“I need to send this packet.”
He put the American’s thesis on the counter.
Mme Labrousse weighed it and gave him a bubble-wrap envelope.
“Regular or special delivery?”
“Express.”
Bunker wrote Guérin’s address in the space provided.
“Mr Nichols asked me to post this for him. What do I write where it says sender?”
“Mr Nichols, the American?”
“That’s the one.”
“You put his name, then Le Bourg, Lentillac, 46200 Saint Céré. His mail comes in here. The postman doesn’t go down to his camp.”
“Oh, er, by the way, he asked me to pick up his post too.”
“I shouldn’t really.”
“He’s expecting something, news from a friend in Paris.”
“He hasn’t given you anything, a note or something?”
Bunker flashed her a racing-driver smile, revealing his gappy teeth.
“He just said, ‘Ask Mme Labrousse, she’s really nice, you’ll see.’”
The woman blushed behind her thick spectacles.
“Well, as it’s just for you. Yes, there is a letter from Paris for him.”
Mme Labrousse rummaged in a plastic crate and pulled out an envelope, patting down her perm.
“That’ll be eight euros twenty for the express post. It’ll get there tomorrow morning.”
Bunker laid on the charm again, directing a final devastating wink at his bespectacled friend.
“If you want, I can put a table outside for you, then you can smoke in peace. Bloody anti-smoking laws, what a waste of time.”
Bunker was rolling himself a cigarette as he leaned on the counter.
“Don’t bother, I’ll do it.”
He dragged a table and chair outside and sat on the pavement at the edge of the main road. Across from him, on the steps of the church, the ancient mariner from the post office and another old chap were pretending to be busy with something. Bunker raised his glass in their direction, and the ancestors looked at him without reacting.
He was half-way through his third glass when the telephone rang.
“It’s for you again,” the barman called.
“Right, I’ve posted your book, and I’ve got the letter.”
“Can you open it and read it to me?”
Bunker pulled the envelope open with his thick fingers.
“There’s a cloakroom ticket and a note. But it’s all in English. I can’t translate it, kid, no idea what it says.”
“Try and read it all the same.”
“Shit, are you kidding or what?”
“Go on.”
“Bigue John, I am sorree I did … didenet, with apostrophe t, inveete iou for mai laste shô. I can’t make head or tail of this, can you understand it?”
“Carry on.”
“Shit, kid what are you making me do? “Tank iou for evereetingue iou deed. I doh eet vit no regrett and eet ees betteur zate iou are not eer: in ze public terre ( with h) vill bee onlee peeple zate are not mai frend. Iou dont (apostrophe t) beeulongue terre ( with h). Ai love iou, mai best frende. Taque carre ande for-give iou … iourselfe. Alan Must-e-grave. Alan must go ome. Fuck, this is driving me nuts. You getting this?”
“Yep. That all?”
“Just one more line, wait a bit.”
“Iou vill find ate tisse ( with h) place, a bague vit a little present frome mee. Notingue (with h) important compare vit vat iou dide butte somtingue tou mak iour life easee. Go travelle, John, doo eet for mee. That’s it. The end. And don’t ask me to read it again.”
“…”
“Kid, you still there?”
“What’s the cloakroom ticket?”
“Wait, it’s kind of a receipt. There’s a date, 10 April, 4.30 p.m. There’s a stamp on it, shit, I can’t read this. The Encas- something … 43 avenue Gabriel, 8th arrondissement in Paris. Mean anything to you?”
*
John recognised the waiter and the waiter remembered him: the big backwoodsman with his bow and his Indian blanket. He explained. He’d lost his ticket, but he had forgotten one bag in the cupboard. He’d had a problem, and couldn’t get back here before.
“It’s against the rules.”
“Look, I’m not going to make a big deal out of this, but your racket here doesn’t tick all the boxes either. That doesn’t bother me. I just want my bag, and I’ll leave you a tip you won’t forget.”
