All Pure Souls

by John Brooke

  “That’s easy: Jail for life... They get another Pope.”

  “An avalanche, Aliette. Thousands of stones — flying from the hands of thousands...no — millions! of women just like me.”

  “Just like you. I doubt it.”

  Flossie Orain sits back and sighs. “So do I, now. But I was young. It’s what I was thinking.”

  “Now it’s Maeve.”

  “I have no qualms...”

  “Une vraie peau de vache...“ as the French say: a tough hide; quite the opposite of silk that seems to move like water.

  Flossie shrugs and sips her drink. “No qualms at all... Have you heard what that same old man is telling us now, Inspector — fifteen years later? — his latest memo to the faithful? That we have to forget about conscience. Forget about trusting your heart...or — don’t even think it! — your body. The rules are the rules... Experience is a myth... Well, absolutely, Your Holiness! What’s a person’s life worth when you put it beside Veritatis Splendor? The Magnificence of Truth. Don’t you love it?”

  “But you’re not one of the faithful. So why don’t you forget that old man?”

  “Because I live in the world? ...He tells his bishops to make war on any woman who speaks out. Any woman who knows that her body is her connection to the world. And to love. And to the divine. How can I forget an old man like that, with all that power and so petrified of reality? The world will be what we want it to be; do you remember he said that? That was why I threw my stone... Because we know who we is, don’t we? The men who control the happy flock.”

  “You’re very good at quotes, Flossie.”

  “My mother cut it out and sent it to me.”

  “When she was having a nervous breakdown?”

  “She was always having a nervous breakdown, Inspector. Sitting in her little room all day long...her boyfriend got her into the habit of it. Breakdowns and great quotes, both...”

  “Her boyfriend the priest?”

  “Poor Maurice...the man just couldn’t handle wanting her, much less needing her — so he brought her things to read while he kept going back and forth, trying to make up his tortured mind. Saint Paul was his favourite. Saint Paul knew exactly how screwed up a woman can get a man who’s trying to love the Lord...Maurice and Maman and Saint Paul: they spent a lot of time together...they were much crazier than any ménage à trois I ever saw in this place... But then he chose. Because Maman lost whatever might have been left of her sparkle pretty quickly after they moved her to her little room at the sanatorium. I think Maman’s breakdown kind of proved it to Maurice — that Saint Paul was right... He went off to his own little room after that. With the Benedictines. You know their motto, Aliette?” Gulping her drink and brandishing a taut finger: “Prefer nothing whatever to Christ! But my mother kept reading...she still does. She has all sorts of quotes apropos of the subject if you have the time to listen. I suppose my story has something to do with that. For what it’s worth ... Chin chin!”

  Like bitterness incarnate as she waves her glass under Aliette’s nose.

  It hits her — the sweet tinge. “Is that a Maeve?”

  “Mais oui. So is that.” Meaning: your beer, my dear.

  “Ah, Flossie...” Sitting back, rubbing her goose-bumped arms, now completely aware of the thing welling inside her...throat’s dryish, head slightly achy as if a fever’s coming on... “Why do you have to do that?”

  “She won’t bite, Inspector...it’s Sunday, a good day to meet Maeve.”

  Aliette stares across the table at Flossie’s bent smile, trying to get a bead on the thing inside her system. She can feel it won’t bite. But can she resist it? Or lie low...calm — let it pass over? ...But no; too late; wherever she tries to hide her energy, her sense of Aliette Nouvelle, Maeve is there, gathering a face...a voice. “You have no right,” she says. But where her anger should have been, the inspector feels herself becoming removed. Watching.

  “She’ll help you see it all very clearly.”

  “That’s exactly what I heard on Sein.”

  “Voilà.”

  “Flossie, you have your sad story... So does everyone. You have no right to take your anger and presume to shape a person’s mind with it. How can you be such a bully? It goes completely against everything she’s supposed to be about.”

  “I think you’ll like her, Aliette...”

  “What about the goddess?”

  “She’s making up for lost time.”

  “Collecting bodies?”

  “Gathering devotion.”

  “Devotion as prescribed by Florence Orain? You’re too bitter to get anywhere near it, so you make others pay the price. What a shame.”

  “People do what they do. Some need to be pointed in the right direction.”

