All Pure Souls

by John Brooke

  “Not our goddess...the goddess. Ondine.”

  “Before you?’

  “Long before me.”

  “And Manon was here before you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could the goddess have stood in the way of Herméné’s fun with Manon? Is that the love you’re talking about?”

  “No, I don’t think she ever would. It’s too personal.”

  “So is sex.”

  “Not when it’s a job.”

  “And she never talked to you about leaving?”

  “Well, we all have our little dream home in the country, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I mean the night of the murder.”

  “No...but I didn’t talk to her that night. Or that day... Her headaches always made her very quiet. She would keep to herself and try to ride it out.”

  Aliette swallows the last of her beer. “How did you get here, Flossie?”

  “It’s what all the men ask me... Luck? Fate? A friend brought me into the bar one night. I met Ondine. I asked about that...” The motto over the bar. “I was attracted.”

  “Enough to stay? I think a woman such as yourself is probably not as limited in her choices as some others. And from what I’ve read, the goddess is everywhere these days.”

  “Yes, but this is ground zero, Aliette. This is where the world will change.”

  “Is it a war?”

  “Mmm...more of a transformation, I hope. Some people are bound to get hurt though.”

  “Appears so... Is that why you attacked the Pope?” In 1980: His Holiness’ first visit to Paris this century. Florence Orain, history student at La Sorbonne, steps out of the throng and whips a chunk of mortar at the bullet-proof Popemobile, and gets arrested. The only other thing in the file are two minor drug charges, one in Paris, and one in Dijon the following year...

  “It was a gesture. I paid the fine.” Old news, inspector.

  “We look for patterns, madame. What if you killed her?”

  “Why would I?”

  “For being a dumb blonde? — a traitor to the cause?”

  “On the contrary, Manon was our hero. Power to burn, you might say. She was our sister and she believed what we believe.”

  “Solidarity,” says Aliette, rising.

  “It’s the only way,” replies Flossie, rising with her. “It’s lovely out...”

  Aliette turns and sees the sun in the street. She collects her coat and case. “You were with Marcel Cyr yesterday after the funeral?”

  “Yes. He ate with us. We had a picnic.”

  “Where?”

  “Right there. On the other side of the wall — by the river.”

  “And then?”

  “We drove him back. We left him in his car at the top of the park and walked home.”

  “His maid hasn’t seen him since yesterday morning.”

  “No? I have no idea. It’s two blocks to his place from there. Did she look in the garage? Poor Marcel — with the heat, he was liable to drop at anytime.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  Flossie picks up the bundle of letters and presses them into Aliette’s hand. “Take these and read them. Self-respect is what it’s all about, Inspector.”

  “Not the book?”

  “The book stays here. Vivi’s new Maman...”

  “Of course.” Until it becomes evidence, that is.

  3.

  The noon air is crystal clear, the breeze is perfect. This is summer in Alsace. She meets Michel Souviron the Procureur coming across the street, a young Substitute (Assistant Procureur) marching in step. He’s looking good, he always does; whether in court, sitting in his red robes on the Prosecution Throne, or, as on this day, on his way to inspect the scene of a crime in a seersucker jacket and summer-weight flannels, Michel was made to be noticed and respected. He is, like Commissaire Claude Néon and Chief Judge of Instruction Gérard Richand, another of Aliette’s generation who has recently made a major step. His appointment that spring had been a highly praised and popular choice. And with the suede brogues, skin a manly brown from cycling through the Vosges with his very sportive wife, finely shorn black locks combed back from a widow’s peak in an aristocratic manner, Michel gives the status quo a chic credibility it’s bound to value. Which is not to say he isn’t an urbane and enjoyable man. “Salut...how’s my friend Aliette?”

  “Bonjour...getting along, merci. What brings you out on a Saturday?”

  “Just want to make sure everything’s in order before I disappear...” Mmm, me too... Monsieur le Proc looks past the inspector. “How is it in there? What are we going to do with old Herménégilde Dupras — call him a distraught lover or a deranged fiend?”

