by Ian Loome
It was true. Giraud's head swiveled precisely.
She was wearing almost boyish clothes that day, which was different for her; she'd been so dainty up until then. Denim overalls and a sweater. It should have looked bulky and ridiculous on her lithe, tiny frame but she managed to exude grace and beauty nonetheless. A man with a neat, clipped black moustache and a brown business suit was receiving the best of her service attention, telling her a joke as she poured him coffee. Giraud thought he recognized him as one of Anton Levesque's columnists, and he doubted that newspapermen were really that witty. Isabelle was probably just humoring him, being the perfect waitress that she was.
She drifted over to the piano player, Luc, who was gently tinkling the ivories, and they laughed at each other's comments for a moment. It was as if she made everyone she spoke with happy, Giraud thought. Isabelle looked around the patio one more time to ensure everything was as it should be; then she pulled out a chair at a table next to the young man who'd been there the week prior, the boy she'd argued with relentlessly.
Giraud's curiosity was boundless. He wanted to get to know her, but he feared the surroundings, these people he did not know. He feared how they might respond to his uniform -- likely with the same cynicism the piano player had shown.
Then he had a thought.
'Pascal, would you like to earn ten francs?
'Absolutely, monsieur! What do you wish me to do?'
Giraud gestured across the road to the pie-shaped cafe lot. 'You see how along the outer left fence there is that bench?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Pascal, I think it would only be fair if we use that bench to determine whether the young Isabelle would be welcome to a romantic approach. To that end, I would like you to cross over and sit there instead of here, so that you can hear the conversations...'
'But, monsieur, wouldn't that be wrong, to listen...'
'No, no, it's only wrong if it's for the wrong reasons, young man. And my intentions are pure.'
Pascal seemed unsure. He looked over at the bench, then back at Giraud. 'Monsieur, my uncle... he tells me that to eavesdrop is a sin, and unseemly. I am ... uncomfortable that you would ask this.'
'Believe me, Pascal, my role as a policeman precludes me from misusing such a venture. It is beyond the noble, honorable nature of a policeman to invade one's privacy in any but the most imperative circumstance. Why, I do not doubt that should the world take on the shape of Bentham's Panopticon jail, where all feel observed at all times, a policeman would be the first to suggest a reversion to privacy.'
'So this is very important, then?'
'It is, it is. Go on, boy,' the policeman said.
The boy nodded. He crossed the street and sat down just a few feet and a fence separated from the waitress and her male friend.
Giraud turned his attention back to the girl. She was discussing something important with the young man; that much was obvious just from the amount of gesturing. They didn't seem to be laughing about anything, either, which suggested gravity.
The policeman scanned the rest of the patio. The man in the brown suit seemed to be paying attention to them, as well, but the piano player was oblivious. At the very back of the patio, the old man who seemed to own the place sat in his director's chair, with his own personal little side table, and glared at the two of them as they fought. One of them -- or perhaps both -- had gotten on his bad side at some point.
The elderly lady whom Giraud assumed was his wife came out to join him, taking the chair next to his. The old man's face brightened considerably. He had his hands on the chair's wide armrest, and she placed her hand over his, patting it twice to affirm her support.
'Tell me, Giraud...' Anton Levesque's familiar voice came from his right and Giraud looked his way briefly to nod a greeting. '... Why do you think this girl would have any interest in the likes of you or me? She is half your age and on the bright side of life.'
'Age is just a number, Anton,' Giraud said. Then he thought about it and peered at the editor quizzically. 'Aren't you twenty years older than your wife? She was a socialite or something?'
'There are always exceptions,' Levesque shrugged. 'Veronique was a model...'
'Ah,' said Giraud. 'And you thought it her duty to share her bountiful harvest with her fellow worker, as it were.'
'Don't be crass,' Levesque said. 'My interests were honorable, in as much as they needed to be.'
'Oh, I'm sure it was just so.'
He gestured to the opposite bench, where Pascal was leaning against the wooden back support, craning to take in the conversation. 'Is he over there at your request? I only ask because I've never seen Pascal anywhere but here, at this little park, being star-struck by a certain police officer...'
