by Claude Izner
‘I have work to do and … I’d like to see Rue du Caire.’
‘In that case you’ll need a large ice cream. It’s very hot in the land of the pyramids.’
Along Avenue de Suffren were a Chinese pavilion, a Romanian restaurant and an isba. They crossed the Moroccan quarter and immediately found themselves in the heart of the Egyptian bazaar.
‘This is a rather haphazard way of travelling round the globe,’ said Victor, who was not the least distracted from his interest in Tasha by the hustle and bustle around them.
She barely reached his shoulder and sometimes had to quicken her step to keep up with him. They wandered amongst the little donkeys grouped on the moucharaby. Stopping in front of a display of Egyptian cigarettes, Tasha took out her sketchbook and pencil. Looking over her shoulder, Victor saw the outline of a body on a bench with three tense-looking children standing next to it.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, his eye drawn to the curve of her cheek.
She closed her sketchbook quickly with a look of concern.
‘That woman, on the Tower … dying like that in the middle of all the festivities … I’ve got to go.’
‘Can I leave you anywhere? I’m going home as well.’
‘Where is your shop?’
‘Eighteen Rue des Saints-Pères. You can’t miss it, the sign says: “Elzévir, New and Antiquarian Books”.’
‘I’m going in the opposite direction, to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.’
That’s ideal, I have a meeting on Boulevard Haussmann,’ he said quickly.
She looked at him with amusement and, after pretending to hesitate for a moment, accepted his offer.
He hailed a cab on Avenue de Saffron. Sitting side by side, they remained silent. Victor felt embarrassed. This girl was so unlike the other women he knew! You almost had to drag the words out of her mouth.
‘How long have you been in Paris?’
‘Almost two years.’
‘I love your lilting accent. It has a touch of the Midi about it.’
She turned towards him and paused, giving her a pretext to study his profile, before replying in an intentionally exaggerated accent: ‘Oh, you’re from Odessa, Mademoiselle, they say in Moscow, while in Paris they say: she’s from Marseille!’
Victor looked baffled, but then quickly caught on.
‘Odessa, the Crimea, Little Russia, port on the Black Sea, cosmopolitan city hailed by Pushkin. The Duc de Richelieu, descendant of the famous cardinal, was governor at the beginning of the century. There is a statue of him there, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘No, you’re right. He sits on a throne in Roman dress at the top of a hundred and ninety-two steps, which join the port to the upper town. Marius is right, you are a mine of information, Monsieur Legris,’ she declared with a straight face.
‘Be kind to us scholars: all I do is read the travel writing I come across,’ he said modestly. ‘You yourself have mastered perfectly the subtleties of the language of Molière. Did you have a French governess?’
She burst out laughing.
‘My mother is the daughter of French merchants and my father the son of German settlers. I learnt to juggle both languages from birth.’
‘Have you worked for Marius long?’
‘Three months. I managed to convince him that I was a gifted caricaturist.’
‘Would you like to show me?’ he asked, handing her the Buffalo Bill flier.
‘With pleasure. I don’t like him.’
With a few swift pencil lines she transformed the dashing Colonel Cody into a cartoon picador riding an old nag and pointing a rifle and bayonet at a bison begging for mercy.
‘You’ve completely ruined it!’ he exclaimed in dismay.
As he didn’t seem to want to take back the flier, she stowed it in her bag saying: ‘I enjoyed that, I really don’t like that murderer. Do you know that in 1862 there were roughly nine thousand bison between the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains? They’ve all disappeared. There were also nearly two hundred thousand Sioux Indians, and those who are still alive have been parked in reservations.’
‘Perhaps it’s stupid of me,’ said Victor, keen to change the subject, ‘but I don’t understand the attraction of illustrations in novels. It doubles the size of the book.’
‘A good illustration can sometimes say more than an entire chapter. At the moment I’m illustrating a French adaptation of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I am looking for models for the witches of Macbeth, and the surgical exhibition didn’t inspire me much!’ she laughed.
