Stifling Folds of Love

by John Brooke

  Aliette, choking on scorn, echoed the operative word. ‘Apparently?’

  ‘Ask her,’ countered Tommi. ‘They all give her everything. Didi Belfort gave her his penthouse. Pierre Angulaire made her into the project of his career. Crazy Ray Tuche has renamed all his pieces for the love of Pearl. Georges Pugh changed the name of his boat to Pearl, which any sailor will tell you is asking for disaster. Gagnon called her up while he was on-air to see what Pearl was eating for breakfast…Martel gave her free therapy. It’s absurd, but that’s love for you. No?’

  The inspector asked, ‘What did she give?’

  ‘Good question.’ Tommi thought about it. ‘She gave up her position at the primary school to someone who needed it, an admirable thing to do, we have to grant.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Claude shrugged, staring at the empty city stairs.

  ‘It’s the sex.’ The inspector said it. She said it on behalf of the police.

  Tommi Bonneau signaled negative. ‘Sex can only take you so far, then you’re an outcast, a whore or a rock star, usually both. Our Pearl’s not like that.’ A snide chuckle. ‘Then again, you never know till you’re there, do you?’

  ‘Our Pearl?’ Did they own her?

  ‘Pearl has something for every heart, Inspector. And never forget: the great Faith is Love!’

  Aliette Nouvelle had heard this. Where?… ‘Rimbaud?’

  ‘Very good.’ Tommi was impressed. ‘I’ll bet no one in that church today could get that.’ Another dry and cynical sniffy laugh. ‘Least of all poor old Jerôme Duteil.’

  ‘What about her — does she know that?’

  ‘I don’t know what she knows.’ Tommi smiled. ‘Our investigation is ongoing.’

  Aliette searched his tired eyes. ‘Just a schoolteacher then?’

  ‘Ex. But still the epitome of feminine virtue.’ Lifting his bag into the backseat of his car, he climbed in behind the wheel. ‘It’s still all about passion, Inspector. Or the lack.’

  ‘Thanks for the information.’

  ‘Any time. By the way, who’s your boyfriend?’

  Aliette ignored that. She turned and walked away.

  Claude advised Tommi Bonneau, ‘Not a word about our chat. That clear?’

  With a shrug and a nod, Bonneau pulled away, falling into place at the rear of the long cortège accompanying Jerôme Duteil to his final rest. Ten minutes later, climbing the steps to the Commissariat door, the two cops paused to watch a woman coming up the street. Pearl Serein was approaching, uncertain, reading the numbers and signs along Rue des Bons Enfants. Seeing she was at the Hôtel de Police, she cautiously mounted the first step. Looking from Aliette to Claude, then back again to Aliette, she asked, ‘Would you know if this is where they’re keeping the body of Jean-Guy Gagnon?’

  ‘This is the place.’

  ‘I’ve come to claim it. To send him home.’

  Aliette held the door for Pearl as she climbed the steps, eyes worried, trying to see inside.

  5

  Pearl’s Burden

  Monique was so proud to meet her! They went through to Claude’s office and shut the door.

  Pearl’s eyes wavered as she handed over a letter. ‘From his mama.’

  Claude reached for it — but she handed it to Aliette.

  Posted from a suburb north of Paris: Madame. You may or may not have ruined my son’s life. Along with the tragic news which has made me turn my radio off forever, I have learned from certain of his colleagues that my Jean-Guy seemed to lose control of his beautiful talent after his involvement with you. I am too heartsick to come and face you with my grief, indeed, too weak to bring the poor boy home. I ask you to do the decent thing and take care of this business for me. He told me he would give you everything. Now it appears he did just that. Do this for him, and for me, and I will do my best to forget you. And pray for him, if you can. With regret…

  ‘That’s quite a load,’ said Aliette.

  Pearl Serein, lips pursed tight, nodded to agree.

  Face to face, she was stylishly thin but hadn’t been starving herself, with skin that was brown for April. A lean, English-seeming nose, well-defined cheekbones. A healthy look. But indeed, beyond these basics, as Tommi Bonneau had put it, Aliette saw nothing special. OK, she was much more attractive in person than in print.

  Claude snatched the page and had a look. He made a face and laughed.

