by Cara Black
There was a ghost in every house. One had to make peace with it or get out. Would Thadée’s ghost cooperate?
She reached into her bag for incense sticks, the votive candle and the silk flowers, now crushed and bedraggled, that she carried. She set them on the dry first step as a makeshift shrine. A half-empty bottle of Evian would have to do for an offering, in place of Thadée’s favorite drink, Pernod. Her hands shook as she lit the candle, then she put them together in a silent prayer.
May his spirit and all the spirits wander in peace.
The votive candle caught and flickered, casting Nadège’s oblong shadow onto the peeling wallpaper. She gripped the wobbling banister and mounted the steps. She’d locate the stash, but not do anything with it, of course. Then she’d go to the station, take a train, and lay low in the countryside. Non, better first to take care of business.
But as she went through the rooms, she heard a shuffling sound and saw a flickering of light.
She wasn’t alone. Her stomach clenched in fear.
“May I help you?” said an older woman, stroking a purring cat that was nestled in her arms.
Nadège noticed the woman’s slender, graceful body and chiseled cheekbones. She must have been a stunner in her day. The woman set down the cat and unfurled an umbrella she picked up from the floor. A good thing, too, as the soggy plaster leaked with a steady drip, drip, from the coved ceiling. Nadège worried that Thadée’s stash would already have become moldy.
“Gotten chilly, hasn’t it?” the woman said, chatting as if they were meeting at a garden party.
“You’re Thadée’s friend? Do you live here?”
“Sometimes.” The woman gave her a wide smile. “Un vrai Monsieur! So generous.”
Nadège’s eyes welled and she nodded. “Do you know . . . ? ”
“Terrible,” she said, reaching for Nadège’s arm. Her hands were ice cold but sympathy radiated from her. “You’re too beautiful to be so sad! Come, take a seat.”
In the adjoining room stood a bed and an upright harpsi- chord, whose legs tilted, its wooden frame warped, keys missing. Once, though, it must have been exquisite. Several water-stained boxes blocked an antique armoire. Nadège fingered the large old-fashioned key in her pocket. Sniffled, and wiped her nose.
“Call me Neda,” the woman said, sitting down on the mitered herringbone pattern parquet floor as if they were at a picnic. “You have such beautiful pearls. You’re an artiste, I can tell.”
“Moi? Just a year in École des Beaux-arts, but. . . .” Nadège felt shy.
“Voilà,” Neda said, smiling. “See, I knew right away.”
“It doesn’t count, really,” said Nadège, biting back a smile.
But those months had been unlike any others. She’d taken stage and set design courses and planned on apprenticing at the Opéra Garnier. Life had held rose-framed sunsets in the student quartier. Then she met Michel’s father, a costume designer with a habit. Just after Michel was born, he’d left and everything had fallen apart.
“Thadée confided in you, n’est-ce pas?”
“A little,” Nadège said.
“What about that chest he found and the things inside?”
Nadège shrugged her shoulders, trying still to ignore the pains in her back.
“So, ma chère,” Neda said as she pulled off her gloves and shot up between her fingers. Now Nadège understood. Aristocratic addicts had to hide like everyone else.
Neda leaned back with closed eyes and sighed. “How can I be your friend? A little poudre? Opium? Or liquid morphine?”
Nadège nodded. Juste un peu. To help tide her over. That’s all.
Friday Evening
AIMÉE’S BREATH TURNED TO fog, then vanished in the chill night air. The taxi had never showed. Her wet leather coat still stank, but at least she’d cleaned up her shoes.
On Square Berlioz cardboard boxes with old clothes and kitchen appliances stood waiting for the morning charity pickup. She took off her coat, rooted through the boxes, and found a jacket. A button was missing, the satin lining torn, but she didn’t need to see a label to know it was haute couture. Balenciaga. Worth thousands of francs, if you could even find one, at a vintage shop.
