“Where have you been?” “My fat mouth, Franck. Some Kosovan girls tried to move in on my clients. I fought back, and they brought in someone. A real motherfucker, Franck. Some kind of Uzbek. Never mind. I’m glad you came by. What can I do you for?”
“Nothing.”
“You dropped by to hear more about la gamine?”
“No, I’m done with her.”
“What, you didn’t hear about her?”
“Hear about what?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“See for yourself.”
She threw yesterday’s copy of Le Parisien onto the table.
“Page 17. Fait Divers.”
There was a picture of her, wearing a beret. I had bought it for her in Biarritz. I felt a gnawing at my stomach. Unidentified girl found mortally wounded in Père Lachaise. Followed by a brief article:
Qui est la mystérieuse?
A group of American schoolchildren touring Père Lachaise was confronted with the discovery of the recently murdered body of a young, unidentified woman in the South end of the cemetery. Inspector Thierry Duboeuf of the Police Judiciaire described the young woman as unusually beautiful, “more fit for the catwalk than a cemetery. Not someone who you could forget, even in death.” Anyone with information is invited to contact the Unité de Police de quartier, rue Gambetta, Paris 20th.
“It doesn’t say anything about cause of death.”
“She died because her time was up. Franck, I warned you. She was bad news.” I fingered the newspaper, just letting the news sink in. “She’s just a piece of white trash. Good looking piece of white trash with a couple of good angles and a real mean streak in her.”
“No, she was more than that.”
“Sure, Franck. Did she tell you her father fought in the war? Indochina, Algeria. Et cet-er-a-ba-bla-bla.”
“So?”
“So? You know how he lost his arm, Franck? He was an armed security guard for Brinks, and got into a car accident. A fender bender. Five miles an hour. Fell out of the truck. Broke his arm. Broke it, Franck. In France.
Like any good drunk, he put off getting it fixed. When he finally went in, the doctor fucked up the operation, and it became gangrenous. So, he and his daughter invented all that shit. End of story. End of the war.”
“Whatever. She still deserves a funeral.”
“Of course, Franck. You’ve never followed my advice.
I mean, why would you now?”
“You haven’t given me any.”
She stashed the gauloises into her blouse pocket, pulled a pack of Drum tobacco from the shelf and tossed it onto the table, then spread some of the tobacco onto an old copy of Midi-Matin and rolled herself a smoke.
She gazed out the window, which looked down on a four-square-metre, inaccessible courtyard. I had seen her only six months previous.
“Not exactly the Clauzel, is it, Franck?”
“Couldn’t you make an anonymous phone call? Ask whether a friend can throw a funeral?”
She lit the cigarette. The roots of her hair white, and it didn’t look like the hair dye budget was healthy.
“Game, Franck. Life span of an Iguana.”
“Out in the wild? Or pet.”
“Pet.” “Forty years.”
“Twenty. What about a turtle?”
“Fifty.”
“Over a century, Franck. Now, human realm. What’s the average career span of a player in the National Football League?”
“Easy. Twelve years.”
“Four, Franck. Now, getting a little closer to home, let’s try a heroin addict.”
“Five years. With luck.”
“I said averages, Franck. Eighteen months. Now, whore, Franck. How long?”
“Let me put it this way. You look like shit, Millie.”
She smiled. Several dozen tricks worth of dental work publicly exposed.
“People over here, they just aren’t like us, Franck. I mean, they’ve got fucking white skin, but shit, man, that’s about it. Besides, I’m a Cherokee. But they’re not like us, Franck. I mean, you’re a scumball, Franck, and I’m a whore. But we both like Stevie Ray Vaughan, and we both ... fuck it, Franck. I have a friend back home, Larry, he’s a transvestite dancer, but, I used to babysit his kids. He lives in a trailer camp outside Chicago. I’m thinking of calling it a day.”
She shook her head.
“You ever seen a 300-pound linebacker in a tutu? Tell you what; it ain’t the Bolshoi, Franck.”
“He could always try the Nutcracker Suite. Any way, if you’re homesick, that at least solves that.”
