“What’s going on, Ferdinand? Why are you ringing my bell at seven thirty in the morning? Has there been a problem since our lunch yesterday? Did the sushi give you indigestion? Still annoyed you didn’t manage to eat with chopsticks? I’m teasing you. You look . . . strange,” continues Beatrice, noticing the orange spots on his face, as if he had spent time under a defective UV lamp.
“No, on the contrary, everything’s fine. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so good! Here. These are flowers. I didn’t quite know what to get. I know you buy a lot of chrysanthemums, but the florist suggested roses.”
“You shouldn’t have. You’re crazy! Is there a special reason, Ferdinand? Come sit in the living room.”
“I don’t really know how to tell you what I’ve come here to say, but, uh . . .”
“Then say nothing. I get it.”
“Really?”
Seated on the sofa, Ferdinand moves his hand toward Beatrice’s. Their wrinkled fingers brush against each other. Ferdinand looks at Beatrice tenderly, and she smiles at him. The scene is comical: an old lady in a bathrobe hosting a gentleman of a certain age dressed to the nines, timidly touching the tips of their fingers together.
Beatrice draws her hand back suddenly.
“No, Ferdinand. No! You’ve shown me that in life it’s sometimes preferable to say no. Today I owe you that honesty. This is not a good idea, and deep down, I’m sure you know it, too. I’ve lost too many friends, and then heaven sends me a fantastic person. I refuse to lose you, too. We’ve lived long enough, the both of us, to know that love stories end badly.”
“But we have so much in common . . .”
“And we’ll continue to. I don’t want that to change. Love, that’s not for me anymore. And let’s be reasonable—I’m much too old for you. You’ve told me yourself that your type are the pretty young things fifty years old!”
“I thought so, too, but—”
“Ferdinand, no. I’m touched, really I am, and also a bit embarrassed. But I love only one man now: God. I’m still delighted to see that your heart has learned to love again. When you’re ready, I could introduce you to lots of my lady friends from the retirement home, but only one of them is your type—she looks like Claire Chazal . . .”
“Oh, no, not those crazy old ladies. They’re too old. They’re all at least eighty! It’s you, Beatrice, who pleases me, and if you tell me no, that’s it for us. I’ll be more alone than ever.”
Beatrice gets up and heads for the door.
“Don’t speak such nonsense, my dear man. I’m sorry but I have to get ready now. My grandchildren are coming over for lunch and I need to be at the market when it opens to find some cod. We’ll see each other on Tuesday for our card game. I’m counting on you. Don’t let our friends come over for a three-person bridge party! And promise me one thing: don’t put on your Ferdinand act. Stop crossing things off as soon as they don’t turn out the way you want. You have to learn to swallow your pride sometimes. To know how to lose. All right, see you Tuesday. Our new player will be there. Good-bye, Ferdinand!”
Ferdinand finds himself on the threshold of Beatrice’s door, roses in hand and heart on his sleeve. That damned bridge party. He won’t go. It’s over with Beatrice!
Ferdinand goes back home, humiliated. He doesn’t understand how he misinterpreted her signals. They were so clear. She gave him come-hither eyes! He was sure of it. Or is she one of those women who constantly changes her mind?
What bothers him the most is that he’s going to have to move. He has his pride, and he can no longer cross paths with her every day on the landing. There are a lot of people to avoid! Mrs. Suarez, Beatrice . . . But the real question is, where will he go? From the other side of the door, you’d think you were listening to a telephone conversation. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. It would be more practical if Beatrice was the one to go, right? She has a beach house. And if I leave, Juliette will be sad. I’m like the grandfather she never had. And fine, I’d miss her, too. I really like that kid. She has a certain je ne sais quoi that reminds me of myself at her age. I’d pass on her family, but that little girl . . . She’ll fare well in life. I just hope she’ll be happier and luckier in love than I was.
