by Cara Black
She stood up, shimmied out of her dress, and belted her father’s old flannel bathrobe around herself. In the dark kitchen, crisscrossed by rays of light from the streetlamps on the quai below, she squeezed a lemon and poured the juice and pulp into a glass of water. Mid-sip, it hit her where she’d seen women behind the veil. The Cahiers de Cinema Club last week, of course. At the screening of the classic 1960s film Battle of Algiers. Late from work, she’d missed the beginning, caught the last half. Now she remembered. The scene of apprehensive Algerian women applying makeup and donning short skirts, passing the Casbah checkpoint and flirting with occupying French soldiers while bombs were hidden in their breadbaskets. The youngest one entered a café in the European quartier, slipping her basket under the stool. On her way back, she put on her chador and re-entered the Casbah, joining the other women. Anonymous.
She ran back to her room, scrambled on her desk for the film brochure, found it. Under a brief synopsis of the film, she read the accompanying notes excerpted from a Muslim woman’s short story.
“Why do we conceal? They never understand . . . we stay behind the veil, the wall, that is our way. A secret, a private truth is no longer private if it goes past these borders. A dropped word, our ancestors knew, becomes a newspaper headline, broadcast to one and all, for if one person hears it, down the road, a trickle here, there, it’s public knowledge. Like the growing mint by the fountain in the courtyard compound, it flourishes protected from the wind. Words do not trail on the hem of a chador in the dust of the market street.”
Poetic, haunting, and secretive, this glimpse behind the veil. How could she penetrate this world?
She lay down, set her alarm, worried that she’d missed something important staring her in the face. The next thing she knew, her cell phone rang. She must have closed her eyes. The red digital clock beside her bedside said 4:57.
Her mind cleared and she grabbed her cell phone. But the ringing came from Yves’s phone, which was re-charging on her secretaire. Startled, she reached over and picked it up.
“Allô?”
Silence.
“Who’s this?”
“I’m Yves’s friend,” Aimée said, trying to gain trust, to get someone to speak. “You can talk.”
A passing barge cast blue oblongs of light over the carved woodwork ceiling. She waited, fingering the phone cord. The caller must have something to say, something vital, important.
“Please, it’s safe; talk to me.”
She’d given Mehmet her number; why hadn’t he called her on her own phone?
“Allô?”
The phone clicked off.
And the realization dawned as she shivered with fear. Someone had heard her voice and now knew she had Yves’s phone. Her hand tightened on the phone in dread, wondering if it had been his killer.
Wednesday Morning
VATEL PULLED THE baseball cap low over his eyes. A rose-violet hue spread in the sun-deepening sky. The narrow street lay quiet and expectant, as if the sleeping populace held its breath.
Vatel’s feet crunched on the pavement. His eyes caught the beige grains, the fine Saharan sand borne by the African scirocco dusting the cars and street. He’d only seen it happen here once before. An omen. But of what, he didn’t know.
At rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, he checked his watch, waiting across the street from No. 83. Inside, he knew the three-deep courtyard building held a small mosque. The dark green doors parted, revealing men bent in prostration on prayer mats, overflowing the cobbled space and narrow foyer, under mailboxes with names in Chinese, Tamil, and Turkish.
He knew the prayers. In his village, the Alevis had been forced to worship at the mosque. Otherwise the Turkish mayor would withold the Kurdish schoolteacher’s salary. Mehmet appeared: grizzled black hair, suit jacket over a sweater-vest in the heat. In a sea of Turkish men scurrying off to work, Vatel caught Mehmet’s gaze. Mehmet shot him a look and nodded. But instead of nodding back, Vatel lifted his chin slightly and kept on walking.
Vatel passed the crowded café, the preserve of smoking men drinking tiny cups of coffee. No women. Like back home. He paused in the doorway of a small shop crammed with telephone cabinets for overseas calls, to make sure Mehmet followed. Then he moved at a fast clip through Passage Prado, rundown art-deco steel-and-glass ceiling overhead, lined with small clothing shops.
Vatel pushed down his fear of recognition and kept several feet ahead. Just before the looming arch of Porte Saint-Martin, he turned into a narrow street and looked back. No Mehmet.
