Seeing that his partner, as riled up by the activists’ comments as a bull is by a muleta, was about to lash out, Sebag laid his hand on Molina’s arm.
“We’re not accusing anyone,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “If we had to do that, it would take place not here but at police headquarters.”
“Hitting us on the head with phone books to make us confess,” a woman sneered. She wore no makeup and was without either charm or age, a sort of Mother Teresa of the secular left.
Sebag looked her straight in the eye.
“Have you often been hit with a phone book, Madame?”
“Uh . . . no, not me personally, but that doesn’t mean that we’re not acquainted with your methods.”
“Better than I am, apparently,” Sebag sighed. Then he smiled and added: “I don’t have a phone book in my office. When I need to look up a number, I consult the yellow pages on the internet.”
“Whoa, our police is state-of-the-art,” sniggered a pretty young woman with arched eyebrows that gave her a perpetually astonished expression.
“We can assume that you must have come up with something else,” the old activist said in an acerbic voice. “A good old dictionary, for example.”
“Dictionaries have solid covers; they do damage and leave marks,” Sebag pointed out. “Besides, the administration has not seen fit to provide us with them, the courts never having considered misspelled words on a parking ticket to be procedural errors.”
Sebag looked at the activists facing him, one by one. He sensed that they didn’t know what to say. Normally, their clumsy provocations made policemen angry. They weren’t used to getting no reaction.
Gilles lingered over the emaciated face of a man in his fifties. His thick, black, curly hair fell over his wrinkled forehead. The man sat a little apart, hadn’t said anything up to that point, and didn’t seem to have any intention of speaking. He limited himself to staring at the policemen with his dark, piercing eyes.
Sebag’s last remark had elicited a few smiles here and there. The voice of the old man with the ponytail made them fade immediately.
“So you’re the good cop, right? And your partner’s the big bad cop?”
“You watch too much television, Monsieur,” Sebag replied. “What’s your favorite series?”
“I don’t watch TV, “ the old man vigorously protested.
Had Sebag accused him of molesting little boys the man wouldn’t have been more offended.
“It’s a routine investigation that we’re carrying out,” he explained again. “A little old man was killed in Moulin-à-Vent and since it seems that the murder is connected with his past—he might be a former member of the OAS—we’re gathering information from the associations that have recently opposed certain monuments to the memory of Pieds-Noirs . . . ”
“To the falsification of history, you mean,” an athletic man in his thirties corrected.
“That’s your way of seeing things, the Pieds-Noirs see them differently . . . ”
“And what’s your way of seeing them?” Miss Arched Eyebrows suddenly asked.
“Mine doesn’t matter, I’m not paid to choose one side or the other but to investigate without preconceptions. I have to look into everything that might be relevant.”
“And so you thought of us, how nice of you,” the old activist said mockingly, stroking his ponytail again.
“We can’t expect cops to show imagination,” the big bearded man added.
Sebag understood that he wouldn’t get any useful information out of these people who took childish pleasure in replaying for the nth time the game of “the Resistance against the Gestapo.” He realized that he’d made a mistake by accepting to meet them as a group. Individually, all these activists were probably charming and intelligent, but when they were in a group they offered only a caricature of themselves. He wasn’t surprised or upset, just a little annoyed. He’d organized this meeting because it was part of the investigation, but he hadn’t had high hopes for it. Molina hadn’t either; he was fidgeting on his chair, impatient to be allowed to lay into them. It was time to cut their losses.
Sebag suddenly stood up.
“All that remains is for me to thank you for your valuable help. A murderer is on the loose, and he might kill again. If that happens, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“If this guy kills only old fascists, I personally have no problem with that,” the old activist with a ponytail said, though his gibe didn’t receive the approval he’d expected from his companions.
Sebag didn’t let that blunder pass.
“I thought you were against capital punishment. I didn’t know that you made exceptions.”
His retort struck home, and the inspectors took advantage of the resulting confusion to take their leave. Back in the car, Molina gave his exasperation free rein:
“They make me laugh, all those jerks. They think they’re heroes because they didn’t answer our questions. But when someday they’re attacked by a hoodlum, they’ll come to the cop house and cry like everyone else, you’ll see. And they’ll complain louder than the others if we don’t find their attackers fast enough. How can we do our work if too many people refuse to answer the most ordinary questions, for fuck’s sake?”
He drove off with screeching tires, Starsky and Hutch style.
Basically, Sebag thought he was right. The French have never liked cops, but in the past at least they tried to get along without them. These days, at the slightest problem—a marital dispute, an argument with a neighbor, a rebellious teenager who has run away—they call the police.
“In any case, I know them all, these leftists,” Molina went on heatedly. “I have a pal at the RG,4 he’ll send me their files. I promise you that I’m going to dig into their past and that of their families, and if I find any connection between one of them and the OAS, I’ll bring him in right away. And he’d better get a good lawyer. Em cago en les mares que els va parir!”5
Sebag preferred to remain silent. Molina had sworn in Catalan, and that was a very bad sign. Above all, he didn’t want to add to his partner’s irritation.
