by William Boyd
“He’s a writer—a philosopher. Quite famous. He was very prominent during les événements.”
“What’s that when it’s at home?”
“The riots in Paris. In May. This year, 1968.”
Kincade frowned, thinking, clearly unfamiliar with Paris’s very recent past. Talbot enlightened him.
“Student occupations, general strike, confrontation, street battles with police. It was a kind of very violent social revolution.”
“Oh, yeah,” Kincade said, vaguely.
“I don’t mean this remotely offensively,” Talbot said, “but you did see the fighting in the streets, didn’t you? It was, as people said, almost the French Revolution all over again. On TV every night.”
“Of course I saw it. But I wasn’t really engaged with what was going on, not analysing it on a nightly basis.”
Again Talbot wondered if Kincade tried to wind him up deliberately. The man was clearly intelligent but sometimes he seemed to want to portray himself as stupid. It was tiresome.
“It was a significant moment in French, not to say European, history,” he said. “In twentieth-century history.”
“Like I told you, Mr. Kydd, when it comes to ‘abroad’ almost all my focus, my engaged interest, is on the U.S.A. Ask me anything about the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. Or of Martin Luther King, for example. Did you know that his killer, James Earl Ray, was arrested in London? At Heathrow airport, Terminal 2—”
“All right, all right. I didn’t know that. Point taken. Anyway, Jacques Soldat was one of those intellectuals who were very involved in the ‘struggle.’ If not quite on the barricades then very close on the sidelines. He was an inspirational figure.”
Kincade scribbled more notes down.
“So: find Jacques Soldat and we may find Miss Viklund,” Kincade said.
“My thinking exactly. That’s why I reckoned you were the man to winkle her out. There’s one problem, however.”
“Which is?”
“His name, ‘Jacques Soldat’—it’s a pseudonym, a nom de plume.”
“So he’s not likely to be in the telephone directory.”
“I just checked. There’s no Jacques Soldat listed.”
“Have you any idea what his real name is?”
“No.”
Kincade made another note. Talbot wondered what exactly he was writing down. Kincade sat back and sipped at his wine.
“He’s published under the name Jacques Soldat therefore it would be a fair assumption that his publisher knows who he is.”
“Yes. Good point. In fact two of his books are really quite famous. One of them was a kind of international success in the early sixties. The sort of book everyone claimed to have read.”
“A bit like Being and Nothingness. I remember everyone lugging that around at university.”
“Exactly.” Talbot looked sharply at Kincade. This was the sort of remark Kincade made, designed to throw him off balance, he realised.
Kincade sat up, as if suddenly galvanised.
“I’ll need some cash in advance, Mr. Kydd. I have to buy a few things.”
Talbot took out his wallet and handed over a bundle of francs. Kincade shuffled through them.
“How much is this in real money?”
“About one hundred pounds.”
“I’ll keep an account, don’t worry.” Kincade stood up. “Shall we meet back here at six o’clock? I can give you a progress report.”
* * *
—
Talbot filled his day easily enough. He had a bite of lunch at La Closerie des Lilas and then went to the Jeu de Paume to look at Monet’s water lilies, something he always did when he had spare hours to fill in Paris. It was quiet and he found he could spend as much time as he wanted, undisturbed, in front of the huge shimmering canvases. But the Zen-like calm that the lilies usually provoked in him wasn’t quite so present today as he found his thoughts returning to the remarks Kincade had made at the airport. How could Kincade have “spotted” him, as he put it, and he not have “spotted” Kincade? Was it a generational thing? What did that say about him and his assumptions? What did that say about his so-called secret life? He wandered back to the hotel in something of a fog of frowning concentration. It doesn’t matter, he told himself: you have your life; let others have theirs.
