All Pure Souls

by John Brooke

  “It looks like I’m the only one left, monsieur. And Céleste... I think you’re going to love her.”

  He remembers fragments flipping into ever new configurations, kaleidoscopic, with no sense of going from A to B and beyond; but inevitable, no way round it, into Flossie, who bends to give his nose a friendly lick before shifting higher and smothering him with herself...through Flossie — Flossie’s voice, Flossie’s bell, her feel, her smell and on to a connection with this presence he knows but won’t dare define beyond his body’s sense of pleasure. Céleste? She’s the best! extraordinary!...welcoming Claude Néon to a place beyond condition or restraint... “It’s not believable.”

  “If you don’t believe it, you won’t laugh.”

  Yes, all right...belief is essential. Because she looms above him. Because he’s pinned. Because the pressure’s all in degrees of softness. Pressure from both ends.

  Both ends of what, Claude?

  My life?

  “I’m going to make you laugh.” Shifting gently, nudging him deeper and deeper into the pillow.

  Because it’s not logical to be afraid.

  “...laugh just like a baby. Come on, Claude... Come on, Claude!“

  He remembers her voice...someone’s voice — it no longer sounds like Flossie, no longer feels like Flossie, modulating, blending back into the sound of breath; and reaching up, blindly, across the wide terrain of her belly, completely sure that he believes it, and feeling happy — like an infant captivated by pure good. And laughing.

  Once. Ding!... The laugh reverberates, shaking him, it seems, apart.

  He is found by Erly the baker the following morning, crawling half naked and delirious in the back alley, a note tucked into his sock: This man should wash his face. After basic questions at the brothel, Assistant Inspector Patrice Lebeau had decided it was best left for Inspector Nouvelle. Tricky territory; it’s her case...

  2.

  “Group sex. Obviously he wasn’t ready for it. Scared the hell out of him.” With the help of child psychologist Jean-Paul Blismes, Claude has been able to build the beginnings of a story about a cow. “They latch on to these primal images. Like the kids. But it’s a start, eh, Claude?”

  He’s in a highly nervous state when Aliette visits the private room at Hôtel-Dieu. Mildly catatonic. Catatonic: marked by stupor or muscular rigidity, alternating with phases of excitement. Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome is the official diagnosis. J-P Blismes usually works with young offenders but was given the Herménégilde Dupras file because of Chief J. of I. Gérard Richand’s interest in the suspect’s early history; and so he also seemed like the logical man to see about Claude, “given the common fact of Mari Morgan’s, you see?” ...But it’s more rewarding working with a case like Claude’s. “...I enjoy the challenge of reconstituting his mind.” And because, J-P confides, he and the man in detention are getting nowhere. J-P maintains it’s classic denial. Trouble is, Monsieur Dupras agrees, saying J-P refuses to accept that his late father used to come to Mari Morgan’s once a week for years. “It’s just not true... I mean, don’t you think my mother and I would’ve sensed this in my father?” Result: impasse; highly frustrating. “...and with Papa gone and Dupras’ delusions, I doubt we’ll ever know.”

  Aliette can’t deal with the life of Jean-Paul Blismes. She asks for some time alone.

  “Be gentle with him.”

  “Oh, the Commissaire knows I’m the most gentle cop around... Don’t you, Claude?”

  Claude’s eyes flit. Monsieur Blismes withdraws, somewhat reluctantly.

  She sits at his side and pats his jittery hand. “What happened, Claude? What did she do to you?” She can see he wants to tell her. But it’s stuck inside. “Was it for the fun — or for the case?”

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm...!” This rising to an odd squeak.

  “Don’t worry. I believe you.”

  He watches her, wary.

  “Then tell me this: Is it really the best sex around?”

  The barest trace of a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.

  “She gave you something.” Yes. “Was it Maeve? ...Did you hear anyone talking about Maeve?” Removing a jar from her briefcase, unscrewing the cap, she holds it under the Commissaire’s nose. “This stuff?”