“But what did I do to the Good Lord for life to dog me so? What did I do to deserve this? Could anything worse happen to me?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Goose Is Cooked
On Monday, once lunch with Juliette is over, Ferdinand settles into his armchair and pulls the blanket up over his legs. A lukewarm cup of coffee in hand, he listens to the radio. Every day, at 2:00 p.m., his favorite program, True Crime, starts. He wouldn’t miss an episode for anything in the world. However, he has trouble following the detective stories to the end, digestion often getting the better of him. He loves the sensation of weightlessness, of dizziness, that envelops him at naptime. He also loves the warmth of waking up, his slow state of half-consciousness. His postlunch naps constitute his best sleep, as his nights are often short.
Today, the program reexamines “The Case of the Red Sweater,” a classic. The enigmatic piece of clothing has just been discovered as Ferdinand, drowsy, snuggles farther into the soft cushions. The investigation moves forward, the shocking testimony piles up, his eyelids grow heavy. A suspect is identified, the police conduct a search, yelling, “Police, open up! I know you’re in there!” Ferdinand descends into a warm torpor. The police threaten to break down the door; the suspect doesn’t open up despite blows that make the walls shake. Ferdinand tries to resist, he knows he’s going to miss the end of the story and Ranucci’s death sentence—one of the last Frenchmen to be guillotined. Too bad, he remembers the case perfectly, except that the suspect was also named Ferdinand . . .
The case stalls. The police still can’t get into the suspect’s home. “Open up, Ferdinand, open up!” The amount of time spent in front of that door starts to bore him. The policeman’s summons is unconvincing. “Police! Open up. Ferdinand, open up. It’s Eric. I know you’re in there. It’s time for your radio program.”
Christian! Ranucci’s name was Christian. In the very depths of his unconsciousness, that information seems important, but Ferdinand no longer knows why. All of a sudden, his cup—which had remained in his hand—tips over. Ferdinand then realizes that a raving lunatic is in the midst of banging away at the door. His door. The old man stands still and straight as an arrow, a foot and a half from the intruder trying to gain entrance to his home.
“Police! Open up, Ferdinand. It’s Eric. I know you’re in there. I heard you walking around.”
Dumbfounded, the old man closes his eyes to pull himself together, then protests, “How do you like that for manners? The police just start breaking down your door ’cause you don’t open it fast enough. I was having a little snooze—that’s still legal in France, isn’t it? The police are so damn lovely! What are you doing at my place, Super Cop? I’m an honest citizen. You can leave now, Eric. I’m not letting you in. No way I’m going to your cursed home for old fools. I made the effort Marion asked me to, no matter what report the old goose might’ve given to get rid of me. You can’t detain someone by force!”
In a menacing voice, Eric retorts, “Well, that’s what we’re going to find out. I have a warrant for your arrest. If you don’t let me in, I’ll enter by force.”
Ferdinand isn’t the least bit impressed.
“Is that so? They’re sending the police now, and with an arrest warrant to boot. All that just to fill the retirement homes! Nice profession. The police have fallen far.” Ferdinand opens the door. “You can make your inspection. Everything’s spic-and-span, like Marion wanted. I don’t know what Mrs. Suarez made up this time. I scoured every room from top to bottom. Fine, I just spilled some coffee, but the fridge is full, I took a bath yesterday, I helped Mrs. Claudel carry up her groceries. And I’m doing very well, better than I have in a long time.”
“I’m happy for you, but there’s been a misunderstanding
. I’ve come to take you down to the station, not to look over the premises.”
“To the station?”
“You’ve been accused of the murder of Mrs. Suarez. Two witnesses have come forward and they’re positive you explicitly and publicly threatened Mrs. Suarez with death less than twelve hours before she died.”
Eric pulls Ferdinand out of the apartment and takes out the handcuffs.
“Please come quietly.” Noting the attention of bystanders gathering on the stairs, he calls out, “Everybody return to your homes. Let the police do their work, thank you.”
Hands cuffed behind his back and urged to move forward, Ferdinand tries to understand. “Is this a bad joke? Am I on hidden camera? What murder? What witnesses? Mrs. Suarez isn’t dead—she had a heart attack and is under observation at the hospital!”