“Actually, it doesn’t at all, Franck. He has no phone, so I somehow have to scrape up enough cash to get back.
Fuck, Franck, this would have been a snap six months ago.” “What happened to you, Millie? I mean, nothing personal, but you look like you caught something. You know, like something viral.”
“I have no idea. I think it’s cancer, or something. Besides, without ovaries, you’re not a woman anymore. You get old overnight. Then, these damn teeth problems, Franck. Don’t contact the police, Franck. They will fuck you, and they will do it well.”
“There’s something else at stake.” She shook her head.
“Franck, don’t you get it? I thought you were a criminal lawyer. They couldn’t care less who killed her! On the other hand, if they nail someone, and I mean anybody, Franck, it’s job security for life. You know, like ‘I’m the one who caught the prick,’ or even better for the grandchildren, ‘It took me three days, but, I broke the killer of la gamine.’ Come to think of it, maybe I should be the one cross-examining you. I mean, who the fuck are you, Franck, when it comes down to it? Some asshole john. Anonymous. Desperate, capable of any thing. I should be watching what’s left of my own ass for a change.”
She looked out the window. Her cigarette had gone out. She wiped her right eye. Maybe, it was just dust.
“ What do you want to know, Millie? I’m an open book.”
“Well, how about, where were you on the night of ...” She reached for the paper.
“August 22.”
“All right, I see what you mean. Depends on how you look at it.”
“On how you look at it!! You’ve been skulking your way around bordellos asking about her, like some kind of stalker. About 25 girls in and around the street could testify to that. While we’re on the topic, what the hell were you doing on the Seine the night Alena died?”
“The usual. Out drinking with Tranh.”
“Out drink ing with Tranh. Damn, I mean, shit, Franck, do you know who this Tranh character is? Has he ever told you what he did, before, Franck? Do you really want to know, or not?”
“Not. Sheba deserves a burial. She was always big on rites.”
It was good to get out on the street again. Everybody had their thoughts, and Millie was doing her best, but she was a little too focussed on her return ticket to the States. It seemed like we were both more or less tearing pages out of the same book. And it wasn’t the rule book.
Little by little, doors seemed to be closing, outside of those leading to the peep-shows. I was probably on my way to becoming some kind of dirty old man. But it was a little late to think about moving onto anything else.
On one level, I felt like I was just getting started on things. If Sheba had shown me anything, she had demonstrated that sex had nothing to do with the appendages hanging from our bodies. Labia, penises, tits and ass, they only had importance per se if you were operating in a particular zone which held no interest for me. Fucking was the central goal, but I was more attracted to the self-abasement aspect. I mean, the knowledge that your preferred daily activity involves the unguent, pulsating, pestilent climes of the cunt and other unnameable corners of the body, obviously there was something life itself was offering up that was far worse.
Plus, there were other conclusions that I’d more or less come to. I still hadn’t figured out what sex was, but I knew that in its pure form, it co
uld only be a place of desolation or an animal act. The only thing that counts is what you are thinking exactly at the point of orgasm. If you could master that, you became a church of one, without any need for parishioners and collection boxes to keep the operation going.
And then it came to me, and the thought made me angry somehow, not for feeling it, but for taking so long to figure out what it was. I’d only said it to her once, after that incident with the Baron, but the fact was that I loved her. So now, I’m realizing that I was in love with this young French broad who is dead in Père Lachaise, and I know that I’m going to be heading down to the 20th arrondissement precinct, and making the day of some 105 IQ type in the Police Judiciaire, and that the odds of him seeing things from my point of view were similar to betting the farm on a syphilitic nag in the fourth race at Vincennes.
But, I still wanted to give her a funeral. I’d never lost a case. Maybe I could talk some sense into the boneheads down at the precinct.
Dear Hervé,
I was released five days ago, no thanks to you. They’ve obviously never heard of habeas corpus in this country. Preventive detention in La Santé prison is no picnic, and forty-five days is a long time to discover that the State had no case against me.