  “Do they really ask to have a knife stuck through their heart? How much do you charge for spiritual advice?”

  “I only sell sex, Inspector.”

  “You’re accountable, Flossie.”

  “Marilyn Monroe has to be good for more than a laugh and a few powerful men who feel the need to fuck her. If not in the real world then at least by proxy... Don’t you think?”

  She’s trying to think but it’s getting tricky...

  Flossie’s saying, “Maeve and I, we worked on this with Manon for a long, long time...”

  The inspector’s gazing at her watch...the hands are crawling in a most interesting way... Aliette, good girl that she is! has never experienced this sort of thing before. But encroaching hallucinations can’t change the fact that it’s still high noon, and in through the front door of Mari Morgan’s file Claude Néon (carefully) and Cécile Botrel, with James Jamms III beside them (more carefully), with psychologist Jean-Paul Blismes for moral back-up, followed by two uniforms escorting Christophe Giguerre, the car parts man from Lille, and Francine Léotard aka Léonie/Arletty, and then Assistant Inspector Patrice Lebeau leading the boy, René (watchful), and his rather disoriented mother in her stodgy Sunday dress. It’s a parade and right on schedule and Martine, at the front desk, cannot do much to prevent it from marching into the bar.

  “What is this...?” Flossie rises.

  Maeve is pushing and pulling but Aliette Nouvelle still knows her job. Because people do what they do. “Sit down, Flossie. These people are here — and they will appear in a court of law to testify against you — as witnesses, accomplices and even as victims. We also have the bodies of Manon Larivière and Marcel Cyr, found in the rocks along the shore of the Île de Sein. And a well-analyzed jar of Maeve. The charges will range from administration of a noxious substance to conspiracy to commit murder and being an accessory after the fact of murder stemming from placing the murder weapon in the hand of Herménégilde Dupras and all that that entailed...” pausing for a breath and to let the rising ringing of her own voice settle; “to desecration of a grave... And car theft. Now, it’s not murder...” sorry, the law is less than perfect; “but it should serve to put you away for a good long while.”

  Flossie is riveted in her chair. Aliette turns, gaze drifting across the faces of her entourage and the faces of the Mari Morgan’s girls — who are gathering, mystified, at the entrance to the bar. She’s wondering if she shouldn’t make a general announcement: I’m glad you’ve all come. The law may not fit the crime exactly, but it’s a great day for justice...and...and — for conscience too! But now, since my poor mind is — how can I put it...bumping into itself, I must beg your pardon... Then she thinks, no, she won’t make this speech; too much of that Girl Guide leader and no one needs to hear it, not today... And anyway, it’s this bumping...becoming crashing, these thoughts that smash and give off colours: Josiane’s brooch; the stripes on the American client’s shirt... Aliette hears herself say, “No more lies, Flossie. Be responsible for your actions. Have the courage of your convictions. No?”

  “It’s Ondine... She’s the one who brought all this here! She’s the one who killed Manon.”

  “No!” Sophie’s surprised at her own voi
ce... She backs away, afraid of Flossie.

  Aliette says, “Where is she?”

  “I’ll show you...” Flat, easy...no qualms.

  “Ah, Flossie...” It’s that young one. That Vivi. “You said we were supposed to — ”

  “I’m here.” At the entrance to the bar stands Ondine, stooped and pale, Dorise the cook beside her.

  “Add harbouring a fugitive,” notes Cécile Botrel.

  “Yes...” echoes Aliette. Yesyesyesyesyes... Really starting to wish someone else would step in and take over. Claude? No, not Claude... If not Claude... Patrice Lebeau. Come on, Patrice — my brain...

  Ondine tells Flossie, “You said you’d protect me. I trusted you. Manon trusted you. And your friend Colette. And these women... Look what you’ve done with all that trust.”

  “For us!” blurts Flossie. “For her... You don’t know anything about the world! You’re just a seamstress.”

  “Ah, Flossie...” Louise is clearly disappointed in the one she loves.

  Other voices start chiming in. “It’s not right, Flossie...” “Why, Flossie?” “Flossie!”