  Aliette had always believed the police should be polite. ‘You find it funny?’

  ‘He’s supposed to be this big, ballsy radio journalist.’ J-G’s mama had given the act away.

  Aliette said, ‘That’s not the issue.’

  ‘No.’ Claude agreed. Turning to their guest, proffering the letter. ‘Is this accusation justified?’

  ‘No,’ said Pearl.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  Claude smiled at her, waiting to hear more.

  The woman seemed to search his smile — and decided to remain silent.

  ‘You were involved with him,’ Aliette prompted.

  ‘Yes, I was. But I wasn’t when he died.’

  ‘Maybe he still loved you,’ the inspector suggested.

  ‘Maybe. What could I do about it?’

  ‘Hearts are fragile things,’ commented Claude.

  Pearl did not respond or even look at him — she remained focused on Aliette. But a grimace broke the stolid mask. Her umber eyes tightened, as if she were struggling to maintain her patience. Aliette couldn’t blame her. It was not a useful thing for Claude to say.

  For his part, Claude turned automatic. The queries came rolling on, as if he held a shopping list: when, where, how long, arguments or insults either way, jealousy, provocation? Fights with fists? Pearl responded to his tone in kind. No, no, no, no…

  Claude persisted. ‘Did you love him?’

  This one, she paused at. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. For a bit.’

  ‘Maybe for a bit?’ The answer made Claude increase the pressure. ‘Did you hate him? Were you mad at him?’ Then waving the letter at her, ‘Were you mad at his mother? Eh? What is a bit?’…till he had practically shoved the letter in her face. ‘Give me something, madame.’

  Pearl squeezed her eyes shut in the face of this barrage.

  ‘Claude!’ snapped Aliette.

  ‘Well, how am I supposed to get anything done if she sits there mute like a nine-year-old?’

  Aliette did not respond.

  Perhaps realizing she had an ally, Pearl asked, ‘If it had been his mother instead of me, would she have had to go through all this?’ Claude only stared, petulant. ‘I’m not here because I feel guilty, monsieur. I’m here because nobody else has come and his mother wants him home. I don’t know what you could want from me. I haven’t seen Jean-Guy for months. Since early January. We broke off at New Year’s. I never met his mother. Why are you asking me all these questions?’

  Suddenly Claude was embarrassed, like his brain had just now returned to his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered, ‘it’s, it’s…Well, you see, madame, the death of Monsieur Gagnon and the deaths of Messieurs Duteil and Angulaire, with both of whom I’ve been led to believe you were also involved, yes?…’ smiling, contrite, ‘There seems to be a connection that might concern us.’

  ‘And you,’ added Aliette.

  Pearl said, ‘I heard it was a heart attack. All three of them.’

  Claude was being an ass and he deserved to be embarrassed. It was Aliette who accompanied Pearl Serein downstairs, where Raphaele could not stop looking at her. But the woman knew how to ignore it and the inspector stayed quiet.

  The papers duly signed on behalf of the morning man’s mama, a forwarding address for the body copied out, Pearl murmured, ‘Merci,’ before slipping back into the street.

  Claude was gazing out his office window when Aliette returned. She joined him. They could see Pearl Serein walking away, north-bound, out of the quarter. ‘Looks to me like she has a secret,’ Claude muttered.

 
; ‘She looks alone,’ Aliette responded. ‘A woman very much alone.’

  That observation made him sigh. ‘Fine. But do you think she’s part of something?’

  ‘Which part, Claude?’

  He heard the bite. ‘What’s your problem?’

  My problem? She repeated it. ‘Which part?’

  ‘Instigator…Or object — a decoy of sorts.’ This was posed as a suggestion.

  Aliette Nouvelle mustered a smile. ‘Given the situation, I would think your instincts would be more attuned than mine.’ Gently arch. And actually quite interested to know.

  ‘She’s not too bad to look at,’ the commissaire admitted, ‘but,’ wrinkling his brow, ‘she doesn’t really feel like either, does she?’

  Either an object or an instigator? Aliette stayed mum. Let Claude mull this essential question.