‘You should take a look at Goya’s Los Caprichos.’
‘Do you have them?’
‘A first edition, a superb quarto, eighty plates, with no discoloration,’ he murmured, looking at her intently.
He had just noticed the roundness of her breasts beneath her white bodice. She moved away from him slightly.
‘It belongs to my friend Kenji,’ he went on, sitting back.
‘The Japanese gentleman with the trenchant opinions?’
‘Oh, indulge him. The current fashion for Japanese curios gets on his nerves.’
‘You seem very fond of him.’
‘He raised me. I lost my father when I was eight. We were living in London. Without Kenji’s devotion, my mother would never have survived — she had no head for business.’
‘How long ago was that?’
Was she trying to guess his age?
‘Twenty-one years.’
‘I see …’
She fell silent again.
‘When will you come by the bookshop?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.
‘I’ll have to see—I have a very busy schedule.’
He frowned. Was there a man? Several, possibly. You could never tell with a woman like this.
You have many demands on your time,’ he said, feigning a sudden interest in the wooden cobbles of Boulevard des Capucines.
‘Yes, I have to sell my skills to survive.
The remark startled Victor.
‘You can rarely live on what satisfies the spirit. Le Passe-partout and illustrating books are what pay for my meals and rent.’
‘And what is it that satisfies your spirit?’
‘Painting. I learnt intaglio engraving and aquatint from my father at a very young age, and my mother taught me watercolour painting and drawing. They ran an art school and were real artists. My father painted and …’ She shook her head. ‘Let’s leave the past buried in the past. In my eyes the only thing that matters is creativity. I don’t know if I have any talent, I don’t know if what I do may touch other people, but I can no more stop painting than an alcoholic can stop drinking. That is what counts for me; the end result is secondary.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Victor, who wasn’t sure that he quite understood.
Odette wearied him with her holidays to Houlgate, her latest outfits, her society gossip. He suddenly felt upset to have such an insipid mistress. How different she was from this girl!
‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘Do you have a passion?’
‘I like books and … photography. I bought an Acme in London last winter. It’s like a little dark room — people also call it a detective camera — and I … but I’m boring you.’
‘No, no, I assure you, it’s not because I’m a woman that I find technology impenetrable.’
‘Right then, in that case I’ll tell you about bromide plates, which will soon be overtaken by flexible celluloid film.’
Her consternation made him laugh.
‘So you do understand.’
‘I don’t understand at all.’
Perhaps he had annoyed her. He wished he hadn’t said anything.
‘Like yours, my hobby comes with a certain amount of theory, but once you’ve mastered the basic principles —’
‘It’s not a hobby,’ she cut him off abruptly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Painting. It’s not a hobby. When I paint
I feel alive in every part of my being. It’s not like … crocheting a doily!’
She drew back, leaning against the window. He could have hit himself.
Are you angry? Please excuse me, I’ve been stupid.’
With a huge effort she turned towards him and gave him a forced smile.
‘I’m a little tired at the moment, on edge.’
Stuck in a traffic jam on Boulevard de Clichy, the cab had not moved for a while.
‘I’m going to get out here. We’re very near my house. Goodbye,’ was her parting remark as she opened the cab door.
‘Wait!’
He couldn’t stop her; she had already jumped onto the road. The driver of another cab cursed her and cracked his whip.
Victor hurriedly paid for their journey and followed Tasha, who was making quick progress up Rue Fontaine. As long as she doesn’t turn round … She stopped on the edge of the pavement and he hid behind a Morris column. She set off again, crossed Rue Pigalle and went up Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette to number 60, where she pushed open the door of a heavy Haussmannian building.
His short-lived relief at finding out her address immediately gave way to a new worry: what if it was the home of one of her lovers? He would have to check by asking Marius. That meant he would have to see Marius, and no doubt accept his offer of writing a column.
Tomorrow, I’ll go tomorrow, and if it really is where she lives, I shall send her flowers to apologise.