  “I wish I had more time for this one, monsieur.”

  “More, Inspector?” Amused. “Gérard might extend for you.”

  “Has he got discretion?”

  “If he asks he probably does... Inspector, I’d like to present Maître Cécile Botrel, just arrived...” and to his colleague: “...Inspector Nouvelle, PJ.”

  “Bonjour,” shaking the new prosecutor’s hand. Short raven hair, smart glasses, and, like her boss, suitably (elegantly) understated in a grey silk blouse and an unrumpled white linen suit. Aliette always wonders what those who take the Proc path are aiming for. So many of them end up walking a high-wire stretched between politics and law. She imagines they wonder the same about her, at least in passing, because so many of her own kind never go anywhere; or get shot... Making the most of the casual circumstances of their meeting, she tells the new woman, “I’ll be interested to see if you advise your boss to order backgrounds on some of the inhabitants of this place.”

  Cécile Botrel blushes. But one of the (don’t you dare say it out loud!) advantages of being a woman in this business is being able to read another woman where many otherwise competent men cannot.

  “And I’ll trust her completely,” laughs Michel. Yes, casual. No point being confrontational at this early stage. And not on a Saturday morning.

  ...Gérard might extend? Gérard Richand could not have been through her report yet, but she’s picking up the message that Gérard and Michel have spoken; and that Michel’s blithe nod to “old Herménégilde,” found with the victim, a knife and all the rest of the damning circumstances that are his life and occupation, contains the message that the state does indeed believe the pimp’s their man.

  Damn. She must proceed accordingly. So much depends on the charge.

  In the initial stage of a case, the Procureur directs the police and the Instructing Judge to work toward décharge: the charge. But it’s the Proc who lays the charge and, if necessary, orders a background investigation into the circumstances of anyone else connected. If this is not ordered — if, after the prima facie facts and circumstances have been submitted, the Proc’s focus remains on the primary suspect, the police have no business snooping elsewhere. The charge defines the scope of the investigation.

  Well, Michel is reasonable; he knows how obvious the media can be and so far he has been unafraid to go against popular opinion if real facts are put forward suggesting the truth lies elsewhere. What about this Cécile Botrel? Is she disgusted by prostitutes? Does she have a goddess she invokes to help make things clear? It’s always interesting to meet a new player. Aliette tells Cécile, “Bon courage.” Gesturing toward the sky, proclaiming, “Thank god for the rain!” she leaves them to their business at Mari Morgan’s.

  4.

  Sun, and the newly fresh air bring her to a corner parkette, carrying a roast pork sandwich and a bottle of Evian water. She sits on a bench, opens her lunch and takes the bundle of letters from her case.

  Dear Flossie. Today I was raked across the coals for taking more than my allotted fifteen minutes away from the phones. In fact I left exactly when I’m supposed to leave — the girl who sits in during my break stopped for a chat on the way to take over and so the phones were untended for five minutes. God knows what big contract may have disappeared in
to thin air! That’s my ex-boss talking. I was mad and bet my ex-boss God doesn’t give two damns who’s winning in the cellular phone market. He said he thought I was pretty when I was angry. He was reaching out to touch me as he said that and I slapped his hand away. So he changed his tune and said it was a pity I wasn’t more flexible and it looked like it wasn’t working out. I didn’t say anything. I just left. Again. That’s three minimum wage dead-end jobs down the tubes since New Year’s. Not bad, eh? Back to zero.

  Why can’t something happen? Remember you used to say that? What’s the point of believing in something if nothing ever happens? I get so angry. And after that, hopeless. I truly identify with those people in the paper who murder their children out of pity, so they won’t have to live in such a stupid world. Vivi just gets embarrassed when I burn a twig and try to read to her. When I try to tell her it’s a way out, she just looks at me. She’ll never explore the way you and I did. She’ll cut off her hair and put nails through her nose instead, and watch while the boys she runs with go around screaming at North Africans and Turks and Blacks. She’s already doing it. It makes me want to walk away from her as well.

