‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I said. ‘My last name is Sarkanova, and everybody used to ask me where I’m really from.’
Sarah studied me for a few seconds before she spoke. ‘So they’ve stopped doing that?’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said they used to ask you.’
I coughed so hard the piece of rabbit meat threatened to come up again. That was one of the advantages of being married. Whenever I introduced myself as Ally Cornwall, I got a whole new set of questions. People wanted to know what part of New York I’d grown up in, what kind of work I did, and so on.
‘I suppose I just don’t notice any more,’ I said, turning to look through the big picture window. The square outside was clean and stylish, with rows of trickling fountains. Three rumpled pigeons were standing in one of the basins, washing their wings in the water.
There’s a way to approach every individual, I thought. This woman was as closed off as a construction site in lower Manhattan. I tried picturing how Patrick must have got her to talk. With his serious demeanour, I thought, and his total focus, his ability to make the person sitting across from him feel important and understood. I felt my stomach clench.
‘Patrick hasn’t submitted any completed texts yet,’ I said. ‘But I promise to check everything and see that your name isn’t mentioned. He always keeps his word about things like that.’
The waiter appeared at our table. I pushed aside the rabbit stew and asked for a double espresso. Sarah ordered tea.
‘I helped him with a number of facts about how our legal system works in those types of cases. That’s all,’ she said after the waiter had left. ‘The law is complicated when we’re dealing with people who are undocumented.’
‘In what way?’
She took a sip of mineral water.
‘I can’t give you a simple answer. That’s the same thing I told Patrick. It all depends on the individual case, and under what conditions the person finds himself living here in France. Whether someone can guarantee his income and residence, and whether the person in question is guilty of any crimes, other than living here. And the laws keep changing, especially over the past few years.’
I took paper and pen from my bag and began taking notes, since I was pretending to be a researcher. When she started talking about the law, the words seemed to pour out of her. She told me that, generally speaking, deportation was the norm if someone was living in the country illegally. Previously, the police would seize undocumented immigrants, arrest them, and take them into custody like criminals, but now the laws were stricter. Anyone who had not committed a crime but simply lacked papers could be held at the police station for no more than sixteen hours. The individual had to prove that he was entitled to stay in France or else he would be deported. In that case he would be transferred to a special detention centre at the Palais de Justice on Île de la Cité and held there for a maximum of forty-five days, waiting to be transported out of the country. It was the eighth department of the Préfecture de Police that specialized in these matters.
‘You could always try to talk to the police,’ said Sarah, folding her napkin. ‘But I doubt you’ll get any answers.’
‘Did Patrick tell you who he was writing about?’ I asked, venturing a little smile. ‘It may seem strange that we don’t know any of the details. In the past we could spend hours discussing the various angles of a story, but there’s no time for that any more. And Patrick Cornwall is a freelancer. He goes his own way.’
The attorney raised her eyebrows. She took a toothpick from a little case and meticulously dislodged a shred of meat from between her teeth.
‘He contacted me almost four weeks ago,’ she said at last. ‘He asked whether I’d consider defending several people, but I’m not the one who decides which cases my firm takes on.’
I held my breath, not wanting to provoke anything that might cause her to erect the barbed wire again.
‘He also had a lot of questions about what happens if an illegal immigrant testifies against a criminal organization. Would he get to stay here? I didn’t see any reason not to answer those kinds of questions — provided he wouldn’t quote me, of course.’
‘And you didn’t meet with Patrick again after that?’ I asked.
‘I don’t understand why you’re asking me these kinds of questions,’ said Sarah, stirring her tea.
I feverishly tried to think of how to respond, and decided to make use of her own weapons. Laws and regulations.
‘Your oath of confidentiality. Does it apply to everyone you represent?’
‘Everyone the firm represents,’ she corrected me.
‘And you never took them on as your clients, the people that Patrick was talking about?’
‘I told him that it would have to be handled along official lines.’
‘So that means there’s nothing to prevent you from talking about them,’ I said, pouring a little milk into my coffee. ‘Unless you happen to think that I’m a hopelessly stupid busybody.’
A trace of a smile appeared on her face. She sipped her tea.
‘My brother was the one who gave Patrick my name,’ she said. ‘Even though he knows what I think about journalists. The media never take any responsibility. They think the legal system is too complicated and moves too slowly. They tend to oversimplify and rush forward, wanting to write the story before the process has even begun, passing judgement before a verdict is reached.’
‘So your brother … what did you say his name is?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘But he was also in contact with Patrick, is that right?’
‘He works for an organization that helps undocumented immigrants and launches campaigns. Things like that. He has a hard time remembering that I’m a lawyer and not one of his activists.’ She raised her eyebrows and glanced away. ‘From what I understand, these men were prepared to testify, but I didn’t want to know any details about them. I made that very clear.’
‘Who were these men?’
‘They had escaped from an employer who was holding them captive. Patrick claimed it was a matter of slave labour, which in purely legal terms is not a crime. Rather, it’s classified as un délit. A legal violation that is punishable, but considered of a lesser degree. It can be compared with an offense in your legal system. But if the story is accurate, there could be grounds for bringing an indictment for abuse, deprivation of liberty, maybe even murder.’