Apologise for what? Shouldn’t she be the one to apologise? She hadn’t even thanked him for the lift. He shrugged his shoulders. Women always had to be in the right!
As he wandered down Rue Le Peletier, imagining his next meeting with her, a newspaper vendor bumped into him, brandishing a special edition.
‘Forty sous just to die! Buy Le Passe-partout! Mysterious death on the first floor of the three-hundred-metre Tower! Read the whole story for five centimes!’
CHAPTER TWO
Thursday 23 June
VICTOR went along Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs. He had decided to have lunch in a brasserie on one of the Boulevards before making his mind up. He knew exactly what he would say: ‘I was passing, so I thought I’d come and discuss your proposition.’ At any rate it was his pretext for seeing Tasha again to make his peace with her. He had outlined the beginning of an article entitled ‘French as It Is Written’, sparing neither Balzac: ‘A police commissioner silently replies, “She is not mad.”’ (Cousin Bette), nor Lamartine: ‘The soles of my feet hurt from their desire to go out with you, Geneviève’ (Geneviève), nor Vigny: ‘That old servant in the employ of Marshal Effiat who had been dead for six months got ready to leave again’ (Cinq-Mars).
He passed the headquarters of L’Éclair newspaper and turned into Galerie Véro-Dodat, looking for the sign of Le Passe-partout. Nothing. He turned on his heel, then, on the off chance, tried a metal gate that opened onto a row of courtyards. A song floated on the air, and there was a smell of honeysuckle and horsedung. He skirted a cart full of animal feed parked in front of a grain warehouse, passed some stables, and stopped a moment to watch two boys push a paper boat along the water in the gutter.
The editorial offices of Le Passe-partout were at the end of a blind alley: a dilapidated single-storey building wedged between a printing works and an engraver’s workshop. He went in, and climbed up the spiral staircase, bumping into Eudoxie Allard and Isidore Gouvier, who were keeping watch behind a half-open door.
Isidore who was smoking a cigar, winked at Victor and joked, ‘You’ve really got the little redhead’s hackles up.’
‘The redhead?’ Victor asked.
Eudoxie turned and stared at him coldly. ‘Can I help you?’
‘May I see Monsieur Bonnet?’
‘He has somebody with him,’ she replied.
‘And … Mademoiselle Tasha?’
‘Absent. If you would like to wait …’ She pointed to a low divan next to a pile of newspapers.
Disconcerted, Victor sat down, crossed his legs and picked up a copy of Le Passe-partout. Page one was almost entirely taken up with a satirical picture showing the Eiffel Tower chastely veiled in a flared underskirt. An enormous threatening bee circled its campanile, which wore a feathered hat. He could not resist a smile when he made out the artist’s signature: ‘Tasha K’.
He looked further down to find the main headline:
ACCIDENTAL DEATH OR MURDER?
We have the right to ask, having received the following anonymous message:
I won’t spell it out
But poor Eugénie Patinot
Knew more than she ought.
Are we dealing with a homicidal beekeeper who settles scores via an apian intermediary? Yesterday, towards the end of the day …
Victor started as loud shouting erupted suddenly from Marius’s office.
‘I’m warning you, Bonnet, one more article like this and —’
‘Come now, Inspector, freedom of the press has existed for eight years, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Do you want to sabotage the Expo? The drawing on the front page is revolting.’
‘That isn’t what the public thinks. Do you know how many copies we sold this morning and how many we’ll sell this evening, tomorrow and the day after that?’
‘You’ve blown up out of all proportion a run-of-the-mill news story! What gives you the right to assert that the Patinot woman’s death was suspicious?’
‘I’m not asserting anything. I’m just posing the question.’
‘Look here, Bonnet, you know as well as I do! The police are inundated with anonymous letters as soon as anybody kicks the bucket in unusual circumstances. Give me the message.’
‘You have the one that was sent to L’Éclair, that should be enough, and in any case I don’t know what I’ve done with it.’
