Central Park

by Guillaume Musso

  “Don’t make me send for my colleagues, Monsieur Malaury.”

  “Can I at least put on a shirt and a pair of pants?”

  “Hurry, then. And you’ll need a coat too—the heating is out at the station.”

  While he dresses, I take a quick look around. The Haussmann apartment has been transformed into a sort of loft with a refined décor. A few dividing walls have been knocked down and the herringbone floorboards painted white, but the two marble fireplaces and the original moldings have been preserved.

  Behind a door, I see a young redheaded woman, about twenty years old, wrapped in a sheet and staring at me, wide-eyed. I start to grow tired of waiting.

  “Get a move on, Malaury!” I yell, banging on the bathroom door. “It doesn’t take ten minutes to put on a pair of pants!”

  The doctor emerges from the bathroom, dressed to the nines. He has undeniably regained his former splendor, wearing a tweed sport coat, Prince of Wales check pants, a trench coat, and polished ankle boots. He whispers a few words of reassurance to his red-haired girlfriend, then follows me downstairs.

  “Where are your colleagues?” he asks when we reach the street.

  “I’m on my own. I was hardly going to organize a SWAT team to get you out of bed.”

  “But that’s not a police car, is it?”

  “It’s unmarked. Now quit stalling and get in.”

  He hesitates but finally sits down in the passenger seat.

  I start the car and we drive in silence as the sun begins to rise. We cross the sixth arrondissement and Montparnasse before Paul decides to ask: “Okay, seriously, what’s going on? You know I could have filed charges against you last month for stealing a medical prescription! You can thank my colleague that I didn’t; she persuaded me that you had lots of extenuating circumstances. To be perfectly honest, she even used the word nutcase.”

  “Oh, really? Well, I’ve been doing my homework on you too, Malaury,” I say, taking some photocopied documents from my pocket.

  He unfolds the bundle of papers and begins to read, frowning. “What is this exactly?”

  “Proof that you provided false affidavits of accommodation for two illegal immigrants from Mali so they could apply for residence permits.”

  He doesn’t try to deny it. “So what? Is humanity a crime? Is compassion against the law?”

  “No, but forgery and the use of forged documents is. And it’s punishable by up to three years in prison and a forty-five-thousand-euro fine.”

  “I thought the prisons were overcrowded already. And since when does the Criminal Division deal with this kind of thing?”

  We are not far from Montrouge. I cut across the Boulevards des Maréchaux, take the beltway, then the A6 to the Aquitaine—the highway that connects Paris to Bordeaux.

  When he sees the Wissous exit, Paul begins to get really worried. “Where the hell are you taking me?”

  “Bordeaux. I’m sure you like wine—”

  “What? You can’t be serious!”

  “We’re going to my mother’s place for Christmas Eve. They’ll like you, don’t worry.”

  He turns around, looking to see if anyone is following us, then makes a joke to reassure himself. “I’ve got it—there’s a camera in the car. This is some sort of cops’ reality show, right?”

  I take a few minutes to explain to him, rather proudly, the deal I have in mind: I will drop the forgery charges against him, and in return he will pretend to be my fiancé over Christmas.

  For what seems a long time, he stares at me in silence. At first, he is utterly incredulous. Then he realizes the truth.

  “Oh my God, you’re not even joking, are you? Did you really mount this entire ambush just because you don’t have the guts to admit your life choices to your family? Jesus! You don’t need a gynecologist, you need a psychiatrist.”

  I take this on the chin, and then, after a few minutes of silence, I come back down to earth. He’s right, of course. I am a coward. And what was I expecting? Did I think he’d enjoy taking part in my role-playing game? Suddenly I feel like the world’s biggest idiot. It is both my strength and my weakness, acting on instinct rather than reason. It was thanks to this personality trait that I solved several difficult cases, enabling me to join the Criminal Division at only thirty-four. But sometimes my intuition fails me and I crash and burn. The idea of introducing this guy to my family now seems inappropriate and absurd.