The waiter thought for a bit, without making much of an effort. “O.K., go ahead, the boss isn’t here. But be quick about it.”
John pushed open the door of the luggage room. Still the same collection of rucksacks, suitcases, wine-crates and cleaning materials. It was only dimly lit. He shook the bags, moved the cases round. Between a pile of Coca-Cola bottles and a bucket of floor-cloths, he found a black canvas bag. The zip opened easily. A couple of hundred-dollar bills, pulled out at random, shut the waiter up. John went out fast. He passed the embassy without turning round and walked as quickly as he could without running. In the Tuileries Gardens, he sat down and opened the bag. Bundles of dollar bills, some in fifties and some in hundreds. He counted out one bundle of each. Ten thousand in the hundred-note packs, five thousand in each fifty-note pack. At least sixty packs in all, just chucked in the bag, with rubber bands round them. Between four and five hundred thousand dollars. Half a million bucks.
He stared at the pond in front of him, where kids were launching model boats. He smiled, thinking of Alan throwing this heap of cash into the scruffy cupboard, a few yards from the embassy. Even at two euros an hour, he could have let the interest pile up a bit.
Guérin replied at the third ring, and a screech drilled into John’s eardrum: “Telephooooone! Telephoooone!” Then he heard Guérin asking who it was.
“Nichols. I need to see you.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve found something important.
“You’ve got my address. Saint-Ambroise Metro station.”
In the metro, he clutched the bag close to his body. The train was full of people, all probably dreaming of a fortune like this. John felt like dumping the dollars down the nearest drain.
He rang the bell at Guérin’s address.
The décor of the flat was as minimalist as its furnishings. Everything was clean, despite a suffocating smell like the inside of an aviary. In the living room, on a perch covered with crap, a repulsive parrot was screaming: “Haaarder, come on, sweetie! Haaaarder!”
“Shut up!”
The creature had hardly any feathers left except on its head, and its flaccid flesh was gashed in many places. Once it had stopped shrieking, it began pecking at what remained of the skin on its claws.
“His name’s Churchill. Don’t pay any attention to him.”
John looked first at the bird then at Guérin, with his scabs on his head and his long scar. The lieutenant wasn’t wearing his coat, and John was taken aback by the fragile misshappen figure.
“Not at work today then?”
“No. But you seem to be busy.”
John passed him the bag. Guérin opened it. The money had as little effect on him as on the American.
“Lot of cash.”
“Alan died for this. Doesn’t seem much to me.”
“No, obviously.”
“Say, your bird doesn’t look too good.”
“He’s depressed.” Guérin lowered his voice. “Since my mother died.” John ran a hand through his hair, puzzled.
“But he’s on the way to killing himself. Can’t you do anything?”
“I can’t bring her back.”
“Find him a mate?”
“I think he’s too old.”
“It’s never too late.”
Guérin rubbed his head.
“It would take someone special.”
“Could be found.”
Each of them, one hand scratching their heads, looked at the parrot, which offered itself up as
a martyr to these two human wrecks. John turned to Guérin.
“That yellow raincoat, it belonged to your mother, right?”
Guérin leaned his head to one side.
“No, not at all. What gave you that idea?”
“Nothing, I just thought. You haven’t slept? You look tired. I dreamed about those photos last night, this morning I mean. So what’s happening about that Kowalski guy?”
Guérin looked at Churchill.
“The news will filter through. I left Lambert by the phone. He’ll keep me up to date if anything happens. I don’t think it’ll be long.”
“What?”
“The end, John, the end, of course.”
“You’ve got them?”
“By the balls, if you’ll pardon the expression. But it doesn’t make me particularly happy. I only did this for Savane.”
John rubbed his two-day stubble, with a rasping sound.
“O.K. And the suicides, your theory?”
“That’s different. One mustn’t hope too much for an end to that. Do you want something to drink?”
