One day Jean Pierre invited Louis to visit his workshop. It was in a large, tin-roofed shed behind his house on the southern edge of the village. The two men stopped and admired the view of the sea from the doorway. Inside the shed a small sloop was in the early stages of construction. The stays and beams of the vessel were in place, resting on wooden supports and held together by shims and pegs, looking like the skeleton of a large sea creature. The dirt floor underneath was littered with wood shavings and sawdust, and lights with broad metal shades hung from the ridge of the roof. Drawknives, wood planes, mallets, spoke shaves, and adzes of various sizes and configurations were suspended from pegs on the wall over the long workbench. The place smelled of shellac and wood. Jean Pierre explained the double rigging of a sloop, the special shape of the hull, and how it all came about. He described the purpose of the various tools he used.
“Would it disturb you, Jean Pierre, if I were to paint your workshop while you worked?”
“It would not disturb me in the least,” said Jean Pierre.
“On the contrary. It would allow me to make certain that you got it right.”
Louis invited Jean Pierre for supper. He built a fire in the small iron grill on the terrace in front of the cottage and grilled mussels until the shells popped open. Then he drizzled wine and butter over them and served them with roasted potatoes. Jean Pierre savored the wine Louis served. “To be honest,” he said, “I have never liked cider that much.”
The two men sat on the terrace gazing over the low stone wall at the sea. The evening air was chilly, and there was fog over the water. The sound of a foghorn drifted in, and another, more distant horn answered. “The second one comes from the light,” said Jean Pierre, “The Pointe du Raz.”
“That far?” said Louis.
“When the wind is right, and when there is a cold fog, the fog carries the sound great distances.”
“Have you ever painted?” Louis asked Jean Pierre one day. He had set up his easel in a corner of Jean Pierre’s workshop and was sketching a row of tools onto a fresh canvas. He was using a thin wash of blue paint, and streaks of blue ran down the canvas as Louis’s brush moved quickly across the canvas. “Those drips will disappear into the painting,” said Louis.
“I have never painted,” said Jean Pierre, watching Louis. “I am not much of a sailor either. I am a dilettante. In the best sense of the word, I hope. And you? Have you always been a painter?”
“No,” said Louis. “I traveled for a living. I only discovered painting after I retired and started coming to France. I am like you with your boats. I love the act of making the painting. I love using the tools and materials, and I love pursuing a sense of competence. Now that I am retired, I do what I love.”
“And how did you find Pen’noch?”
“I hiked through here some time ago. I started at the Pointe du Raz. It took me three days to get this far. I was charmed by the place. The view from the cliffs to the north is enchanting. I could only see the church and a few of the houses situated on the highest ground. And then the lower town and the harbor came into view as I got nearer. I remember thinking, at the time, that the harbor and the town were timeless. But not picturesque, if you know what I mean. That suited me.”
Louis thought of Samad. I am lying again to someone I like. How can I do it so easily? How easily he became someone else and abandoned who he had been, like he was changing clothes. He was hiding, but it required little effort. Hiding took no time, it required nothing of him except lying. And forgetting.
Louis tried not to think of his house in Saint Leon or of his garden going to waste, day by day, certainly by now overgrown with weeds. Soon it would disappear altogether. He tried not to think of Renard, of Isabelle, of the Hôtel de France. He did not want to forget them, but when he remembered them, his mind filled with anguish and longing.
Louis was shocked one day to realize that he could not quite picture Saint Leon, which had been his home for the last thirty years. Even after being gone such a short time, he could not remember it exactly. He still knew the layout of the place, of course, but some details eluded him when he tried to fix them in his mind. He could not quite see Renard, who was his best friend, or even Solesme, whom he had loved. Her face swam uncertainly in his memory. He did not know for sure the color of her eyes. He closed his eyes and reached out with his fingers as though he might still be able to touch her. But, as Jean Pierre Lamarche had said, her absence was complete.
Walking home from buying groceries one day, he saw a young woman coming toward him with a red and white spaniel on a lead. The woman had short, dark hair and large eyes. She was slender and had a halting gait that caused her body to turn in a strange, but all too familiar, way. Louis stopped in his tracks. The young woman stopped too, since Louis was staring at her.
“What is it, monsieur?” she said sternly.
“Excuse me, madame. I am sorry for staring, but you remind me very much of someone very dear to me.” The young woman’s eyes flashed and she did not smile.
“In fact, the more I see you, madame, the more you remind me of her. I apologize. Please forgive me.”
“I accept your apology, monsieur. But it is alarming nonetheless to be stared at in that way.” The woman walked on and Louis watched until she disappeared over the next rise.
Once the strange tourists had left the Hôtel de France, Renard let some time pass before he paid a visit to Louis’s house. He was busy with other police work, and he did not think the matter was urgent. But when he got there, he found that the lock had been forced and the front door was broken in. He pushed against the door and it swung open to reveal the devastation inside. Shelves and bookcases had been emptied onto the floor. Drawers had been dumped out, and mattresses had been pulled from the beds and slit open. Pictures had been torn from the walls, and their glass and frames had been crushed on the floor. This was not just a search; this was intimidation. Renard took photographs of the destruction and filed the appropriate reports.
