by Claude Izner
It was a brilliant idea! He would send Joseph to enquire after the health of Nanette and the inspector’s literary projects, and at the same time obtain a duly signed release document for Yvette.
As soon as he had arrived back at Rue Fontaine, he had telephoned Joseph and given him his instructions.
He consulted his watch. Joseph and Yvette would not be there until four o’clock at the earliest. Unable to concentrate on anything, he crossed the courtyard to the studio. It was his favourite room, the room that harboured Tasha’s universe, where each object, each knick-knack, each piece of furniture was redolent of her. It was the room where they made love, discussed their innermost thoughts and made plans. It was here that they were intimate together and where she belonged only to him. The familiar odour of turpentine mixed with benjoin perfume hung in the air. He relived their embrace of the previous evening and smiled. He loved the disarray that pervaded the space. He followed the trail of underwear and frames over to the alcove with its unmade bed. With the flat of his hand he caressed the rumpled sheets he had left regretfully a few hours earlier while she was still deeply asleep. He always desired her more in the morning than in the evening.
He could not help picking up the bodice and drawers balled up on the floor and straightening the pillows. As he was putting them in place a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It was a letter. Without meaning to, he read a sentence written in a round hand:
… I can’t wait to hold you in my arms. After Berlin, where everything was disciplined, regimented and orderly, I dream of sitting with you at a café table on the terrace of a brasserie …
Mechanically he slipped the missive into the pillowcase. For a moment his body continued to obey his brain’s instructions: fold this camisole, throw away that piece of bread and wash those glasses. But in the midst of doing those things, grief hit him. He stood frozen, his hand suspended over the stone sink.
The horse was toiling up the crowded Rue des Pyrenées when it was forced to make way for a herd of cows.
‘Quickly, quickly,’ Tasha chanted, leaning out of the carriage door.
Her impatience had been building over the hours spent closeted at work with her editor. The horse turned down Rue des Partants, passed Hôpital Tenon and went back up Rue de la Chine. This was where Haussman’s remodelling of Paris stopped and they entered the city of Eugène Sue. Among the labyrinth of tortuous streets with exotic names, interspersed with courtyards where bare lilacs sprouted up the grey walls, misery hid its wounds.
The horse pursued its ascent with difficulty and stopped in front of a shady hotel.
HÔTEL DE PÉKIN
Furnished Accommodation
Rooms by the Month or by Day
Tasha jumped nimbly from the cab and paid the sullen driver. As she passed through the hall, she held her breath, just like the last time, against the pungent smell of cabbage. Her cheery ‘Bonjour’ was not enough to raise a smile from the stout woman with the hairy chin presiding over reception.
‘He’s up there. He hasn’t been out all day,’ she snapped before Tasha could ask.
She climbed to the third floor, carrying her package, and had scarcely scratched on the door when it opened, and the arms of the man who had impatiently awaited her arrival also opened. She hugged him, happy to feel fragile under the pressure of his palms. She forgot the difficult times, the philandering, and the doubts. The man swung the door shut with his foot. Down below, the harridan raised her eyes heavenwards.
‘What a dump! If this continues, I may as well open a brothel!’
Inspector Joseph Pignot marched through the steel door of the police cells, greeted the man on the desk and found himself in a vast gothic hall with imitation marble columns supporting a free stone arch. Opposite him were the glass-fronted offices of the police sergeants and inspectors. To the right was the office where the prisoners were searched. And beyond some fixed glass partitions he could just make out meshed-in walkways.
Inspector Joseph Pignot went resolutely forward, ready to come face to face with crooks, pickpockets and hussies fresh from the police vehicles. Perhaps the mysterious assassin who was terrorising Paris was among them? But of all the individuals he passed, none bore a resemblance to the description provided by witnesses. An old, surly-looking employee started when he tapped him on the shoulder …
At that moment a man’s voice rang out.
‘Move aside!’
Joseph was obliged to abandon the novel he had promised himself to begin, and, much excited at having penetrated the Great Prison, proffered his letter to the man, who was as dried up and twisted as an old vine branch.
‘You’re mistaken, young man, I’m only visiting,’ he quavered, his hand cupped round his ear.
‘Get on with it, old man, over there!’ shouted an official in grey uniform.
‘No need to yell — I’m not deaf!’
Joseph was relegated to the end of a dingy corridor where he watched the officials and municipal guards as they went through the performance of putting the suspects arrested the previous evening through their anthropometric paces. Their physical characteristics and measurements were noted. Joseph, avid for information with which to embellish his new serial, stationed himself a few yards further up the corridor. He saw a new arrival get down from the police vehicle and disappear into a vast room. The door closed. Frustrated, Joseph went and sat down.
‘What’s going on in there?’ he asked a laundress who had come hoping to see her husband, who’d been picked up dead drunk in the street.
‘They’re lining them up, like in the army. They’re noting their names and taking everything they have on them in exchange for a numbered token. Then they’re given a bran loaf, a whole one if it’s in the morning.’
‘And if it isn’t morning?’