  He returned to his desk and sat. ‘She contrives to meet them. She takes what she needs from them, moves on to the next one. But they’re pestering her, maybe worse, so she has them killed. Three for the price of one. Clean sweep.’

  A murderous ball-breaker? ‘Do you really get the sense she’s that kind of woman?’

  ‘You never know!’ he blurted, ears going red. He could hear professional disdain.

  ‘You’d better know!’ she volleyed, letting her voice rise with his. ‘The way you lost it there, you’re going to blow this thing before you even open a new docket — if the judge lets you open a new docket. You’d better get her right, monsieur.’

  Perhaps Claude Néon saw that she was trying to work with him. To make him think. He cooled down. He tried to re-assess. ‘No. She’s not. She’s not like that at all. She was lost…Wasn’t she?’

  Aliette confirmed this perception.

  ‘And a bit desperate.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘But tough too, for that matter… She thought I was being an ass. I’m not blind.’

  ‘But,’ asked Aliette, ‘why did you get mad? Why did she have to tell you something? Why did you assume she would have something to tell?’

  ‘They were in love with her. The mother’s letter. The filmmaker’s assistant. That banker’s snobby son… You heard what they said. That Bonneau’s a ridiculous fool, but he’s not lying.’

  ‘But you heard what she said. She didn’t know if she loved them. It’s not always a two-way street, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Claude’s sallow cheeks regained their blush as he granted this essential point.

  ‘And there’s no law that says she had to.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed again. ‘There’s no law.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what do you see, monsieur: innocent schoolteacher or femme fatale?’

  Claude rubbed his chin. Picked at a tooth. Pearl had disappeared from view.

  Aliette gave him her opinion. ‘I would agree with the banker’s son and the director’s assistant, and even that radio star’s bitter mother: it’s their problem, not hers. Some kind of obsession. As for her: I would take away lost — although, sure, a bit desperate under sudden bombardment from some totally rude policeman — and I’d replace it with a woman who’s probably not that tough but who does have a sense of her own dignity. And who has no interest in killing anyone.’ Feeling obliged to remind him that they were still only speculating, she added, ‘If they were in fact killed.’

  Aliette watched her commissaire looking out at the afternoon sky, vexed by her reasonable doubts. ‘Claude, if you have something here, it starts with the lovers, not the beloved.’

  6

  Gazing Up

  Le Soir’s editorial stance is geared to appeal to a more discriminating demographic, and all its components, from obituaries to film reviews, build on this perspective. What people read should fit their way of thinking, no? Since the man she thought she might love was working late, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle sipped beer and (taking a cue from Duteil Jr.) perused the evening paper.

  The block-long Duteil funeral cortège merited a front-page photo. Society columnist Rose Saxe’s report was extensive.

  Society Notes

  A pillar of the community was bid adieu today at Notre Dame de Bons Secours. A packed chapel heard Monseigneur Artaud Détu describe Jerôme Duteil as ‘an honest and energetic man dedicated to serving people.’ The bishop went on to wonder just how many of the loyal friends seated before him were living in houses and pursuing careers or enterprises backed by the confidence of Monsieur Duteil. Several friends and colleagues also eulogized Jerôme Duteil, painting a picture of a passionate man who was tough but fair and possessed ‘one hell of a back-hand!’ Though sad, the funeral of Jerôme Duteil was cathartic in the true meaning of the word: one was imbued with a sense of life in all its color. Watching Nippy, the banker’s cherished poodle, lead the family out of the chapel behind the casket, a reporter had to fight back tears. Nicolette du Marnes-Duteil, estranged wife of the banker, had mixed emotions. ‘That he was a great man, no one can argue. As you know, however, he had recently brought a great deal of pain upon me and my children. There is, assuredly, a time to forgive, but I am not so sure that this is it,’ commented the widow, referring to the deceased’s much publicized romance with former nursery-schoolteacher Pearl Serein. Madame du Marnes-Duteil did not sit in the front pew with her children…

  Names of the nobles present were listed first amongst the mourners. They were followed by those of other bankers and financiers and their spouses or companions, then professionals, mostly from the financial and legal communities, then came a scattered grouping of arts and media people, a construction mogul, a favorite chef; and then the banker’s staff, which included his tellers and his chauffeur. Lastly: friends, neighbors…his tennis partners. It was indeed a pageant. Rose Saxe must have left the reception early in order to make her deadline.