It was still raining with the same intensity, and cars were moving at a snail’s pace on all the city’s main arteries. Molina calmed his nerves by playing Fangio6 in the narrow streets of Perpignan, which he knew by heart, as if a GPS had been implanted in his brain at birth. These urban twists and turns ended up giving Sebag the beginning of a headache.
“Papa, you’ve got an SMS.”
Sévérine’s voice had resounded in the pocket of Sebag’s raincoat. He pulled out his cell phone and saw that there was in fact a message. Claire wrote to tell him that the evening rehearsal for her chorale had been cancelled because of the bad weather. Gilles couldn’t help smiling with satisfaction. Blessed be this rain that kept his adored spouse in the family home. Since that terrible last summer, he suffered every time Claire went out without him. A jealous husband, that’s what he’d become, and he didn’t like himself in that role, because he knew that jealousy fed less on love than on self-love. He didn’t want to let the monster thrive in his belly. Claire loved him, he was sure of that. That was what mattered, but he sometimes found it hard to remain convinced of it.
It was one thing to make that decision in his head and another to live it in his gut.
Sebag typed out, “O.K., thanks to the rain,” with a clumsy finger before putting his phone back in his pocket.
“Your ringtone is terrible,” Molina commented without taking his eyes off the road. He’d turned on the headlights, and their glow transformed the drops into Christmas garlands.
“You think?”
“It’s a little stupid, yeah.”
“What’s your ringtone?”
“Jordi Barre’s ‘Els hi fotrem.’”
“Don’t know it!”
“You don’t know Jor
di?”
“Of course I do.”
Jordi Barre was a Perpignan singer who had recently died at the very venerable age of ninety. A crystalline voice like Tino Rossi’s, melodies that were slightly old-fashioned but touched the heart and soul of people who lived in the area. Everyone knew Jordi and Jordi knew everyone. When he died, Catalans felt like they’d lost their grandfather as well as their poet.
“I know Jordi Barre but not that song.”
“It’s the one they sing in unison at Aimé-Giral stadium every time the USAP scores a goal. In French it means ‘we’re going to stick it to them.’
“It certainly isn’t Jordi’s most poetic song . . . ”
“True . . . ”
“And you really believe that having put that refrain on your cell phone authorizes you to speak as an expert?”
“That’s not silly!”
“It may not be silly, but it’s pretty stupid anyway!”
Instead of getting mad, Molina bellowed the refrain, transforming Sebag’s nascent pain into a splitting headache.
CHAPTER 11
Algiers, December 7, 1961
The city’s breathing is gradually calming down. Its pulse is beating less rapidly. Night is gently falling.
The streetlights are coming on, one after the other. Open windows let the nasal voices of the announcers on Radio Algiers be heard on the sidewalks below. It’s time for the news broadcast on the country’s main station.
Sigma and Babelo, hidden in the shadow of a streetlamp, are waiting at one end of the street; Omega and Bizerte are waiting just as unobtrusively at the other end. The police headquarters is between the two armed groups. The commando is waiting for Inspector Michel to come out.
Babelo offers another cigarette to Sigma. A mild American one. The young combatant takes advantage of this boon and the two men begin to smoke in silence, surrounding themselves with a mentholated haze. Babelo keeps his eyes on the window of the police station. He’s waiting for a signal. Inspector Michel doesn’t have many friends among his colleagues. Having arrived from metropolitan France four years ago, he’s pursuing indefatigably his investigations into the OAS’s activities, believing that despite the growing confusion his work still has meaning. He recently made it possible to arrest two activists in the clandestine organization who were responsible for an attack on an Arab café. The two men spent forty-eight hours in prison before escaping with the help of their guards.
Babelo takes a drag on his cigarette and then throws it in the gutter. The thing was only half-smoked, but he has just spotted a red shirt at the window. He takes out his pistol, cocks it, and takes a step into the light to indicate that he has received the signal. Then he moves back into the shadows. At the other end of the street, Bizerte and Omega have seen his movement. They prepare their weapons. The cop doesn’t usually go that way, but just in case, they’re ready.
A dark silhouette soon appears on the doorstep of the police headquarters. Inspector Michel hesitates for a moment. To the left or to the right? Routine can be a terrible enemy when you’re risking your life at every street corner. But changing your routine every day becomes another routine.
“In any case, you’ve had it,” Babelo murmurs between tight-drawn lips.
The cop ends up making his choice and walks quickly toward Sigma and his boss. The young man feels a cold calm invading him. His senses become ten times more acute. He feels the cold metal of the gun against the palm of his hand, and in his throat, the last bittersweet flavors of the American tobacco. His eyelids squint, and behind them two tranquil pupils watch the target as he approaches them more slowly. The sound of the nailed shoes striking the pavement resounds in his ears. When he discerns in his nostrils an odor of rancid sweat mixed with lavender cologne, he knows that it is time to raise his gun.
The inspector suddenly stops. He turns around and sees Bizerte and Omega following him, revolvers in their hands. Michel takes his hand out of his jacket pocket. He too is armed, he too is ready to fight.