He panicked. And then the black grizzled hair came into view.
“Ssss,” hissed Vatel. He’d reached the Second-Empire Theatre de la Renaissance, named by Victor Hugo for then-popular opera-comique performances. He knew the stagehand kept the side stage door open in the morning for deliveries. He stepped into the doorway and beckoned to Mehmet.
Mehmet joined him inside the narrow musty-carpeted corridor stacked with chairs. Vatel pointed to a room with a sign, “Wardrobe.” Inside, on wheeled racks covered by clear plastic, hung costumes, period pieces by the look of them.
“How did you find this place?” Mehmet asked, looking around.
“More important, Mehmet,” Vatel said, “how can I find the Yellow Crescent before they find me?”
“You?” Mehmet’s protuberant eyes popped.
“The mec who was slit on rue de Paradis? He had their signature. . . .”
“Signature? He wasn’t a Turk, or even a Kurd!”
Vatel froze. He remembered the dark hair, dark complexion . . . and the knife curl of flesh slashed under the ear just like on the bodies in his village. The Yellow Crescent’s signature to send a message to the Kurdish Rebels.
“The mec was a French journalist.” Mehmet clicked his worry beads, shaking his head.
No wonder the Brigade was investigating.
Vatel cast a nervous look at the costumes.
“Why so curious?”
Vatel heard suspicion in Mehmet’s voice.
“I work across the street, remember? The Brigade’s been asking questions.”
“So has the journalist’s big-eyed girlfriend.”
More complications.
Cold filled his insides. Mehmet kept his ear to the ground in the quartier. This grew more complicated, more twisted all the time. Had he figured wrong?
Even for the Yellow Crescent, this move struck him as bold. Arrogant. Though he knew the authorities, much less this woman, couldn’t begin to penetrate their web.
“Eyes watch everywhere,” Mehmet said. “But this feels wrong for the Yellow Crescent.”
The flics avoided internal rivalries in the closed Turkish community; but with a murdered journalist. . . . No wonder this Florand wanted him to inform.
“What’s the word on the street?”
“The dead junkie, you know the types from the Canal? He got nabbed with the journalist’s wallet.”
Probably one of the two-way hustlers he’d seen in the doorway on rue de Paradis.
“So far, they put it down to robbery.”
Vatel doubted it.
“It’s more,” Vatel said. “You know that.”
Mehmet clicked his worry beads faster. “I know nothing.”
“Yet last week in the café, you insisted that the Yellow Crescent had posted that article in the laundromat.”
Mehmet shook his head. “Yellow Crescent, the Turkish military . . . ? They’d never dare kill a journalist. You must talk to the wise one.”
“He’s not back.”
Mehmet nodded. “He returns tonight or tomorrow.”
Vatel marshaled his thoughts, trying to figure out what was bothering him.
“Count me out,” Mehmet said. “I know nothing. I can’t get involved.”
But Vatel had to give some morsel to Florand. Mehmet had been a concierge in the quartier for years; he knew everyone, and everyone knew him.
“What did you leave out, Mehmet?” Vatel advanced closer, hemme
d in by costumes. The walls were lined with waistcoats on hangers and knee-high boots lined up like soldiers.
“Finding a scrap of paper in the wallet . . . who knows what it really means, eh?” Mehmet averted his eyes, shrugged. “It’s just a sugar wrapper.”
“I’m waiting.”
“For what? I told you. . . .”
Vatel visualized rue de Paradis: the breaking dawn, the ceramic tiled doorway, the hustlers down the street, the black chador, the street cleaner dropping his broom, and the figure. . . .
“Who else saw, Mehmet?”
“The blubbering mouse from Istanbul.” Mehmet sighed. “He cleans the trains at Gare du Nord.”
“His name?”
Mehmet shrugged. “I told you, fare.”
“Mouse?”
The sound of footsteps and whistling came from the hall. An old Georges Brassens tune. Mehmet leaned closer, lowered his voice, and lapsed into Turkish. “Ufak bir fare gibi, little like a mouse.”
