The Curse of La Fontaine

by M. L. Longworth

  “Don’t worry,” Verlaque said. “He’s probably lost interest in following me around.” But he was lying. Yannis Malongo was on their street, looking up at their apartment, smoking. Verlaque suddenly thought that Mamadou Zouma, despite his tragic story, might be guilty. And, like Zouma, Malongo was obsessed with the man—be he sea captain or judge—who had hurt his brother. Verlaque tried not to shiver when he thought of the worst-case scenario: Yannis Malongo might take his vengeance out on the person dearest to him.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Duke Confesses

  T hat evening after dinner Verlaque and Marine walked Sylvie home. The streets were eerily empty—Yannis Malongo had gone—and Sylvie lived just two streets away, where there were no restaurants or bars open late. Sylvie nervously chatted and smoked, as if to warn potential followers that they were three, not one. It reminded Verlaque of noises hikers in certain mountains of North America had to make to ward off bears.

  Once upstairs in her apartment, Sylvie paid the babysitter and tiptoed into Charlotte’s room and kissed her warm cheek. She stroked her curly hair, thinking of the wedding photograph Charlotte had chosen to frame. After school they had gone to the framer’s together and chosen a simple silver frame. Sylvie could see why her eleven-year-old daughter liked the photograph: She was actually in it, along with her friend Léa, daughter of the Pauliks’. In fact, almost all the wedding guests were in this photograph, as it was taken inside the restaurant where the reception had taken place. Charlotte had said that it reminded her a little of The Last Supper, with Marine sitting in the middle of the table like Jesus. “Who is Antoine, then?” Sylvie asked her daughter. She answered, “He’s one of the wise men.” “But they weren’t at the Last Supper,” Sylvie corrected Charlotte. “I’m making it up, Maman!” One long table had been set up in an annex of the restaurant, and in this photograph only the faces of those sitting on the same side of the table as Marine and Verlaque could be seen; those on the opposite side had their backs to the camera, but even so their attitudes could sometimes be read in a turn of the head or the body posture. Three magnums of red wine, Barolo, set the scene of a good party. Antoine Verlaque had insisted on there being wild boar on the menu, despite the village’s location on the sea, and he had fought and lost when Marine added a fish option. The table was dressed in white linen and there were no flowers on it: only dozens of wine and water glasses, baskets of bread, bottles of olive oil, and about ten Italian sparkling water bottles, the empties being taken away by the staff almost as soon as they were set down on the table. Régis had rightly chosen black-and-white for this photo, which gave it a timelessness. Charlotte and Léa were at the far right, huddled together, laughing about something. Their new friendship pleased Sylvie, as the girls were very different: Léa was a choral singer in Aix’s prestigious music conservatory, and a serious and outgoing girl; whereas Charlotte was shy and a dreamer. “It’s a perfect picture,” Sylvie had said as they left the framing shop. “What were you girls laughing about, anyway?”

  “Antoine,” Charlotte answered matter-of-factly. “Marine’s maman was speaking to him, and we were watching. He wasn’t listening to her, but he was trying to make it look like he was. But she caught him not listening and grabbed his shoulder. That’s when we got the giggles, and then Antoine heard us and winked.”

  • • •

  On the way back to their apartment Verlaque held Marine close to him, and they, too, spoke a little too loudly, reliving their wedding day and fantasizing about buying an apartment in Paradiso. When they got back home, they quickly loaded the dishwasher and put the leftover food away. “I’ll wash the Riedels tomorrow morning,” Verlaque said of the three fragile wineglasses.

  “All right,” Marine said. “Thank you.”

  They turned off the kitchen lights, brushed their teeth, and changed for bed. “What’s on for you tomorrow?” Verlaque asked as he buttoned up his cotton pajamas and got into bed.

  “I’m going to stay here and work on the bibliography for my book,” Marine said. “Antoine . . . are we in danger?”

  He looked over at his giant black Pierre Soulages painting and then at Marine. “I don’t want you leaving the apartment tomorrow,” he answered. “Or if you do, take Sylvie with you or buzz Arnaud.”

  “Groceries?”

