by Toby Barlow
Vidot knew he had to stop obsessing about Adèle and concentrate on the matters at hand, but being back in the park had brought all the memories of their courtship blossoming to life, and now his small mind could not stop recalling how energetic Adèle had been when they were first together. He remembered her loving him so completely, so generously, looking up at him afterward, the sweat covering both their bodies, their breathing still hard. “Was that nice for you?” she asked, adding coyly, “Is there anything else you want?” He had not been a particularly adventurous lover, he did the things he believed one was supposed to do, diligently attentive, sweet and romantic, not clinical or cold but certainly not as imaginative, ravenous, or physically demanding as what he had witnessed between her and Alberto. Of course, over the years the constancy of their passion had abated, growing more intermittent and a bit more predictable, but in all that time he had never stopped desiring her; the beauty of her naked body, even as they aged, always thrilled him.
Thinking about their life, though, he realized that there was an imbalance between her desire and what he had provided. Clearly, he had left her wanting more over time. When she had asked, “Is there anything else you want?” she was speaking of her own needs, longing for a kind of affection he had never provided. She had wanted so much more than even what they shared when they had first hungrily groped, lusted, and kissed beneath these dark, obscuring trees. Instead he had given her steadily less. How had he ever let that happen? Perhaps he had let his intellect play too large a role in their life, and, instead of embracing, devouring, and taking her, out of some pure animal need, he had been too rational, analyzing her moods and desires, merely appreciating her when he should have been loving her. He realized that while he had been approaching her body like it was some dry tome, there to be studied and read, someone had come along and snatched the book off the shelf.
The anxiety of all this guilt-inducing second-guessing left him light-headed and hungry. Once again, he reminded himself that he would have to find something to focus on other than Adèle. But first he had to eat. Scrambling deep into the brush of Will’s hair, he dug in his fangs. The woozy satisfaction came fast and hit hard, blurring his senses, the warm blood washing all thoughts of his wife away. He wondered if this is what the hashish and heroin addicts experienced, cured from the daily pains of existence as senses dulled down and the mind clouded over. He was almost unconscious when, like a napping child hearing guests arrive, he vaguely registered a number of new, unrecognizable voices. Curious, he stumbled sleepily down the crest of Will’s skull and fuzzily tried to focus on what was happening in the woods.
A small group of people stood around a clearing in the trees. He counted seven in all, including Will and Oliver. The only other one Vidot recognized was Zoya (he had learned the brunette’s name earlier that day when a lustful Will had been earnestly repeating it during their early-morning exertions). Across from her, another young woman was pointing a gun at Zoya. Another man had a gun pointed at the woman. He, in turn, had a gun pointed at him. What the hell is happening? thought Vidot. I turn my back for one minute and the whole world gets a gun? Then he noticed that while everyone was speaking English, only one of them, the young woman, had an English accent. The rest were Americans, Ah yes, thought Vidot, Americans do like their guns. People started talking fast and he had a hard time following what they were saying.
“Let the girl go.”
“What’s come over you, White?”
“I love her.”
“Don’t be an idiot, White, you’ve never even met her.”
“All I’m saying is, you have to let her go.”
“Why don’t we take care of them all and be done with the whole damn thing?”
“No, that’s sloppy.”
As the small crowd bickered over who should shoot whom, Vidot noticed that Oliver was nervously keeping his eye on one of the men in the group. Then Vidot noticed why, because that man was pointing his gun in their direction, and, more specifically, he was aiming directly at the very head Vidot was perched upon. Now a bit nervous himself, Vidot began surveying the scalps in the group, seeking the most prudent place to hop next.
His thoughts were interrupted when, off to the side, there was movement within the thicket of brush. “Hello? Hello? Are you there?” A high-pitched voice speaking English with a thick Swiss accent came out of the trees. “Excuse me, my, my, I am so sorry I am late. I seem to have lost the trail. Excuse me very much!” Then, after pushing branches out of his path the way a master of ceremonies might part a red curtain, one of the strangest-looking men Vidot had ever seen emerged. He was quite petite, only about a meter and a half tall, wearing a pair of round glasses and a baby blue seersucker suit with a neatly folded pocket square tucked into the breast pocket. Perfectly bald, his pale skin was covered in various roseate and pale pink blotches, much like the belly of an ailing dog. It only took one look for Vidot to realize he did not want to taste that man’s blood.
