Benjamin was getting tense. He didn’t want to waste what remained of his relaxing getaway. Any further discussion about Solacroup could wait.
“Listen, Virgile, we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Let’s meet in the office at nine. Okay?”
His assistant said nothing.
“Congratulations again,” Benjamin said, breaking the silence. “You’re an accomplished athlete. I’m not surprised you did so well.” He ended the conversation with a coolness that was out of character. “Good night, Virgile.”
“Is anything wrong, Benjamin?” Elisabeth asked.
“I’m just obsessed with this Arthur Solacroup matter. And by the way, Virgile finished second in the Bergerac triathlon.”
“Handsome face, athletic body, brains… The boy has everything going for him.”
“Sometimes I think he has too much, except maybe in the brains department,” Benjamin grumbled.
“Benjamin, I know you weren’t too pleased that Margaux fell for him last summer. You did what you could to keep them apart. But you can’t blame Virgile for his power of seduction.”
“I’d rather see him use his power of deduction!”
“Benjamin, go easy on him. He’s your best ally.”
“You’re right. I’m being unfair.”
Benjamin took his highway ticket at the Bollène exit. The aroma of the truffles was filling the car, and on the radio, Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies was bouncy, zany, and moving under the subtle fingers of pianist Daniel Varsano. But the sensual pleasures weren’t enough to keep Benjamin from his speculations. In fact, he had become so taciturn, Elisabeth had fallen fast asleep.
~ ~ ~
Jacqueline’s coffee was much too bitter. Benjamin grimaced, and Virgile poured three spoonfuls of sugar into the blackish concoction the devoted Cooker & Co. secretary had poured for them.
Benjamin was looking out the office window. The unbearable cold sweeping down the Allées de Tourny was keeping people off the streets.
“You said that Gabriela called and told you about Julia and her husband. What else did the pretty Peruvian have to say?” Benjamin asked his assistant, who was warming himself by the cast iron radiator.
“She talked a lot about herself. She was born in an upscale neighborhood in Lima. She had a pretty carefree and privileged youth, and then, when she turned twenty, she left Peru for Europe. She had barely moved to Madrid when she learned that her father, mother, little brother Pedro, and older sister Angelina had died in a terrible earthquake.”
Benjamin turned and focused on Virgile.
“Gabriela told me she understood then that she would never be happy. And she would never return to her homeland, not even to see her grandmother Lucia, who had survived the catastrophe. She learned later that her grandmother, sick with grief over the loss of her son, had been committed to an asylum in Callao. Gabriela was so despondent, she couldn’t even stay in Madrid anymore. Without telling her landlady, she left her home in Playa del Sol and headed for Paris.”
“That was courageous.”
“Or she was just running away. A bit like Arthur.”
“You can’t really escape the past, can you? ‘What is past is prologue.’”
“Who said that?”
“William Shakespeare, my boy.”
“Uh-huh. ‘You can’t undo the past, but you can certainly not repeat it.’”
“Where does that quote come from?”
“Bruce Willis himself. You know who that is, don’t you, boss?”
“It might surprise you, but I’ve actually seen Die Hard. Anyway, I see we may not have the same references, but our messages are not so different. How did Gabriela meet Arthur?”
“She took up residence in the Canal Saint-Martin neighborhood with a wealthy old Cuban woman. In Paris, she took classes at the Sorbonne and finally secured a position as a Spanish teacher at a technical high school in Champigny-sur-Marne. But she soon realized that teaching wasn’t her calling. On the other hand, she found it difficult to resist her students. By the end of the first semester, the institution’s disciplinary board had sanctioned the overly generous instructor, and even Gabriela had to admit that she was teaching her young students the language of Cervantes with too much charm. She ended her short career as a teacher and sank into a long and nasty depression.”
“She told you all that?”
“Let’s just say I have my ways of getting information. One evening last year, she found herself at a Place de Clichy café that smelled of hashish and mint tea. She made the acquaintance of our wine merchant, and they connected immediately. They became lovers, and Arthur lavished her with the kind of attention that put some sweetness back into her life.”
