The Cafe Girl

by Ian Loome

  Safely ensconced in the interview room and away from prying peers, the Fish felt comfortable enough to let loose. He lit a cigarette offered by Vaillancourt from a pack of Gitanes, inhaling so deeply that the ash quickly crept south, then blowing out a massive lungful of acrid blue-white smoke. 'Mon Dieu, that's good!' he said. 'I tell you, Vaillancourt: of all the coppers in this town, you are the only one who treats me like a human being. I'm not sure you're right myself half the time, but the effort is much appreciated, my friend.'

  'You used to be a heavy smoker, yes?'

  'Yes, back before... well, before the war anyway. I could go through a packet or two in a day quite easily.'

  'And these days?'

  'Less so. You know how it is. People are very wasteful, even now, and they toss away almost as much tobacco as they smoke. So it is the easiest thing to find. But it would still be preferable to have the real thing, of course...'

  'Rolled by someone else's hand.'

  'Exactly!'

  'What about American cigarettes?' Vaillancourt said, breaching the topic cautiously. He had no way of knowing what type of criminal was behind the cigarette ring, but it was possible that Anatole did. He didn't want to spook the man. 'You like them? I like them more than British, I think.'

  'Sure, some of them,' Anatole said. 'Is that why you need to talk to me? You need some American cigarettes?'

  'I most certainly would like some, yes. And you know everyone's business.'

  'What kind of volume of product would you be looking for?'

  'Just a packet.' Vaillancourt didn't want Anatole trying to ambitiously involve himself in some major racket. For one packet of cigarettes, the stoolie would likely go directly to a retail street source. And that was a real starting point.

  'You brought me in for... ? Okay, my man, if that's what you want.'

  What Vaillancourt wanted was even simpler than that. Vaillancourt wanted to follow the Fish to the source. And the Fish obliged, strolling out of the Fourteenth Precinct with a smile on his face, one hundred francs in his pocket, and a careful policeman one block behind.

  The Fish strolled up Avenue du Main without a care, hands in pockets and a whistle on his lips. His preferred profession being to pick pockets, he tilted his head one way or the other from time to time, as if gauging the chance to pinch from a passerby. Vaillancourt maintained his safe distance but was otherwise unconcerned about being spotted. It was a gusty, dreary afternoon and, after a few minutes, they reached the broad Boulevard Montparnasse and the Fish floated south east. A block later, he arrived at a newspaper kiosk staffed by a heavyset man with butcher forearms, a bushy brown moustache and beady eyes.

  The man leaned across the kiosk counter and they talked. The man nodded towards the back of the kiosk, and the Fish looked around quickly and furtively before following him.

  So, more than just cigarettes.

  Ten minutes later, Anatole the Fish stumbled out of the back of the kiosk, his eyes glazed, his gait reluctant and unbalanced. He began to wander back up the street while Vaillancourt kept watch from across the road. The kiosk would be a waiting game, he knew. Eventually, the attendant or owner would close it up for the night, and then he would follow him home, and see what he could find out about him.

  He still had no idea whether any officers were involved. But he had a lead on a case, a real one. And for a few moments, as he watched the kiosk attendant read a glossy detective magazine in bored fashion, Vaillancourt felt like a detective again.

  5....

  Giraud sat quietly with the boy for an hour, both with little else to say. He wondered about the apartment buildings and their occupants, who looked down on the cul-de-sac from Juliet-balconied windows. Doubtless they were customers at the cafe and, once upon a time, at the dress shop. Perhaps they could serve as his dramatic inspiration.

  Piano music began to drift around the cul-de-sac; across at the cafe, a young, thin man with a neatly trimmed brown beard and sideburns was sitting at the upright; he had on a denim suit and red neckerchief, along with a flat cap, and looked not unlike a thousand other piano players in Paris. Unlike most, however, he was smiling as he played, his fingers fairly bouncing across the keys as he kicked off some ragtime, Scott Joplin's Maple Leaf Rag.

  Pascal looked at his older friend. The policeman's face had darkened.