“Why are you late?” grumbled the American whose gun was still trained on Will.
“Ah, good evening, Brandon, I am afarid I had a very difficult time following your directions. What seems to be the trouble here? I thought you had things under control.”
“Nothing we can’t handle, one of our men here has gone a little soft and romantic,” Brandon said, gesturing toward the man called White.
“I see.” The little fellow walked over to White. “What seems to be the matter here, my friend?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Bendix, I can’t let them kill that girl.”
“But you know she’s critical to the plan. We all talked about it before. We kill her, then Brandon arrests the other two fellows here. It’s simply one of those ménages à trois that’s turned into a horrible crime passionnel.” The little man walked a slow circle around the group, stopping in front of Oliver. “Later, before he can call a lawyer, this fancy one with all the connections hangs himself in his cell, the unfortunate victim of star-crossed passion, while the other”—he looked at Will—“this innocent man from nowhere, he tries to tell his story to the police, to the judge, to anyone who will listen, but of course nobody believes him and so he vanishes into a cell for the rest of his days. Everyone wins, you see? Well,”—he looked over toward Will and Oliver—“almost. So you see, White, it has all been thoroughly thought through, so why the delay?”
“I love her.”
“That’s stupid. He doesn’t even know her,” said Brandon.
“He says he loves her but he does not know her? This sounds very mysterious to me, or perhaps it is normal. I do not know. I abandoned my appetite for women so long ago, it is easy to forget how bewitching they can be. But this does sound unusual. Hmmn.” He walked over to Zoya, stopping less than an inch from her cheek. “She is lovely. May I ask your name, mademoiselle?”
“I am Zoya Fominitchna Polyakov.”
The little man looked shocked. He stepped back, his mouth hanging open wide. “Zoya … Polyakov? Really! How wonderful, how miraculous. Oh my.” He clapped his hands like a small boy who had received a great treat. “Zoya Polyakov, heavens, yes, this is some news! Brandon, you only told me we had a random Russian girl, not the Zoya Polyakov. Indeed, well, this is a moment worthy of true fanfare.”
Zoya’s eyes grew wide. “I do not know you,” she said.
The little man smiled as he waved his finger in the air. “Ah, but I know you, I know everything about you, and about your friend too. What is her name again? Elga. Yes, Elga Sossoka. Of course, who could forget Elga Sossoka? Tell me, where is she these days?”
“I do not know this woman you speak of.”
The little man nodded. “Yes, fine, why don’t we lie to each other? We can always sort out the truths from the lies back at the lab.” He turned to the square-jawed friend. “Well, Brandon, I am afraid this sudden piece of good fortune has altered our plans considerably. Though all to the good, I believe. I am overwhelmed by our luck. Your friend White here is under a ki
nd of spell. You see, she is quite skilled at them—aren’t you, Zoya Polyakov?”
The woman said nothing. White looked confused. “No, don’t talk about her that way. I won’t let you hurt her.”
The little man smiled. “Oh you can relax, White, your lady friend here will not die.” He drew a small revolver out of the holster beneath his suit jacket. “But of course you will.”
Bendix aimed and fired and White’s head snapped to the side as he fell. Then, before his body had landed, the shrill sound of a patrolman’s whistle sounded and a voice shouted out from the brush, “Police! Ne bougez pus. Lâchez vos armes.” The voice was familiar, but before Vidot—who was already bewildered at the great number of people popping up out of the park’s shrubbery—could put a face to the voice there was an even greater commotion as a strange and thunderous thumping noise began to fill the air, like rugs being beaten on a balcony, immediately followed by a wild chorus of piercing screeches.