The door opened suddenly, and out came a tall, furiouslooking man. Isidore and Eudoxie raced back to their seats, and Victor stood up, slipping the newspaper into his pocket.
‘Inspector!’ called Marius from the doorway of his office. ‘If this woman died of respiratory trouble, why has the investigation been entrusted to you? … Oh, Victor, I didn’t know you were here. Did you hear us?’
‘Vaguely. Who was that?’
‘Inspector Lecacheur. Not a bad sort of fellow, but a bit dense. Have you read the latest news?’
‘No.’
‘The newspapers have received an anonymous letter leading one to suppose that it was murder, but the doctors have concluded that it was death from natural causes.’
‘You mean that woman yesterday, on the Tower?’
‘Yes. There are two possibilities: either these lines of doggerel are the work of some joker, or else someone did kill her. How? It’s a mystery. The police probably know more than they’re letting on. As to motives … was Eugénie Patinot, a pious and respectable widow, involved in blackmail? Was she witness to something she should not have seen?’
Marius pulled his waistcoat down over his stomach, bit off the end of his Havana cigar and spat it out.
‘By putting Tasha’s cartoon on the front page, I’ve alienated myself from all the “serious” press, who are forever trumpeting their claims of impartiality and so-called integrity! I’m running a huge risk, but I know I’m right. Follow me, I’ll show you my new installation. Mind the staircase, it’s riddled with woodworm. Have you given any thought to my proposition?’
‘I’m in two minds. If I write what I really think, I’m worried I shall make trouble for you and irritate your readers.’
‘Rubbish! Find an original way to put your ideas across and people will read you, that’s the main thing. Follow my example and don’t give it a second thought. You see, a newspaper is an ephemeral thing: printed articles end up at the fishmongers’, the fried-potato sellers’ or in public conveniences. What’s published today is forgotten about tomorrow. We need fresh news every day to feed people’s curiosity. What does the reader want for his five centimes? Everyday stories
, dramas, scandals, superficial news, and murders.’
‘That’s quite sad.’
‘You can’t get away from it, old man, crime and sensationalist stuff are the kind of bread-and-butter news stories that make the cash registers ring.’
‘You are very cynical!’
‘I’m not, it’s just what the public demands. Look, can you see the difference?’ Marius was brandishing a copy of Le Passe-partout and also one of Le Gaulois. ‘On the one hand we have a daily without political ambition, on the other a mediocre newspaper stuffed with formal, solemn writing. Look, this article about General Boulanger, what’s the purpose of that? The Republic no longer has to fear a coup d’état from him. The strong feelings towards him have evaporated. The French are fickle; they’ve replaced their blond prancing idol with a three-hundred-metre-high tower. You know, ordinary people could not care less about the parliamentary gazette, society events or financial reviews. They prefer an insipid saga that keeps them in suspense. I apply the only principle that pays: always please the greatest number of readers to achieve our sole aim of increasing circulation. As Flaubert said, “There are no fine subjects: Yvetot is as good as Constantinople!”’
He led Victor behind a partition where a man was running his fingers over the keyboard of a strange machine run on compressed air, which was spluttering out puffs of steam.
‘This little marvel has cost me a fortune. It was invented by a German who emigrated to the United States, a genius called Ottmar Mergenthaler — remember that name. It’s come directly to us from across the Atlantic. I’m the only person to own one in France.’ He caressed the machine with the tenderness of a lover. ‘Wonderful Linotype! Casting its own characters and creating lines of type ready for printing. Speed, old man, speed, that’s what it’s all about! I can bring out two or three editions a day! Soon I’ll be based on the Boulevards. I’ll expand my team, I’ve got big plans. From next week I’m launching a series of articles called “A Day at the Expo with …”, personalities from the world of science, literature, the fine arts and fashion. The first one will be Savorgnan de Brazza — he has agreed to do it. In an age when immigration is a cause of discontent, it’s interesting to recall that the man who gave us the Congo is an Italian who became a naturalised Frenchman after defending the Tricolour in 1870. Can I offer you a glass of something?’