  Two questions: Had Madame Saxe a tape recorder hidden in her hankie?

  Why was the name Pearl Serein only a reference and not a part of the list?

  The city lights began to twinkle. Aliette fetched herself a second beer and came out onto her balcony, where she stood at the rail in the warm night air gazing up, Piaf circling her ankles.

  Thanks to Monique, she now knew that she and Pearl were neighbors. More or less. That is, inasmuch as a society queen’s luxury penthouse atop a ten-story apartment building can be said to occupy common space with a single-working-girl’s third-floor flat. Aliette sipped beer. Oh hell, sure they were. They shared the park. Pearl could look down at Aliette; she could gaze up at Pearl. The city was small, but the world was smaller. The inspector had spent close to nine years in her modest place beside the park, many lonely evenings staring empty-headed at the lights across the way. But she had never heard of Pearl Serein. No idea Pearl had moved in, somehow got the place (did she own it?) from a half-German noble who had designed and built it, and that lately the most interesting love affairs in the city had been going on up there. How could there have been no sign of it? ‘Eh, Piaf?’ You’d think the evening sky above Pearl might show a different color. Aliette could hardly see the fabled penthouse — a hedge protected it from telescopes. All she could see was the top end of a ladder with a diving board attached. Obviously over a pool. From Aliette’s low vantage, it appeared to be hanging suspended in the sky. She imagined the unseen pool. No doubt it glittered. She hoped Pearl would emerge tonight, go climbing up the tower ladder, step out under the starry night, do a swan dive…

  Gazing up: There is, from one moment to the next, the ineffable notion of separate lives, unequal fates. Not much point in dwelling on it. Still, Aliette supposed Pearl was alone in her bed this night. If Pearl were not alone, everyone would know. How intolerable would that be? The inspector mused on the lot of the most sought-after girl in town. The physical thing: Would it really be better making love to Pearl Serein up there than, say…to Aliette Nouvelle, down here? Did pure height raise a man’s lust factor, induce a deeper passion, a more committed heart?

  Gazing up: There was the notion of an
gels. Was Pearl Serein a modern angel, burnished by fame and affluence, aloft in rarefied air? These days so many people seemed to need to believe in their existence. (Monique!) In meeting Pearl, Aliette had marked an isolated woman with worry in her eyes, no hint of the passionate heart. But Aliette was a woman too and the thing she saw in Pearl was obviously mirror-like. She saw natural restraint, that innate sense of privacy. Then again, a police station was not very romantic, not like a private pool high above the world. It was clear Claude Néon saw Pearl differently. Aliette had to deduce Pearl’s tragically smitten loves had too. Tommi Bonneau had evoked a mundane snowball syndrome: one boy wants her so the next does too. She deduced that men felt Pearl’s presence in a way she could question, criticize, but never feel.

  Gazing up: Was it strictly male generated? And did Pearl nurture the mystique, creating her own exclusive solitude? Wilfully? Or instinctively? Might angel-hood be a kind of purgatory, locked in by that incessant question: Why can I not choose a man? Because it is instinctive to choose right. What impedes it? Lack of choice? That was not Pearl’s problem. The pressure to make a choice, then, to choose someone and get on with life? Public pressure. Private orgasms. Aliette gazed up, wondering about Pearl’s choices. Pearl’s joy. Pearl’s luck? She had to admit the story of Pearl and its effect presented the mysteries of love writ large — large being the problematic word.

  Aliette felt her own choice was more of an inevitable meeting of souls. Clumsy, diffident souls. In finally finding each other, their separate bodies had been surprised, delighted, and continued to be. A bit of a miracle after all that time alone under the scrutiny of curious eyes. The inspector had made it quite clear to this possible other half that they would live their nascent love away from expectations, unknown. (She hadn’t even told her mother). We are not a story, monsieur. If the private chemistry of love takes, their hearts will merge. That was the hope. The silent hope. But it would take time and you had to let it. The inspector deduced that Pearl hoped silently as well.

  Aliette gazed up. Seven high-profile boyfriends in three years?