“That would suit you, but no. Mrs. Suarez didn’t survive. Now we have a death, which to us seems intentional, and the evidence is working against you. The medical examiner will issue his report soon, which we expect will confirm our suspicions. And you’ll spend the rest of your days rotting in prison. The retirement home wasn’t so bad as all that, eh?” finishes Eric, with a vindictive little smile.
Chapter Thirty
In a Sticky Situation
There’s a first time for everything in life, but spending more than twelve hours in a cold, damp, claustrophobic cell isn’t on the list of things Ferdinand wishes to do before he dies. At first he shares his custody with a drunk homeless man, who has the good fortune to be released. As for his own fate, no one deigns to keep him informed. Nevertheless, the old man is confident this is just a gross misunderstanding and, very shortly, the commissioner, or even the chief of police himself, will come running and flatly apologize for this regrettable mistake. But for the time being, no one has come to rescue him. For more than twelve hours now, he’s been waiting, straightening up at every round of hurried steps—hope gradually eroding, knowing nothing of what plots are hatching on the outside.
And indeed Eric, the Super Cop, has done his work: neither the commissioner nor the chief of police would fly to the aid of a murderous old man. Eric’s best collar in the past five years, according to his superior. They are still waiting for confirmation of the murder, which will come from the examination of the body. The suspect’s confession should follow without a hitch. For the moment, they are applying the technique of neglect.
Ferdinand has the right to make a single phone call. He should have remembered that Marion isn’t the best at picking up, but her number is the only one he knows by heart. Marion, true to form, hadn’t answered. Be that as it may, she could always listen to the message, “Uh, Marion . . . it’s me. Pick up, please. It’s an emergency. I’m at the police station because of the concierge. You’ve got to call a lawyer for me as soon as possible.”
The policeman who escorted Ferdinand to his cell snickers. “I told you to call a lawyer. It’s nighttime in Asia. Nothing’s going to happen for . . . eight hours at least. You’re in trouble, old man. Deep trouble. What’s more, they don’t let maniacs like you get out easily. You’re gonna get forty-eight hours in police custody, man. Going after a poor defenseless lady for some business about canaries? No need to be so final. Then to shout it from the rooftops beforehand? I hope your daughter cares about you and listens to her messages.” The policeman steals all hope from him. Why had he chosen Marion? Why couldn’t he have called someone else? He has no friends. Nobody who cares enough about him. And most importantly, nobody who’s aware of what he’s been subjected to for more than thirteen hours now . . .
Ferdinand is thirsty, hungry, and sleepy, though he normally tosses and turns before falling into the arms of Morpheus. He’s lost track of the sequence of events and is going crazy. They’re still telling him nothing. He calls out, he shouts. His screams must be reaching somebody! Unless they’ve all gone home. Ferdinand starts to feel faint. “A glass of water, I need a glass of water!” He slaps the bars. In the distance, someone replies that old people are never thirsty. Everybody knows that, since they didn’t even get thirsty enough to drink the water they needed during the last heat wave.
Ferdinand continues to shout. He has no more saliva. He’s exhausting himself, and no one’s coming. Now he feels cold. He lets himself slide to the floor, back against the bars, curls up, and gradually sinks into a restless sleep.
He’s on an idyllic beach, alone. The sun warms him. Ferdinand is dazzled; he can no longer distinguish the glittering of the ocean, as he’s been staring at it for hours. The sky is postcard blue. Seagulls take to the air, followed by cormorants. A few yards in front of him, a fat lizard basks in the sun. The good life, thinks Ferdinand, shading his eyes with his hand to look at the horizon. Startled, the lizard runs away. In the distance, goats bleat and strike against the fences of their pen. A boat approaches the coast as the sun hides behind a cloud. Ferdinand looks up. The cloud is black, gigantic. The old man sees more clearly now. It’s not a boat coming nearer. It’s much too fast. And much too big.
Suddenly, the ocean retreats as fast as a galloping horse. The lagoon dries within seconds. Then a monumental wave more than fifty feet high rises up. Ferdinand’s mouth goes dry. His heart races. He barely knows how to swim, but he doesn’t have any more time to think. He takes a breath, the deepest he can, just as the full force of the wave crashes into him.