“There’s more, I can tell.”
“Jalenka Malat’s the target,” Mehmet said, looking at his feet. “Tonight.”
Wednesday Morning
AT HER WINDOW overlooking the Seine, Aimée sipped an espresso and checked e-mail. One from Michel requesting her to check in at Microimages. The next from Laure: No dice with the homicide report.
Too bad. She had learned nothing about Yves’s murder. But knowing Bordereau, he’d pass on the information about the possible “assassination” even if the only evidence was a sugar wrapper written on in Turkish.
She wished she understood. At least the fever and chills had gone. She tried to repress her unease at the early-morning call on Yves’s phone, knew she had to concentrate on things at hand. She looked at the clock.
Late.
She was late to pick up Miles Davis at the vet. She donned a black raw silk spaghetti-strapped agnes b. dress from the seconds bin at Porte de Vanves flea market, slipped into heels, and grabbed the dog carrier.
The Metro journey to the clinic involved crossing to the Left Bank and changing three times. But in her book, Dr. Rouzeyrol rated as a surgical genius after he’d stitched Miles Davis’s paw back on following a vicious pit bull attack. And Miles Davis adored him.
“CAME OUT OF it like a champ!” said Dr. Rouzeyrol, a smiling rosy-cheeked well-built man in his thirties.
Miles Davis, hair clipped short, sporting a new tartan collar, scampered into her waiting arms.
“Shots up to date, microchipped, and with pearl-white teeth; you can take him anywhere.”
“Hear that? I can take you to Fouquet’s now.”
Miles Davis responded by licking her ear.
“Speaking of Fouquet’s, they have a sud-ouest prix-fixe menu, Aimée,” he said. “We had a veterinary dinner there the other night. A superb seared magret au canard crusted with lavender and cracked pepper.”
Miles Davis’s ears shot to attention.
“I’d love to meet you and Miles Davis there,” he said. “Some evening this week?”
She liked him and wished that sparks flew. Martine would insist she go; he had a booming practice, Miles Davis loved him and he didn’t hurt the eyes. But after Yves, the thought of dinner with another man felt wrong.
She shrugged. “Dr. Rouzeyrol—”
“Antoine,” he said, moving closer. “We’ve been saying we’d do this for ages. Tomorrow?”
“I’d love to, but with work and this cold. . . .” She saw the disappointment in his blue eyes, his hands clenching in the pockets of his white coat.
“Dr. Rouzeyrol,” said his middle-aged receptionist, appraising Aimée’s outfit. “A poodle in room three and Madame de Songe’s Siamese in room five.”
“Another time.” He squeezed Aimée’s arm and disappeared into a consulting room.
She set Miles Davis down, leashed him, and pulled her checkbook from her bag. A crumpled paper fell on the tiled floor. An old fax receipt. And her mind went back to the fax from the State Department.
Outside, on Avenue Lowendahl, a light breeze dispelled the wavering heat. Instead of heading to Cambronne Metro station, she walked toward Place de Fontanoy. UNESCO headquarters lay a block away.
A fleeting chance that she’d find some link to her mother.
The hundreds of world flags surrounding UNESCO’s headquarters waved in the light wind, their ropes pinging against the metal struts. The building, a swooping white-roofed ’60s design of concrete and white blocks, could use a steam-cleaning, she thought. She crossed the yard of white flagstone to the entrance. Her mother had walked across these stones years ago every day for her job. Aimée wished for some feeling of connection. But all she felt were the ripples of hot air as men in three-piece suits, engaged in conversation, passed by.
Miles Davis was in his tartan carry bag slung over her shoulder. Inside, she paused at the reception desk and looked around. Groups of people gathered, others entered the double walnut doors to large meeting rooms. A conference sign read: UNESCO Bridging the World.
What could she hope to accomplish here? It had all happened more than twenty years ago.
“May I direct you to a conference room?” A woman wearing a beige suit with red-framed glasses smiled at her. “These large events get confusing, and we’ve had some room changes.”
Aimée frowned. “I don’t know if you can help.” She hesitated. The smart thing would be to excuse herself, turn around and leave. “My mother worked here in 1968.” She couldn’t believe she’d said . . . her mother. But it had slid out without a stammer or a missed beat. “I wondered. . . .”