  He sniffs it...and then again. Yes.

  “Hm. And did you see the goddess, Claude?”

  He’s trembling again, frantic fingers going for the sides of the bed.

  Aliette is gentle. “But don’t be afraid. If you did, that’s wonderful! What’s she like?”

  Claude grunts, squeaks, wanting to tell.

  “Yes...tell me. Beautiful, I bet. Come on... Just say it.”

  “Mmmm...mmmm!”

  “I’m listening, Claude. Tell me she’s wonderful. Tell me your life will never be the same.” The inspector holds his hand in hers — no need to be frightened, keeping her eyes locked on his. “It’s only me...Aliette. I’m here.”

  Big frown; so worried...

  “Smile.”

  He tries.

  “Yes... What is it?” Bending close to hear.

  Claude manages a broken whisper: “Are...are you a...a cow?”

  Aliette keeps hold of Claude’s hand. “No... Actually, I’m a horse — apparently.”

  13

  Two Minds/One Knife

  Bravo, Flossie Orain! A big display of spite and power. What else could it have been — except pure provocation? Claude Néon is not the one she wanted to touch. Claude is not the one who has seen her true face. It’s not his case. This one belongs to Aliette Nouvelle and Flossie Orain is taunting. To what end? Is her power meant to impress? If she were honest, with her instincts if nothing else, a person had to live in the here and now and respond to the situation. No islands just for girls. Angélique Ménou is dead — had been dying for a long time. Sein is a relic. The retrograde is not the eternal; no connection. If the goddess takes her meaning from the place where she resides, the path the goddess had taken from the life of Angélique Ménou through Ondine Duguay and on to the likes of Florence Orain was from an image in the heart to a notion in the mind. Surely the challenge was keeping her in your heart as you opened your mind.

  But in the absence of a heart? Seen in Flossie, the goddess is the will to power and not much else. Flossie’s beliefs have taken her far past any instinct or vision, no matter how right or urgent. Flossie, and the women of Mari Morgan’s who support her, have acted against themselves and not merely the law.

  But does the inspector have any more proof that Flossie Orain is the killer of a woman who made her living offering a crude two-dimensional illusion? Aliette has two bodies in cold storage downstairs. A sample of Maeve is in the vault. Raphaele, polite, not pushing it, mentioning only that she looks well rested, has confirmed, “Yes, this is the same substance as the remedy but condensed to essentials. It would definitely produce jarring psychoactive effects. Yes, the remedy could mask the drug.”

  But Manon Larivière was killed with a blade.

  There is a law against giving a person a drug then ravishing him till he can’t think straight, let alone move. Probably more than one, if you start to take it apart. Would Monsieur le Commissaire proceed against Flossie on those grounds? Not likely. Reputation; the ability to even talk about it in a coherent way. And Aliette does not think that she would blame him.

  Who will say something to collapse the wall around the pute? ...Just a pute and nothing else.

  Bitter, bitter, bitter! How quickly that warm sun and sea air disappears from one’s disposition.

  The phone buzzes: Monique...”Oui.”

  “Two ladies to see you.”

  “Names?”

  “Both Duguay.”

  “Both?”

  “Sisters — quite tall?”

  A moment later in reception. “Bonjour!” ...Shaking hands; this is a surprise!

  “I got your note,” says blithe Georgette, as if that will explain everything.

  Your sister ne
eds you. AN...

  Well, good. “Come into my office. Please.”

  “Who is this person?” Georgette, perusing Aliette’s work space for the first time, is stopped at the poster depicting Johnny Hallyday performing on the street in front of the mural of the Acadian deportation, one of the more colourful corners of Nantes.

  “Johnny Hallyday.” Georgette shrugs; she hasn’t heard of Johnny. “I was there,” adds Aliette. “Sit, please. Can I get you anything? Some coffee?”

  “Tea.”