‘Only half a loaf. But they don’t care; they get a place to sleep and that’s as good as dinner. Mind you, even the sleeping’s not great. If you can afford it, you pay forty centimes to rent some sheets, otherwise you have to bide your time for four days before you’re entitled to any. That doesn’t bother my man — we took our sheets to the pawnshop ages ago. Next they give all their details to the clerk: name and surname, place of birth, name of father, mother … Luckily they don’t have to go back to the time of Methuselah! All those niceties just to end up in the slammer. Talk about justice! Don’t look at me like that, Monsieur, it’s as I say, and I speak as I find.’
‘Go on,’ murmured Joseph, who was surreptitiously taking notes.
‘OK, so the reception committee is responsible for settling them in.’
‘Reception committee?’
‘The guards and good sisters of Marie-Joseph. They divide them in groups. Some go into cells, others into the communal area. Oh! My turn now, about time too! I won’t say see you soon, Monsieur — that’ll bring bad luck.’
The wait was interminable. Joseph, marooned on his bench, thought back to his visit to Raoul Pérot, whose cramped office, with its waxed parquet floor, thick green curtains and glass-fronted bookcase stuffed with books, was more reminiscent of a reading room than a police station. The inspector had been leafing through Gil Blas. He dreamt of one day contributing to the magazine. He had shaken Joseph warmly by the hand and asked him about the aftermath of the break-in. After dashing off the letter to the prison, he had hurried to turn the conversation to the only subject that gripped him: literature. Nanette, the tortoise, indifferent to this topic, nibbled her lettuce.
‘So, young man, today or tomorrow?’
Joseph almost toppled off the bench. He held the envelope out to the plain-clothes policeman who read the missive through twice before folding it up and remarking drily:
‘I’ll fetch her for you since she’s a capital witness.’
After quarter of an hour, he returned, leading a skinny little girl whom he held firmly by the wrist.
‘Here you are; your capital witness. Since she’s a minor and you’re not family, I have to take your na
me and address,’ said the flic, taking out a notebook. ‘Here, take your basket, and no more illicit trading!’
As he took hold of Yvette’s frozen hand, Joseph had to fight against a flood of pity that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He took hold of himself. Now he was Jean Valjean snatching Cosette from the jaws of misfortune, and, proud of his responsibility, he led the child to Quai de l’Horloge.
‘You’re free.’
Disconcerted, Yvette stammered, ‘Did … did Papa send you?’
She blinked, blinded by the light, nervously clutching the front of her overcoat. Joseph thought of his two visits to Cité Doré. It would be better not to tell the little girl that her father was missing.
‘No, it was my boss, Monsieur Legris. You know him — he took your photograph.’
‘Oh yes, the gentleman with the beautiful box. He’s nice. I was so frightened in there! They treated me like a criminal. I begged them to let me go because Papa would be so worried. They forced me into a vehicle with wicked-looking men and women … like Mère Cloporte who picks up men on the boulevard. I spent the night in the dormitory. I was so cold. A big girl wanted me to sleep with her so that we would be warm, but I didn’t want to, so she pulled my hair and said rude words to me. I wanted to die.’
She was racked by a brief sob, but did not break down in tears. Joseph on the other hand, discreetly wiped his eyes and murmured, ‘The filthy beasts! Do you go to school?’
‘You mustn’t think that going to school makes you behave well! You know, the big girl who they took away with me, she stole from her boss. I would never steal; we have our standards.’
‘So you don’t know how to read or write?’
‘I know how to read a little. Papa has books at home. It’s stupid, you know, I was caught for a sou. The lady didn’t even want the pins she paid me for. A flic saw everything and that was that! If I’d known, I would have refused the sou.’
Joseph helped the child into a carriage.
‘I’ll take you to Monsieur Legris and Mademoiselle Tasha. You’ll be able to rest and eat. You’ll see. They’ll look after you. The law is ridiculous sometimes.’
Breathe deeply and think, above all, think. Victor had finally calmed down. It was not the first time he had suspected Tasha. And his penchant for suspicion had always, until now, led him astray. None of the men she spent time with had turned out to be rivals. Tasha loved him, he was sure of that. So, if a foreign friend had turned up in Paris, what would be more natural than that she should hide his letter to avoid one of Victor’s fits of jealousy?
Yes, but had she really wanted to hide the letter she would have chosen a better place than the pillowcase of the bed in which they frolicked.
By the time Joseph knocked, Victor had talked himself round again and he was able to greet Yvette with a smile.
‘Delighted to see you again, Mademoiselle. Joseph, can you go back to Rue des Saints-Pères and tell Kenji that I’ll soon be there and that I’ll need your services? Thank you for all your efforts; you’ve completed the operation brilliantly.’
‘That’s what I’m here for! The kid is frozen and exhausted. The law is a very blunt instrument, Boss. A blind tool that sweeps up the homeless, the old, kids, thieves and murderers and muddles them in together! … Is Mademoiselle Tasha not here?’
‘No, she’s in … Barbizon.’
Once again a terrible doubt assailed Victor. What if she wasn’t in Barbizon? What if she had invented the story about the exhibition so she could rendezvous with another man? How would he know? A name came to mind, a hated name, but he would have to overlook that. Tomorrow he would go and have a chat with Maurice Laumier.