“Yes, it sounds like they shared some of the same inclinations. They were both trying to forget the past.”
“Unfortunately, both Arthur and Gabriela were both also inclined to be unfaithful. They did their best to overlook each other’s indiscretions. But in recent months, each of them had become more promiscuous.”
“Okay, your story is very interesting,” Benjamin said. “But what does all this have to do with the—”
“She got a visit from the police on Saturday morning: a certain Inspector Souchard, who wanted to know about her relationship with Arthur. He grilled her until she told him everything.”
“Meaning?”
“She told him about the death threat in the mail. The message in the empty bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape saying that he needed to watch his step. Apparently, nobody had told the police, not even Karim. That’s quite an oversight, if you ask me. She told the inspector that Arthur didn’t take the threat seriously, but all the same—”
“All the same what?” The winemaker was growing impatient.
“That if anything happened to him, she should go to his apartment on the Place des Abbesses. There was a metal suitcase near the chimney. It was all that he had left from his years in the Foreign Legion. There was nothing of value in the suitcase, he said. Just some old papers, amber and stones he had brought back from Djibouti, a canteen, gold braids, a brass medal, and other useless junk. But there was something else: a tape cassette.”
“‘Take the cassette, Gabriela,’” he told her. “‘But don’t listen to it unless I die. Promise me, Gabriela.’”
“And so? Did she hand the cassette over to the cops?” Benjamin asked, frustrated by the suspense his assistant was creating.
“No, of course not!”
“Why?”
“Because Arthur isn’t dead.”
“Yes, of course. There’s one thing I’m not getting, my boy. Why all these secrets on her part?”
“I think the woman is more desperate and attached to the guy than she’s letting on.”
“And what about you, Virgile? Are you offering a shoulder for her to cry on?”
“I really don’t know what to do, boss.”
“I see,” Benjamin said, sighing. “You’re attracted to her, but you’re too honorable to go any further. Right, Virgile?”
“That’s part of it, but not all of it. At any rate, the information about the threat might not matter anymore. The cops are acting like they know who the would-be murderer is.”
“What are you talking about, Virgile?”
“The police talked to an emergency-hotline volunteer who said he got a call last Wednesday from a young man who claimed he had murdered a wine merchant in Montmartre. He didn’t give any motive for the attack. He just said he had taken the law into his own hands. Having accomplished his mission, he planned to throw himself under a train. It was his turn to die, and God would forgive him. The volunteer tried to reason with him, but the dude seemed resigned to committing suicide. He hung up, and his call was traced to a cell tower near Pigalle. Does that remind you of anything, boss?”
“Yes, Virgile, I am connecting the dots. Now go on.”
“That means the grisly suicide I told you about at the Trémoille does, indeed, have a direct connection to the guy who t
ried to knock off Arthur.”
“That’s possible,” Benjamin agreed, sipping his coffee despite the bitterness.
“Boss, didn’t you say that the guy you saw leaving Arthur’s shop was in fatigues and combat boots?”
“I did say that.”
Benjamin got up and straightened the shade on a lamp near his bookcase. The winemaker was in the habit of adjusting things whenever unanswered questions swirled in his head. It satisfied a compulsion to create order.
“Let’s suppose that this person who committed suicide is the same person who attacked Arthur,” Benjamin said. “We still don’t know his name or his motive.”
“According to what Gabriela told me, the police weren’t able to find any identification on the guy. And he was so mauled by the train, no one could have identified him by just looking at him. Only a DNA analysis and dental impressions could provide a positive ID.”
Benjamin’s attempt to right the lampshade had failed, as it seemed to be stuck. And the bulb had burned out in the midst of all his fiddling. “Yes,” Benjamin said. “However, DNA is only helpful for identification if you can compare it to another DNA sample. The sample from the man who committed suicide could be matched to the blood on Arthur’s clothes. If so we’ll know he killed Arthurs. But we still won’t know who he is.”
“What are you saying, boss?” Virgile asked.