  Red-faced with shame, I surrender. “You’re right. I…I’m sorry. I’ll make a U-turn and take you back home.”

  “You should stop at the next gas station. You’re almost empty.”

  I fill up the tank. My hands are clammy and the gas fumes are making my head spin. When I return to my car, Paul Malaury is no longer in the passenger seat. I look up and see him through the window of the restaurant, beckoning me over.

  “I got you a tea,” he says when I go inside, gesturing to the seat next to him.

  “Ah, bad choice! I only drink coffee.”

  “That would have been too easy.” He smiles, stands up, and heads back to the vending machine.

  Something about this guy unsettles me—he’s unflappable, almost British in the way he maintains his composure in all circumstances.

  He returns two minutes later and places a cup of coffee and a croissant in front of me.

  “It’s not exactly Pierre Hermé, but it’s not as bad as it looks,” he says to defuse the tension. As if to back up his words, he bites into his own croissant and discreetly stifles a yawn. “I can’t believe you dragged me out of bed at seven a.m.! On the one day when I can sleep in!”

  “I told you, I’m going to take you home. There’ll still be time for you to go back to bed with your sweetheart.”

  He sips his tea and says, “I have to admit that I don’t really understand you. Why would you want to spend Christmas with people who obviously make you unhappy?”

  “Drop it, Malaury. As you said, you’re not a shrink.”

  “And what does your father think of all this?”

  I sweep the question away. “My father died a long time ago.”

  “Will you stop bullshitting me?” he exclaims, handing me his cell phone.

  I look at the screen, knowing in advance what I will find. While I was putting gas in the car, Malaury Googled me. Unsurprisingly, his search led him to a news item, a few months old, detailing my father’s fall from grace.

  Ex-Supercop Alain Schafer

  Sentenced to Two Years in Prison

  Three years ago, news of his arrest exploded like a bombshell within the Lille police department. On September 2, 2007, Chief of Police Alain Schafer was arrested at his home before dawn by Internal Affairs officers investigating his practices and acquaintances.

  After an investigation lasting several months, the IA exposed a large-scale system of corruption and embezzlement set up by this high-ranking judicial police officer.

  An old-style cop, respected—even admired—by his peers, Alain Schafer admitted while in custody to having “crossed the line” by staying on friendly terms with several well-known criminals. Thus began a downward spiral that led, in particular, to the misappropriation of cocaine and marijuana to pay informants before the drugs were sealed as evidence.

  Yesterday, the criminal court in Lille found the former cop guilty of “passive corruption,” “association with criminals,” “drug trafficking,” and “breaches of professional confidentiality.”

  My eyes tear up and I look away from the screen. I know my father’s crimes by heart. “So you’re just a lousy snooper.”

  “Ha—that’s the pot calling the kettle black!”

  “My dad’s in prison. So what?”

  “Maybe you should go and see him at Christmas?”

  “Mind your own business!”

  He does not give up. “May I ask where he’s incarcerated?”

  “What the hell is that to you?”

  “In Lille?”

  “No, in Luynes, near Ai
x-en-Provence. Where his third wife lives.”

  “Why don’t you visit him?”

  I sigh and then raise my voice: “Because I don’t speak to him anymore. He was the one who inspired me to choose this job. He was my role model, the only person I trusted, and he betrayed that trust. He lied to everyone. I’ll never forgive him.”

  “He didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You can’t understand.” Angrily, I jump to my feet, determined to escape from this trap I’ve caught myself in. He holds me back by my arm.

  “Would you like me to go with you?”

  “Listen, Paul, you’re a nice guy—you’re very polite and clearly a disciple of the Dalai Lama—but we don’t know each other. I messed up your morning, and I’ve apologized for that. But if I ever feel like seeing my father again, I think I’ll do it without you, okay?”

  “Whatever you want. Still, Christmas does seem like the perfect time, don’t you think?”