  'What is the matter, monsieur?'

  'The man playing the piano is being very foolish, Pascal, that is what is the matter.'

  The boy looked confused. 'You don't like his playing?'

  'I think he is most talented. But the music he is playing, the Germans call it 'Der Negermusik,' the music of the blacks, the black Americans.'

  'You mean jazz?'

  'And Gospel. And ragtime. And blues. The Nazis have no love for the black music, especially given that much of it is produced by Jews in New York and Chicago. If he is caught playing this music, he risks detention or worse.'

  'Are you going to stop him?'

  'What?' He looked down at the boy. 'No, of course not! But I may speak with him to warn him. I understand his passion, and I do like the jazz myself. Our own great Django Reinhardt has made many an evening more memorable. But the Nazis are here and, at least for now, we must accommodate some small changes.'

  Pascal soured at that. 'You know, my uncle has told me the Nazis hold great promise, with their respect for faith and family. And they are taking it to the communists in Russia! But...'

  'You do not like everything about them. Their hatred of some things...'

  'Some things, I understand,' the boy said. 'Everyone hates the English. But Jazz music? And my grandfather, he told me we had a cousin who was a Jew...'

  The policeman's alarmed look gave the boy pause.

  'What...?' The boy looked around instinctively to see if there were any German soldiers nearby. 'What did I say?'

  Giraud lowered his voice and grabbed the boy by the wrist, holding it firmly. 'NEVER admit that you have a relative who is a Jew, boy. Never. Not to anyone. Not to me, not to your friends, and certainly never to a German. I would not even mention it around your uncle, in case he has forgotten or does not know. The only thing the Nazis hate worse that the blacks or the homosexuals are the Jews.'

  In the cafe, the song had finished and the half-dozen patrons gave polite applause, along with some mirthful laughter at his bravery.

  Fools, Giraud thought. They may as well have pennies on their eyelids, every last one, for all the chance they'll make it through this.

  As certain as he was that the Germans were going to win, he was also absolutely positive that it would be in part due to the rote brutality of their approach. And he was equally positive that the loutish Englishmen, their bellies full of beer and eel pie, would fight on just as thuggishly. That could prolong things; it would most certainly lead to more dead Frenchmen. He had no intention of being one of them, despite what these fools thought.

  Perhaps a show of intimidation was in order.

  Giraud rose. 'Stay here,' he told Pascal.

  He crossed the street to the cafe with an officious bearing, but did not push open the gate and enter. Instead, he wandered the length of its metal barricade fencing to the piano player. He nodded towards him. 'You play well, monsieur.'

  The man appeared acutely cautious, as all did when addressing authority in the city, particularly someone unknown. 'Thank you, sir. I did not realize you were there...'

  Giraud nodded in the park's direction. 'I was sitting on the bench, with the boy. He liked the song. I told him to forget about it for now. You understand?'

  'I understand, but I also know there is no law...'

  Giraud lowered his voice. 'No, but there is common sense. Even if they do not drag you away, you risk them sending soldiers to 'mingle' and socialize here, as they do around the rest of the city, as if their handful of pressed grey uniforms and shiny jackboots do not stand out like a mole on the tip of a beautiful woman's nose. They will come, and they will lounge about as
if they own the place, and they will disparage our people. And if you play ragtime to them, they will call it Negermusik, and you an affront to the Reich. And then you WILL disappear, Monsieur, I can most assuredly guarantee it.'

  The young man half-turned, his mouth a sharp, angry line and his brow furrowed as he tried to keep his temper. The policeman could not know what it meant to him, to play music from America, where he'd labored so hard to learn his craft, where he'd built a life, and lost a wife and child to tuberculosis. And the policeman would not always be around.

  'I do not wish this, monsieur,' Giraud added. 'But I do expect it if you are not more tactful.'

  The man sighed, exasperated but unable to argue. Ultimately, it seemed, the policeman was passing along a rational sentiment. 'I shall keep this in mind, monsieur,' the piano player said. 'I do not recognize you. Are you an officer in the Eighteenth...?'