  The order is placed. She faces the sisters. Quite tall indeed...willowy. But while the elder is robust and defiant in every flicker of those forest-green eyes, the younger is spindly — and afraid.

  Georgette says, “Ondine needs to talk to you.”

  Aliette asks Ondine, “About the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” taking pen in hand; “Georgette, if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside.”

  “She knows it all,” mutters Ondine. “I’d like her to be here. Please.”

  “There are certain rules...procedure.”

  “I need her to be here.” Yet the sisters remain apart and impassive, neither making a move to touch the other; but Aliette already knows the Duguays are not the kind to be holding hands.

  “All right.” Putting her pen aside. This can be a visit. No depositions till after it’s out.

  2.

  “Manon came to me...often, before that night. I left Mari Morgan’s hating all of them, only wanting to never have anything more to do with them. But after a time they began to come back to me. I suppose Flossie was right...we were attached because of what we’d shared.”

  “The goddess.”

  “They needed something. It turned out to be me who provided it...” Still barely a mutter, as if she’s ashamed: “the goddess was the only reason I was ever in that place.”

  “Not Herméné Dupras?”

  “I was lonely. I’d spent my best years living halfway between my own life and my mother’s. I came back here to face something I should have faced years before. He’s not a mean man... He told me what I needed to know. We stayed in contact as I set up my little shop. He saw my skills and put them to use in ways I’d never imagined. Then he offered me a position. I saw something that looked like the power and respect I’d never had. More than any shopkeeper would ever have. I was flattered. And I was flattered by his kind of affection for a while. I suppose I needed it. It got in the way of seeing things clearly...” Glancing at her sister; her sister gazing resolutely away. “But after I understood the man, it was them — the girls. They needed me and he came with them. That’s why I would never listen to better advice. Herméné was only pride, never love.”

  “How did it begin — the goddess, at Mari Morgan’s?”

  “I was there, with Herméné, and running the place, more or less, and thinking I was happy... I talked to them. I told them about the customs I’d seen on the coast...and I read to them from the red book. A book: to show them it was real...more than just some woman talking.”

  “But did they respond? Were they interested? I mean, that kind of woman...”

  “Is never what she seems, Inspector. Never. Not once in all the years I was there did I meet a girl — a woman, who was like the one the clients thought they were getting. Especially not poor Manon. At least not then, when I first knew her... Yes, they responded. They had all been girls once — some had never stopped being. They liked stories. They liked the images of love...” Ondine sits straighter, gathering some strength. “And there’s nothing about guilt in that book. It was different from the rules they’d grown up with. It was good for them to believe that even the kind of women they were could be creatures of destiny. If that was so, then there might be a way of assuming a bit of grace. Real grace. Not the kind they put on for work... We talked about things like that and read together. One of them found a model of a cow and we put it in the kitchen... I called it Céleste. I changed the name on the door. I put the motto up in the bar.”

  “OK...” Watching her; a view changes with a deeper background. “But was it only for them?”

  “And for me... It was also for me. I badly needed to keep something alive. Something that had happened to me.”

  “On Sein?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it true you only met Angélique Ménou once?”

  “I spent one weekend there. That’s all.”

  “What was it that happened?”

  “Love.”

  Georgette blushes. Ondine sees it and blushes, too.

  “What about this drink: Maeve? Did you bring that from the coast as well?”

  “Dorise brought it, years later. I mean, as a remedy...”

  “And you shared it with your girls.”

  “It’s useful.”

  “But they have it — the stronger thing that Angélique was drinking. Flossie has it, I’m sure.”

  “I tried it again... I asked Dorise and she made it. For me.” Ondine pauses; her face is pinching in on itself, reddening. Aliette lets the silence rest while the woman finds her words. “I tried it with Herméné. To see if we could...to see if I could find what I’d...” Trailing off. Obviously she had not.

  “Then he’s the one who gave it to the girls.”

  “He tried it with the next one. With all of them. Then Flossie — she took Maeve and used it.”

  “For sex?”

