The submarine hatch slammed shut. Careful! The enemy ships on the surface might hear. The sound rolled out into the sea disastrously like a sonar pinging and pinging until it faded far away.
Shit. What was that? Must have been the door. The policewoman left. My leg’s still throbbing. That bitch must have cut the morphine off. Good for her. She’s not some dumb juicy girl. She has the soul of a man. The pain will clear my head. Make me think sharp. Get me out of this filthy stinking French pigsty even faster.
Getting shot is always the same. When it hits you feel nothing and then slowly it gets worse and worse. But it’s good. You melt into the pain. It makes you one with your being.
I’ll go home to Korea now. The assignment is blown. For damn sure. Very soon the embassy will send an ambulance. They must be worried I’ll talk. Probably put me straight on a plane. Just like the last time. I woke up in first class with curtain around my gurney. That time I was a hero. Not now. They’ll put me in economy. Ha ha. But I’ll be on another assignment in a month or two at most. Maybe they’ll find me one at home. It’s terrible being abroad. There’s nothing to do. The hwa-byung just gets worse and worse. You drown in a sea of foreignness.
France is the worst place I’ve ever been. It’s supposed to have the best juicy girls and the best food in the world. That’s a load of crap. When I arrived I went to a bunch of expensive restaurants. Big fucking joke. All of them were disgusting. Not at all like Korean bab. Lumps of half-cooked meat floating in syrup that looked like snot. It wasn’t even prepared right. Just thrown on a plate. You had to cut it yourself and then spear it with that funny spiked tool thing they give you. Savages.
I asked the receptionist at the embassy which was the best restaurant in town. She said it was a place called Diapason. But it was even worse than others. It didn’t have any taste. It was like someone had already sucked on the food and spat it out. One dish was rotten. It had little black bits in it that smelled like a dirty foot. I asked for chopsticks. The Best Restaurant should have hand-carved ivory chopsticks. The waiter looked at me and said nothing, but I could hear him laughing inside. The stupid man came very close to dying. The hwa boiled up inside me. The blow was ready in my arm. He would just have fallen down dead. No one would have seen what happened. It would have felt very good. It was hard to keep my arm down. Very hard.
Shit, all there is to do in Paris is eat in Korean restaurants. Of course, that’s not all you can do, but the other is as bad as the food. And smells just as bad. Except for the juicy girl from Best Restaurant. I saw her when I was trying to swallow that rotten garbage. She had those bug eyes like all the long-noses, but she was still something. That’s for sure. She was maybe even better than a Korean woman. Ha ha. I saw that all the way across the room.
Here Park fell asleep and dreamed he was back in Seoul. At a dinner he had been to just before he had come to Paris. It had been his send-off and he had been invited by his best chingu. A group of ten men went in a rented white stretch limousine to what they liked to call a kisaeng palace, but which was really just an expensive room salon. The girls pretended to be geishas but were just prostitutes. But it was still very nice. They would come into the room with elaborate hairdos and lovely billowy chiffon dresses like in an old Elvis Presley movie. They kneeled next to you and fed you with chopsticks. Performers came and played stringed instruments and sang. It was very refined and elegant. Every man had a whole bottle of whiskey in front of him and his girl would mix the drinks. Every once in a while you let her have a drink and she was very, very grateful and whispered her thanks in your ear. Of course, the girl didn’t eat. She would feed you with chopsticks and murmur in your ear. But never when you were telling a story. Her leg touched yours and, as the meal went on, with the men joking and sparring, she got closer and you felt the warmth of her body. When the dinner was over she disappeared and came back dressed in jeans and something modern and sexy. Then it was time to go. There was a car outside. The girl went back with you and did whatever you asked, without speaking, without complaining. Sometimes there was blood. Sometimes someone had to come to take the girl away. That was the way it was meant to be. When he floated back into consciousness he wasn’t sure if he had been dreaming or remembering.