She slipped it on, left her coat in its place, walked a block, and mingled with the crowds streaming out of the cinéma in Place de Clichy. Earnest discussions of Godard’s symbolism and Bertolucci’s directing style buzzed around her.
The mec Jacky from nearby Académie de Billard couldn’t be far behind. She had to act fast. She grabbed the free alternative paper piled in the cinema lobby and bought a ticket for the next film, Elevator to the Gallows, the black and white Louis Malle classic with Jeanne Moreau decked out in pointy pumps and heavy eyeliner, smoking endless cigarettes and beelining for the bad boy.
Pretty much like Aimée, except for the cigarettes and heavy eyeliner.
During the opening credits, Aimée sank down in her seat with her pen flashlight and scanned the club listings in the alternative newspaper. Under HEAVY METAL she found one club in the 17th featuring a Goth band. But searching under FUSION she found the listing she wanted.
Metallomix, Mado’s band, was playing at Lush, a former electric power station, a few streets away. Aimée looked at her watch. Metallomix’s set began in an hour. Time enough to watch Jeanne Moreau’s lover-thief stranded in the elevator, aghast at his perfect crime undone due to a minor unforeseen detail.
The little things, she thought. Check and recheck, her father had always said. What detail was she was missing?
She watched the movie, waiting for time to pass.
Out in the lobby, she tried Gassot’s number again. This time someone answered.
“Oui,” he said.
“Can I speak with Gassot?”
“We’re a café, not a message center.”
“But this is the only number I have for him,” she said.
“I haven’t seen him,” he said.
“I’ll call back.”
She made her way to the club, keeping to the unlit side of the cobbled street. Lush might live up to its name on other nights, Aimée thought. It boasted alternative nights of raï, reggae, jungle, techno, R&B, and tango, but this late evening crowd of semi-heavy metal and Rastas, interspersed with media types, spoke to the mixte life of the quartier.
And she, with her torn black fishnet stockings, Balenciaga jacket, and Moroccan shirt, would fit right in. Nouvelle slut.
Lush felt more louche than metallic, the type of place clubbers went after leaving Pink Platinum, a techno striptease, or else en route to a squat-club in an old theatre.
There were DJs on several floors and sofas and harem style rooms with net curtains and canopies over the alcoves for privacy. Inside the old metal-framed glassed-in industrial space, billowing gauze in pastel colors separated the areas. A curtain of metallic pebbled blue lurex material beckoned dancers to lean into it: shimmering and seductive. On the right were low tables and pillows with model-types, assorted rock royalty, and a well-known aging rocker in leather pants, sipping mint tea.
“How old am I?” she overheard him saying to one of the models. “I’m eighteen. The rest is experience.”
She found elbow space at the end of the bar, ordered a glass of mineral water with lime, and eyed the stage on the main floor. Mado’s set should start soon.
“Come here often?” asked a voice next to her.
She grasped her glass, reached for the bartender’s knife, and turned.
Pleyet stood next to her, holding a beer. The smoke and hanging blue halogen lights didn’t obscure his eyes: cold and expressionless. Not even a blink. A jagged scar was visible along the hairline of his temple. She doubted it came from a face-lift; more likely a machete.
“I like the band,” she said.
“You would,” he said.
“I guess Charles Aznavour’s more your style.”
He shrugged. “This is music?”
The twang of a sitar, a
ccompanied by a curious mélange of mandolin and oboe, pulsed in the background. The wide dance floor filled up and a sweet spice scent of sandalwood wafted from the corners.
“You might want to let go of the knife,” he said, pointing to the bartender who was scratching his head and muttering. “Looks like he needs it.”
“Pardon,” she said, setting it back on the bar.
She wondered if Pleyet had followed her or had come to question Mado. But it only made sense for him to reveal himself if he wanted something.
“Think back to the Place Vendôme affair. Remember the surveillance firm your team contracted with?” she said. “That was me. The little explosion in the Place Vendôme? Well, that was my father. Remember?”