Guérin took him into the kitchen, a pretext for getting away from the parrot who was eyeing them evilly.
John explained his idea, sitting on the work surface. Guérin had his back to him, staring out of a window overlooking the courtyard. He moved his round head at regular intervals, a rotational movement, neither approving nor disapproving. Guérin was taking mental notes or perhaps thinking of something completely different. He said nothing for a minute after John had finished.
“So where do you want to arrange this meeting?
“Not a lot of choice. In the Caveau de la Bolée. You think that perhaps … too theatrical?”
“Noooo.”
But Guérin was uneasy.
“I’ll call Lambert. He might be needed, if this man is as dangerous as you say.”
The little detective wasn’t put out, but he was anxious.
“You’re afraid something might happen in the club?” John winked. “Or to Ariel?”
Guérin’s neck and scalp blushed scarlet. He cleared his throat.
“Do you have a gun, Monsieur Nichols?”
“What? No. But I can get hold of one. You think that’s necessary? But I don’t know how to handle a gun.”
“It’s not for you, John.” Guérin stood upright. “It’s for me.”
The American creased into laughter.
“You don’t have a gun? You’re the police, and you’re asking me to get you a gun?”
“I’ve never had one.”
“You will help me, then?”
“You can use the phone in the other room.”
John went into the main room of the flat with caution. The parrot, rocking to and fro on its perch, stretched its neck out towards him with a fixed stare. John dialled the embassy number.
“Can I speak to Secretary Frazer, please? This is John Nichols.”
The switchboard put him on hold, to the strains of Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World”.
When Frazer answered, Churchill extended his neck at full stretch and screeched “Haaa! Assaaassin!”, the veins on his bare neck standing out.
On the landing John shook Guérin’s hand.
“Thanks for all this.”
“Forget it. Do you know what Churchill once said?”
“He said a lot, didn’t he?”
“He said in wartime the only real enemy is the truth.”
“Yeah, well, he was a politician and a soldier, so I guess he knew what he was talking about.”
“Till tonight then, John.”
*
Bunker was walking back down the road, after having hung about a while in the café. In fact it was almost six, and he had been soaking up red wine for getting on for three hours. His mission was completed. He was on holiday in the countryside now. The ordinary wine at the café was fine, he had no timetable and he didn’t need anything else. He had drunk until he didn’t feel like another mouthful. In the end, the barman had opened up. Between four and six, they’d been matching each other, glass for glass. Roger, with his balloon-like red nose, had told him all about the village. Bunker inspired confidence in professionals. He didn’t go into a bar to play chess, to a brothel to have a chat, or to a casino to write a book. When he stood leaning on the counter of a bar, the barmen facing him felt they existed for good reason. Tea-pissers can get lost, as Roger remarked after their eighth glass. A customer of Bunker’s capacity pleased him. Once he was launched, he was unstoppable. He told Bunker about when he lived in Cahors, and played football, the “honour division” of Montauban after the war, and how he had got married. He poured out his life story with the impression that he was having a proper discussion because Bunker listened with his granite face. In fact the old lag had said hardly anything. He simply nodded, asked the odd question, setting the barman off again when he looked like drying up. One question per glass. Until he was now fairly well tanked up.
“Another one, Roger, please? So you know the American?”
Roger filled the glasses, without bothering to wipe up the spillages.
“Old story, mate. I wasn’t here then, but I heard about it.”
Bunker raised his glass.
“Cheers. What’s it about then?”