  “You’re getting on my nerves. This isn’t a Disney movie!”

  He gives a thin smile.

  Against my better judgment, I find myself saying to him: “And even if I did want to, I couldn’t. You can’t just turn up to visit a prisoner like that. You need authorization, you need—”

  He interjects: “You’re a cop. You could sort that out over the phone.”

  I decide to call his bluff.

  “Aix-en-Provence is seven hours away. With the snow that’s supposed to fall on Paris this evening, we wouldn’t be able to come back.”

  “Let’s do it!” he says. “I’ll drive.”

  A fire roars in my chest. Unsettled by this turn of events, I hesitate for a few seconds. I want to yield to this crazy idea, but I am not sure of my real motives. Am I excited by the thought of seeing my father again or by the chance to spend time with this stranger who clearly doesn’t judge me no matter what I say or do?

  I look into his eyes, and I like what I see.

  I throw him my keys. He catches them easily.

  Évry, Auxerre, Beaune, Lyon, Valence, Avignon…

  Our long, surreal trip down the “Sunshine Highway” takes us past all these towns. For the first time in a long while, I have lowered my guard with a man. I let it happen; I let myself get carried away. We listen to music on the radio while nibbling Petit Beurre and Pépito cookies. There are crumbs and sunlight everywhere. Like a summer vacation—Provence, the Mediterranean…freedom.

  Everything I need right now.

  It’s 2:30 p.m. when Paul drops me off in front of the prison in Luynes. Throughout the whole trip, I have deliberately avoided thinking about this confrontation with my father. Now, as I stand before the austere façade monitored by security cameras, it is too late to change my mind.

  I emerge a half hour later, in tears but relieved. Relieved to have seen my father again. To have spoken with him. To have planted the seed of a reconciliation that no longer strikes me as impossible. This first step is undoubtedly the best thing I have done in years. And I owe it to a man I barely know. Someone who saw in me something other than what I wanted to show him.

  I don’t know what you’re hiding, Monsieur Malaury—if you’re as twisted as I am or simply a unique person—but thank you.

  With that weight off my shoulders at last, I fall asleep in the car.

  Paul smiles at me.

  “By the way, did I mention that my grandmother has a house on the Amalfi coast? Have you ever been to Italy for Christmas?”

  When I opened my eyes, we had just crossed the Italian border. We are now in San Remo and the sun is setting. Far from Paris, far from Bordeaux, far from the rain and the police.

  I can feel his eyes on me. It is as if I have always known him. I don’t understand how we could have grown so intimate in such a short time.

  There are rare moments when a door opens and life offers you an encounter you had stopped even hoping for. An encounter with someone who complements you, who accepts you as you are, as a whole person, who senses and tolerates your contradictions, your fears, your resentment, your anger, the torrent of dark thoughts that flows through your mind. And who calms it all. Someone who hands you a mirror into which you are no longer afraid to look.

  All it takes is an instant. A look. A meeting. To overturn your entire existence. The right person, the right moment. Chance or fate, the whim of some invisible god.

  We spent Christmas Eve together in a hotel in Rome.

  The next day, we drove along the Amalfi coast, then crossed through the Valley of the Dragon to the hilltop gardens of Ravello.

  Five months later, we were married.

  A week later, I discovered that I was pregnant with our child.

  There are rare moments in life when a door opens and your existence is filled with light. Rare instances when something unlocks inside you. You float weightless through the air. You drive along a highway with no speed limit. Choices become clear, answers replace questions, fear gives way to love.

  Everyone should experience moments like that.

  They rarely last.

  7

  Biting the Dust

  Chinatown

  Today

  10:20 a.m.

  THE SOUND OF the crowd. The nauseating stink of dried fish. The creak of a metal door.

  Gabriel emerged from the pawnshop and took a few steps along Mott Street. Seeing him, Alice was jerked abruptly from her memories.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, seeing the expression on her face.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “So, my husband’s watch?”

