Significance

by Jo Mazelis

  To See a Whale

  It seemed that he had only just put his head on the pillow when the phone rang. He flung his arm out, blindly groping for the light switch, knocking over the glass of milk he had meant to drink before he went to sleep. The phone continued to ring as he wrenched himself upright and, blinking at the darkness, he found the lamp, turned it on, then lifted the receiver.

  ‘Vivier,’ he croaked, his voice heavy with sleep.

  It was her voice on the other end of the line. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He swung his legs out from under the warm bed covers and surveyed the damage created by the falling glass. On the floor by his bed, lying open as he’d left it, was an expensive monograph on Albrecht Durer. Milk sat on the surface of the glossy page in a large opaque pool. The picture illustrated was a superb silverpoint drawing of a man’s head and shoulders. Above the folds of his cloth cap was the man’s name, Caspar Sturm. Behind him there was a lightly sketched shoreline and turreted buildings and an empty cloudless sky. It was like a photograph in its composition. One could imagine these two men, artist and artisan, standing facing one another as Durer made the drawing, the mild fresh air between them somehow palpable in the drawing.

  The spilled milk was like a film of mist occluding the past. Vivier had been reading the book the night before, gazing at this drawing from 1520, then turning back several pages to read the text. Durer had gone to the swamps of Zeeland because he had heard of a great whale beached there, but it was gone before he had a chance to see it. However the swamps were malarial and Durer contracted a fever, after which he never quite recovered. Eight years later he was dead.

  ‘Another body has been found,’ Sabine said. Given the time of day, the words were not unexpected.

  Vivier lifted the book and turned it on its side so that the liquid ran off it onto the varnished floorboards, then he set it open on the bed beside him.

  ‘How much do we know? When did this come in?’ he said, and pulled a wad of tissues from the pack he kept in a drawer, dabbing them gently over the page, knowing even as he did so that the book was ruined.

  ‘A member of the public rang emergency services at six minutes past six. Reported a dead woman on the lane between the park and rue Cordier.’

  He stopped dabbing the page.

  ‘I’m on my way. Get another car around to the park side of the lane too. How soon can you get there?’

  ‘Five minutes, I’m in my car, sir.’

  ‘Alright…’

  Sabine was about to hang up when he added, ‘Listen. No sirens. Got that?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Hotel Rooms

  On the seventh day, Elise, the chambermaid at the Hotel Eden in Belle Plage, had been about to gleefully miss room six from her routine again due to the ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door. On previous days she had chosen to take a fifteen-minute ciggie break on the roof of the hotel among the sheets and towels on the washing line, instead of cleaning the room. She was meant to tell her boss, Teri if she missed a room so that she could make the time up doing something else – chopping onions in the kitchen or cleaning the toilet in the bar. Yeah, like hell! And no one had caught her skiving up on the roof yet, and she had developed a sort of proprietorial relationship with it – it was her space, no one else’s. Teri grew herbs and tomatoes up there and she often took one of the small cherry-red fruits and popped it whole into her mouth. Mine.

  Outside room six she hesitated, thinking things over, judging the chances of overdoing her disregard, of getting caught. Seven days was a full week and there might be a new guest due. She stared at the door gauging probability, thinking longingly of her sojourn beneath the blue sky, the cigarette long overdue. She thought about the spoilt bastards inside the room with their bad French and lousy tips, their filth and wet towels and stained sheets. She had come to hate the clientele, because she hated her work. Her only comfort was getting one over on them, on Teri, on the world.

  She gazed at the door, the cardboard sign, Ne pas déranger. Her gaze dropped to the floor. Movement. A thin grey trail of movement. Ants. A single file of them, busily streaming into the room. She leaned over, studying them more carefully. A column of them going in, another coming out. An army of brainless, thoughtless workers. This was not good.