In the pause she could hear rain splattering on the skylight overhead.
“I know,” he said.
“That’s all you have to say?”
He waved his hand with a dismissive gesture. He rocked on his heels, staring at her.
At least he’d admitted it. They were making headway.
“I had nothing to do with your father’s death,” he said. “Our team dealt with security. The rest—” He looked down. “They contracted with firms like yours so if it blew up in their faces, as it did, nothing would be traceable to the Ministry. That’s all I know.”
“I want names,” she said. “Department chiefs. Anyone responsible.”
“Let it go,” he told her.
“People have said that to me for years.”
“We were peons, workers. The whole unit was disbanded afterward. Now another Ministry handles ‘sensitive’ issues. All new faces. And the ones who left? You know how fonction-naires lose their files and can’t recollect conversations? All their documents have been shredded, all memories erased.”
She knew what he meant. And it was probably true. But that didn’t mean she could accept coming to a dead end in investigating her father’s death.
“What’s that phrase, Pleyet, ‘Lay your cards on the table.’ Then we might do business,” she said. “But then according to you, you’re not in business and you’re not RG.”
He shrugged. “Brands and labels,” he said as if she referred to items on the supermarket shelf.
He didn’t meet her eyes. The band’s shaved-headed drummer was tapping his snare drums, doing a sound check.
“What’s your connection to Regnier? He’s on suspension.”
For the first time he blinked. “Since you know so much, are you aware that he’s under surveillance?”
“So that’s it,” she said. “You are the Circle Line . . . . Why do you want the jade?”
“You still have no manners,” he interrupted.
“Did that strike a chord?“ She’d make it simple. “Pleyet, you’re out of place here; you stick out,” she said. “But I can help you.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart?”
“We can help each other.”
The old zinc counter vibrated under her fingers from the music. How much should she reveal to Pleyet? Wouldn’t he use her and move on? Special Ops, the Circle Line, they were ruthless. And the suspicion that he’d had a hand in her father’s death hadn’t gone away.
But she might be able to barter her information for a detail or name.
She remembered Linh’s words . . . how her actions were monitored and her family under surveillance. When Aimée had accosted Pleyet in the café she’d understood why he’d brushed her off; he was afraid she’d blow his cover. But now he’d approached her. She had to find out why he wanted the jade, and for whom.
His cell phone rang but he ignored it.
“Bon, give me a lead about my father’s death and I just might help you.”
“You need something more than that to bargain with,” he said.
“Like what?”
“I think you know.”
He answered his phone, turning away.
Still no sign of Mado, while her band Metallomix was tuning up on the stage. Pleyet clicked off, leaning forward on the counter.
“Why are you here, Pleyet?” she asked. “I don’t have the jade, and I already knew Regnier’s been suspended. Will you tell me about Thadée?” she asked, trying another angle.
“Thadée swam with sharks. Big, bad ones,” Pleyet said. “He was a spoiled little druggie from a titled family. Noblesse oblige tainted by bleeding-heart liberalism. Thadée promised things. Things I doubt he could deliver. And if that’s my conclusion, it was probably theirs.”
“Who’s ‘they’ and what did he promise them?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Pleyet said.
“But you have an idea. Blondel?”
Pleyet nodded and drank his beer as he watched people on the dance floor. The heat and perspiration from their bodies mingled with the tang of the fresh cut limes.
“Does blackmail feature in this?”
Pleyet studied her. “Why were you meeting Thadée?”
“To help a Vietnamese nun,” she said. “Why are you interested in a druggie?”
There, she’d told him the truth. But his hooded eyes gave away nothing. In front of them, the bartender mixed a coconut-milk scented cocktail with turquoise gin.
“Look, I had nothing to do with your father’s death,” he finally said again. “You should believe me.”
Why had the conversation veered from Thadée?
“Prove it.”