No, the last part had to be a dream. There was too much blood for it to be real. That Best Restaurant long-nose girl liked to do all the things he had done in the dream. She wasn’t as pretty as a Korean girl, of course. But she had been as obedient. Appreciative. A real juicy girl. Just like home. And useful, of course, very useful. Stop, it’s very important not to think about that now.
Then there was the other one, the président’s secretary. She was huge. And smelled like an old hag. Not a juicy girl at all. It was like fucking a fat monk. Of course I’ve been trained to fuck anything, so it didn’t make any difference, but even a boy would have been better. The worst part was how she moaned and clung to me like a sick, stinking octopus. I hate these foreign assignments. I hate these foul-smelling French.
But the Best Restaurant girl was good. She liked going to the Korean restaurant to sit quietly and look at the people at the table even though she didn’t understand a word. She learned to feed me with chopsticks. Just like a kisaeng. She liked that. Of course, it was a game for her, but inside I know she liked it.
I always wondered if she really believed my story. I needed a reason for being in Paris. Telling her I was opening a restaurant was a good idea. Except that it made her talk about the Best Restaurant too much. If she wasn’t talking about that, she was talking about clothes. But the stupid girl made the hwa-byung go away, even if she wasn’t Korean.
It’s important not to have hwa-byung. It makes you make mistakes. Like that waiter in the Best Restaurant. That could have been bad but I was lucky. Like that policewoman I shot at. I wasn’t so lucky there. He barked a laugh, but the flash of pain cut it short. That was a very bad mistake. But the gun had just appeared in my hand and went off by itself. No wonder I didn’t hit her. At home they will get very mad about that. Good, so don’t send me out of Korea next time. Plenty of work to do at home. But all the more reason the embassy will have to get me out quick. I won’t be a hero, that’s for sure, but they’ll get me home quick. What’s that? The door? Maybe I’m going to go now. It’s about time. I’m tired of this shit.
Chapter 47
“Those two really are pieces of work, Lieutenant,” Momo said.
“Who? What? What are you talking about?”
“David and Isabelle. The way they made the arrest. I’m surprised they don’t get hauled in front of the review board more often. Someday they’re going to get fired.”
“The girl’s downstairs, right?”
“Of course she is. It’s just that when they went up to her place she opened the door stark naked. David thought that was great. So he handcuffs her before she can get dressed and he’s holding onto her arm while she’s yelling and throwing a fit. Then it turns out there’s this naked guy in the bed.”
“That’s the way it’s usually done,” Capucine said. “Both people get naked.”
“Right, but I guess the guy got all excited at seeing his girlfriend in handcuffs and he gets this pretty serviceable woody, if you understand me. That seriously pisses Isabelle off. You know how she gets. So she handcuffs the guy while he’s still naked and tells him to stop doing it. Which he didn’t. She went ballistic. Apparently it was Adam and Eve meet the Untouchables.”
“I’m sorry I missed that. Is the girl wearing clothes now?”
“Unfortunately she is. She’s really pretty hot.”
Drama and no makeup suited Giselle. Her tousled hair looked as if the turbulence had been artfully created by a stylist. Her translucent skin was as luminous as porcelain. Her eyes were even deeper, more brooding, more movingly hunted. Too bad Alexandre had to miss this. It would have made his day, thought Capucine.
Giselle looked up sullenly at Capucine like a waif who expects to be slapped. The unsaid questi
ons—“Why am I here? What have I done to you?”—were as articulate as if they had been spoken.
“Mademoiselle Dupaillard, you are under arrest as an accessory in the murder of Président Delage.”
“B…but that’s insane. I never knew the poor man. He just smiled at me that evening when he came for dinner. How could you think I had anything to do with it?”
“Mademoiselle, do you know a man call Kim Park who often goes by the name of Dac Kim Chu?”
“Of course I do. Dac Kim is my boyfriend. But I don’t know anyone called Kim Park.”
“But I understand that when my officers arrested you, you were in bed with a different gentleman.”
“Oh, I don’t even know that guy’s name. Dac Kim is out of town, I guess. Anyway he hasn’t called in a couple of days, so I went out and came home with that guy.”