  She knocked on the door, then unlocked it with her master key and peered in. Still occupied, she knew that at a glance. Perfume and lotions on the table in front of the glass. A hair brush, dryer and straighteners. A pretty cotton dressing gown had been thrown limply over the bed. A suitcase on the folding stand and inside the wardrobe several dresses and other items had been carefully hung up. No men’s clothes to be seen. An English newspaper in the bin under the table along with a couple of grubby cotton wool balls. She followed the line of ants with her eye. Under the door, along the wall, up the side of the chest of drawers. Tramp, tramp, tramp. Over the top and into a pretty ceramic bowl. To the over-ripe fruit there.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, knowing that there was no one there. The bathroom door was open and she could see it was unoccupied. She picked up one of the perfume bottles, read the label and sniffed it. Issey Miyake. Slightly grapefruity and peppery. She dabbed a little on each wrist and behind her ears. Nice.

  She looked at the clothes in the cupboard. Very nice clothes. Nothing worn or scruffy. British size 10. Elise was bigger than that, a 44, which would be a 16?

  She opened the drawer in the bedside table nearest her: nothing. Then walked around to the other side. Nothing but a piece of silver foil from inside a cigarette packet. She sat on the bed thoughtfully and brought her wrist to her nose to sniff the perfume again. Her eyes were drawn to the suitcase.

  All hotel guests are much the same aren’t they, she thought, there are things that they never leave in full view, but put in places that are pretty obvious and unlocked. Those zippered pockets inside suitcases, somewhere to put the passport, the loose change from their own country, pound coins or Danish kroner. Elise often took a portion of the coins; just enough to add to her nest egg at home, never enough to be noticed. But as she gazed at this suitcase, she grew increasingly troubled. In a nearby town a young unidentified woman had been murdered. Had this been her room? Were these her things?

  Elise locked the door again leaving the ‘Do not disturb’ sign in place, abandoning her cleaning trolley in the corridor and went down by the back stairs, down, down into the underbelly of the hotel, through its furnace room and laundry and into the kitchen where Teri was smacking the side of a pig with salt as if it were Elise’s bare arse.

  ‘Hey!’ she said to get his attention. The radio was on, the volume loud enough to drown out her voice. She turned it off and he looked up, angry that someone had dared to touch his radio just as it was playing one of his favourite songs.

  Her face told him straightway that something was up. Elise was one of the toughest women he’d ever known – her hard life showed in her gun-metal eyes. She stole things from the hotel – he’d seen her do it – eggs, coffee, bread rolls, sachets of sugar, vegetables, slices of meat, toilet paper. She probably stole from the guests too, though no serious loss had ever been reported. He knew she hid up on the roof, smoking when she should have been working, but with all these things she knew her limit, never took more than could be missed and he paid her less than he should because of what she helped herself to. And reduced her share of the tips. Because of her low pay she felt entitled to cream that little extra. Reparations, she might have called it. They were caught in a dance of cheating and deceit, the pair of them, and could not escape.

  But her expression now was something new.

  Salt on his hands, gritty between his fingers, he wiped them on his apron.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘That woman in the news? The dead one? Unidentified? Room six seems like…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘…like someone left it, left their stuff, never came back…’

  The World, as Learned
from Pictures

  The night before, and after those first lingering kisses in the playground and walking home arm in arm they had arranged to meet early the next day. In the same park. Very early. At first light or thereabouts. Neither knew what time the sun rose, so they were vague about the time, but not about what they said they would do. His older brother was the captain of a pleasure boat that picked up passengers on the river jetty every two hours and sailed out to sea, around the coast, then back again.

  They would get out at the furthest point and spend the day there. Far away from their friends in the town, far from any chores their parents might want them to do. Almost like running away. But not really. His brother lived with an older woman in the town.