He heard Oliver yell “Run, Will!” and then, despite the policeman’s insistence that they stop, all the players in the conflict began fleeing in a variety of directions in what quickly became a blur of frantic action. A woman’s voice cried out. More guns were fired. Vidot, craning in vain to see exactly what was happening, could not focus on anything because the skull he was riding on was now tearing through the woods as fast as it possibly could. Navigation was clearly difficult in the dark, and various tree branches came flying in fast at Will’s head, almost scraping poor Vidot. Finally Will stopped, ducking behind a thick tree. He crouched down, breathing hard with panic but otherwise perfectly still, not even moving when the shouts and commotion from the now far-away voices began to fade. Vidot instinctively crouched down too, low on Will’s skull, as if hiding in his own thick forest.
Nearby, a twig broke in the dark. Sensing what was about to happen, Vidot wanted to cry out a warning, Don’t move, don’t say a word. But he couldn’t.
“Oliver?” Will whispered, peering into the dark. “Is that you?”
The small gleam of light, perhaps from a distant streetlamp, caught the edge of the gun as the little man stepped out from the shadows. “No. I’m afraid it is not,” he said. “You will stay silent, please. My driver has the car waiting, parked right past the edge of the trees there. See his headlights? Yes, let’s go.”
Book Four
Really, nobody knows whether the world is realistic or fantastic, that is to say, whether the world is a natural process or whether it is a kind of dream, a dream that we may or may not share with others.
—JORGE LUIS BORGES, The Paris Review
I
Maroc had awoken that day feeling desperate. Lying in his bed, he reflected on how he had only meant for this position to be a brief sojourn in his professional life, a mere stepping-stone to a more lucrative appointment. But lately it had appeared as if this post might wind up derailing his career entirely, for beneath his watch the entire district seemed to be breaking apart in uncontrolled insanity—why, only the night before he had received a report of a victim found with his eyes gouged out and his throat ripped open. To make it worse, neighborhood witnesses had reported that the man had been killed by a chicken.
Enough, thought Maroc. He would have to assert himself more forcefully. He could not have episodes like this—along with police officers simply disappearing off the face of the earth—occur without consequences. The criminals must be found and then they must pay or, as his superior, Papon, had told him yesterday in what had been a very short, curt chat, Maroc himself would pay.
But now, only hours later, the wheel of fortune had turned again and Maroc was feeling a sense of radiant confidence and dawning possibility that made him almost ecstatically hopeful that things were changing for the better. After a week in which he sensed the whole world conspiring against him, good news finally began arriving. He learned the first piece of it that morning when, as he came into work, it was reported to him that Bemm and Vidot’s police patrol car had been recovered. Better still, the suspected thief was locked up downstairs in his jail. Maroc had immediately grabbed Lecan out of his office and the two headed down to the cells. Ignoring all the hissing and lurid catcalls from the prostitutes, they found the cell with the ancient woman sitting cross-legged on her bunk, chewing on a hunk of dry bread. She did not acknowledge them as they watched her through the bars. None of them said a word, and after a few minutes the two men turned and left her alone again.
Back in Maroc’s office they compared notes. “She looks stubborn,” said Detective Lecan.
“That’s quite a black eye she’s got. Wonder who hit her?” said Maroc, sounding uncertain.
“I doubt it was Vidot or Bemm,” said Lecan.
“You’re right. I don’t think an old hag like that could take on two able-bodied police officers. I mean, Vidot was a bit slight, but still.”
“Absolutely, she’s much too ancient. I can’t see her overpowering Vidot. And certainly not Bemm. They were both fit enough to handle an old woman.”
“What’s her story?” Maroc asked, taking a clementine off his desk and peeling it over the wastebasket.
Lecan looked through the report. “The woman says she first found the car over on rue Dupin. Perhaps she’s telling the truth.”
Maroc nodded thoughtfully. “Or she’s conspiring with Vidot’s wife, that’s my bet. The widow gets a new lover, the hag gets a new car. Not a bad deal for either.”
“If we ever find ourselves in a similar situation, I’ll take the car,” Lecan joked.
Maroc smiled as he continued: “We should at least grill the old cow, see what she has to say.”
