Paris Requiem

by Lisa Appignanesi

  Before he could move his tongue into speech, a second figure stood before him, a doctor of about his own age. The fleshy, unhealthy face with its splattering of beard, the stance, at once bullish and arrogant, bore a vague familiarity. But the orderly process of his own mind seemed to have gone awry and he couldn’t place the man. He stammered out his errand.

  ‘I would like to see Judith Arnhem.’

  ‘Judith Arnhem.’ The doctor repeated with blunt suspicion. ‘Mademoiselle is still resting, isn’t she, Nurse?’

  The woman nodded and he waved her away. He placed his stout figure squarely in front of James, like a barricade with the words ‘Visitors not welcome’ clearly written on it. He peered up at him. ‘We have met before, haven’t we, Monsieur?’ His brow arched into a florid pucker above the ridge of his nose, as he reached into the breast pocket of his white coat to pull out a pair of spectacles. ‘Ah yes, of course.’

  ‘Dr Comte.’ The name fell into James’s mind simultaneously.

  ‘At the Saint-Lazare Infirmary.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I was visiting Louise Boussel with my brother.’

  ‘Indeed. And now you wish to visit Judith Arnhem. Another cousin, I take it.’ A hint of menace came into the man’s voice. His eyes behind the spectacles looked preternaturally large. ‘Decidedly your cousins, Monsieur, inhabit the less salubrious sites of our city. You will permit me to say that the grip of heredity rarely allows two such specimens as your brother and yourself to emerge from the same stock as these ladies.’

  James stared him down and waved his hand with as much insouciance as he could muster. ‘Cousins, Dr Comte, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘And what manner is that, Monsieur?’ The man had moved on to the raised part of the floor where the beds stood, so that he was now at eye level with James.

  ‘Let us say these women are cousins of friends.’

  James suddenly felt something tug at his jacket. A woman kneeled behind him. Her hands pawed at his clothes. Her lips were poised in the parody of a salacious kiss. She gestured at him obscenely. He stepped back.

  Comte smirked, relishing James’s discomfort. ‘Cousins of friends. So you are not a Jew?’

  ‘No, Doctor. Nor am I an African or a German or an Englishman.’

  ‘I dare say it’s a lucky thing you are not the first.’ Comte finally ordered the woman back to her bed with a whisk of his plump hand. ‘Semites have a particular affinity for a whole gamut of neurological and neuropathological conditions – chorea, ataxic tabes, epilepsy. We have a higher proportion than the general population would normally allow within the Salpêtrière. If you were really a cousin of the ladies in question, I would have felt drawn to interrogate you on your family history, your secret family history, perhaps.’ His chuckle was malign. ‘As for these other races you mention, my researches haven’t extended to them.’

  James tried to still his galloping unease. He didn’t know how to interpret what the man was saying to him. He was alert though to the undertow of threat in his manner. He wished he could take the doctor into another room, away from the tumult, the leering faces, the constant movement, and focus on one discomfort at a time.

  ‘And you carry on your researches both here and at Saint-Lazare?’ he asked, puzzled at the doubling up.

  ‘Indeed. And the research you should know is very important, Monsieur.’ Dr Comte’s tone was puffed with arrogance. He took off his spectacles and like a lecturer addressing a large audience used them as a pointer. ‘Both Saint-Lazare and the Salpêtrière are sites where the poorest women from the most depraved backgrounds are to be found. I am interested in the high frequency with which prostitutes, loose women if you will, move from the first to the second – or naturally to any other asylum. My hypothesis is that degeneracy, sexual disinhibition, catapults them from one to the other. But now I must ask you what it is that brings you to seek out my patient – since you are not her relative.’

  James was about to invent a long-winded excuse, when the word leapt from his lips with its own counter menace. ‘Murder, Doctor. Murder.’

  The man’s glasses slipped from his hands. A capped patient whisked them from beneath his feet. All the while, she shrieked the word, ‘Murder, murder’. It had the ring of an injunction.