  “Arnaud. Give him a list. Tell him you have too much work.”

  “And you?”

  Verlaque answered, “The Palais de Justice is just around the corner, and it will be broad daylight, with lots of people about.”

  “You could say the same thing about me going out tomorrow—” Marine argued.

  “Okay, I’ll get Bruno to come and pick me up. He can bring some brioches from Michaud’s.”

  Marine smiled, relieved that Verlaque would call Bruno Paulik, relieved that her husband was back to his cheery self, already thinking of his next meal. She reached over and turned off the bedside lamp.

  • • •

  Paulik arrived on the rue Adanson just before 9:00 a.m. Marine was already upstairs in the loft, in the office that Verlaque had set up for her, working. She called a good morning down to the commissioner, leaning over the balcony’s contemporary black-iron railing. “I brought you a brioche,” Paulik said, holding up the bag.

  “No thank you,” Marine said. “I ate muesli this morning.”

  “Muesli?” Paulik asked, looking bewildered.

  Verlaque shrugged, putting on his jacket. “I know; it’s a mystery that someone would choose to eat what tastes like wood shavings over Michaud’s brioches.” His cell phone rang and he looked at the number and then excused himself, taking his phone into the bedroom at the back of the apartment. Paulik sat in the club chair and checked his own messages. After ten minutes Verlaque came out and apologized. “It was Jean-Baptiste Dellaney.”

  “The third musketeer with Sigisbert and Grégory?” Paulik asked.

  “Yes,” Verlaque answered. “We’ve been playing phone tag because of the time difference.”

  “Was it interesting what he had to say?”

  “Very. Listen, I have one more quick phone call to make. To London. Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead,” Paulik said.

  Marine came down the stairs and said, “Bruno, would you like a coffee?”

  “No, no—” he protested.

  “I’m making one for myself,” Marine said.

  “In that case, yes, thanks.”

  A few minutes later Verlaque came back into the living room. He appeared agitated and eager to leave.

  “Should we go?” Paulik said. “We can eat as we walk.”

  “Yes, let’s.” They said goodbye to Marine and left the apartment, opening the bag on the landing and pulling out a brioche each. “We’ll split the third one later,” Verlaque said. “I’m keeping track.”

  When they were down on the street Paulik said, “There’s still no news from Juliette de Castelbajac.”

  “Mmm,” Verlaque grunted. He looked behind him toward the Place des Martyrs de la Résistance but only saw a group of tourists taking pictures of the Thêatre de l’Archevêche, where the summer opera festival was held.

  They turned right and walked down Adanson, which almost emptied into the tiny Esquicho-Coude. “Every time I look up at that defaced statue,” Verlaque said, looking at the oratory behind its wrought-iron grille, “I think of people like Mamadou Zouma—migrants, or refugees, looking for a better life. And then they come here and there are people like Thomas and Stéphanie Roche.”

  “And Ludovic de Castelbajac,” Paulik added. They turned left on rue Paul Bert then immediately right on Granet, which would take them directly to work. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked, finishing his brioche and getting the third one out of the bag. “Or did you just feel like a Michaud’s delivery?”

  “Let’s get a quick coffee at the Café Ve
rdun,” Verlaque said. “And I’ll explain why I wanted you to come this morning, and what our friend in Melbourne had to say, and why I called London. And then we can go to Marine’s apartment. Sigisbert Valets will be there, and his accomplice, Mamadou Zouma.”

  • • •

  The duke was kneeling on a board to which Manuel had nailed a small rectangular cushion. He was furiously weeding. Sweat ran down the back of his neck and into his shirt, as it was a warm morning. But he didn’t care. He knew he should have stopped minutes ago and had some water, but he couldn’t stop. Haydn’s German national anthem was playing in his head; he had heard it on Radio France that morning and now couldn’t get it out of his head. It did not remind him of the Nazis, who had claimed the song as their own anthem, but rather all the good things in Germany: the fine white wines of the Mosel, Albrecht Dürer’s portraits, the English garden in Munich, buttery pastries made with walnuts and apples and nutmeg, and of course Marguerite. He had been thinking a lot about Marguerite.