'Routine surveillance,' Giraud said.
Levesque glared at him.
'I am merely attempting to ascertain whether it would be untoward of me to approach Isabelle, as she may have a suitor already,' he explained. 'I would hate to get in the way of anything, particularly as the uniform can intimidate.'
'Ah,' said Levesque. 'That's all, eh? No mining for information to get rid of the competition? The party member, Jean Max?' The older man nodded towards the bickering couple. 'Although I highly doubt it will ever be your choice, Giraud. He is a strapping young man, but she seems to have already had enough of him...'
Giraud turned his attention back to the cafe. It was true; Isabelle rose from the table, her voice loud enough to be heard around the cul-de-sac. 'Foolish boy!' she said.
'Tais Toi!' the blonde young man hissed back at her. 'Shut up!' He looked around the patio nervously. 'Damn it... I have to go.' He rose quickly and put on his jacket.
'Go on, be stupid!' she yelled at him as he exited to the sidewalk and the hilly road, where Pascal sat on the bench, suddenly wide-eyed by the explosion of discontent.
The young man pulled up the collar of his coat against the cold and turned while walking to yell back at her. 'You don't own me, eh?'
'If I did, I would return you to get my money back,' she yelled. 'When are you going to grow up and realize things aren't so easy?'
'Pssh!' he exclaimed, waving a hand gracelessly in her general direction. Then he shoved both fists into his pockets and strode up the hill.
Levesque took out his small silver flask and downed a shot of Armagnac. 'Well... fortune seems to have smiled upon you again, Giraud,' he said. 'It appears your opportunity may have arrived without the necessity of guile.'
Pascal rose from the opposite bench, looked both ways for traffic, then crossed the street. Giraud reached into his inside pocket and found the lollipop he'd held onto for just such an occasion. 'Here: something more for your trouble,' he said, rubbing the boy's tousled brown hair. 'Now: what was that all about?'
'The man's name is Jean-Max; it sounds as if they have been a couple for a long time as she kept telling him 'you never change' and 'you'll never grow up.' They argued about politics. Also...'
'Also?' Giraud said.
'They talked about you a little bit.'
The policeman's eyes widened. 'What? What did she say?'
'She said she had heard he was with other girls. Then Jean-Max asked her why she did not just come and ask for your autograph, as she talks about seeing you over here so often she must be a fan.'
'Oh.' Giraud was stunned but tried to keep it to himself.
'Oh?' said Levesque.
'I mean... that's very flattering.'
Pascal shrugged. 'She told him he was crazy.'
Levesque snickered.
'Our gossip isn't too licentious for you, Anton?' Giraud chided.
'Purely professional interest, given their politics.' He didn't even try to sound convincing.
'Ah, I see. Go on, Pascal.'
'They are Bohemians, I think. At least, artists and politically involved, if not actual gypsies. They were talking about how difficult it has become to study in the city now that Jean-Max cannot get about easily.'
; That gave Giraud pause. 'In what way?'
'It sounded like he is wanted by police or the Germans,' Pascal said. 'He was talking about attending a communist rally, and the lady was telling him he was foolish to go outside in the daytime, and even more foolish to try to do so at night. She said she didn't believe he was really committed; he was just excited by it all. Or something like that.'
'And that is why they were yelling?' Giraud prompted.
'No. No, that was when they were still talking quietly. She was upset but not as much as when he questioned her ideology.'
'How so?'
'He said she is a socialist and that socialists are unrealistic dreamers who do not understand animals or nature.'
'Eh? Are you sure it wasn't 'our animal nature'?'
'Yes! Pascal confirmed. The boy smiled. 'Yes, that was it. It did not make sense that way, so I...'
'Don't change anything!' Giraud instructed. 'Just as they said it.'
The young man frowned. 'Why do you care about this girl, monsieur?' he asked. 'She is not worthy of your attention, given her politics and upbringing.' He realized he had been forward, and his voice softened. 'My uncle would beat me if I even so much as talked to a socialist.'