It might have gone differently if you had answered my one phone call, and hadn’t frozen my French bank accounts, friend. It’s one thing to kill people around here, but don’t get involved in really serious shit like passing bad cheques at five star hotels. Even if you do know the staff.
I’ve had some time to think about this, Hervé. Just so it’s clear, I can smell a man covering his decrepit, poxy backside from ten thousand kilometres away. Trust funds or not, it was my call, and I’m starting to wonder whether you’re not giving it to Tillman. Viagra pretty well makes anything possible, doesn’t it? What’s old Margaret like, Hervé? I can picture her teeth rattling like a player piano, and you sticking that root vegetable of yours up her twat.
So, as long as we’re discussing farm products, if you have a grain of decency, Hervé, in that seedy old mind of yours, you might free up a couple of thousand dollars of my own money and wire it to me, Western Union, Place de l’Odéon, illico presto, as I have a few outstanding accounts with some work ing girls in these parts, and at least their accounts should be honoured.
Did I tell you that Sheba died? She left me a note, Hervé, so it must have been suicide, but the boneheads down at the 20th precinct said it was impossible to determine. Because there was only one shot. No reference to six hours per day of sadian sports, no repentance, no nothing. Although she did mention that she had satisfied the criterion to be buried in Père Lachaise, i.e. dying in Paris. And, then, get this, asking me to take care of her daughter. Me, Franck Robinson, whoremonger, man on the run, deadbeat dad.
I was the only person who knew her at the funeral, but I brought along everyone from Number 2, rue de Mulhouse. De Vecchi and I had spent the morning knocking back Pastis, so he was three sheets to the wind. Ducastin-Chanel was in her glory, wearing a floppy hat the size of a direct broadcast satellite. Bazin was impeccable. Even Lafontaine showed up, and render unto Caesar bla-bla-bla, he didn’t jack off during the ceremony. This may sound funny coming from me, Hervé, but these people have a core decency about them. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone like them in North America, if you scoured the place for a decade.
The interment itself started out very pro forma. Ducastin Chanel screeched out a few lines of the Ave Maria and then went into full drift. At one point, she lifted up her dress, and for a good five minutes fixated on scratching a corn off her thigh. The officer of the 20th arrondissement stuck to his job. It was routine, which was fine, but when he paused at her name, something got to me. It was a fill in the blank rite, pure boiler plate, Hervé, but still. I tore the sheet out of his hands, and started my own oration. Argued my best trial ever. Talked about a handful of scumbags taking over the planet, thinning out populations, twelve year old children being buried to their waist in excrement and stoned to death, Presidents getting their cocks sucked in sub-basements. I really went off on a tangent, Hervé. Admittedly, I’d had a few drinks that morning, but I was still ranting when the police arrived and dragged me down to the station. As a material witness.
So, that’s about it, until I receive some more funds from you. And, with nothing to go back to, and nothing to look forward to, do you think old Franck is going to buy a few months’ reprieve by reforming?
You know me better than that.
III
The day after my release, I returned to the section of Père Lachaise where the funeral ceremony had been held, but saw no tombstone. I recognized the scattered remnants of a bouquet of white roses that Ducastin-Chanel had brought with her, but no other sign of our presence. I stood for a moment in the drizzle, then left the cemetery, and headed for the 20th arrondissment Mairie on rue Gambetta, Service de l ’Etat Civil. I took a ticket number, sat down, waited til my number came up, told the clerk I wanted to see the Officer of the Civil Registr y. Waited some more. A securit y guard walked up to me. Pointed at a poster on the wall, depicting a cigarette. The cigarette was covered by a large red X.
“Défense de fumer.”
“You have got to be kidding. This is Paris. What are the ashtrays for?”
“To put them out. Nouveau règlement.” A man emerged from the rear offices. Smiled, friendly enough. Come with me. I followed him into an office looking out over the rue Gambetta. He offered me a seat.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“You remember me? You presided over the funeral of a friend. Sheba Rosenstein.”
“Of course I remember you. You created quite a scene. Very unworthy of your office.”