“If it’s any help, I have his name and phone number right here.”
“Oh, no thanks. After what that policewoman said to him I guess I won’t be seeing him again. He really was cute, though.”
“And how do you happen to know this Dac Kim?”
“I met him at Diapason. He came in for dinner. All by himself. So lost and lonely. When he left he told me to meet him at a bar when I got off work. He was so forceful. He didn’t ask. He just told me. Can you believe that? So of course I went.”
“And he became your boyfriend?”
“Yes, it was very intense. He’s fabulously physical. Sometimes he’s so violent I’m afraid. Other times he becomes like a rock: silent, completely solid, very deep. I guess that’s why I love him so much. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t make any demands. Well, except in bed. And then I just love obeying him.”
“And what does Monsieur Kim do for a living?”
“He’s Vietnamese, of course. And he is working with some other people to open a very up-market Vietnamese restaurant. They’re aiming for three stars in the Michelin. It’s going to be the first Asian restaurant with three Michelin stars. Isn’t that exciting? And I’m going to work there.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. I’m already helping him.”
“How?”
“Well, I have to tell him about everyone important who goes to Diapason. Particularly automobile executives. Dac Kim really likes cars. And he’s very interested in knowing how Diapason works technically. So sometimes I give him my key and he goes in over the weekend and draws plans. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? It’s closed then, so he doesn’t disturb anyone. And he likes to know everything that’s on the menu, so I tell him all about that. But I don’t give him any recipes. I don’t know any and, anyway, he’s opening a Vietnamese restaurant, and that’s completely different.”
“Did you see him the night of October twenty-sixth? You know, the Friday before Delage’s body was discovered.”
“Who could forget that weekend? Dac Kim had a meeting with his restaurant partners. He came to my apartment very late. It must have been around three in the morning. He was especially passionate. It was really fabulous. I had bruises all over. On Monday I had to wear a long-sleeved top to work, I still had so many marks on my arms.”
Chapter 48
“Monsieur Park, you’re moving up in the world,” Capucine said.
“Good. I go now? Embassy send ambulance?” Without the morphine Park again looked exhausted and drained. Even more yellow and brown spittle had caked on the sides of his mouth.
“No. You misunderstand. You are now also accused of the murder of Président Delage.”
Park’s head sagged. “That stupid. Why I kill anyone? Just here to get informations,” he muttered.
Chapellier, his hands cuffed behind his back, appeared at the door held by two uniformed gendarmes. As he was led in Chapellier recoiled at the sight of Kim. “My God, what happened to him? What’s going on here? I thought I was just going to answer questions. You’re going to let me go, right?”
Chapellier was placed in the chair next to Capucine at the side of Kim’s bed.
“Nguyen, I need you to corroborate some parts of your testimony with Monsieur Kim present,” Capucine said. In his corner the stenographer typed silently.
“Of course. Anything. Will you let me go after?”
“Let’s worry about that later. You stated earlier that you told Monsieur Kim that you had learned that Président Delage was going to go to the authorities to stop the security leak in Project Typhon. Is that correct?”
“Totally and absolutely correct. Kim, if that’s his name, got really steamed up about the thing. I told him that that clown Lionel—my boss, remember—was just puffing himself up and the président wasn’t going to see anybody, but Kim wanted to know everything. ‘What exactly did Lionel say?’ ‘Are you sure he didn’t say anything else?’ Yadda yadda.”
“And Park said he could fix it?”
“Absolutely. He said I was to go into the office with Marie’s badge that Saturday because he would have taken care of everything.”
Capucine made a gesture with her head. The two policemen removed Chapellier.
Kim lifted his head, which had fallen over on his chest. “This stupid. Will become an act of aggression against the Republic of South Korea. Nguyen’s accusation ridiculous. He trying to drown own crimes by accusing me. He knows I cannot be arrested but that something very, very bad will happen to him. So he make up story to look like little fish. Little fish who escape when big fish caught. I insist you call embassy and tell them what happening. You must.” For the first time there was a hint of entreaty.