'People can change,' Giraud said. 'They can challenge their own bad ideas and learn. Perhaps, my young friend, she began as a communist with her boyfriend and has already learned how foolish it is. Now she is moderating her stance.' He realized in the moment that he sounded vaguely like Vaillancourt and resolved to avoid doing so in the future. 'She is looking for a better alternative.'
Levesque chucked at that. 'No doubt, Giraud, just in time for your tender affections.'
The policeman turned to him. 'Why do you find my efforts so amusing, Anton? Once again, I feel an almost derisive quality to your commentary this afternoon.'
The editor held up both hands. 'For that, I apologize,' he said. 'I am sure your ultimate objective is to find the right person to love, like all of us. But you must concede, Giraud: she is beauteous indeed. I confess to having experienced the same incendiary passion when I first met my wife. Of course, that was long ago...'
'I am sure she is still very beautiful.'
Anton sighed slightly. 'It is not her concern now. She has lost much, you see. And she blames herself, in a sense, for being so strict with the boy when he was young. Our son, I mean. Her father was a wealthy industrialist but also a famous fascist and I believe... or, she believes that her contempt for the communist partisans in Spain strengthened the boy's resolve to go and fight, and help. So, she blames herself. She holds blame on her sleeve, and she does not venture far from our home, and she does not put on appearances for others. She does not want attention, no matter how much I may crave giving it. It is... complicated. She is very sad, and it is complicated.'
On the patio, Isabelle was frantically wiping down a table, clearing its contents onto a tray before moving onto the next table with quick, precise steps. She was even more lovely and expressive when she was annoyed, Giraud thought; it imbued her with a passion hitherto unseen.
She finished wiping down the tables and disappeared into the bowels of the cafe. Giraud lit a cigarette and smoked quietly, none of the three speaking for a few minutes, Levesque focused on his newspaper and Giraud on his smoke, while Pascal sat at the end of the bench and absently drew a stick image in the mud. The wind caught the hazy drift from Giraud's Gauloises and blew it sideways like harsh exhaust, the lengthening ash falling to the ground. It had begun to drizzle, which was typical in September.
The bus pulled up and the same elderly couple he'd seen twice before emerged, then crossed the street arm-in-arm. Giraud was distracted by them for just long enough that he almost missed the waitress leave the cafe. She had a shawl on, and her handbag on one arm, and she headed up the same hilly street that had spirited her man away just minutes earlier.
Giraud leaned over to Pascal. 'Follow her for me and find out where she goes, there's a good lad.'
The boy looked apprehensive again. Giraud reached into his pocket and found another five franc piece. 'Here you go.'
Pascal looked down at the coin, then smiled and nodded, and was off.
'Giraud, what are you up to?' Levesque asked, with obvious suspicion. 'It's one thing to admire her from afar, but are you actually planning on getting more involved with this girl? Because if that is the case, this is not really the decent...'
'I find her utterly beguiling,' Giraud admitted, cutting him off in a rare moment of openness. 'She has so little, and yet she is so confident in herself. She handles customers with the same grace with which she moves about; she sloughs off the criticisms of her man, calls him a child and sends him on his way. I like her spirit, Anton. It is... fiercely beautiful.'
'You are obsessing,' Levesque warned. 'For all you know, she is a terrible, horrible person, with a soul that drips slime. Remember, I have seen this city grow since before the tower was built and I can assure you, they are never far away.'
'On the evidence presented, it seems most unlikely. She is beguiling, but I sense no guile. She is bewitching, but I sense no witchery.'
'What will you do when he finds out her destination? Will you meet her there? That would let her know you've been following her. How will you use that piece of information to your advantage, deputy divisional superintendent?'
'I don't know,' Giraud admitted with a gentle shake of his head. 'But we are destined to cross paths. I can feel it in my bones.'
'I am quite certain I know exactly which bone...' Levesque murmured.
'Pardon?'