I stared at her.
‘Murder? Did Patrick really say that?’
‘Of course I told him that he needed to go to the police if he had suspicions of that kind.’
‘So did he? Did he go to the police?’
‘I’m sure my brother advised him not to,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t trust the French police. He considers them corrupt.’
‘Are they?’
‘You can’t reject the system just because a few individuals abuse it. Society is based on law.’ She used her teaspoon to point at the wedding ring I wore. ‘Take marriage, for example. Above all else it’s a legal construct.’
‘A lot of people would say it has to do with love,’ I replied.
Sarah Rachid motioned to the waiter and asked for the check. Then she opened her briefcase. She wrote down a phone number on a notepad, then tore off the page and placed it on the table.
‘I suggest you go to see my brother. I’m sure he’d be willing to talk to you. Arnaud is an idealist.’ She made it sound like some sort of sexual perversion.
‘Just one more thing,’ I said. ‘Did Patrick mention someone named Alain Thery?’
‘Why are you asking me that?’
‘What about a company named Lugus? Josef K? Did he say anything about a hotel that burned down a few weeks ago?’
She counted out some cash, adding on a ten per cent tip. Her half of the bill.
‘Say hello to Arnaud for me,’ she said, and left.
I watched her take a short cut through the outdoor seating are
a on the square and then disappear around the corner onto boulevard Saint-Michel. The sun had broken through the clouds, and people were taking off their jackets and draping them on the backs of their chairs.
On my way out of the restaurant I phoned Arnaud Rachid. Compared to his sister, he was remarkably forthcoming.
‘How nice,’ he said. ‘How’s Patrick doing? I haven’t heard from him in a while.’
I was overjoyed. Finally someone who knew something and was willing to talk.
‘When did you last speak to him?’ I asked.
‘Hmm. When was it? A couple of weeks ago? He’s not still in Paris, is he?’
I swallowed hard and suggested we should meet. He gave me directions to his office on rue Charlot, which was in the Marais district. He said he’d be there after six o’clock.
I ended the call. The city suddenly seemed brighter, the atmosphere genuinely friendly. The pigeons had climbed out of their bath to perch in a row on the edge of the fountain, drying their wings. It was only 2.15 in the afternoon. Almost four hours to kill.
The Préfecture de Police was located on the Île de la Cité in the middle of the Seine, which cleaved the city into two parts. The stone building was huge. Daylight barely reached the ground. It struck me that the street must have been swathed in partial darkness for several centuries. Twilight was woven into the very fabric of the city.
At least I’m not on my way to the guillotine, I thought, turning right at the iron gates of the Palais de Justice, which were thirty metres tall. Right next door were the dungeons in the Conciergerie, where the death sentences had rained down during the French Revolution.
In the morning I’d awakened with a dream still lingering in my mind. I was wandering along white corridors, searching for Patrick, but no one knew where he was.
The police ought to know if he was lying unconscious in a hospital somewhere. I wouldn’t have to tell them anything about his work.
‘Sorry, no English,’ said the woman at the reception desk in police headquarters. Her hair was so stiff with hairspray that it could have been made of porcelain.
‘All right. But surely someone here speaks English?’
But nobody did. I swore loudly. The police department was only a block from Notre-Dame. The whole area was crawling with tourists, and yet they couldn’t hire anyone who spoke English. Finally a man stepped out of the queue and offered to translate. I explained that I was enquiring about someone who’d gone missing. He took a step forward, pressing close to my back as he translated. The woman at the desk handed me a piece of paper with a phone number. Behind me the man was breathing heavily in my ear. ‘It must be difficult for you, all alone here in Paris.’ I stomped hard on his foot, and I heard him shouting after me: ‘Looking for your husband, are you? I can see why he left you!’
Out in the courtyard people were waiting in long lines to apply for visas. Some were sitting on the cobblestones, leaning wearily against the wall as they smoked. I smoothed out the piece of paper that I’d crumpled in my hand. It said: ‘Recherche dans l’intérêt des familles’. Apparently missing persons came under the jurisdiction of the department dealing with family matters. I tapped in the number on my cell as I walked. A woman answered on the first ring.
‘I have some questions about a specific person,’ I said. ‘Someone who is missing.’
‘Votre nom, s’il vous plaît.’
Nom had to mean name.
‘My name is Ally Cornwall,’ I said. ‘I’ve just arrived in Paris, and I just want to—’
‘Adresse?’
I told her the name of my hotel. Two police officers gave me a sleepy glance as I went through the gate and came out onto the street. In my ear I heard the woman rambling off a long list of words: mari, fils … It was more difficult to understand French when I couldn’t see the person.
‘I’m sorry, but is there anyone there who speaks English?’ I said.
‘Vous êtes English?’
‘American.’
‘Call embassy, please,’ said the woman, and she was gone.