  She would be impressed by you. She would listen. She would have a chance to get off the wheel. Maybe my only purpose was to have her. Now I have no power at all. Excuse the wobbly hand. It’s hard to concentrate after a day like today... I had to have a glass or two.

  Please write back. Not for me — for Vivi.

  Faithfully yours, Colette

  There are several stains on the cheap bond: some pink, from her wine; and some clear...from Colette’s tears, supposes a not overly sympathetic Aliette. The Ursulines who had tried to educate her had been less than perfect but they had tried. How could she feel sorry for someone whose first choice for her daughter’s betterment was a brothel? It was medieval.

  Dear Flossie. What are you supposed to do when you walk out of the house for a job interview and your stocking catches on a splintery door and runs straight to hell? And then when you rush upstairs to change you discover the stress has decided to start your period for you? Then what happens when you go to the bathroom and discover you’re out of tampons? And then if you slam the bathroom door and break your nail and find yourself hyperventilating, listening to the sobs as if they were coming from next door? I don’t know either. Vivi came home and said forget it, Colette, but it didn’t sound like comfort. She won’t even call me Maman, and the way I lose it sometimes, I don’t blame her. Maybe I really should just go. I wish I could do something for her. Why don’t you take her at MM’s? She’s a good strong girl. She needs someone who isn’t a nul. (That’s me — don’t you love it?) to show her how to live in this world. And like my last social-worker used to say: some structure. Please consider it. If it’s a question of money, sometimes my ex-asshole sends the cheque he’s supposed to send — that can be her little dot. Please. She needs to be with you and the goddess, not with me. She needs a life.I wish you’d call me sometime.

  Colette

  ...But she did; she wanted her Vivi to be married to Flossie’s goddess. She was right out there, this Colette.

  Dear Flossie. Your friend Louise was not very pleasant on the phone the other day. I know it’s a business and not a day-care. Nobody’s asking for care. Vivi could do the job. I know she can do it. I’ve seen her. That sounds horrible but I let her do what she wants and I know she knows how to deal with men. (Boys?...what’s the difference?) Actually, the truth is, I can’t really stop her. Anyway, it’s not the job, it’s the place. Sex: who cares? Any one of us can walk down to the corner and have sex whenever we want to...and for money. Even me, when my cheque doesn’t come. It may be a business for Louise, but I know you wouldn’t be there if it was only a business. How old is Louise? Maybe she should retire and make room for some new blood — I mean, if it’s a business. That would make sense to me. Won’t you see us for an interview? I’m not very good at them, but I know my Vivi will impress you.

  Thanks and love. Colette

  It was the same story, over and over again: abuse and failure for Colette Namur; hope for her Vivi at Mari Morgan’s. The woman was as persistent as she was pathetic. And apparently Flossie Orain was not so nice to some people as she was to others. Apparently some were bound to get hurt as the world changed. Aliette re-bundles Colette’s correspondence, closes her eyes, lets her head drop back on the park bench. A pleasure to doze for five minutes. When a fly lands on her nose, she swats it away with the bundle of letters; then she scratches...

  There’s that smell again, in the paper: smoky — but not a cigarette.

  She rouses herself and hails a cab which takes her to a development on the northernmost edge of the city, where factories and warehouses merge with grubby HLMs — Habitations à Loyers Modiques: low-rent housing, with tenants to match. The man lets her out at a circle lined with identical adobe-coloured two-storey sixteen-unit blocks. There’s a playground in the middle — you couldn’t call it a park, most of the untended grass has been worn to dirt. One tired mother is monitoring the jungle-gym while teenagers in black leather and ripped denim hog the swings. She walks clockwise looking for the number. Two ladies, too old to be running, come dashing out of one of the units and hurry off. A woman bursts out of the same door carrying a beer bottle, screeching at the two in flight, “You spend your whole lives being stupid! Look where it’s got you! Fools! Idiots!”