  ‘He’s cool,’ Vincent said.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Katherine said.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  He’d put on a red football shirt first, ‘Beckham’ written across his shoulder blades. Then he changed his mind, pulled it off and slipped a plain white t-shirt over his head, then grey combat baggies. Changed his mind again and left the house wearing faded jeans with a t-shirt that some kids at school had screen-printed with MC Solaar’s photo and the words Le bien, le mal. Little plastic baggie of dope in his jeans pocket. Rizlas. Plastic lighter. Tobacco. Money – some. Not much, but just enough. Sunglasses. Tried them on, then discarded them envisioning awkwardness when kissing. Key to the door.

  Vincent got to the park first. The streets on the way there had been quiet. The sky, vapour white. He looked around for her. No sign yet. That was cool.

  He sat on a swing and rocked himself to and fro until he realised he looked like a kid. Jumped off and ambled over to the roundabout, pushed it into motion without climbing aboard. Paced up and down, around, then went and sat on one of the benches where the mothers always congregated as their children swarmed and squabbled over the play equipment.

  There was not a glimmer of doubt in his mind about Katherine showing up. She would. He knew it.

  He thought about rolling a spliff. A one skinner. Patted his pocket to check that his contraband was still there.

  Sensed someone coming through the entrance to the park. Her. Didn’t look up immediately. Stupid grin spreading over his face. Composed himself. Looked up. Not her. Shit! So not her. A man. A flic. And just behind him his flic-mobile and another flic standing by it looking up and down the street. As Vincent watched, the guy outside the park seemed to see him, he hissed some words and the other flic turned to see what he wanted.

  Vincent pulled the baggy from his pocket and dropped it through the slats of the bench onto the gravel below. He registered its presence there, a square of plastic not much bigger than a postage stamp illustrated with a jolly emerald-green marijuana leaf.

  He looked up to see the flic on the street pointing at him, the other turning his head in the direction indicated.

  Vincent stood up as the policeman started towards him. Going to face danger, leaving danger behind under the bench.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  An elaborate shrug.

  ‘How long you been here?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘Name?’

  Vincent gave his name.

  While this was going on he could see the other flic getting some of that special tape the flics used for crime scenes and wrapping it around the gate posts, across the entrance.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Meeting my friend.’

  ‘Friend’s name?’

  He said Katherine’s name and as he did she appeared, walking rapidly towards the park and the flic who was blocking the way in.

  ‘That’s her now.’ Instinct made Vincent start off towards her. His upper arm was firmly gripped by a strong hand and he was yanked back.

  Katherine must have seen this as he heard her give a little scream.

  ‘Did I say you could go?’

  ‘No, sorry, sir.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  She was standing with the other flic, talking rapidly, gesticulating with her hands; she gestured palms up, fingers splayed, stabbing the air, then dropped one arm limply to her side while with her right arm she pointed at Vincent. She did this in rotation a few times, then gave up and folded her arms in that way that girls do when they are done with something. When they are fed up and belligerent and won’t speak or move or listen anymore.

  ‘You got here ten minutes ago?’

  ‘More like fifteen minutes now.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Huh?’ He played for time, thinking about the dope under the bench, thinking about what his parents would say, thinking about being arrested, sent away, his life.

  ‘So you left your house, walked here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I dunno … I just like…’ he wondered about saying he’d sat on the swings, but this man, this flic, this burly grunt would laugh at him. ‘I looked around for Katherine, then I walked around there and sat on the bench.’

  ‘Where did you walk?’

  ‘Just from there,’ he pointed to the swings, ‘to there, to the bench.’

  ‘See anyone else? Anyone see you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘I said, to meet Katherine.’

  Saying her name again to this flic, standing there being interrogated while she watched, something suddenly welled up in him and he felt himself on the edge of tears.

  ‘I’ve done nothing,’ he wailed, ‘let me go.’

  The flic softened suddenly, his voice was gentle. ‘It’s alright son. No need to get upset. Come on, we’re done.’ He guided him back to the entrance and lifted the tape for him to go under. Vincent went meekly to Katherine and stood by her side.