Ferdinand is pulled into the depths, whirling and thrown in every direction. His arm collides with a tree trunk. Air. Quickly, air! He opens his mouth and manages to get a few gulps at the surface, in between rolls, when suddenly the pain in his arm becomes sharper, like a bite . . .
He discovers a man bending over him, pulling on his arm. He’s wearing a uniform. It’s a policeman holding a cup. Ferdinand, semiconscious, grabs it and drinks greedily, letting half of it flow down his chin. He chokes and coughs, but his thirst is finally quenched. His heart is racing two thousand miles an hour. Ferdinand isn’t sure where he is. Where did the wave go?
The policeman stretches out a hand to Ferdinand to help him up. “Pull yourself together, old man, it’s time. Your little fainting fit is nothing compared to what you’ve got coming. The commissioner is waiting for you. I don’t know what you did to him, but it seems he has it out for you!”
Chapter Thirty-One
For Heaven’s Sake
When Ferdinand enters the office of the commissioner—who is leaning back in his pleather armchair, hands behind his head and eyes hollow—Ferdinand gets the impression he is disturbing him. Commissioner Balard, in his forties, points to one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk. Ferdinand sits down. The policeman who escorted him in remains standing in a corner of the room. The old man is outnumbered. A rather unpleasant feeling. The commissioner stands abruptly, turns to the window, obstructed by dust-gray blinds, then turns and leans toward him, staring him right in the eyes.
“Mr. Brun, you are accused of the premeditated homicide of Mrs. Suarez. Are you aware of the facts alleged against you?”
“I have the right to a lawyer, Mr. Commissioner. I’ll tell you everything you want to know when he’s here.”
“And did you call this lawyer? No! So you must not need one. So let’s start again. You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Mrs. Suarez was found Saturday morning, around nine fifteen, in the trash area, unconscious. At the hospital she only lasted two days. That still means nothing to you? Allow me to refresh your memory. You had a dispute with Mrs. Suarez on Friday morning. I have two witnesses who swear to it. Voices were raised, you grabbed her and threatened to kill her. I quote: ‘You’ll pay for what you’ve done.’ Not very nice. And as if by chance, she has a fatal accident the next day. I’ll tell you what I really think: it wasn’t an accident and you know it, Mr. Brun! You were there, you were waiting for her in the trash area, and you did irreparable damage.”
“I’m entitled to a court-appointed lawyer, and he’s not here. I can’t answer your questions without him,
sir.”
“That’s ‘Commissioner Balard’! And that’s enough of your acting! You watch too much TV. In a minute you’re going to tell me about the Fifth Amendment. We’re not in a TV soap opera. This is real life. There’s been a murder and we’re waiting for your explanation!”
Ferdinand is impassive, eyes staring into space, arms dangling. It’s not that he’s playing games, but he’s had nothing to eat for more than a day, and he wouldn’t react even if they spit on him. He doesn’t have the energy to raise his voice, to explain himself. The only thing he can hang on to is his knowledge. His detective novels, his afternoons listening to the radio, his years of lunches with Super Cop. He knows he has rights, notably the rights to remain silent and to the presence of a lawyer.
But he also knows he’s not going to last long against the commissioner. No court-appointed lawyer was called or will come save him like magic. If the commissioner wants a battle of wits, or worse, to play hardball, he’s done for. Ferdinand knows the commissioner’s type: he’ll keep pushing, first with words, then physically. How many stories has he read about innocent suspects confessing after endless harsh interrogations? Only for the real culprits to be discovered decades later, when the poor men have languished in prison their whole lives—or worse. That’s what he’s got coming. He knows it. Might makes right.
Ferdinand comes back to his senses and finds the commissioner bright red, his forehead vein throbbing. He’s mangling a poor sheet of paper, which, a few seconds earlier, had recounted the progression of the investigation. Ferdinand understands that that’s it, things are serious. The interrogation will turn personal and become a settling of scores. He hears voices outside the office. Damn! Balard has called for reinforcements.
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