to visit old people?”
“Exactly!” Marie-Pierre threw her hands out to the side to include everybody present in her victory. “I work on making sure the elderly of Toulouse are never alone for long periods of time when it’s very warm like right now.” She folded her arms and fixed Louis with a serious gaze. In the background, Louis’s mother greeted two new arrivals, leaving Louis to fend for himself. “I’m sure you remember the summer of 2003 when so many of our elderly citizens died from dehydration. This happened mostly because as we age our bodies don’t tell us as much any longer, so they didn’t know they needed water. But also because there was nobody to check on them. Too many of our senior citizens are all alone, Louis. I work on making sure everybody has someone to check on them every couple of days, at least.” Expression now serious and morose, she added, “This also means that if someone does die, it won’t be weeks before the firemen have to break down the door when the neighbors complain about the smell of a rotting body.”
Louis shivered. What a delightful subject for conversation just before dinner. He did remember that summer and the awful discoveries made all over France during a particularly long and terrible heat-wave. What Marie-Pierre was doing was great. Perhaps he should help her work on her pitch, though.
“What do you say, Louis?” the big woman asked. “Can I count on you for a couple of visits a week until autumn arrives?”
“Sure,” Louis replied. He hoped he wouldn’t need to report any dead seniors.
The remaining deputy mayors arrived just as the setting sun illuminated the tops of the surrounding buildings, enhanced the red of the bricks, and reflected off windows to create small islands of bright light on the pavement around them. One of the more popular destinations for night-time revelries, groups of students and couples crowded the narrow, meandering street.
Louis’s mother led the group down the restaurant’s narrow staircase to the cellar. Most of the old houses in the city center had these cellars, and several were transformed into restaurants. La Cave au Cassoulet consisted of two joint cellars with vaulted roofs made of red bricks. Mortar from the ceiling frequently found its way down on the tables, not that anybody cared.
Their table was the first on the right with aperitifs and snacks at the ready. Louis found himself seated between his mother and Marie-Pierre across from Bernard Gallego, the deputy mayor in charge of urban development. This would be the guy who’d decided to buy Catherine’s house from under the feet of some overenthusiastic buyer. He had apparently also appointed himself as the night’s toastmaster.
Bernard lifted his glass, then cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. When he was satisfied all eyes were on him, he said in overly pompous tones, “I would like to propose a toast in memory of dear Pierre who is no longer with us. He will be missed dearly, and we deputy mayors will have trouble filling his shoes even if there are twenty-six of us.” He raised his glass, then took a sip.
Louis did the same. They were drinking white wine with blackcurrant liqueur. Kir was the perfect drink at the end of a warm day.
Bernard raised his glass again. “I believe we should also make another toast, a more optimistic one this time.” He looked at Louis. “We will miss Pierre greatly, but at least he left us an excellent replacement. Louis is a man grown now, and I’m sure he’ll be a great asset to Toulouse in the future.”
Louis kept his glass raised like everybody else, but only because he didn’t want to embarrass his mother by making a scene. Or maybe he should embarrass her. It was her fault he was here in the first place.
As Bernard finished his toast, everybody cheered and drank to Louis’s health. Louis downed the rest of his glass, then asked a passing waiter if he could have a glass of pastis.
“You know, Bernard,” Louis said, forcing a half-smile, “I have no plans of going into politics.”
Bernard roared with laughter, as did everybody el
se who’d heard Louis’s remark. Titters made their way down to the end of the table as it was repeated to those too far away. “You’re just like your father,” Bernard said when he’d regained his breath. “Knowing exactly what to say to get everybody to laugh their heads off.”
Louis thought politicians all wanted the top seat for themselves. Why try to recruit another competitor?
The waiter arrived with Louis’s pastis and took everyone’s orders. Normally, Louis wouldn’t eat cassoulet in the summer, but it had been years since the last time he’d tasted the mix of beans, sausage, duck, and pork breast. It was all fat and all good. Most of the deputy mayors followed suit. After all, it was the specialty of the restaurant.