As he strolled up the boulevard Saint-Germain he began to notice a few remaining traces of the May events. Some shops were boarded up, there was a burnt-out cinema and there were still posters here and there and hastily scrawled graffiti. “Lutte Contre Le Cancer Gaulliste,” “Nous irons jusqu’au bout,” “Flins pas Flics,” “Salaires Légers Chars Lourds,” “CRS = SS,” “La Structure est Pourrie,” “Je jouis dans les pavés.” As he took in the posters he recognised that some of them were really rather brilliantly designed—very eye-catching. What had he been doing in May? Scouting locations in Brighton for Ladder to the Moon with Reggie Tipton. Meanwhile, across the Channel a social revolution had been taking place. Was that what it was like in 1789? he wondered. Distant thunder across the Channel but life plodding on in good old Albion.
He stood for a while looking at what remained of the bleached and tatty posters, remembering the images of the riots in May—Paris under siege, Paris burning. Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse, he said to himself, thinking that there wasn’t a similar phrase in English that did the French expression full justice. “All this will pass,” was just too weary and stoically resigned. Everything passes, everything breaks, everything tires. Or everything grows weary? A bit unwieldy. He turned and wandered on, trying different versions in his head and finding nothing satisfactory.
Back at the hotel at the end of the afternoon he put in some calls to Joe to see how the production was faring. All seemed well: Dorian Villiers’ two days had passed off without incident and now Reggie was filming a lot of Troy wandering the streets, looking out to sea, et cetera. As long as people were being kept busy there was still the illusion that the film was underway, that Anny Viklund’s absence hadn’t been catastrophic. Yet.
He called Naomi, also, as an act of reassurance. He had told her about Anny’s flight to Paris and the potential consequences for the film. She commiserated.
“Poor old you,” she said. “Maybe I should come over and cheer you up.”
“I’m not good company, darling. We have to find this girl.”
“I was joking, Talbot. Relax.”
“Sorry.”
At six he went down to the bar. Kincade was already there, glass of wine on the table, but entirely changed. He was wearing khaki trousers, loafers, a blue blazer, white shirt and a red tie. He’d had his hair cut short in a crew cut, en brosse in the French style, and looked wholly different from the edgy character in his black outfits. He glanced up as Talbot approached. Talbot decided to make no comment.
“Success,” Kincade said. “I’m meeting Jacques Soldat tomorrow afternoon.”
“Wonderful!” Talbot sat down and Kincade handed him a card. He glanced at it.
Harold J. Hopkins, senior editor, University of South Tennessee Press, it read.
Kincade explained. First, he went to a bookshop and found some of Jacques Soldat’s books and from them gleaned the name of his principal publisher—a small Parisian publishing house called Jadis & Naguère. Then he bought himself the clothes he was currently wearing, had his hair cut and presented himself at the reception of Jadis & Naguère and said that the University of South Tennessee Press was interested in publishing new editions of Jacques Soldat’s entire oeuvre. New editions, new translations, new introductions. They were very pleased to meet him, they said.
“I couldn’t get Black Skin, White Heart—that’s already published in the States. But, I got one called Massacre and another one called,” he glanced at his notebook, “Pseudo-Citoyens—I think I’ve pronounced th
at correctly. And a couple of others.”
“Well done. I appreciate the sacrifice of the tumbling locks.”
Kincade ignored him.
“Anyway, I had to wait a couple of hours before I met the publisher. When I started talking money he went away and telephoned Soldat, himself. I said I was only in Paris for one more day so we made an appointment to meet tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“Good God, bravo!” Talbot said. Kincade signalled a waiter for more wine. Talbot said he’d join him in a celebratory drink.
“It’s the U.S.A., you see, Mr. Kydd. That’s what makes the difference. ‘The University of South Tennessee Press.’ Irresistible. Glamour. The Wild West. If I’d said I was from the University of South Shropshire Press they’d have shown me the door.”
Talbot spread his hands in mute admiration.
“I do like the new hair, on reflection,” he said. “Maybe you should keep it like that. Makes you look very American.”