  It’s summer; and yes, it is the HLMs; but this ranting woman is less than presentable, clad only in a T-shirt and canary-yellow panties, ripped on one side. “You’ll never get a sou from me. Never, ever!” She heaves her bottle. It crashes and shatters well out of range of her targets, who continue quickly away. The woman, about Aliette’s age, stands there. Now she stares at the ground, pensive, perhaps realizing what she’s (not) wearing...

  “Hey Colette,” calls one of the boys on the swings, “...got any pills or anything?”

  “Fuck off!” Screamed across the playground for the benefit of every mother and child.

  She goes back inside. Aliette follows, up the concrete stairs to a landing with four battered yellow doors. She knows which one to try because there’s an odour of smoke, not as strong as incense, but distinct and foresty...wafting out from behind it. She knocks.

  The voice calls, “Leave me alone or I’ll call the police!”

  “It’s not them,” calls Aliette.

  “Then who the hell is it?” she hisses, yanking the door open.

  “It’s the police.” But with a smile as she flashes her ID; “...what are you doing?”

  Colette protests. “It’s not me, it’s them! They come here looking for money for the damn parish. They invade my privacy and try to talk me into it. Do I look like I have any money, much less for the Church? Do you know how rich the Church is? Those stupid women. There should be a law!” She’s completely disgusted by the whole thing. “Do they ask themselves how the Church treats women...and how it promotes economic and conjugal slavery? All they can do is have their babies and walk around asking people for money. But actually thinking? Do you think they ever try that? No way! Never even heard of it...” Shaking her head, incredulous.

  Aliette’s mother collects money for the parish. Every spring. Old clothes too. Spring Kermesse is always one of her main activities. And Aliette always tries to give them old jeans and socks, the sweater that’s been left the longest at the bottom of her drawer. Did that mean she’s a “believer”? Not really...not lately. At least not in the same way her mother is, nor, she suspects, the two ladies who’ve just been by to see Colette Namur. But the parish is not the issue. “What’s that smoke?” ...looking into the apartment.

  Colette moves to block her view. Up close, the woman is a sorry sight: Vivi’s mother, certainly — but with tired eyes, bad skin, hair lank and split. She had portrayed herself well in her letters to Flossie. “It’s just smoke...from a twig. No drugs here. Who are you?”

  “My name is Aliette Nouvelle. I’m investigating th
e murder of Manon Larivière.”

  “Manon Larivière?”

  “The Marilyn Monroe girl at Mari Morgan’s. You have a daughter who works there, I believe.”

  “She just started today!”

  “But you’ve been trying to get her accepted there for months...” Pulling the letters out of her briefcase and waving them in Colette’s face; “for more than a year you’ve been begging your old friend to give Vivi a job as a prostitute.”

  “It’s not a job... You sound like that cunt Louise.”

  “What is it then? ...Colette!” Aliette does not use force; she has some rudimentary training if she needs it, but almost never... And she has no legal right either, but she can’t help grabbing this sullen woman by the shoulder as she starts to turn away.

  “It’s a place. A position...” mumbling, looking for some words. Then she flares again. “It’s a home for her...a decent home — finally! and I’m glad she’s there and I don’t care what someone like you thinks!” She slaps Aliette’s hand away. “You hear me? I don’t care!” She walks back to her table, sits and stares at the blue china bowl from which the aromatic train of smoke is rising.

  Aliette steps into the dingy room. “What’s the matter with you?” she asks, not unkindly.

  Colette Namur makes a face: how absurd... “Everything.”

  “What’s all this?” Sitting opposite the woman.

  “Twigs...twigs from an apple tree. For wisdom, and a little bit of eternity... Wouldn’t it be nice?” A sad smile, apologetic and self-deprecating. “It’s just something I believe in.” Now she strikes a match and stokes the tiny fire.

  “Is this always part of the ritual?”

  “The way I learned it, yes.”

  “The goddess?’

  Colette nods. “It’s important to make a sacrifice. An offering. She needs it...it’s energy.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Myself?” Smiling again, the smile of the hopeless. “Think she’ll take me?”

  Aliette doesn’t know.

  “I doubt it,” sighs Colette. “But you have to try. Right?”