  Voices of Mari Morgan’s. To an inspector they sound like a choir of angels — that is, if you want to talk results. She feels like laughing...you mustn’t! Watching Flossie weighing the balance reflected in the eyes that watch her...yes, here it comes: Flossie twigs to it; now Flossie seems to understand the larger picture.

  Flossie accuses Ondine. “You...you betrayed me! These last weeks while you were in there...”

  Ondine says, “Flossie... You were never patient enough. I wish I could have done something to show you. I...” It’s difficult to know what Ondine wants. Apology? Confession?...standing there, hands spread, seeming to say: Come here — I’ll make it better.

  Flossie takes it as a cue to stand and fling her empty glass. Aliette, eyes moving at a different speed, sees it spin through the air and strike the seamstress, the base of thick glass easily denting the parchment-tight skin of her temple. There is no blood; but Ondine falls, quick and silent. Dorise is frozen. Louise rushes to her. Flossie Orain approaches too, wary, to inspect the body of the woman she has killed.

  The inspector is left to spend the rest of the day alone with Maeve.

  People see a woman walking in the park on Sunday. This is a touching thing to see. It always is. A woman walking alone will strike a chord — the beauty of Sunday framed in solitude seems deeper with each step... Looking for the goddess? It takes all day, part of the night. Where is she, Flossie? Where is she, Angélique Menou? Looking...feeling, these relentless feelings, rehashing every instinct’s clue, Maeve’s voice is pure insistence, distracting, disrupting, not much help at all. How could I be more a part of this world than I am, than I know myself to be? Can you tell me that, Maeve? My own motion, my own heart’s rhythm, these are the transforming elements that lead from one heart to the next and on to the one I love — one day; this is what will change the world in time. But not today... And not easy in the evening, worn out, any accomplishment bloated like a gorged meal. Sleeping? No, the soul is cramped for room. Maeve becomes humidity, nothing more; heavy, unclear, this irritated bitch expressing her discomfort, alone in the night.

  Piaf keeps his distance.

  That voice again, sighing, tired too: ma pauvre. Long day. Long investigation.

  Epilogue

  Ondine’s death brings them back to the question of whether it will be an assassination charge or something less. Maeve is reduced to an exhibit. Dorise becomes a major witness, probably for both sides...she has admitted to lacing the icing on the boss’s chocolate cake with a knockout quantity of opium. The people minding Louise Lebraz report she’s struggling through some kind of breakdown and it’s not sure where she’ll settle viz. her version of events.

  Georgette mourns, of course; but it’s more than that. The old artist’s model sinks deep into one her silences. Aliette’s heart goes out to her, but... Well, it had been her impulse, hadn’t it? — the older sister taking the younger sister by the hand: here, these people will help you; they’re the police; that’s their job. Then a cop (who also has a younger sister, don’t forget) gets a bright idea and issues a challenge. What can you do? Impulses, ethics, decisions and their consequences. Anger? Can’t be part of it... Welcome to my world, Georgette.

  But, Aliette, it was your note that set the wheel in motion.

  Perhaps, but I’m not the one on trial here.

  Don’t kid yourself — I’ve got my eye on you.

  I can live with it.

  Herménégilde Dupras is set free (against some people’s better judgement). But with official Police Department yellow tapes over the doors to his office and bar and now his kitchen too, Mari Morgan’s business operations are going to be suspended for some time to come. “I can deal with it,” he tells local media people. Standing on the steps of the Palais, looking good (lost twenty kilos while incarcerated) in his cleaned-up velvet jacket, he pokes his cigar into the air as he makes his points. “I’ll make a trip to America. See how our industry does things over there. This country is in love with America and there is money to be made in that! My only real concern is for the well-being of my girls.”

  Just so, monsieur... And without the middle ground of Mari Morgan’s, Vivi Namur, a girl Herméné never met (or tried), soon drops any illusions she may have entertained concerning Mr. Jimmy Jamms. Aliette wonders what will become of her. Does Vivi have a destiny? Maybe she’ll go back and find that boy...what was his name? ...Jerôme! yes...find Jerôme and find out.

  Try, Vivi. Your heart’s worth saving.