“I lost someone, too, in a dawn raid the next day. The whole asinine mission was based on hearsay, from an informer who wanted to save his neck. After the fiasco they reshuffled the whole department and buried the accounts in public works.”
Whether it was the way his voice shook for a nanosecond or the look of pain in his eyes, she believed him.
“Who did you lose?”
“My younger sister.”
“But how?
“She was cultural attaché at the consulate at Tripoli.”
“How does this connect to the surveillance Papa and I did?”
“Don’t you get it?” Pleyet said, his eyes narrow slits. “It didn’t. It was all fabricated. Lies . . . the mec made up a story. Got a bunch of our people killed, and himself blown up over the friendly skies of Libya. No one will admit that.” Pleyet leaned closer to her. She saw his thin lips quiver. “Ever. So don’t expect a belated apology. Or a detailed report. It’s all ashes in the wind.”
“They never even sent a wreath,” she said. “It took me one year, but I finally got his belongings.”
Pleyet averted his eyes. “Consider yourself lucky.”
Pause. She didn’t know what to say.
“How can you work for them, Pleyet?”
“I don’t.”
But she’d seen him visit the Musée Cernuschi in the company of ministry types.
“So, who do you work for?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. ”It’s time for me to go.”
His cell phone rang before she could press him further. Still no sign of Mado. Before he turned away this time, she caught sight of the neon-blue face of his phone. His address book list was displayed.
She grabbed her eye pencil, the first thing at hand, and wrote down the number opposite HOME on her arm.
He kept one hand on his beer, the other cupping the cell phone as he slipped away into the crowd.
She placed some francs on the counter by her glass. Pleyet claimed the surveillance that had killed her father was bogus.
She’d obsess over that later. At least she’d gotten his number.
She edged through the crowd seeking Mado. On her right, stairs led backstage. Large black boxes of sound equipment and amplifiers stood in her way. She heard arguing, raised voices.
“Mado’s not coming,” said the shag-haired guy whom Aimée had seen in the Mini-Cooper. “She’s split, I tell you.”
“Good riddance,” said a skinhead.
“But the recording scout’s here,” the first one said. “If she doesn’t show he’ll think we
lied and beg off on our deal. He likes a cool female to front a metal band. How could she desert us now?”
“Where’s Mado?” Aimée asked, stepping forward. “I was supposed to meet her.”
“Timbuktu,” said the shag-haired one, looking her up and down.
“Then how come I saw her a while ago?” Aimée said. “Where’s Timbuktu?”
The rest of the band turned and stared at her.
“Some new performance space. Seems she’s too ‘creative’ for this,” the shag-haired one said.
Aimée looked over his shoulder. Her eyes found Jacky’s leather bomber jacket bobbing among the lighting technicians. Another mec she recognized from the pool hall blocked the exit. Had they seen her? But their eyes were on the crowd. Not the stage.
Aimée saw a gold trimmed silk sari and a Cleopatra head-ress, gold and black, hanging from a peg. She thought fast. What if she wore that, bided her time, and then. . . .
“Whose costume is that?” she asked.
“You could fill in for Mado,” said the guitarist. “Help us out.”
“Me?”
He set the bass guitar in her arms. “Put your fingers here, here and here.”
Aimée held the silver-faced guitar low against her hip.
“Non,” said the drummer, his tank top with a skull and crossbones on it. “Did you ever take piano lessons?”
She nodded.
“Keyboard. Watch me. When I nod my head, play the A scale. Can you do that?”
At this point, hemmed in from the front and side, it seemed the best choice. The only one.
“If I can wear that,” she said, pointing to the sari.
“Just do it over and over.”
She stuck her jacket in her bag, tried winding the sari around her waist and over her shoulders as she’d seen New Delhi women do. No go. In the end she bunched it together toga-style and draped it over her hair. Found dark glasses in her bag. The skinhead readjusted his guitar strap.
“Whatever you do, don’t sing,” he said. “Look cool. Stand in the shadows. We need to land this contract, or we’re in deep shit.”