“Ah, you want to know about Roberta Tash’s retirement party.” The woman nodded. “You’re the third one today. We’re getting so many queries from past employees, project members and their families. Such a great outpouring, a testament to Roberta’s more than twenty-five years of service.”
The woman patted Miles Davis’s head, took Aimée’s elbow, and edged her toward a reception area. “The party’s at Hotel le Bristol. More invitations are being printed up, but here . . . take this.”
Aimée stared at the embossed card in her hand.
“Don’t forget to call that number and RSVP.”
“RSVP?”
“Everyone’s invited who’s worked here during the past thirty years. Roberta’s touched every part of our work at UNESCO, and it’s our way of celebrating her accomplishments. Of course your mother . . . what did you say her name is?”
“Sydney . . . Sydney Leduc.”
The woman gave a brief shake of her head. “Before my time, but we’re a big family here. I’m sure you’ve heard this from your mother, but it’s like we say, ‘No one really leaves.’” The woman grinned. “We’ve got people flying in from Africa, the Middle East, you name it, Roberta’s influenced generations of us at UNESCO.”
Aimée cleared her throat.
“What’s your name?”
“Aimée, but. . . .”
“I’ll just write your name down and I’ll tell Roberta later.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, Roberta likes to prepare for her guests. A stickler for detail. Will you be attending with your mother?”
Struck dumb one of the few times in her life, Aimée just blinked. A group of women in saris crowded the reception. Distracted, the woman smiled again.
“Wonderful. Here, I’ll RSVP for you, the caterers need to know today . . . Roberta will be delighted.”
AIMÉE SAT ON the bus, Miles Davis on her lap, reading the thick cream-colored engraved invitation. “UNESCO requests your presence to celebrate Roberta Tash’s retirement from our ‘family.’ No gifts, please, your presence is enough, donations accepted in Roberta’s name to Save the Children, Roberta’s pet project.”
Roberta must have known her mother, maybe worked with her. Again she felt a fleeting hope that her mother would appear at the party. Impossible. A woman on the world security watch list wouldn’t risk that. Even if she was alive. But perhaps Aimée coul
d get this Roberta’s attention for five minutes and pick her brain.
At her local café-tabac on Ile St. Louis, she picked up a copy of Le Monde. Then around the corner from her apartment, she stopped at the butchers’. Jules, in a blood-stained white apron, greeted her with a knowing smile.
“A visit to the vet, eh?” Jules said. “The usual?”
She nodded.
Jules wrapped a kilo of horsemeat in waxed white paper, threw in some bones for Miles Davis. “Just in time, Aimée. I’m closing for vacances.”
“St. Malo?”
“Where else?”
Every year, Jules and his family decamped to his mother’s at the seaside.
“And you?”
“Work. No rest for the wicked.”
“Everyone needs a break.” Jules winked. “Even sinners.”
She set the franc notes on the counter. Her gaze fell on the row of sharpened knives in holders on his wall. Bone-handled, individually crafted by Laguiole, the premium knife maker.
Jules noticed her gaze. “Perfect for lamb. Slices the cartilage with a clean line.”
She winced. But couldn’t help wondering what kind of knife had been used to slit Yves’s throat.
“Jules, would you need a special knife, say one that curved, to carve a curl in flesh?”
“Been reading Agatha Christie, eh?”
He applied a goat-horn-handled knife from the marble-topped cutting board to a glistening slab of white fat suet and flicked his wrist. “Like this?”
A curl like a c resulted.
Her hand trembled. Any sharp blade could have made the swirl under Yves’s neck. But from the way Jules carved, she learned an important thing: There was no way someone could have faced Yves and done it. They would have had to come on him from behind.
A coward. And afraid of recognition.
The bells jingled on the butcher-shop door as she shut it. She rounded the corner to quai d’Anjou, pressed the digicode to her building, followed a scampering Miles Davis up the worn grooved steps of the marble staircase to her apartment. And faced a pile of mail, bills and more bills at her door.