The door buzzed opened again and two other gendarmes entered escorting Giselle, handcuffed, who was placed in the chair Chapellier had just vacated. Her hair had become even more tousled, her eyes even darker and more deeply set, her skin even more translucent and pure. She exuded the appeal of an injured gazelle. Capucine felt an inexplicable rush of desire to take her in her arms and shook her head in irritation.
At her first glimpse of Park Giselle registered shock, but it was quickly replaced by an expression of repugnance, as if she had caught him committing some disgusting act in the bathroom. She pushed back in the chair as if to get as far away from him as she could.
“Mademoiselle Dupaillard, is this your boyfriend? The man you know as Dac Kim Chu?” Capucine asked.
“Yes. It’s Dac Kim. What happened to him? Was he in an accident?”
“He’s under arrest for murder. We’re trying to determine if you’re his accomplice in the crime. The stenographer will take down everything you say and then you will sign it. You should know that it is highly likely that your deposition will be used in court.”
“Oh my God!” Tears of genuine panic ran down her face.
“You told me before that Park asked you about the famous people who booked reservations at Diapason. Who did you tell him about for the week that preceded Friday, October eleventh?”
“Well, we had Georges Leprieur that week—you know, the big fat movie star. He took a table for eight. He always makes a lot of noise but Chef loves him and takes him into the kitchen to show him around. And, let’s see, we also had Grazella Camões, that Brazilian supermodel who is about a hundred feet tall. She always talks to me. She’s so beautiful. That was it. Oh, wait, I’m so dumb. We also had Président Delage, of course. That’s what all the fuss was about. I’m so stupid.”
“And you told Dac Kim all this?”
“Yes. He was only interested in Delage. I don’t think he even knew who Leprieur was. I would have thought he’d be interested in Grazella because he likes girls a lot and likes us to watch a ton of porn; but, no, he got all excited when I told him about Delage, no one else.”
“How do you mean, excited?”
“You know, ‘What time is he coming?’ ‘How many are going to be at the table?’ Stuff like that. He just asked me a lot of questions. He couldn’t stop asking questions. Well…he got excited the other way too and told me I was the best girl ever and had made his life a lot easi
er. It was funny how Delage got him all excited. And then he asked me to…well, I’d better not go into that.”
“Did he ask you about the week’s menu?”
“Of course. He always did that. Sometimes I even snuck a menu out for him, but don’t tell anyone. And I also told him about the amuse bouches that weren’t on the menu. That week it was an oyster sorbet with a lemon sauce. Isn’t that crazy? They let me taste it the first time they made it. It was really, really good.”
“I’m sure it was. Did Dac Kim comment on that?”
“Yes, he did. It was later in the evening, you know, so he was pretty knocked out, but when I told him about the sorbet he said something like, ‘This just keeps getting better and better.’ At the time I thought he was talking about me. That was because he wanted me again right after he said it.”
Kim, who had been staring straight ahead at the wall, roused himself. “You stupid hag, that all lies. You invent whole story. Why I be interested in corrupt bureaucrat? Your only brains are in ass. You only think with that!” Park spat on the floor. Capucine was amazed that he was able to produce the requisite fluid.
“How can you say that? I’d never seen you so happy. That was the day you asked me for my key to the restaurant so you could draw the layout. Don’t you remember?”
“Ancient hag with claws! Wait until they set me free. I show you your place.” Kim’s color had partially returned and he strained at his handcuffs, growling deep in his throat, striving to rise, his neck corded with the effort.
“Mademoiselle Dupaillard, that’s going to be all for now,” Capucine said.
“Does that mean I can go home?”
“Not quite yet.”
When Giselle had been taken away Capucine turned her chair around and sat down, splaying her legs and crossing her arms over the chair back. In her close-fitting pants and baggy-sleeved white silk blouse she looked like a Napoleonic light cavalry officer anxiously waiting for a cock-fight to begin.
The Grave Gourmet Page 23