  The American, meanwhile, although no longer in the employ of the world’s most famous mouse, must stay in France. He is being prepared to testify for Claude and Claude will testify for him. It involves a lot of coaching on Cécile’s part. So much will depend on the telling, the words used to describe the thing that occurred in Flossie Orain’s bed. Claude’s version will be their showcase. They’ll give him the benefit of the doubt — frame it as “in the line of duty.” Claude will become the first cop in the history of the Republic to bring charges of this nature against a prostitute. If done right, it promises to be a big step forward for all French males, professional or otherwise — and for any Americans who might be watching. Substitute Procureur Cécile Botrel is excited.

  Like one of Epona’s ponies, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle is proud.

  Mais oui. I in you and you in me. Vas-y! Let’s go, ma belle.

  End

  About the Author

  John Brooke became fascinated by criminality and police work listening to the courtroom stories and observations of his father, a long-serving judge. Although he lives in Montreal, John makes frequent trips to France for both pleasure and research. He earns a living as a freelance writer and translator, has also worked as a film and video editor as well as directed four films on modern dance. His poetry and short stories have been widely published, and in 1998 his story “The Finer Points of Apples” won him the Journey Prize. Brooke’s first Inspector Aliette mystery, The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle, was published in 1999, followed by All Pure Souls in 2001. He took a break from Aliette with the publication of his novel Last Days of Montreal in 2004, but returned with her in 2011 with Stifling Folds of Love.

  Other titles in the

  Aliette Nouvelle Mystery series

  ISBN 0-921833-65-2

  The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle

  (Book 1)

  In his heyday, Jacques Normand was France’s Public Enemy Number One, a glamorous rogue who captured the imagination of the entire country. As he led the police on a merry chase, he also made the career of Commissaire Louis Moreau, former head of the Paris Anti-gangs unit, now the commander of a small Police Judiciaire force in a sleepy border town.

  After escaping from prison, Normand fled Paris and has been neither seen nor heard from for more than ten years. And because the Normand file has lain dormant since before she joined the force, Inspector Aliette No
uvelle has naturally assumed that everyone’s favourite outlaw is dead and the case closed. But one afternoon, Commissaire Moreau drops Normand’s file on her desk. The Commissaire is convinced that Normand is still very much alive and in the vicinity. Find him, he commands Aliette. Bring him in. Put him away for good.

  Aliette Nouvelle is a new heroine for the 90s — smart, single and intuitive, but more interested in quietly and non-violently getting the job done than in receiving front-page coverage for her sometimes unorthodox methods of crime-solving. She knows she is regarded as a rising star in the force and believes that her years of hard work are about to bear fruit. She senses, rightly, that the soon-to-retire Commissaire has chosen to pass the torch on to her. And so, although she remains skeptical, Aliette accepts his challenge. She sets out to dig up a forgotten hero.

  “This book dropped into my lap and I was smitten: interesting premise, fascinating central character and good writing. In a sleepy French border town, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle is ready for more than ordering around local thugs. Then her boss drops a cold case on her, which might mean a promotion. Ten years ago, Jacques Normand excaped from a top-security prison. Now she must ferret him out. Poetic images, film stills and literary writing, none out of place.” — The Globe and Mail

  “The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle is a very unusual mystery story that challenges all sorts of conventions. It’s definitely not a traditional murder mystery. For one thing, no one gets murdered. It’s not a spy thriller either. Instead it’s a poetic and dreamlike tale told in many voices where a police inspector sets out to trail and capture an outlaw, a man who’s a thief, who’s labeled public enemy number one in France, where he lives.” — “Art Talks,” CBC Radio

  “The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle is not just another detective story, and you don’t have to wait until Chapter 10 to figure this out. When the story opens, Aliette is already a mythical figure in the police force: her voice is ‘delicate but absolute, as if your maman were calling you for in supper’; it can make hardened criminals feel weak and stupid. She looks like a young schoolteacher but she’s a hotshot police detective and her boss’s favourite. He assigns her the job of finding France’s ‘former Public Enemy Number One,’ Jacques Normand, who has not been seen or heard from for ten years. Aliette’s given a temporary assistant, Claude Néon, whose sexual fantasies sometimes include Aliette but who would like nothing better than to get back to working with the boys. The two of them sometimes work with each other and sometimes work against each other.... As both Aliette and her quarry confront the myths that have been created around them, we feel as if we are right there, in France, ‘in a city on the Rhine.’” — Geist