“I just returned from the cemetery. I can’t find her grave.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“C’est normal. It’s not there.”
“Listen, friend, I’m not here to pull teeth. What’s the story?”
“No arrangements had been made. In these cases, and since no arrangements had been made, it is no longer in my jurisdiction. Ce n’est plus dans mon rayon. Wait a moment.”
He stood up, walked across the room to a grey metal 3-door vertical filing cabinet. Opened the second drawer, and pulled out two sheets of paper, sat down again and passed one of them across to me. It was titled Decree of 13 July 1948 concerning the interment of human remains.
“Look at article L-2235. Right there. ‘For entitlement to burial, the deceased must hold a reserved titre de concession.’”
“So, what does that mean?”
“It means that without a plot of land, no burial. And, now look at article L-2276. Where, after 45 days, the remains of the deceased are unclaimed, the Mairie may dispose of the remains as it sees fit.”
“Hold on. It’s only been 43 days.”
“That is correct.”
“So, where the hell is she!?” “In the morgue. For two more days.”
“Christ, that’s great! So, we can still do this thing!”
I punched the air upwards. He watched me, as they say, impassively.
“So, where do we start? I want to bury her.”
He stood up again, back to the same drawer, another form, back to the desk.
“Form B — Claims pursuant to the Decree of 12 July 1948.”
“What’s this for?”
“Mr Robinson. You stated that you would like to bury Ms Rosenstein. This is France. We have laws. Usually there are fees to pay. In this case, interment is subject to a fee of 2400 francs.”
“All right, fine. I’ll take it.”
“That’s f ine. If you wish, I can prepare the paper work. Take this bordereau out to the Caisse, and then come back here. Either cheque, or Carte Bleu.”
“I don’t have either.”
“I am sorry. We no longer do death on the instalment plan.”
“Look. She deserves a proper burial. Isn’t there some way of discounting this?”
&nb
sp; “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He left the room. Several minutes later he returned.
“What’s that for?”
“A pêle.”
“I know it’s a goddam shovel. What’s it for?”
“It’s our self-service option. At the price you are willing to pay, only one person is qualified for the job. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Bien. Go to the South entrance of the cemetery. The concierge is Monsieur Paul. I will phone him in the meantime. If you dig the hole yourself, I will take care of the rest.” By four in the afternoon, I had made good progress, but it was starting to rain. At the edge of the cemetery, I noticed an Asian man pointing in my direction, accompanied by an old woman, their faces barely visible through the rain, under an oversized umbrella.
“Robinson! Mais, c’est formidable!!” Ducastin-Chanel shook her head.
“Un scandale! You don’t make a man dig his own wife’s tomb! Mais, c’est dégueulasse! They’re treating him like a dog! Choquant.”
“We heard you were in prison, Robinson! When did you get out?”
Ducastin-Chanel interrupted.
“Franck, I am going right now to buy a messe for your girlfriend. And some flowers for you. Don’t you worry a bit.”
Tranh clapped his hands.
“Absolutely right, madame. We must console the poor man. May I buy you a drink, Robinson? Come, come!”
IV
“Je vous emmène, chéri? ”
Collette watched the first arrondissement pedestrian traffic move past through those unblinking gimlet-green eyes, as if she were a teller at the quinte window, selling tickets down at the Vincennes track, croaking out the same invitation with reptilian patience.
Collette was a great-grandmother who worked the rue de la Grande Truanderie. Her features displayed nothing. Neither kindness, nor pity. Particularly not entreaty.
She smiled invitingly at nobody in particular, that is if you are inclined to call a desert gila monster grinning in three directions at once from the edge of a scalding boulder an invitation. W hatever she hadn’t already hawked on rue St-Denis over the previous four decades peered out through her turret face, a makeshift construction of day creams, foundation, mascara, lipstick and rouge, shrouding half a centur y of fellatio, and marking half century of cataclysms and upheavals — the Indochina and A lgeria conf licts, at tempted coups against de Gaulle, the May ‘68 revolution, the all-night concerts and parties with Chet Baker, the destruction of les Halles.
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