'Nothing, Giraud. It was nothing at all. The purity of your motives is, doubtless, beyond reproach.' The policeman believed himself a romantic suitor and Levesque, for all his skepticism, was not one to interfere in a man's romantic pursuits, deluded though they might have been.
20...
In his quiet office that evening, Giraud made call after call to his handful of decent German contacts. But the mere notion of looking for an unremarkable Frenchman who had insulted Werner Best had elicited gales of laughter from most of them and the odd remonstration from those remaining.
His last chance was a supply officer named Gunther Obst, who regularly drove up to Saint Denis to do business with the textile factories, where much of the German army's leatherwear was being manufactured.
They met behind the station, in the small parking area that was always almost empty, except at shift change. Obst wore plain clothes: a roll-neck cable sweater and khaki trousers, with a blue marine captain's cap. He was strong, with slate-rock features. 'Don't be stupid, Giraud. Best is a psychopath, devoid of any feeling. We do not make requests of him and we avoid any dealings with him or with his Gestapo colleagues. The idea of a French policeman being granted some of his time would insult him, and insulting Werner Best is a quick trip to the firing squad.'
'Perhaps it does not need to be him,' Giraud suggested, clutching at straws. 'Perhaps there is someone else senior...'
'No. No, there isn't,' Obst explained. 'Best is meticulous and he is paranoid. He insists on signing off on any prisoner releases, any transfers -- in fact, anything involving Jews or homosexuals or gypsies. His hatred for them is fanatical at a level that would make even Hitler blush.'
'Damn.'
Obst offered him a cigarette -- an American brand, Chesterfield King Size. Giraud's gaze narrowed and he considered asking him where he'd gotten them, but it wasn't the smart play. He knew Obst well, but not that well. He mentally crossed his fingers and prayed Jacques and Henri had stuck to the bargain and away from the easy sale, as he'd promised Francois.
Giraud lit it and took a couple of puffs. 'Not bad. But not a Gauloises.'
Obst shook his head sadly. 'You Frenchman and your disgusting black tobacco. I do not claim to understand it, but to me it is like eating burnt sausage. You could choose to do so, but why would you? You are like my old man: no taste. You could burn a side of bacon to a crisp and he would still knock it down li
ke it was a sirloin steak. No, I like the American smokes first, the British second. If they weren't so pricey on the black market, I'd smoke them all the time.'
He needed money, Giraud thought. However many deals they'd done, it was obvious Obst wasn't getting the lion's share. 'You know, that's more achievable than you may think,' he said.
'Eh?'
'Well, the reason I'm so interested in this prisoner case is that there's some reward in it, you know?'
'Like, how much reward?'
'Enough for you to never worry about sourcing cigarettes again, that's for sure.' He didn't want to give the German specifics. Whetting his appetite too much could result in competition from powerful people, and Giraud wanted that diamond. It was flawless, enough to buy almost anything the black market had to offer. Even if it hadn't been, the way it had shone, yellow light cascading across each face of the pear cut stone, he'd been almost as entranced as he had been by Isabelle.
'So... what has to happen?' Obst asked.
Giraud scanned the parking lot, but there was no sight or sound of anyone else. The single light above the back door cast most of it into darkness that faded into the light across the alley, from another back door and another office building. In the distance he could hear the hum of the factories, less than a mile away, continuing their war-driven trade even as the city slept. 'There's a man named Bernard Distin. He was taken from a home in the city two weeks ago, following the shooting death of his son, Kristoff.'
'Yeah, yeah -- I remember this one, I think. This is the homosexual...'
'No.' Giraud cut him off. 'Kristoff's wife was a Jewess.'
'Ah! The wealthy family. Well... formerly wealthy, I suppose.' Obst seemed to find that quite amusing. 'They took away the wife and her father-in-law went out the next day and got physical with the SD, then insulted Best...'
'Exactly.'
'So you want to find out where he's being held and arrange for her to visit him. Is that it?'
'No. No, not exactly.'
'So? What, then? You want...Wait!' Obst protested. 'You're not seriously going to suggest I ask for his release, are you?'