“There’s a good chance the case will be closed. Let’s assume that Arthur knows who tried to kill him, and he knows this person is dead. He could very well decide to say nothing, if he ever gets the power of speech back. Without Arthur pressing for an arrest, the investigating magistrate might not bother to look into it any further.”
“A magistrate might not look into it any further,” Virgile said. “But that doesn’t mean Gabriela de la Luz won’t.”
“She’d be inclined, as her name suggests, to shine a light on her Arturo’s past?”
Virgle didn’t react to Benjamin’s attempt at humor. He looked distracted.
The winemaker went back to his desk and sat down in his armchair. He was about to make a suggestion when Virgile beat him to it.
“I’d like to do something, boss. I want to take my friend Thommasseau to his future vineyard at Bretonneau. A visit seems to be in order. We can assure Mrs. Lacaze that we’re eager to start the project.”
“I agree. But why didn’t you tell me upfront that you’d like to see Miss Luz and convince her to listen to this cassette, even if it means breaking her promise?”
“You are impossible, boss.”
“Of course, you don’t have to,” the winemaker said, giving Virgile a mischievous look. “When do you want to go?”
“As soon as Julien can meet me in Bordeaux. We’ll take the train together.”
Benjamin picked up the phone. “Jacqueline, reserve two round-trip tickets on the Bordeaux-Montparnasse train. Ah, Jacqueline, would you be kind enough to make a fresh pot of coffee? Maybe not so strong this time? Do you want some, Virgile?”
“No, I’m fine.”
The young man jumped up from his chair and put on his jacket. He walked over to the lamp and adjusted the bulb. Suddenly there was light. Then he straightened the shade.
“Just a bad contact, boss!”
The winemaker didn’t have the time to reply. Virgile was already running down the stairs.
14
Gabriela had nervously slipped the cassette into the player.
Was it the surf? The roll of the ocean? In the background, in the distance, there were cries of children, hints of disco music, and, throbbing and dull, the sound of waves crashing on the shore.
Where was he? In Toulon, Rochefort, Hourtin, Tangiers, Goree Island? Mauritania perhaps? Wasn’t that African dance music whining on the dilapidated tape player?
“This is not right, what we’re doing,” she said. “I feel like I’m betraying Arturo.”
Gabriela’s body brushed Virgile’s as they sat on the loose floorboards of the dark and disorderly apartment on the Place des Abbesses.
This was the first time since what she called “the accident” that Gabriela de la Luz had come back to the shabby setting. There was the unmade bed, its sheets in a ball and its pillows ripped, where Arthur had satisfied her with as much ardor as tenderness and sometimes with clumsiness when the nights were too boozy.
On the wooden crate that served as a night table were the latest issue of the Revue du vin français and an old Wine Spectator. Arthur didn’t read English, but he often asked Gabriela to translate the tasting notes of American critics. Beside a brass lamp, its shade mottled with fly specks, the Cooker Guide sat like a Bible. Its cover was battered. Its pages were dog-eared, and the binding was worn from having been consulted repeatedly.
On the floor were a rolled-up pair of jeans, a greasy Michelin map, a spiral notebook, a pair of beat-up sneakers, and an old pair of khaki socks. A poster of Penelope Cruz, a small picture of Jennifer Lopez, and a panoramic photo of the Château de Grignan with a carpet of lavender in the foreground were on the wall. And tacked above the night table were photo-booth pictures of Gabriela, laughing.
The tape was playing, but no one was talking. All Virgile could hear was the lapping of waves and a syncopated melody, vaguely disco, that reminded him of nothing in particular. Gabriela, who looked weary, had put her head on Virgile’s shoulder. He had convinced her to finally learn about the dark side of her longstanding companion—the dark side that he had never managed to overcome. Virgile hadn’t considered the possibility that the cassette might be nothing other than a mediocre soundtrack.
Always the sea, the lapping of waves, the blast of a boat horn, children laughing in the distance… Then a woosh and a sharp noise. Someone seized the microphone.
“¡Por Dios!” Gabriela said, biting her lip.