His reports elicited a telephone call and then a visit from Paris. The visitor presented himself one rainy morning at Renard’s home. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, and a dark necktie. “I am from the Sécurité nationale,” he said, although in truth he looked more like a funeral director. He showed Renard his badge and waited to be invited inside. Instead, Renard stepped out into the rain and pulled the door closed behind him. The two men stood in Renard’s garden. The visitor did not seem particularly put off by Renard’s unfriendliness. He squinted up into the drizzle and smiled an indifferent smile.
The man recounted for Renard some vague details of Louis’s infamy—his consorting with known terrorists, his being armed, his being a danger to the community—while Renard listened in silence. Finally Renard said, “I cannot believe it. We have been friends for a long time.”
“We know that,” said the visitor. “That is why I am telling you these things. You must be alert and vigilant. With your help we can bring him in—without harming him, of course, and without endangering the community. He must be brought to justice and made to answer for his crimes.”
The man paused for a moment. “I wonder,” he said. “Have you heard from him?”
“No, I have not heard from him,” said Renard.
“Well, keep an eye out and let us know if you do hear from him.” The man handed Renard his card.
“I haven’t heard from him,” said Renard again. He looked at the card.
The man studied Renard. “Do you expect to hear from him?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I do not know what to think.”
Renard said the same thing to Isabelle that evening “I don’t know what to think.” She did not respond at first. They had finished eating but remained at the table. Renard had told her about the visitor from Paris. He regarded her now with an expression of faint astonishment, as if to say, I no longer understand the world. The simplest things, which I once thought comprehensible, have become mysterious and impenetrabl
e to me. “I do not know what to think,” Renard said again, in order to force a response.
“About Louis?” said Isabelle finally.
“Not about any of what the guy from Paris says,” said Renard. “No. That is all nonsense. But, yes, about Louis. Where is he? How is he? What is he doing? How is he doing? It is the not knowing that I find difficult. Does he need me to do something? And what? What!?”
“I will tell you,” said Isabelle, and Renard looked at her as though she might actually know the answer to his questions. “No, no,” she said with a laugh. “But I know and you know that he is doing all right. Otherwise we would have heard something. He would have been in touch somehow. If he needs you to do something, he will tell you what it is. I would guess that, for now, he simply needs you to wait.”
Renard did not find her assurances comforting. “He can’t call here,” he said. “They would know if he did. He can’t write; they would know that too. As long as he is out of touch, they can’t reach him. If he tries to contact me, though, he risks letting them know where he is. I am not good at waiting.”
Renard looked at Louis’s mail on the side table. The stack of envelopes and circulars he had been picking up at the post office had grown quite large. He removed the rubber bands holding it all together and leafed through everything yet again. Suddenly he paused, leafed backward through the stack and then forward again. “Look at this,” he said. “I missed something.” He held up a letter. Then another. Then yet another.
“Here are three letters from Jennifer, his daughter.”
“So?”
“Three letters from your child, all within a matter of two weeks?”
“Maybe it is good news,” said Isabelle.
Renard held up the first letter and studied the envelope. He hesitated a moment before slitting it open with a dinner knife. “Louis will not mind,” he said, and began reading. “She is happy,” he announced after a few sentences.” Then: “She has met someone.”
“There, you see?” said Isabelle. “Just as I said.” She watched his eyes scan across the page. His mouth moved silently. Finally he said, “He is young and handsome and intelligent. His name is also Louis. Lou, that is. Lou Coburn.” Renard looked at Isabelle and shrugged. The name Louis Coburn meant nothing to him.
“Louis is a common name,” said Isabelle. “Now that you have started, you have to open the next one.”
Renard read the next letter. “This young Lou Coburn works for some government agency. His work is very important.” Renard smiled. He felt relieved. “Young women always think their young man’s work is important.”
“I never did,” said Isabelle, smiling at him. “Go on. Open the next one.”
Renard read the third letter. His mouth stopped moving. He reread what he had already read. He hesitated once more before he began reading aloud. He pronounced the English words slowly and with difficulty. “Dear Dad. You won’t believe what has happened. What a small world it is!! Lou invited me to a big engagement party for one of his coworkers. It was at Cincolini in Georgetown in a private room. Cincolini is just about the fanciest place in town at the moment. It’s in an old town house. The dining room has lots of brocade and gold and heavy draperies and lots of candles everywhere. It was packed with people. There were, maybe, a hundred people there. And right there, at somebody else’s party, Lou asked me to marry him. Things are moving way too fast for me, and I told him so. But it was a wonderful moment, and I told him that too. He was very sweet and promised to wait until I was ready.
“Then this man walked up who looked very familiar and, guess what? It was Hugh Bowes, the former secretary of state!!! I couldn’t believe it. But he was so sweet. He put his arm around Lou and congratulated me on finding such a fine young man. But here was the real surprise: he remembered working with you!! He told me how the two of you had been close associates!!! I didn’t know any of that!! You worked with the secretary of state??! My gosh! Why didn’t you tell me? He made me promise that I would say hello. ‘Give my very best regards to your father,’ he said.”