  In a moment like a freak wave, the words tore through the room, re-emerging from every mouth in a mounting torrential chorus.

  Comte stamped his feet, shouted, ‘Silence.’ From somewhere, he found a walking stick and like a lion tamer, beat it against the edge of one bed after another until the women cowered against their pillows and fell restively quiet.

  ‘Nurse, take this man – your name again, Monsieur?’

  James provided it.

  ‘Take this man to see Mlle Arnhem. You will probably do no more than see, Monsieur Norton. I had to administer chloroform. If she is awake, do not mention that terrible word. You see the effect it has. You have caused quite enough of a disturbance already.’ With a scowl, which made the pucker on his brow throb, he turned on his heel and marched away.

  It was only when James reached the quiet of the corridor that it struck him as decidedly odd that Dr Comte hadn’t paused to ask him a single question about the nature of the murder. But this was no time for reflection.

  The nurse had turned the lock on a door to reveal a minute cubicle of a room. A figure lay stretched on the bed. One frail arm protruded from the grey blanket and arched above her head. A mass of dark waving hair spread like a fan against the thin bolster.

  James stared and took a step backwards. His blood ran cold. The resemblance was uncanny. The motionless figure on the bed could have been Olympe, the Olympe he had seen in pictures. The Olympe, bar the puffy discoloration of her face, he had glimpsed on the floor of the barge. Perhaps it was a trick of light or the fact that Judith, too, lay as still as a corpse.

  The nurse was muttering. ‘There is no point, Monsieur. There’s no waking her now. She won’t hear a thing.’

  ‘Why was chloroform administered?’

  The woman shrugged, her face as stolid and expressionless as a prison warder’s. ‘She was wild. Uncontrollable. The doctor feared she would injure herself.’

  ‘How long had that been going on?’

  ‘Three days. Four. Maybe a week. She was worse after her father came to visit. They’re always worse after visits.’ She gave him a steely look, willing him away.

  He nodded and turned a feeble smile on her. It was all that he could muster. But he needed to interrogate her. He took a last look at Judith Arnhem and stepped into the hall.

  ‘Have you ever met Judith Arnhem’s sister?’ he asked once she had locked the door.

  ‘I don’t believe so.’ She was already walking away.

  ‘They look very much alike.’

  ‘If you say so, Monsieur. I must get back.’

  ‘Are you certain? The sister would have been well-dressed, of course.’

  She stopped to confront him, her stout body as much of a barricade as the doctor’s. Visitors to the world of the asylum were decidedly unwelcome.

  ‘Dr Vaillant’s policy is to rotate his staff. I work here only two weeks out of every four. I have enough to do without keeping track of visitors, Monsieur. And you are the second one today to come in search of Mlle Arnhem who, as you can see, is in no state to receive anyone. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  Watching her determined tread, James wondered whether Raf’s impatience had paralleled his own and he had decided to make an early visit to Judith Arnhem.

  He walked slowly back through the maze of courtyards and corridors, letting his feet find the way. Even when the vast façade of the Salpêtrière was behind him, his mind was still in the swirling ward with its melee of shrieks and strange faces. He replayed his eccentric exchange with Dr Comte, trying to determine whether its oddness was due to the surroundings or was intrinsic to the man’s words. Was it unusual that he should work both in the prison infirmary and at the asylum?


  His thoughts returned again and again to the supine figure of Judith Arnhem. Had he imagined the resemblance? It was troubling and for more reasons than he could put words to.

  Without realising where his steps had taken him, he found himself in the Sunday jostle of the Jardin des Plantes. Children shouted their excitement as they pointed through the bars of a cage where a tiger prowled in taut confinement. James stared for a moment, felt the tiger’s insolent gaze on him and hurried away.