But he doesn’t know that now the main danger is behind him.
Sigma’s eyes meet Babelo’s. His boss makes a face followed by a little movement of his chin, offering Sigma the honor of firing first.
The young man takes three silent steps forward, then hesitates. The target has his back to him, he doesn’t like that. His hand grips the gun. He hears Babelo coming up behind him.
“Inspector . . . ”
Sigma has spoken in a calm voice. Without fear or impatience. The policeman jumps, then turns around. Their eyes met and understand each other. They both know, before the first shot is fired, who is the killer and who the victim. Sigma fires twice. One bullet in the belly, another in the heart.
Two more shots immediately ring out behind Sigma. Babelo has aimed at the head. One bullet penetrates the right eye, the other makes part of the brain spurt out on the sidewalk. The policeman’s body collapses in the gutter.
“Shit! What got into you?” Babelo fumes as Bizerte and Omega run up to them. You scared me! What were you doing, speaking to him before you fired? Have you seen that in the movies, or something? You’re not at the movies here, pal, this is real life . . . ”
The four members of the commando stand there for a few seconds, fascinated by the sight of their victim’s body. There’s no hurry. The street is theirs.
“One less son-of-a-bitch,” Omega belches before spitting a gelatinous glob of saliva on the pavement.
The sound of a spoon striking a cooking pot comes through a window, soon followed by another, and then another. It becomes a concert. Metallic and deafening. European Algiers is saluting its heroes.
Babelo offers his men a round of American cigarettes. Bizerte holds out to each of them the yellow flame of a lighter. And the four members of the commando take a long drag on their cigarettes before they walk away. No policeman has yet wanted or dared to come out of police headquarters.
“We’ll pick up the car and go to the Vox,” Babelo suggests. “One-Eyed Jacks, a film with Marlon Brando as both the star and the director. I’ll treat you to the best seats in the house.”
Babelo gives Sigma a thump on the back.
“I sometimes wonder if I’m not making a mistake by taking you to the movies every time. There are people who get a little too excited when they watch westerns. They end up thinking they’re John Wayne. One day that’ll get you in trouble, Sigma. Be careful.”
CHAPTER 12
The hallways at police headquarters were overflowing with cops in civvies and in uniform. It smelled like sweat and wet dogs. A dense mist stuck to the windows and the lenses of people’s glasses. When the rain poured down that way on the Catalan country—once or twice in the autumn, and again in the spring—life stopped throughout the region. The crime rate fell to zero, as hoodlums big and small remained prudently holed up at home. Delightful moments for policemen, with the exception of the least fortunate and those with the worst records, who had to go out into the deluge to help the emergency personnel with their tasks.
Sebag and Molina ran into Ménard on the stairs.
“Any news?” he asked them.
“Not much, no,” Sebag said grimly. “How about you?”
“A confirmation: Martinez did in fact belong to the OAS.”
“Wow, tell us about it,” Sebag said impatiently.
Molina jumped in.
“We’re not going to talk about it right here on the stairs, boys. It’s almost noon. How about going to grab a bite at the Carlit?”
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” Ménard protested.
“So what? We’ll be back to work that much earlier.”
The conscientious Ménard found Molina’s argument persuasive, and the three lieutenants ran across the Avenue de Grande-Bretagne and took refuge in the restaurant. “Hola, com vas?” Rafel, the owner of the Carlit, greeted them wit
h a smile. “Fortunately there are cops on stormy days, otherwise I’d just have to close the door and go home. What can I serve you as an aperitif? I’ve just received a nice little amber Rivesaltes that is going to delight your palates.”
“Give us three of those, please,” Molina said approvingly, knowing full well that Ménard was going to decline the offer.
“Uh, not for me,” their colleague said in fact.
“I’m paying this round,” Molina insisted.
“Well, then, a Coca-Cola.”
“Cap de cony!”7 belched Rafel. “I don’t do chemistry”
“You don’t have Coca-Cola?”
“I have Cat Cola.”
“I suppose that’s not chemical?”
“Yes it is! But it’s chemistry from around here. It’s less bad for you!”
Rafel, who in his spare time was active in a small group devoted to identity politics, took out of his refrigerator a bottle whose label copied the red and white colors of the famous brand and juxtaposed them with the blood-red and gold of the Catalan flag.
“És un refresc elaborat amb aigua de deu natural gasificada i extractes naturals vegetals…”8
“You don’t have to read me the label,” Ménard grumbled. “There are things I can understand, even in Catalan.”
The three inspectors hung their wet raincoats on the coatrack before going to sit down at the little table near the bay window. A moment later Rafel came back with a tray and set down three full glasses, two little ones and one big one.
“What’s your lunch special today?” Molina asked.
“Ouillade.”
Ménard’s eyes opened wide. He was from Picardy, in the north of France, and still hadn’t gotten used to the customs and typical dishes of Catalonia, despite his many years in the region.
Autumn, All the Cats Return Page 8