  “Bonjour, mon ami,” said a voice behind him.

  The duke looked up and smiled. “It’s so nice to see you,” he said. Frère Joël helped him to his feet. “Let me ask Manuel to bring us some water and coffee. And cake.”

  Frère Joël beamed. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” the duke answered. “I’ve been working too hard and need a break. Plus, I’d like to talk to you. I’ll go in and wash my hands. I won’t be a minute.”

  Frère Joël sat down and admired the garden. The priests had their own small garden, between the church and the Musée Granet, but the minute he went into it, another priest or brother would appear, wanting to talk about the next mass or the organ fund-raiser or the youth group. In this garden he could do what he wanted.

  A few minutes later the duke came back out, followed by Manuel, who carried a tray with coffee, water, and cake. “Thank you, Manuel,” the duke said. “It’s spice cake,” the duke told Frère Joël, pointing to the cake. “I know it’s not Christmas, but I had a sudden urge for one. And Manuel follows Marguerite’s recipe to the tee.” He sat down and sliced them each a piece, setting them on blue-and-white Wedgwood plates.

  “Josiah Wedgwood the abolitionist,” Frère Joël said, picking up one of the plates and recognizing the pattern.

  “Quite right,” the duke said, now pouring the coffee. He enjoyed the brother’s company, noting that he also had the same rich conversations with Gaëlle Dreyfus. And unlike the brother, Gaëlle was not homely and slightly overweight; she was still a very handsome woman. He handed Frère Joël a coffee and then sat back, smiling.

  “I hope I’m not being indiscreet,” Frère Joël said, “but do you have good news from your doctor?”

  “Yes,” the duke answered, turning to look at his friend. “The tumor is benign.”

  “Excellent news!” Frère Joël said, lifting his demitasse in the air. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “We will, some evening soon if you like. If you appreciate old Armagnacs.”

  “Oh, indeed!”

  The duke smiled. He admired the brother, his calmness and his modesty. “Frère Joël,” he began, “one of the reasons I like you so much, other than our conversations, is your temperate and moderate nature.”

  The brother smiled, knowing the duke was once again quoting Montaigne. “Montaigne was unpopular with the Romantics over that,” he said, biting into the spice cake.

  “I know,” the duke answered. “He wasn’t hot-blooded enough for them.”

  “I can see why they thought that,” Frère Joël said. “Take, for instance, Montaigne’s visit to Torquato Tasso in Ferrara . . .”

  The duke nodded. He spoke quickly, wanting to make up for his earlier mistake in confusing Euripides for Sophocles. “An excellent example. By the time our essayist visited his poet friend in Ferrara, Tasso had lost his mind and was living in a madhouse. Montaigne was horrified by the conditions and irritated that Tasso had driven himself mad by spending too long in states of poetic ecstasy. Montaigne knew that writing poetry required a particular kind of frenzy, but what was the point if it drove you mad, and you could never write again?”

  Frère Joël said, “George Sand thought that Montaigne was too indifferent to suffering, so she stopped reading him.”

  “But that’s misunderstanding him,” the duke said. “Montaigne was very saddened by Tasso’s condition, but what the Romantics couldn’t forgive was his irritation. They bought into all that frenzy, that blinding brilliance, creating until one collapsed . . .”

  “Give me peace and calm any day,” Frère Joël said, crossing his legs and putting his hands behind his head.

  “My late wife, Marguerite, was full of the same frenzy,” the duke said. “She wasn’t mad like the poet Tasso, but toward the end of her life I couldn’t understand her anymore.”

  Frère Joël, although he loved calm and quiet, brought his hands back down onto his lap and looked at the duke. He nodded very slightly, encouraging the duke to go on. But instead of speaking of Marguerite, he said another name.

  “Delphine was like sunshine to me,” the duke said, looking up at the blue sky. “I hadn’t been able to communicate properly with Marguerite for years, and Delphine’s husband was dead.”

  Frère Joël leaned forward. He had been expecting some sort of confession, perhaps linking Marguerite to Grégory de Castelbajac’s murder. He had not expected the duke to confess to a love affair.

  “Do you remember when we spoke of Freud’s house in Hampstead?”