“So, Louis,” Bernard boomed, glancing around the table to ascertain he had everybody’s attention. “How do you like the new city picture? Have we done a decent job of cleaning up the streets?”
Louis fought to keep the sneer out of his tone. “I suppose you mean those measures you took to get the prostitutes off the streets?”
“Indeed.” Bernard nodded and sent a wink to Marie-Pierre on Louis’s right.
“It’s a shame you didn’t manage it in a more literal sense,” Louis said. “There are still dog droppings everywhere. On every street, every sidewalk.” In fact, Louis had stepped in a huge yellow liquid mess just yesterday from a dog who must have been sick. In the States, he’d gotten used to looking up when he walked. He wasn’t yet back to the habit of always scouting out the next section of sidewalk, which was necessary for the survival of his shoes in France.
Bernard’s smile fell a fraction, but he must have decided to take it as a good joke. “Hah! People should learn to watch where they’re going.”
“So you could ignore the dog droppings, but not the prostitutes?” Louis leaned back in his chair and sipped his pastis as he watched the man across the table. He hoped he projected calm and insouciance, but was boiling inside.
Bernard’s smile was gone. A calculating gleam entered his eyes. Louis was being measured up. Against what, he didn’t know. And what was the conclusion?
Might as well continue. Who knew, it might finally get these people off his back, as well as allow him to vent off some steam. “It’s not like you actually managed to put a stop to the prostitution, is it? You only moved it around a bit. You do know that my father’s body was found by a prostitute who was on her way home from work?” If his father’s death hadn’t hurt so much, he’d have found that to be poetic justice.
Joviality gone, he sat straight in his chair, hands placed loosely on the table in front of him, and fixed Louis with a steady gaze. “Yes, so I read in le Midi Républicain.” He made a theatrical pause before continuing in full-on politician mode. “We can’t stop prostitution with the swipe of a magic wand. All we can do is work incrementally toward a common goal. In this case, we tried to discourage the ladies from working in their customary spots.”
“You mean the richer neighborhoods,” Louis countered.
Bernard never missed a beat. “That is an added advantage. We discourage the prostitutes and clean up the streets for our tax-payers.”
Louis cocked an eyebrow. “At least you’re honest about where your priorities lie.” As if the poorer part of the population didn’t pay their taxes.
“You may think it’s a good idea to always look after the underdog, Louis.” Bernard was speaking down to Louis now, teaching him a lesson on politics and life in general. “But you must always look at the big picture. At the end of the day, the city of Toulouse is like a company. We have expenses, we have employees, and we have income. A great part of this income is from taxes, both on income and property. Who do you think stands for the most of that revenue? Is it not normal that we look after the interests of the people who fill our coffers?”
Louis felt the heat rise to his face, but fought to keep his voice cool. “That certainly will make sure the rich stay rich and in their comfortable seats.” He could feel everybody’s attention, but only focused on Bernard. He’d often had disagreements with his father on certain subjects while he grew up, but never had the courage to stand up to him. It was too late to do it with his father now, but apparently the right time to take it up with his colleagues. It felt good to stand up for his beliefs for once. “What about the prostitutes in all this? Did you consider what your measures would do to their lives?”
“The prostitutes pay no taxes at all,” Bernard said immediately, tone condescending. “They could spend their time getting an education or looking for a real job, but instead choose to take the easy way out by selling what was given to them at birth and then complaining about it.”
“That’s just-just,” Louis sputtered, searching for the right words. What the man was saying was so outrageous he didn’t even know where to start.
The waiter chose this moment to deliver their plates. Two duck breasts arrived first, closely followed by two cassoulets. Likely sensing the tension between them, the waiter chose to serve Louis and Bernard first. Louis told him a heartfelt “merci” and took the opportunity to gather his thoughts and take a few calming breaths.
“Shocked, are you?” Bernard teased with a kindly smile. “You’re not a child anymore, Louis. It’s time to grow up and realize that you live in the real world.” He picked up his fork and speared a piece of sausage before pointing it in Louis’s direction. “We have real problems and need to come up with real solutions that are in the interest of the city, not the individual.”