  On a winding street behind the zoo, he stopped in a café. Leaning against the bar, he ordered a brandy and a coffee. A well-proportioned, clear-eyed face stared out at him, radiating good health and firm intentions. It took the heat of the brandy for him to recognise himself in the mirror. He gave his returned image a sheepish, lopsided grin and took his coffee out onto the terrasse.

  He lit his pipe and sat there, only dimly aware of the life of the street. Like one of those hangovers he had been prone to in the months after Maisie’s death, the Salpêtrière clogged his veins and his thoughts. He finished his coffee and got up restlessly, half wishing for Raf’s presence or even better, he admitted to himself, Marguerite’s so that he could share or argue through his impressions. He had a distant memory of one of his first cases, one which had filled him with tension because of its human rather than legal complexity. Because every fact seemed to billow away behind a shroud of half-truths.

  Reaching in his pocket for change, he felt the crunch of paper. Of course, the letter in the indecipherable language. That would give him something concrete to pursue. He walked quickly towards the river, then unsure of the exact trajectory, hailed a cab. Only as he alighted on the tawdry boulevard near Arnhem’s home, did it occur to him that the man might be less than pleased to find a letter which belonged to his daughter in James’s hand.

  ELEVEN

  The insalubrious street where Arnhem lived was hot and dusty from the day’s sunshine. It was also more crowded than James had ever seen it. Women had pulled chairs onto the pavement and sat outdoors with their sewing. Girls played skipping games across the stream of murky water which flowed from the gutters. A beggar held out a worn cap.

  James found himself examining everyone for any visible contortions of limb or visage. Tossing a coin to the beggar, he forced his mind onto a different track

  At Arnhem’s door, an ancient jowly figure, all in black, reclined on a rickety stool, her back against the building. Her eyes were half closed and James crept past her, only to hear a thundering ‘oui’ issue from her lips.

  ‘Pas-là,’ she said peering up at him with marked suspicion after he had asked politely for Monsieur Arnhem.

  ‘When might he be back?’

  ‘Never, would be best.’ She gave him a scowl, then settled back against the wall once more.

  James was tempted to wait, but there was nowhere to do so. He walked to the far end of the street and back again. Seeing a man with a coat and hat like Arnhem’s, he almost approached him. A few centimes would certainly provide him with a translation. But he stopped himself. The breach of privacy was uncalled for. And the man might well know Arnhem.

  He was about to give up and set off for the hotel, when he saw Arnhem appear from round a corner. He had his two youngest children in tow. James paused before greeting him. The children were remarkably attractive, the girl curly-haired, her cheeks dimpled, her dress a spotless white midi with a blue-trimmed sailor’s collar. The boy, slightly smaller, was equally agreeable, with chocolate round eyes and tousled hair. He pulled against his father’s grip, eager for a run, but Arnhem held on to him with the fierce protectiveness of a man who had already lost too much.

  ‘Monsieur Norton,’ the man spoke before James found his voice. ‘You were looking for me?’

  James nodded. The little girl gave him a shy, fetching smile. ‘I have something I wanted your help with.’

  With an air of indecision, Arnhem looked from the children to James and back again. ‘Of course, of course. We’ll go to a café,’ he murmured. ‘Wait for me here.’

  He shunted the children past the woman in black who scowled at them despite their polite greeting. James saw them disappear up the stairs, heard the little girl ask, ‘Why can’t we come, too, Papa?’

  For a moment, James felt a distinct pang of envy. It was mingled with instant remorse. He wouldn’t have come had he known that it would involve tearing Arnhem away from his children. But the man quite rightly felt that their conversation couldn’t take place in front of them.

  Arnhem was back quickly, his coat flapping. ‘The children have homework to do. But I mustn’t leave them long.’ He looked over his shoulder periodically as they walked along the street, then offered. ‘I haven’t told them about Rachel yet. I couldn’t bring myself …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘They’re lovely children,’ James murmured when they had already turned a corner. The thought leapt into his mind that Dr Comte would be hard put to find any of the hereditary taints he spoke of with such assurance in Olympe’s younger siblings.