  Frère Joël nodded.

  “I went there with Delphine,” the duke said. “‘It is the hour of feeling,’ Delphine liked to say. She was quoting Wordsworth, her favorite poet.”

  “All about slowing down,” Frère Joël said. “Appreciating the moment.”

  “Yes, but alas . . . we didn’t have much time together, because I wouldn’t leave Marguerite, and I think that Delphine knew that she was sick and didn’t have much time left, and she wanted to spend it with her grandchildren. But what a wonderful time it was.”

  “You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

  “Oh, I don’t feel guilty over the affair,” the duke said, reaching over and patting the brother’s shoulder. “I feel guilty because I wouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . leave my wife.”

  “You were married, under God’s—”

  “Don’t give me that malarkey,” the duke said. “I couldn’t leave Marguerite because I needed her family money.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Suspicion of Murder

  V erlaque and Paulik arrived at Marine’s apartment just before 10:00 a.m. Bear, Florian, and Mamadou were there, all of them working in the kitchen. Loud music was playing, unbearably bad to Paulik’s opera-loving ears, and he winced.

  “Sorry,” Bear said, reaching over to his iPad and turning off the music.

  “Can we go into the other room to talk?” Verlaque said.

  “All of us?” Bear asked, looking at his coworkers.

  “Just you and Mamadou.”

  Florian said, “I’ll keep working on the stock, Chef.”

  The four of them sat down in what used to be Marine’s living room and Verlaque, putting his hands on the table, began speaking. “I should have asked you more questions about your friendship with Grégory de Castelbajac,” he said, looking at Bear. “But I was lax. Probably too caught up in your good food.”

  Bear tried to smile, but his nervousness showed. “I told you—”

  “No, you didn’t,” Paulik said.

  “This morning I had a phone conversation with Jean-Baptiste Dellaney,” Verlaque said. “Did you think I wouldn’t get ahold of him?”

  Bear looked down at the table and Mamadou asked, “What’s going on, Chef?”

  Verlaque, tired of the charade, said, “You know what’s going on, Mamadou.”

 
; “What—” Bear said. Mamadou looked genuinely shocked.

  “Why don’t you tell us what went on between you three?”

  “I was in London,” Bear said.

  Verlaque sat back and crossed his arms.

  Bear looked at Paulik and Verlaque and then continued. “Okay, I went to London to school not because I thought the French school system was shit, which is what I told everyone, but because Grégory had become crazy. He was hounding me all the time . . .”

  “Were you lovers?” Verlaque asked. He had been thinking more about the photograph of Grégory in the Castelbajacs’ library and how much he looked like Bruce Chatwin, whose travel books Verlaque had devoured when he was in his twenties. He knew that gay men came in all shapes and sizes, but the fact that Chatwin, who was gay, looked so much like Grégory, had led him down that path of logic.

  “No,” Bear said. “That was part of the problem. Grégory loved me, but I couldn’t love him . . . in the way he wanted.”

  Verlaque said, “Dellaney told me that when you left Aix, Grégory was devastated. He even went to London a few times to try to get you back.”

  Bear nodded, his head hanging low.

  “What was Grégory involved in that made you leave Aix? You can tell me, or I can tell you what Dellaney told me this morning.”

  Bear clutched the edge of the table. “Grégory had become more and more fanatic. He was always against the nobility and the rich, always a champion of the poor and impoverished. But he was under the sway of someone new—”

  “A lover?” Verlaque asked.

  “No, no,” Bear said. “I don’t think so. It was an older person, someone who was an anarchist. I don’t even know if that person was male or female. Grégory wanted me to help them—”

  “Because of your science background?” Paulik asked.

  “Yes,” Bear said, his voice cracking. “We had been radicals in junior high.” He paused to laugh. “Ridiculous, to be radicals at fourteen. Jean-Baptiste had been very political, like Grégory and I, but had slowly been losing his edge, and in high school all but abandoned Grégory. After university he suddenly split to Australia, helped by his parents. I think they were worried he was a druggie or something.” Bear then smirked. “He became worse than that; he became an advertising man. But he knew enough of the plan—”