“Oof,” (intake of breath). “Goes back to the days when there was this commune here, a whole bunch of hippies. They lived down in that valley, this was before I came. ’Bout twenty of them, all young, I think. And there was this American guy with them. Some say he fell in the river and drowned, some say it was an accidental overdose, and some say he did it on purpose. Nobody really knows. Anyway, after that, they all left. There was this woman, she stayed on a bit. The dates, people don’t agree about, but she was certainly pregnant. Then she left too. So when this new American came back here, you know the big blond one, not the other, the old people round here said he was the spitting image of the guy who died. Well, course, he was his son, wasn’t he? His father’s buried here in Lentillac. Bertrand’s the only one left now of all of them, the old hippy. He’s got a farm. One night when I’d been here a bit, Bertrand, he’d had a few. He was sitting right there, just like you are. And some hunters came in. He doesn’t like ’em. Well, I don’t know how it came up, but he started to talk about guns and all that, and he said that was what was wrong with the world, weapons made everyone stupid buggers. That’s what he said: ‘stupid buggers’. And he got a bit carried away, and he told me the Yank who was here, the one who died, he’d been in Vietnam, and it had done his head in. Wars, hunting, nuclear weapons, Father Christmas, he mixed everything up. But I remember him talking about it. And I’ve got some mates who were in Indochina, and I can tell you, they weren’t too good when they came back neither. If you want any more, you’ll have to ask Bertrand.”
Bunker allowed the conversation to drift on to other less interesting subjects, knocked back a few more glasses, and left to go back up the road.
On the way out of the village, he pushed open the gate of the cemetery. A few dozen graves in the evening sun, an ancient lime tree and a view out over the valley. A nice place. He found it quickly. No flowers, just a simple headstone and a dusty slab.
Patrick Nichols
1948 Austin Texas
1974 Lentillac France
Bunker sat on the edge of the Michaud family tomb opposite that of John Nichols’ father.
Mesrine lay at his feet, indifferent to the scenery, because the ground was warm.
Bunker, chin in hand murmured to himself.
“Stupid little bugger.”
Without knowing whether he meant the father or the son.
When he reached the track, he wondered whether to go on down the road, as far as Bertrand’s farm. But he was pretty far gone already and had learned more than he wanted to know. He decided to put it off until the next day. There was plenty of time. Mesrine was already bounding in the direction of the tepee.
“O.K. dog, we’ll ju
st be chez nous tonight. We’ll have a bite to eat.” Bunker set off down the track, wondering what was happening in Paris. He was slightly annoyed with himself for not telling the kid how much he was enjoying himself here. He hadn’t thanked him, or even told him to take care of himself.
It was still warm. Encouraged by the wine, Bunker promised himself he’d have a dip in the stream.
Mesrine rushed up the next incline. The sun was slowly sinking behind the northern ridge, bathing the southern slope in a golden glow. Bunker could see the big oak tree. He was back in time for his first real sunset in twenty-five years.
17
The cook, as hirsute and pale-skinned as before, had exchanged his apron for a black T-shirt. He didn’t really have the build of a bouncer, but was perfect as doorkeeper for a S and M show. A well-dressed couple went in, thirty-somethings, the woman pretty and blonde, the man a smooth type in a suit, ill at ease in a place where no-one cared how much money he was making. The Gorgon with the Gauloise held the door open, without paying them any attention. As he saw John approach, he raised an eyebrow.
“Tonight, super show. Boss’ll be pleased to see you. She’s on edge, first show since that night with Alan.”
“Lots of people?”
“We’ll soon be turning them away.”
“A friend of mine should be coming, man with a walking stick. Is he here?”
“Not yet. But I’ll see he gets in.” He moved aside to let John pass. “Enjoy the show,” he said in English as he glanced distrustfully down the rue de l’Hirondelle
John went in, clenching his fists.
The hangings had been pulled aside. On the stage there were some accessories, dimly lit. A table, some skewers, hooks suspended in the air, a knife, bottles, and torches. The room was packed, the audience squeezed up in the aisles. A hundred, maybe more. Electro-rock music was playing from side speakers, pulsing away in a heartbeat rhythm. Some people were crammed together round tables, others were standing. The coat racks were overloaded and clouds of smoke from the red candles on the tables wafted under the lights. It was as dark and stifling as an oven.
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