“Unless the individual is a rich one, apparently.” Louis mumbled the comeback, but both Bernard and his closest neighbors heard.
Bernard uttered a small “hah!” before biting into the sausage.
Marie-Pierre rolled her eyes, then leaned closer to Louis to mumble, “He loves coming off as being hard as nails, but he does have a soft spot. He helps me out in my work with the elderly and does quite a bit of work with the homeless of Toulouse—usually in person.”
Louis had trouble believing this of the man across the table, but decided to let the peace offering work.
A surprising action came from his mother’s side. She patted Louis’s hand between them on the table and said in a tone Louis associated with teachers in middle school, “Well done, chéri.”
Mouth falling open in surprise, Louis turned to his mother. With a small smile, she looked into her own cassoulet and fished out a piece of duck leg.
“But what about Papa?” Louis asked, leaning close to make sure Bernard didn’t overhear. He needn’t have bothered; the man was dedicating his entire being into consuming the food in front of him. “Those measures against the prostitutes were his idea, if I remember correctly.”
His mother looked at him over the rims of her glasses and tsked. “We live in a democracy, remember? Just because all of these people belong to the same political party, it does not mean they agree on everything. Everybody is allowed to express his or her opinion, then the party will promote the opinion of the majority.”
Louis pondered that as he ate. It did make sense that even within a political party, there would be discussions and disagreement. He allowed himself to consider the possibility of entering the ranks of the Republican Party. The discussion he’d just had with Bernard had been exciting. He liked voicing his opinion. He’d love to be able to influence the decisions made for the city of Toulouse. But what was the point, really, when his voice would drown in a group of people who didn’t have the same opinions? He would be able to argue, but chances were slim to none that he’d actually change anyone’s opinion on subjects like the treatment of prostitutes. The Republicans weren’t catastrophic for the city, but Louis was often left with the feeling that things could have been done a little better. The thought of joining the Socialist Party crossed his mind, but was quickly dismissed. He couldn’t do that to his mother. His sister would probably beat him up, despite being a head shorter. He’d be better off staying in the background and letting the people with political experience make the decisions
.
Someone had ordered a dark red wine, which complemented the rich and greasy food perfectly. Louis picked up the bottle and served everyone, being especially generous with his own glass.
He was going to sleep like a baby that night, and probably fart like one too.
***
Louis slammed the newspaper down on his bed. I hope you can forgive me in turn, indeed! That slimy Englishwoman had changed the picture for the article. Instead of using the one they had studied in detail together displaying the body of Geraldine Hérault, she submitted a different picture with less zoom. As a result, on the very first page of today’s Midi Républicain, his father could be seen bowing on his knees—Like a Muslim during prayer, except faced in the wrong direction—a hand outstretched toward the money in Geraldine Hérault’s hand.
Louis had had enough.
His father was dead and the police weren’t getting any closer to finding the murderer. His father had been corrupted and his mother and sister were fine with that so long as he didn’t get caught. The members of the Republican Party, and more specifically the city council members, all expected him to go into politics with them when they had the most outrageous viewpoints on certain social subjects. And now, to top it all off, Catherine had turned against him too.
It wasn’t even only the picture. She went on and on about the accusations of corruption, underlining with the proof the police had found, and then extrapolating to the conclusion that his father might have been taking bribes on other subjects during his long reign at the Capitole. According to Catherine, the Saint-Blancat family was apparently closely related to the mafia.
Louis slammed the door to his closet open and dragged out his suitcase. He threw it on the bed next to the newspaper and zipped it open. He pulled out all the clothes he had so recently unpacked and threw them into the suitcase.
And why had she added that last paragraph? Did she have to make his life even more difficult by basically proclaiming him the future mayor of Toulouse? She wasn’t with the Republican Party. She hadn’t even met him before they bumped into each other at his father’s wake. Why did she have to keep putting into print that he was back in Toulouse to take over his father’s mantle?
The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery Page 16