  ‘Here. We can stop here.’ Arnhem looked around him nervously. ‘Though perhaps it would be better inside. It’s quieter.’

  The interior of the café had never been touched by the sun. The tables were less than clean, the floor stained. The birdlike woman behind the counter had brightly rouged cheeks which clashed oddly with her smeared apron. A solitary old man, who had the tattered mien of a beggar, nursed a glass of absinthe at a table near the front. But James understood Arnhem’s desire to be away from curious eyes and long ears. They found a place at the back. Arnhem quickly ordered tea and James joined him.

  ‘What is it that you have for me?’ The man asked, wasting no time. His look was grim. He slouched into his chair as if all he could hope for was another blow from fate.

  ‘It’s only this letter. I felt sure you could translate it for me.’ James unfolded the sheet of paper and placed it in front of him.

  Arnhem scanned the writing. An instant change came over him. He was now all hard-edged tension, his expression fierce. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘In Olympe’s apartment.’ James raised his hands in apology. ‘We’re trying to pursue all clues.’

  ‘This is from Isak. Isak Bernfeld.’

  ‘So he was in touch with Olympe again. As we were led to believe.’

  ‘It would seem so. She didn’t tell me.’ Arnhem looked as if he was about to scrunch the sheet of paper into a ball and throw it across the room.

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He says he is back in Paris from Marseilles. He says he wishes to see her. He says he has something to tell her. Something she should know.’

  James was suddenly excited. ‘Does he give his address?’

  ‘No. But I will find it out. Never fear.’

  ‘So how did he expect her to get in touch with him?’ James had the sense Arnhem was holding things back.

  ‘He says he will wait for her outside the theatre. It was through the theatre announcement that he traced her.’ Arnhem frowned. ‘I didn’t know he had followed her career, her change of name.’

  ‘But he evidently did.’ James paused, letting the weight of that sink into both of them. ‘When does he say he will wait for her?’

  Arnhem looked down at the letter again. ‘He says Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday!’ James was as jubilant as if all the threads of the case had suddenly come together.

  ‘No, no, Monsieur. I follow your train. But we do not know which Thursday. The letter is dated over a month ago.’ A storm cloud passed over Arnhem’s face. ‘She never told me,’ he murmured.

  James sipped his tea and waited. When the man didn’t speak again, he plunged in. ‘Do you know why she might have kept it from you?’

  Arnhem shrugged.

  ‘Might she have been afraid that you might try to convince her that … that she should move back into the fold.’

  A strange laugh issued from Arnhem’s lips. ‘That is not an unintelligent que
stion, Monsieur Norton. But Rachel … Olympe had moved beyond that. Well beyond that. There was no coming back.’ He had the sudden look of a desert patriarch who had banished a black sheep from the fold.

  ‘Perhaps Bernfeld felt otherwise. What kind of man is he? The other day you said he was a man of traditional values. But people can change.’

  Arnhem studied him, his eyes luminous above the jutting arch of his nose. ‘Why do you take such an interest in us, Monsieur Norton?’

  James was unprepared for the question. He waved his arm vaguely. ‘My brother.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Of course. You are your brother’s keeper. Loyalty to one’s family can be a burden, Monsieur.’

  ‘You have it.’

  ‘I … I have little choice.’ His eyes clouded over. ‘And it is different for us. You should know that I did not care for your brother, Monsieur. Not in himself, of course. I know nothing of that. But for my daughter, the relations they had embarked on. I told Rachel … Olympe, he would do her no good. It was a mistake to put sentiment where reason should be. If she was to lead the life she had decided on for herself, then she had to be like those French women. She had to be thoroughly practical.’

  James watched the emotions warring on his face. At one moment, he looked as if he might spit. At the next, he was rubbing his forehead, the way Raf did when the internal pressure grew too great.