  'No, but I live in the Tenth and am deputy divisional superintendent in Saint Denis.'

  'Ah, yes. Difficult times there, eh?'

  Giraud nodded. 'To be quite candid, I would much rather spend my entire day here in the park, listening to you play jazz. You play quite excellently. You are formally trained?'

  'The conservatory and the Julliard School in New York.'

  'That explains it. And the best you could find was this?'

  'I had a good job there but I had to leave. It was... complicated. And here, my political opinions, like so many, are equally unwelcome. It makes the job market somewhat restrictive, given the times.'

  'I sympathize. And as I said, I would spend all day listening. But until der Fuehrer decides to start taking my advice, it is beyond my control. And I am tasked with spending at least half the day in the office, directing policemen.'

  The piano player relaxed. 'Thank you for trying to warn me, monsieur,' he said. 'Although it must be said, I may be beyond help. Sometimes the music just decides for itself what I must play.'

  'Duly noted,' Giraud said. 'And now I bid you good day, sir.'

  He turned on his heel, hands behind his back, and strolled back across the road, where he sat back down and took his notepad and pen from the bench.

  'He did not look very happy,' Pascal said.

  'I do not blame him. It is... distasteful, censoring ourselves. But all thing change, with time.'

  In truth, he hoped the piano player would get out of the city. Perhaps, Giraud thought to himself, he would recommend it the next time they talked. He seemed to have real talent, the kind upon which he could build a future. But not in France, and certainly not playing Scott Joplin. The Nazis liked their music like their uniforms and architecture: austere and self-important.

  The piano player had switched to a waltz -- the Blue Danube, Giraud recognized. He smiled slightly and noticed the piano player gazing his way across the road, his shoulders moving in mockingly exaggerated tones as he played a version of the song, a Nazi favorite.

  'He stopped playing jazz,' Pascal said. He sounded disappointed. He looked up cherubically, face serious under his long bangs. 'Monsieur, I am uncertain how much I would want to live if I was not allowed to listen to the music I loved.'

  That caught Giraud by surprise. It was a profound thought for such a small boy. He himself had often considered how essential it was that he could go home after a busy day and unwind to Chopin, or perhaps a tenor from Caruso or Martinelli. Or, on those days when things were a little easier to take, something lighthearted from Chevalier, or the new boy, Charles Trenet.

  The lone bus on the northern number eight route pulled to a stop in front of the park and a pair of elderly passengers disembarked. The old woman held her husband's arm and he leaned on a cane as they crossed the street. She had a pale brown shawl on and her back was stooped, but he dipped slightly at his left shoulder to give her sturdier support. His grey suit was slightly too large, from when he was younger and stronger, but he wore it well, and it was immaculately pressed, as if they were returning not from a few hours away but from an important church engagement.

  The couple concluded crossing the road and the bus pulled away from the stop, slowly building up speed, the big gearbox crunching audibly, black exhaust fumes drifting into the park. Giraud's nose wrinkled and his eyes followed the bus for a few seconds then flitted back towards the cafe, the pair of happy patrons and the piano player. Then his gaze continued to his left, briefly catching sight of a turquoise dress, and then right back to the cafe...

  He looked the other way, to where she'd been standing. It was a woman, he was sure of it. She'd been standing on the corner of one of the hilly streets leading away from the cul-de-sac, in the shadows of the building as the old couple passed.

  But when he looked back, there was no one there.

  Giraud squinted. The dress had been a vivid blue, so he could not possibly have imagined it....could he? He was puzzled.

  He'd heard cases of men who came back from war and were plagued by visitations and a racing mindset. But he had remained strong throughout Morocco, resolute. There had been a woman. He had not imagined it, of that he was certain.

  Or... was he? There could have been some other unexamined explanation. Something he misunderstood or misinterpreted. Perhaps a truck had passed at the top of the street with a picture of a maiden on its side, and he'd seen it from the corner of is eye...

  'Pascal...'

  'Yes, monsieur?'

  'Pascal, did you see a woman standing across the road a moment ago?'