I’d come out on the other side of the police headquarters. I walked over to the stone wall near the quay. In front of me flowed the river, murky and green. I breathed in the musty air and suddenly had a feeling that I’d stood in this same place before. Long ago. A barge glided past, loaded with coal and asphalt. On the opposite bank the facades of the buildings lined the water. There was something so familiar about the scene, a déjà vu that wasn’t entirely correct. The buildings had been darker and the river wider, with blacker water.
The Vltava. The river that ran through Prague.
I was very young. I was certain about that because I couldn’t reach up to the top of the wall, so somebody had lifted me up. Someone had put strong hands around my waist and lifted me up so I could see the boats gliding past on the river. It was him. I was sure of it, even though I couldn’t see him or hear his voice. A memory of my father. And someone had laughed, or else it was the echo of a laugh. I tried to remember if I had turned around, but the sensation of his hands holding my body disappeared, and I was no longer sure whether it had actually happened or not.
Several metres away I saw an opening in the wall, and stairs leading down to the river. I sat down on the steps and took the guidebook out of my bag, looking for the phone number of the American embassy. The smell of urine rose up from the quay below.
‘Excuse me, what did you say your name was?’
The official in charge of missing Americans coughed on the phone.
‘Alena Cornwall. I don’t know whether anything has happened to my husband, but I’m just wondering whether you’ve received any report—’
‘And how long has your husband been missing?’
I realized this was almost more complicated than talking to the French police. Patrick’s name might be known at the embassy. They might even read The Reporter.
I explained briefly, without saying anything about Patrick’s work.
‘Have you been married long?’ he asked.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘Personally, I’ve been married for thirteen years. Not everyone appreciates eating the same food every week, if you get my drift.’
He took a bite of something, and I heard him smacking his lips. I gripped the iron railing of the stairs to try to stay calm.
‘The problem is that I don’t speak much French, and that makes it hard to talk to the police. But you would know if anything happened to an American, right? An accident or anything like that?’
‘Let me have a look. Wait just a minute. Here’s something.’
My heart jumped and turned over, but then landed somewhere deep down in my stomach when he went on.
‘We have a retiree from Illinois who lost his camera outside the Eiffel Tower on Friday. He set it down to hold his place in line while he went off to take a leak. He’d been standing in line for two hours and had no intention of losing his place.’
‘Patrick is thirty-eight.’ A riverboat that looked like a giant turtle was approaching, with the tourists holding up their cameras in the air. I bowed my head so my face wouldn’t end up in the foreground of their photos of Notre-Dame.
‘Listen to this: A couple went into the Père-Lachaise cemetery night before last. They had hidden inside the chapel until it closed. They wanted to honour Jim Morrison by drinking bourbon and doing nasty things on his grave in the moonlight. The guy said, and I quote: “Jim’s spirit would rise up at the moment of orgasm.” I assume that’s not your husband?’
‘Patrick doesn’t even like Jim Morrison.’
I heard a rattling on the phone. Then he coughed again. Or was he choking back laughter?
‘If I were you, I’d go home and wait another week,’ he said in an amused tone of voice. ‘If a Mr Cornwall happens to show up, I’ll tell him to call home asap. OK?’
As I got out of the taxi, I realized my money wasn’t going to last very long if I kept taking cabs in this
city.
At any rate, there was no doubt that Alain Thery was doing quite well for himself.
The building at 76 avenue Kléber was an old stone mansion that had been modernized with black-tinted glass along the entire ground floor. It was only a few blocks from the Arc de Triomphe, and right next to two embassies and a Ferrari dealership.
Since no one at the Lugus company had replied to my email, I thought I might as well try to see Thery before he left for the weekend. I’d had enough phone calls for the day. Besides, I wanted to see his face when I asked him about Patrick.
Lugus was not the sort of business that encouraged walk-in visitors. The door could be opened only from the inside or by using a code. There was no doorbell. I tried to peer through the dark panes, but I saw only a mirror image of myself and the street. When I looked up, a lion’s head made of stone glared down at me from a parapet.
A steady stream of office workers sauntered out of the surrounding buildings, but the door to number 76 remained closed.
I was just about to give up when a motorcycle pulled up at the kerb. The driver took a thick envelope out of his bag and went over to a pillar, where he tapped in a code. Seconds later the door opened, making the sound of a slow exhalation.
In a flash I was right behind him.
‘We’ve been lucky with the weather today,’ I said, following close on his heels into the building.
Inside, muted Caribbean-inspired pop music was playing, and my footsteps were muffled by a thick grey carpet. A young blond man sitting at the reception desk accepted the delivery. Alain Thery seemed to be very fond of black glass, because all the interior walls were just as shiny and impenetrable as the windows facing the street. Maybe someone was standing on the other side of the glass watching me, someone I could never see, no matter how hard I tried. On the other hand, I saw multiple images of the motorcycle messenger, one reflection on top of the other, as he headed back to the door, which closed after him with a quiet sigh.
‘Good afternoon. I’d like to speak to Alain Thery,’ I said, stepping over to the reception desk.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ The blond guy was busy trying to unscrew the lid of a small pink glass jar. Behind him a wide marble staircase led up to the next floor.
The Forgotten Dead Page 11