XII
After putting away leftovers and cleaning up the dishes, Isabelle lingered in the kitchen. She was expecting Renard to call, and she wanted to be near the phone. When the phone rang, she picked up immediately. There was silence at the other end, and then she heard her name. “Isabelle.” A pause. “How are you?”
“Louis! My goodness!” she said. She immediately regretted saying his name; she did not know who might be listening. “How is your mother?” she said, saying the first thing that came into her mind, trying to sound casual. “Has she … recovered?”
“My mother? Not entirely,” said Louis. Isabelle thought she heard him smiling at her effort. “But she is much better, thank you. And you? How are you?”
“Fine,” she said. “It must be difficult for you … and for your daughter.”
Louis was silent.
“Are you well?” Isabelle asked. She did not know what to say.
“Yes,” said Louis. And after another long pause: “Is Jean there?”
“He is not.”
“Will he be back tonight?”
“He won’t. He has been away for several days. First Paris, then your old hometown.”
“My old …?”
Isabelle did not know how these things were done. She wanted to make herself clear to Louis, without making herself clear to his enemies. Would Louis sort out her meaning? Renard himself had made no great secret of going to the United States. He had ordered his tickets and made hotel reservations by telephone. And yet Isabelle felt compelled to conceal everything she could conceal, as though even repeating mundane facts could place Renard’s life in danger. The world had become such a strange and treacherous place, and she needed to learn how to find her way in it.
“Isabelle,” said Louis. “Listen: I sent Jean a postcard. I didn’t have your address, so I sent it to his office. Did he see it?”
“No,” said Isabelle. “I don’t think so. He would have said so. And Jean is gone.”
“Yes,” said Louis. “I see. Well, I sent the card to his office.”
As soon as they had hung up, Isabelle drove to Renard’s office. The night was warm, and the windows in the hotel dining room were wide open. You could hear the clatter of china as the tables were being cleared, and there was laughter coming from the bar.
Isabelle turned the large iron key in the old lock, and the door to Renard’s office swung open. Even before she switched on the light, she saw the stack of mail Marie Picard had left on the corner of the desk. Isabelle leafed through the mail, but there was no postcard.
Isabelle took the mail home and sat at the dining table, turning it over, piece by piece, spreading it across the table as though she were playing solitaire. But the mail seemed like nothing more than the guileless accumulation of a village policeman’s daily business. There were official documents and circulars that were undoubtedly meant to be posted on the bulletin board. Most of these, she was certain, Renard would throw away. There were commercial circulars advertising mattresses and potted plants. There were court notices and schedules of hearings.
She turned over a small brown envelope that Renard appeared to have mailed without sufficient postage. It had been returned, stamped, front and back, POSTAGE DUE. The ten-centime stamp was obviously insufficient. What had Renard been thinking? In fact, was that even his handwriting? After a moment’s hesitation, Isabelle tore open the envelope and found a picture postcard of the French Alps. Written in block letters on the back of the card was a telephone number and 13:15. There was no other message and no signature.
The next afternoon Isabelle drove to Tours. At exactly one fifteen, she placed a call from one of the public booths outside the main post office to the telephone number written on the postcard. Louis answered immediately. Before she could say anything, he asked where she was calling from. Next he wanted to know what on earth Renard was doing in Washington. “And when did he go?”
&nb
sp; “He went,” she said, “by way of New York actually. He went two days ago, because …” She hesitated briefly. “Because he knows you will go. He wants to be there when you arrive.”
“When I arrive?” said Louis. “Why does he think that I will go? Why would I go?”
“Because …” Isabelle took Jennifer’s three letters from her pocket. She took a deep breath. “You received three letters from your daughter, Jennifer,” she said. She read the letters to Louis. She paused once or twice in her reading, but when she did, she heard only silence from the other end of the line. When she had finished reading, she waited. She thought she heard Louis breathing, but he did not speak. Finally she heard him say in a faint and strangled voice, “I cannot talk right now. I am sorry, Isabelle.” He hung up the phone.
As Renard entered the customs hall at John F. Kennedy International Airport along with crowds of other arriving passengers, a large woman in uniform instructed everyone to sort themselves into two lines—one for citizens and one for noncitizens. The lines were long and snaked back and forth past rope barriers before arriving at a yellow stripe painted on the floor two meters in front of a row of glass booths.
When Renard finally arrived at the front of the line, a customs agent, a burly man in a tight white uniform shirt, signaled him to step forward. The man held out his hand and Renard handed him his passport. The agent leafed through the pages of the passport, then looked at Renard, comparing his face with his photo in the passport. The agent slid the passport through an electronic scanner. Renard had hoped to escape discovery by passing through customs in New York instead of in Washington, but he realized now how naïve he had been. It was a futile gesture. Undoubtedly his information was already finding its way into computers in Washington. After studying the screen of his computer for a few seconds, the agent handed the passport back to Renard. “Enjoy your stay,” he said, looking past Renard to the next person in line. “Next?”
L'Assassin Page 12