I am Arthur… Arthur Solacroup. Solacroup? I think that’s my last name. At least my father’s last name… Unless it’s my mother’s. I don’t know. In fact, I never knew. According to the people in the village near Avignon where I grew up, I’m an orphan. I know that doesn’t excuse anything. That doesn’t explain anything…
Why am I saying this tonight? Because I don’t know who I’m talking to. It’s kind of like a bottle tossed into the ocean, a message sent into the vastness of the universe.
In Djibouti, the nights are freezing, but I’ve never seen such a beautiful sky. Not even on Mont Ventoux in Provence. My captain taught me the names of the stars: Vega, Altair, Betelgeuse, Antares, Sirius… The constellations, too: Pleiades, Sagittarius, Lyre, Cassiopia, Orion… I like to learn. I want to know everything. One day, I will know everything…
The children’s distant cries were gone, as was the lapping of the waves. The sound coming from the tape player was now properly modulated, with no background noises. Arthur’s voice was distinct and somber. Virgile guessed he had moved the recorder away from the beach.
I was always hopeless at school, but one day, I’ll know everything! I’ll know about things I’m not even aware of today. You can’t understand, whoever you are… Will anyone listen to this someday? Fucking shit!
Arthur stopped speaking. A muddled crackling followed. It sounded like someone putting his hand over the microphone. Virgile and Gabriela stared at the tape player, waiting. The tape seemed to be damaged.
I have to calm down. I need some water. Yes… I wanted to say that I made an important decision this morning. I’m leaving the 13th Foreign Legion Demi-Brigade. I’m not renewing my contract. Ten years in the Foreign Legion, two five-year tours. That’s enough! In a month, I’ll take a boat to Marseille. I’ll return to civilian life. I hope I’m not making another stupid mistake.
I can’t stand the camp any longer. The sun, the salt, the orders, the lousy missions, the bullying, the brig, screwing the pox-ridden whores of Bouake and other God-forsaken dumps, jerking off in the shower. I’ve had it! I’m outta here! Even Kyriel, my captain, wasn’t surprised by my decision. He told me he had read it in the
stars. I’ll miss that guy, my captain… He’s the one who saved my life, shooting the shark that was circling me one day when I was swimming too far from shore. It was two weeks after I landed in Djibouti. I had just taken a beating from Sergeant Major Boulard—I swear he wanted to kill me—and there I was, almost getting eaten alive by a shark.
I asked Kyriel if I could write to him. He said, “You know how to write, Toussaint?” And then he pulled me over and gave me a big hug. “Get out of here! Fast!” Before I left his office, I turned around, and he was blubbering. That was the first time I ever saw a man cry. Crying for me…
Gabriela’s eyes were clouded with tears. A cat meowed at the doorway and padded over to Virgile. It climbed on his lap and brushed against his chest. But when Virgile reached to pet it, the cat sprang from his lap and bounded out of the room.
I’m leaving the legion, but I have no idea what awaits me. Freedom. I’m not sure I deserve it, not sure if I can enjoy it either. In a little while I’ll go to the bordello. I’ll lay a beautiful black woman. Bareback—that’s what the American soldiers call it. If I get away without a disease I’ll take it as a good sign. It’s funny, but tonight I don’t see my star. Vega, it’s called. Kyriel told me it belongs to me and only me. It’s north. Shit, why don’t I see it tonight in this sky full of stars? I haven’t been drinking. That’s not a good sign!
The cat came back into the room and started meowing.
“That’s Ficelle,” Gabriela said.
“What?” said Virgile, still absorbed in the legionnaire’s story.
“The cat. His name is Ficelle. That’s what Arturo called him.”
“I think he wants to go out. Open the door for him.”
“You do it.”
Virgile stood up, stretched, and started walking toward the entryway, the cat scampering ahead of him. Virgile opened the door, and Ficelle disappeared down the stairs.
“I don’t feel well, Virgile. Let’s get out of here, please. I’m suffocating…”
Montmartre Mysteries Page 9