  'A woman?'

  'Yes, in a bright blue dress. Just there,' he gestured to the corner.

  'No monsieur, but I was not paying attention,' the boy said. 'Monsieur Giraud...'

  'Yes, Pascal?'

  'My uncle says men must be confident with women and let them know who is boss. But I confess, even though I try to be grown-up about it, girls seem stupid to me.'

  'Try to hold onto that feeling,' the policeman said. 'In a few years, it will give you great understanding into how your special someone feels about the things that you do as a grown man. In fact, it must be said that the married world runs, as far as one can tell, on a mutual respect for one another's stupidity. I highly recommend avoiding it for as long as possible.'

  Pascal seemed puzzled. 'Then why do people marry at all, monsieur?'

  'Hmm? Well, because it's not as much fun being stupid on one's own, I suppose.'

  It was strange, Giraud thought; he had been certain it was a shapely blue dress, which implied a shapely woman wearing it. But she had perhaps been a figment of his imagination.

  The kiosk owner closed up shop at dinner time, just after six o'clock, when the flow of foot traffic along the boulevard had been reduced to a slow drip, as the sun sank and the evening set in. He secured the back of the kiosk with a padlock then put on his navy blue overcoat. He scanned the area in a perfunctory, habitual way, but didn't really focus on the bench across the street, where Vaillancourt sat reading that day's paper.

  With his own newspaper under arm, the kiosk owner headed south along the boulevard. Vaillancourt waited until he'd gone a hundred feet before pursuing him, once again respecting the need for caution. At the corner of Avenue de l'Observatoire, the man trotted down the stone steps to the metro and Vaillancourt had to sprint to keep him in sight, taking his chances inside the station that he would not be spotted or suspected among the crowds of commuters.

  The kiosk owner climbed aboard the train heading south towards Denfert-Rochereau Station. Vaillancourt climbed aboard the next car and took up a position by the rear door. The conductor was about to shoo him away from it, but he flipped open his badge quickly, before secreting it back into his rumpled raincoat, and the man backed away silently.

  At Port D'Orleans station, the kiosk clerk debarked and Vaillancourt kept up his surveillance. The suburb was small and less busy, and there were fewer people milling around the platform and stairs; but the retailer had little reason to worry. Vaillancourt supposed he wasn't carrying drugs or money, or not much at any ra
te.

  They ascended the wide flight of stairs in turn, exiting onto Les Boulevard des Marechaux, where dual tram lines crossed the city. At La Place des Porte de la Chatillons, both men boarded a tram heading west. Vaillancourt was beginning to wonder if he'd been spotted; it surely wasn't the man's most timely route home, and was beginning to feel almost as if he was trying to shake a tail.

  Three blocks later, the man quickly rose from his seat and climbed off at the first opportunity. Vaillancourt joined him. The man picked up his pace, heading south on Avenue de la Republique. He was walking quickly now, and occasionally would glance backwards.

  He's seen me, Vaillancourt mused. Better stay tight now, sweat him out until he runs. The man was portly and the policeman hoped not a track athlete in disguise. His own health issues meant he'd have trouble keeping pace if such was the case.

  At the next corner, the man turned at the last moment, into an alleyway. Vaillancourt was never a fan of firearms and, without day-to-day involvement in violent crime, had gotten out of the habit of carrying his pistol. You only miss it when you need it, he thought. The alley was insecure, hidden from prying eyes.

  He turned the corner cautiously to give chase... but the alley was empty.

  On the wall to his left, a door sat slightly recessed. Vaillancourt tried the handle and the door swung open with a loud squeak. He felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up, like a specter sliding down his spine. He took a half-step forward then kicked the door as hard as he could. It slammed backwards into the man behind it, slamming his head into the wall with a thud and a sharp cry of pain. A pistol clattered to the ground, and before the man behind the door or the kiosk owner could react, Vaillancourt had climbed inside, reached down and scooped it up.

  The man behind the door stumbled into the center of the room, which was empty and dusty. The policeman supposed the building was vacant.