“Like I said, she looks stubborn,” Lecan said. “I’d let her sit and stew a bit before we try to get anything out of her. Time in the cell will soften her up.”
Leaning back in his chair, Lecan read the rest of the file aloud. “She gave her name as Elga Sossoka, though she has no identification. She claims she took the bus in from the country to visit a friend but when she arrived, she says, she found that the friend had moved. Walking back to the bus, she saw the car with the keys hanging out the door. She says her feet were feeling sore and her ankles were swollen, so she took it and drove it around for a few days, trying to track this old friend down. She says she knew it was wrong to take the car, but she’s getting older and her mind makes mistakes.” Lecan threw the report across the desk. “Ridiculous! Who does that sort of thing? In a police car? Too absurd. I could blow up that story in ten minutes.”
“So blow it up,” said Maroc.
Lecan picked up the phone and instructed an officer to drive out to the address near Cergy where she claimed she had been living. “See if anyone’s there, tell them we have her in our cells. Let them know they might want to send a lawyer, but they shouldn’t expect her home anytime soon. Then ask a few questions and see what you can find out about her.”
Maroc nodded as Lecan hung up the phone. “You’re right, twenty-four hours in a cell should soften her up, then we’ll put the screws to her. I bet she’s in it with Vidot’s wife. I can smell it. Which reminds me”—he picked up a stack of papers and waved them at Lecan—“Pingeot brought these transcripts by yesterday, want to take a look?”
Maroc had placed Madame Vidot and her lover under twenty-four-hour surveillance, tapping their phone lines and watching each of their homes. Though the lovers had not attempted to meet, they spoke often. Which is how, the previous afternoon, Maroc had found himself listening to his very nervous subordinate, the young Christian Pingeot, reading lurid and explicit pornography out loud to him for the better part of an hour. “Then this Alberto fellow says”—the officer had cleared his throat—“ahem, ‘I want, um,’ ahem, ‘I want to thrust my spear deep into you, your’ … sir, I really cannot.”
“Read it to me, officer.”
“All right, sir. ‘I want to thrust my spear deep into your moist petals’—please, sir.”
Maroc had to agree it was pretty bad stuff. But he had
made poor Pingeot continue, simply because he enjoyed seeing the officer’s discomfort. Now he gleefully handed the transcripts to Lecan.
Lecan read the report with wide eyes. “My, this fellow Alberto is a terrible poet,” he said.
“Well, he certainly is Italian,” Maroc conceded.
Lecan smiled. “Do the two know we are watching them?”
“Hard to say. But she won’t let him come to her flat. And they cannot go to Alberto’s, his wife is there. So see what he proposes?” Maroc pointed to a section of the transcript.
Lecan read it and smiled. “Ah-ha, the rascal, he wants her to meet him tonight in the Bois.”
Maroc clapped his hands. “Ha ha, such good old-fashioned naughtiness. Makes me feel young again,” he laughed. “Well, why not join in the fun, eh? Are you up for a bit of surveillance tonight? Maybe we can catch them with his pants down and her skirt up and then bring them in for some real questioning.” He grinned lasciviously.
“Well, between those two and that one in the cage downstairs, we should be able to make some progress,” said Lecan.
“I agree, I agree,” said Maroc. “It’s a very exciting day.” And so they made their arrangements.
Later that night, sitting in an unmarked car across the boulevard, they watched as their subject Alberto paced back and forth on a lamp-lit corner of the park. They had followed Alberto from his apartment and now, having waited for almost half an hour, all of them were growing impatient for Madame Vidot’s arrival.
Lecan lit a Gauloise.
“You fool,” said Maroc. “Put it out; she’ll see us if she comes up now.”
“She’s not coming,” said Lecan.
“Impossible,” said Maroc. “You read those dirty transcripts, the woman is like a cat in heat.”
Lecan looked at his watch. “Maybe her conscience got the better of her. Maybe she feels bad about that nice husband she killed. Who knows? What I do know is we have been here for some time and there’s no sign of her. I honestly don’t know why he’s still waiting. The little slut stood him up.”