Joseph’s departure brought him back to earth.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked Yvette.
‘Um … Yes, Monsieur.’
‘The bathroom is on the left; you can wash your face,’ he said with forced gaiety.
She did not move.
‘And comb your hair as well.’
Amazed by the toiletries laid out on the dressing table, she dared not touch anything. Victor went to heat up the fricassee of rabbit prepared with loving care by Euphrosine. He pulled the pedestal table over to the stove and cleared away a stack of pallets to lay a place setting. Yvette stood at the entrance to the studio.
‘It’s beautiful! Just like the engraving of the confectionary shop in Rue de Bretagne,’ she enthused.
‘Take a seat.’
She sat down on the edge of the chair opposite the steaming plate, but did not start to eat. Victor moved away, pretending to sort through some sketches, while observing her. She was chewing with a sort of fervour, exactly like those poor wretches in soup kitchens, who swallow everything in sight because they can’t take anything away with them.
‘Would you like some more meat?’
‘Yes, please!’
He went to fetch the photo he had taken of her and showed it to her.
‘That’s me … How strange to see my face on a piece of paper. Is it difficult to make?’
‘I’ll explain how you do it.’
‘But … Papa will be worrying about me.’
Her voice faltered and she gave Victor a frightened look.
What should one say to a girl of her age? He had no idea. She seemed worried.
‘He might give me a smack,’ she murmured.
‘Why? It was the police who …’
‘Oh, not because of that! No, yesterday while he was looking through his harvest, Papa noticed a sort of bowl that had been foisted on us in Rue Charlot.’
‘A bowl? What sort of bowl?’
In reply she gave him a wide-eyed look that only increased his unease. Finally the little girl spoke.
‘A bowl with precious stones on it. I didn’t do anything bad, I just … Papa said, “By gad, that’s worth its weight in gold! We can’t keep that, it would be dishonest.” So he told me to take it back to Mademoiselle Bertille before I went to Rue Montmartre. But I … I was desperate to buy some sweets. I wanted those big pink and green caramels they sell in jars near Les Halles. I thought no one would know, since they’d thrown the bowl away, so I … I sold it.’
Victor leant over and stared at her intently.
‘And you sold it to?’
Yvette’s terror appalled him because it awakened in him the memory of his stern father. She bit her lips in consternation.
‘Please don’t scold me! If anyone finds out what I did, I’ll go to prison for good. I don’t want to, I don’t want to!’
Victor felt his irritation grow. He controlled himself.
‘Thank you for telling me the truth. Listen, someone threw that … that bowl away by mistake and its owner wants it back. No one knows you sold it. If you tell me who has it, I can sort everything out. Do you understand?’
‘And you won’t tell, ever? Even Papa?’
‘I swear.’
‘I gave it to a trader who sometimes buys old things from Papa. He’s called Clovis Martel. He lives at 127 Rue Mouffetard. He only paid me twenty sous, because he said it was just a piece of junk.’
‘Right, I’ll make a phone call, then we’ll go to my place of work and my sister will look after you. She’s very kind, but she’s also inquisitive, and so is her father. He’s a Japanese gentleman and he doesn’t say much. We’ll tell them your father has had a little accident and that he’s in hospital. All right?’
‘All right, but that’s odd. If this Japanese gentleman is your sister’s father, he’s also your father and you’re not Japanese.’
Victor stood up and cleared his throat. He would not be sorry to see the back of the child.
‘Our family is a bit complicated. Just a minute, I’ll put my coat on.’
As soon as they were in the courtyard, Victor lit a cigar and inhaled deeply. One should never underestimate the candour of children. They could turn anything you said against you. Admittedly they were easy prey for unscrupulous individuals, but their chatter was enough to ups
et the most balanced adult. He fleetingly pictured Tasha breastfeeding a bouncing baby.
‘Not for a long while yet,’ he prayed.
The emissary realised that if he went on criss-crossing Rue Fontaine, people would guess what he was up to. It had been a good hour since the assistant had returned with the kid — with whom had he left her?
He went in under the porch of number 36a and leant his bicycle against a water pump encrusted with bird droppings, pretending again to check his chain.
Footsteps rang out on the cobbles of the courtyard. Turning to the left, the emissary could see the window of a low house with a pitched roof, probably the studio of a painter or sculptor. A man went in. Two figures were silhouetted against the door: a little one and a much larger one. The larger one said, ‘Come on, Yvette, let’s go.’
The emissary smiled.
The man and the little girl reached Rue Fontaine. The emissary immediately stood up, mounted his bike and went after them.
CHAPTER 9
Late afternoon, Thursday, 14 April
IRIS was sitting back in an armchair, her feet resting on a pouffe, carefully embroidering a table runner with the intention of winning over Euphrosine. After much hesitation, she had plumped for a spray of larger-than-life flowers, which, even if they could not be found in a botanical guide, promised to look very decorative in coral and saffron thread. She heard the apartment door open. Much to her surprise, Victor came in with a small girl whom he introduced as the daughter of a rag-and-bone man who was in hospital.