“Which was the object of the exercise.”
“Well, it works. Where did you get the business card?”
“I’ve got all these blank cards—blank except for a crest on them.”
Talbot peered closely. The crest was in colour and embossed: a generic bit of heraldry containing a quartered shield, some oak leaves and acorns and a Latin motto on a scroll: Dominus Illuminatio Mea.
“Before you inform me.” Kincade held up a palm. “I know where I nicked it from. Latin helps. Then I have my little kit—a child’s printing press. I print whatever name and title I want. It does the business but it’s the crest that convinces, though.”
“I’m impressed.”
“It’s embossed.”
“I noticed. Nice touch.”
“And, of course, I spoke with an American accent. A Southern American accent.”
“I’m doubly impressed.”
“The devil is in the details, Mr. Kydd.”
“So I’m told.” They finished their wine and ordered more. “What will you do when you meet Soldat?”
“Oh, I won’t meet him. I won’t show up. He’ll wait around for a while and then leave, well pissed off, I should imagine. I’ll follow him home. Then you can move in.”
“Let’s hope Anny Viklund’s staying with him.”
“Who knows—but at least we’ll have the first link in a chain, with a bit of luck.”
They decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. Kincade asked Talbot to tell him the whole story of the May manifestations in Paris and Talbot did so, as best as he could, trying to remember the sequence of strikes and protests leading to the battles on the streets of Paris and other towns.
“Seeing it was in May—which is a couple of months ago,” Kincade said, “and seeing as it was like the French Revolution all over again, as you told me, then what’s happened? All I saw today was Paris going about its business, all calm and tranquil. Where is everybody?”
“Good question,” Talbot replied, thinking back to his own walk the length of the boulevard Saint-Germain. All he’d seen were a few tattered posters.
“Maybe they’ve all gone on their holidays,” he said, a little lamely. “Fancy a cognac?”
* * *
—
The next morning, at the time of the appointed rendezvous between Jacques Soldat, his publisher and Mr. Harold J. Hopkins of the University of South Tennessee Press, Talbot and Kincade were sitting at a table on the pavement of a café on the rue Saint-André-des-Arts in the 6th arrondissement. They had a good view of the entrance to the small courtyard where Jadis & Naguère were established, their offices occupying the ground floor. All very lovely, Talbot thought, all very French. He couldn’t for a second imagine an English equivalent and, moreover, just up the road one of the classic Parisian brasseries—Chez Allard—was situated. How handy for lunch or an early supper. He stopped himself, urging himself to concentrate. He wasn’t a French publisher contemplating his lunch, he was an English film producer with a monstrous problem on his hands.
He glanced over at Kincade. He was back in his black suit, black shirt outfit. Talbot hadn’t quite accustomed himself to the crew cut, even though it was a sign of Kincade’s diligence, his professionalism as an investigator. The cropped hair didn’t really suit him, making his lean face look more starved somehow, as if he were recovering from an illness or had just served a term in prison. Still, how many people would have a severe haircut and transform their appearance simply to do a more thorough job? Not many. Score one for Kenneth Kincade (LLB) and Criminality Risk Assessment. He took a sip of his petit café. Kincade checked his watch.
“I should have arrived ten minutes ago. They’ll start making calls soon.”
“Calling who?”
“The Hôtel George V. That’s where I said I was staying. And then they’ll find I’m not registered.”
“What then?”
“Fucking Americans!”
Kincade ordered another coffee.
“I’m getting used to working in Paris,” he said. “Bit more enjoyable than Brighton.”
“Quelle surprise. And you’re on double time.”
“You ain’t paying, Mr. Kydd, so don’t get all high and mighty.” Kincade chuckled and swatted at a wasp that was hovering around his empty coffee cup. He backhanded it away. “Got you, bastard,” he said and looked at Talbot. “Just what is the point of wasps, Mr. Kydd?”
“They must have a function in the mysterious scheme of things, I suppose.”