  “I got sixteen hundred dollars for it,” he said, proudly waving the sheaf of bills. “And I promise we’ll get it back soon. In the meantime, I think we’ve earned a good breakfast.”

  She nodded and they left Chinatown in search of the more welcoming sidewalks of the Bowery. They walked back up the sunny side of the busy street.

  Not so long ago, this part of Manhattan had been a dangerous area, rife with drug dealers, prostitutes, and homeless people. These days, it was a chic, lively, pleasant place. The street was light and airy, its architecture varied, its store windows colorful. The disconcerting shape of the New Museum stood out from the buildings, little shops, and restaurants that surrounded it. Its seven stories looked like a precariously balanced pile of shoeboxes. With its bold lines and the strange color of its façade—an immaculate white crisscrossed by silver ropes—it exploded like a pale bomb amid the bright colors of the Lower East Side.

  Alice and Gabriel went into the first café they found, the Peppermill Coffee Shop. They sat in a booth with cream banquettes, facing each other. White-tiled walls, moldings, a large bay window, wide oak floorboards—the place was both cozy and refined, a warm and welcome respite from the frenetic energy of Chinatown. Beautiful autumn sunlight poured through a large skylight, illuminating the room and making the espresso machines behind the counter shimmer and sparkle.

  Embedded in the middle of each table, a digital tablet allowed customers to consult the menu, go online, or read a selection of newspapers and magazines.

  Alice looked through the menu. Her stomach was so twisted by hunger that she could hear it growling. A waiter dressed in a shirt, vest, and fedora quickly took their orders. She asked for a cappuccino and a bagel with cream cheese, smoked salmon, shallots, and dill. Gabriel went for a latte and a Monte Cristo sandwich with fries.

  They devoured their food and drank their coffees in practically a single gulp. Alice polished off her salmon bagel. Her hunger sated, she closed her eyes and let her mind drift to the sound of the old blues songs playing on the varnished wooden jukebox. It was an attempt to empty her head and “put her brain cells in order,” as her grandmother used to say. After a moment, she opened her eyes.

  “We must have missed something,” Gabriel said, eating the final bite of his sandwich.

  He signaled for the waiter to refill their coffee cups. Alice nodded in wholehearted agreement.

  “Yes. We have to start again fr
om scratch. Make a list of all the clues and try to find a pattern. The phone number for the Greenwich Hotel, the number scratched into your arm—”

  She stopped mid-flow. A shaggy-haired waiter had just flinched after noticing the bloodstains on her blouse. She discreetly zipped up her jacket.

  “I suggest we divide up the money,” Gabriel said, taking out the sixteen hundred dollars. “There’s no point putting all our eggs in one basket.”

  He handed eight hundred-dollar bills to Alice, who put them in the pocket of her jeans. That was how she found the small cardboard rectangle at the bottom of the pocket. Frowning, she unfolded it on the table.

  “Look at this!”

  It was a claim ticket, the kind given out by coat checks in chic restaurants and hotel luggage drops. Gabriel leaned forward to read the number on the ticket: 127. A watermark of the intertwined letters G and H formed a discreet logo.

  “The Greenwich Hotel!” they exclaimed simultaneously.

  In a single second, their despair was gone.

  “Let’s go!” Alice said.

  “But I haven’t finished my fries yet!”

  “You can eat later, Keyne!”

  Already, Alice was checking the hotel’s address on the touchscreen in the center of the table. Gabriel went to the counter to pay their bill.

  “Corner of Greenwich and North Moore Streets,” she told him when he returned.

  She picked up a knife from the table and slipped it into her jacket pocket. He threw his jacket over his shoulder.

  They left the café together.

  The Honda came to a halt behind two double-parked taxis. In the heart of Tribeca, the Greenwich Hotel was a tall brick-and-glass building not far from the bank of the Hudson.

  “There’s a parking lot just down there, on Chambers Street,” said Gabriel, pointing at a road sign. “I’ll park the car and then—”