  “For everything. For everything that we were about... It’s so powerful.”

  “This idea of a cow...how could she have — ?”

  “From me! ...From one night of making a fool of myself with Herméné Dupras.”

  “And so you left Mari Morgan’s.”

  “Knowing they were using it that way was more than I could stand.”

  “What did Herméné have to say about it?”

  “He thought I was jealous. He knew nothing about the goddess or anything to do with her. He couldn’t have cared less. To him, Maeve is just a drink Dorise knows how to make. One more way of having fun... Please forget about Herméné Dupras.”

  Aliette grabs her pen, regardless of Georgette’s presence. “Herménégilde Dupras did not kill Manon Larivière.”

  “No.”

  She scribbles a note. Then, “Who did kill Manon Larivière?”

  Ondine Duguay closes her eyes, takes three silent breaths. “Do you know what it’s like to lose track of your life, Inspector?” It’s not the kind of question an inspector will usually answer. Ondine opens her eyes and sees this. She says, “Manon was so delicate under that wretched blonde disguise. And in such pain during those last days. The pain of despair. Hopeless. And this morbid confusion... It never stopped.”

  “Her headaches?”

  “Her life. It was changing. She was not as old as most women usually are when it comes, but — her condition, her headaches, her heavy bleeding — she was into the menopause and it upset her. It scared her.”

  “I’ve heard of it happening. But you would think someone in her situation might welcome it. The bleeding, the migraines, they can all disappear. It would be a relief, no?”

  “Only physically. The problem was her life...her idea of herself.”

  “We all go through it. They say the eyes finally open.”

  “She was no longer a big blonde full of jokes and the promise of magic. Her life — the one she had devoted herself to so completely, so absurdly — was over.”

  “But that was an act...not a physical thing.”

  “No...” Ondine is sad to have to say it. “Physical was all she was, all she knew how to be. We would talk about the goddess and she would take every word into her heart. Manon loved her. But it was filtered through this shell she thought she needed. A taste of Maeve every day with Flossie’s blessing only made the shell that much harder. A very simple girl, Inspector. She thought she’d found an answer in the idea of someone else’s life. Her way to be special. She knew everything about that woman and nothing about hersel
f. Her only connection to herself was her body. This change that was happening brought it home to Manon that her ideal had killed herself at thirty-six...that there was nothing for her to go by when Marilyn Monroe’s life changed like hers was doing because Marilyn Monroe had never got that far. Her life couldn’t show Manon what she should do... Manon was lost.”

  “So she came to you. What could you do to help her?”

  “Not much. Urge her to leave it. And commiserate. I knew the feeling... She was like someone who could have come from me. Like a daughter I might have had.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I understood her fear — that her life had disappeared somewhere. I, mmm...” Bending forward and rubbing her temples, straining to find more words for the police. “Inspector...I learned how to use my hands and it made me feel that I had something. When a man took my talents and used them like they’d never been used before, I was seduced by that...by being special...” Casting another woeful face in her sister’s direction. “But my hands could never make me special enough to bring the right person into my life. It was certainly not Herméné Dupras; that was made clear every single day. But I had trapped myself. I couldn’t leave it...so I gave myself away. I gave myself back to a memory, to one moment in a young woman’s dream. And when the dream was over...I knew what Manon was feeling. And she kept saying the only thing left for her was to go and be with the goddess. I knew that feeling too.”

  “On Sein? I found her there... Her and Marcel Cyr. Was it him?”

  “He was only her guardian. He made a bargain — to deliver her... We had to send her. To finish it.” Bleak face; tears are pressing to get out... “It was what she wanted.”

  Aliette waits on the edge of this woman’s darkness, watching that befuddled thing creeping back, clouding it. “Finish what? ...Ondine? What are you trying to tell me?”

  “About devotion? Perfecting faith? Sacrifice? ...Flossie says belief is only made pure with — ”

  Georgette explodes. “She’s the one! She perverted it completely! She used you for her — ”