They talked on, waiting for Soldat, content in the mild July sunshine, drinking their coffees. Kincade asked Talbot what other films he’d worked on and was surprised—or feigned surprise—when Talbot told him a few: Sudden Death in Soho, Cometh the Man, Triple Melody, The Mark of Cain, Sam the Ripper, The Forgotten, The Lost War.
“I’ve seen some of those—and here I am sitting with the producer. But what about this one, this Ladder to the Moon film? Are you going to make any money?”
“Perhaps. Assuming we get our leading lady back.”
“Serious money?”
“One can always dream. As long as I’m paid my fee then everything else is an unexpected bonus. I’ve got another project, a play—an American play, you’ll be pleased to hear—that I have more concrete hopes for.”
“Concrete hopes—bit of an oxymoron, no?”
Talbot kept forgetting that Kincade had been to university and had nearly completed a law degree.
“There he is!” Talbot said, suddenly spotting Jacques Soldat exiting Jadis & Naguère’s offices, thinking it was strange that they’d never spotted him going in.
Soldat paused at the courtyard entrance and started talking, clearly remonstrating, to someone out of vision. He didn’t seem at all happy.
“Bloody American publishers,” Talbot said.
“Come on, we’re off,” Kincade said, standing.
“Do you need me?”
“No one ever thinks they’re being followed by a couple.”
Talbot dropped some francs on the table and set off after Kincade. They strode on, side by side, Soldat about twenty yards ahead.
Kincade glanced at Talbot.
“You never told me Jacques Soldat was African.”
“He’s not African. Well, he was originally African—he’s from Guadeloupe.”
“Slipped your mind?”
“Didn’t seem relevant, somehow.”
“God help me.”
Talbot didn’t respond and they followed Soldat up to the boulevard Saint-Germain. He could tell Kincade was a little angry. Good. He didn’t hold every ace in the hole. Then he rebuked himself for his pettiness. They were working together—solidarity was all.
They didn’t have very far to go, as it happened. After about twenty minutes they saw Soldat go into an apartment building at the angle of the rue de
s Ciseaux and the boulevard. Talbot looked around. He could see Les Deux Magots in the near distance and the little cobbled square in front of it. Perfect for an intello, like Soldat. He turned to Kincade.
“What do we do now?”
“Well you know where he lives. I would confront him.”
“This minute?”
“Why not?” Kincade said. “My working maxim is ‘Do it now.’ DO IT NOW! What’s the point in waiting?”
“Yes, I see the logic. Would you come with me?”
“No.”
They looked at each other.
“All right,” Talbot said. “But please wait outside.”
“Wilco. Roger that.”
Talbot rang the concierge’s bell and was admitted. He asked her in his competent but English-accented French if a tall black African gentleman lived here. They had an appointment. Monsieur Soldat.
“Non. C’est Monsieur Duhameldeb.”
“Of course. Mes excuses.”
The concierge was straight from central casting: small, stout, grey, humourless—where do they find these people? Talbot wondered, as he waited for her to telephone up. She turned to him and asked him what it was about, this appointment.
“C’est au sujet de Mademoiselle Viklund,” he said. That should do the trick. “Mademoiselle Anny Viklund.”
11
Anny heard Alphonse come in. His apartment was in the 13th arrondissement near the place d’Italie, an area of Paris she’d never visited. The apartment was perfectly comfortable, on the fourth floor of a modern high-rise. She had her own bedroom but she had to share the bathroom with Alphonse, who, however, was off to work at 7:30 a.m. and never returned until after six in the evening.
Alphonse Duhameldeb looked vaguely like his younger brother. He was a tall, serious-looking man with greying hair who worked as a cashier in the Société Générale on the rue de Rennes. He was darker—blacker—than Jacques. Anny asked him about the family back in Guadeloupe and gained the information that Jacques was actually Alphonse’s half-brother. Same mother, different father.