  ‘Park’s closed,’ the flic said gruffly. The boy struggling not to weep, furiously rubbing his eyes, his mouth contorted. The girl, all concern and indignation, put her hand on the boy’s back.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘Go on, run along now.’

  ‘I want to know why!’ She was fierce. Fierce and beautiful and so young.

  ‘Can’t say. Go on, scoot.’

  The boy was ready to go, he murmured something to her and grabbing her hand turned to move away. He began to walk, tried pulling her with him. She pulled him back.

  ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Something bad.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Last night. Something happened…’

  ‘Now listen, kid, if you don’t scram…’

  ‘We were here,’ she said, her eyes wide and glittering with mingled realisation and fear. ‘We were here last night. We saw Bruno…’ Again she lifted one arm and pointed. She had played the leading role in a Greek tragedy that Vincent had seen a while ago and in it she had stood like this, back erect, head held high and one arm raised, the index finger pointing, accusing. It was when he first noticed her.

  ‘And…’ she said, remembering the foreign woman, remembering everything, putting it all together now, seeing a picture she hadn’t seen before. ‘…and before that…’ She lowered her arm. She had been pointing to the place where Bruno had emerged last night – it was also the place they had directed the woman to.

  ‘Oh, Vincent,’ she said to the boy and gave a little cry.

  At this the boy also seemed to remember something.

  Both of them began speaking at once.

  ‘Hold it! One at a time,’ the flic said. ‘You.’ He nodded at the girl.

  She took a breath, then began to speak.

  ‘We were here last night with everyone and this woman came into the park. She was lost. She didn’t speak French. Or not much. I can speak a little English. She wanted to know the way to the police station. She, ah, she was frightened to go through the trees there. So we walked with her, showed her the lane. She was nice. She had red hair. She thanked us.’ He
re the girl faltered again. Another little cry escaped from her lips, a sharp sweet sound in the crystal air. ‘Did something happen to her?’

  ‘Just tell us what you remember. Okay?’

  She nodded her head vigorously, ‘Yes, yes. I’ll try. We left her by the top of the lane, we said goodbye. Came back here. The others drifted off, then there was just the two of us. We sat on the roundabout and talked. We lay down to look at the stars. We kissed and then…’

  The flic raised an eyebrow. Waited.

  ‘We kissed and then we heard this sound. At first we didn’t know what it was, an animal crashing through the undergrowth or, or something. Then we could see someone, running out from the trees, breathing heavily, panting. Then he came closer, into the light so we could see him. He didn’t see us. He stopped to catch his breath, just there, near the swings. Bruno. Then he walked on and when he was out of hearing I said, “Ugh, Bruno” or something like that. I said, “He’s a creep.” And then we went home. Vincent walked me to my door and we arranged to meet here this morning.’

  The flic looked at the boy. ‘Is that true? Is that how you remember it?’

  He nodded solemnly.

  ‘Either of you over eighteen?’

  Both shook their heads.

  ‘Alright. We’ll want statements. Have to be at the station with your parents. Okay?’

  The girl nodded. The boy said, ‘Are we in trouble?’

  ‘No, son. Not unless your parents didn’t know what you were up to last night.’ He winked and gave a lopsided grin. ‘No law against kissing.’

  Katherine scowled at him. Her attention was on the red-haired woman.

  How could he smile? How dare he smile? That poor woman, they had sent her down the alleyway in the middle of the night. They had waved cheerfully. They – she had felt the glow of being kind and helpful. Of being an adult.

  At school they were studying the 1789 Revolution, their teacher liked to talk at length about the miseries and deprivations of the people and the unabashed luxuries of the court. He spoke of causation, of retribution, but one of the books she had seen was illustrated with images of Marie Antoinette, of her before, and then the rough drawing of her in a tumbrel being taken to her execution. Poor woman. In the first picture she was a plump-cheeked and exotic caged bird, a cockatiel or dove; in the second a hastily scribbled, wind-battered crow with a sulky down-turned mouth.