Stifling Folds of Love

by John Brooke

  No, she did not envy Pearl Serein.

  7

  Total Fan

  Elsewhere that night Willem van Hoogstraten, proprietor of the Rembrandt Café, had locked up early as was his custom — he had no wish or need to compete with the clubs or the brasseries. Brandishing a bottle of Ricard, he invited his two remaining guests to join him. A slinky, thirty-something, poodle-tressed street girl known only as Anne-Marie and an elderly-but-still-very-statuesque, silver-maned artist’s model named Georgette Duguay followed Willem up the stairs. A makeshift rooftop terrace attached to Willem’s apartment was a perfect vantage point on this balmy April evening. Below, the streets of the old quarter teemed with a happy urgency that made you feel alive. But it was Pearl Serein and death that dominated the talk.

  ‘It would be impossible to live after Pearl,’ mused Willem. ‘I’d definitely want to die.’

  ‘Risky.’ Anne-Marie speculated on who’d be next to dare to prove himself in Pearl’s bed. She was positive it would be the lead singer of a local band that was on the rise — the guy was luscious, how could Pearl resist? Willem was betting on the famous chef who’d recently divorced. Willem had heard the man was learning tennis. Everyone knew Pearl loved tennis.

  Georgette banged her glass down, righteously fed up with Pearl. ‘Why do you waste your time with such useless things?’

  ‘But she’s fabulous!’ gushed Anne-Marie.

  ‘Oh, stop!’ Georgette demanded.

  In the distance, north toward the Parc de la République, you could see the protective garden hedge surrounding the 11th-floor penthouse perched at the top of the city’s most exclusive building, the lonely diving tower etched against an indigo sky, the evening star just now twinkling into position directly above it. Though a loyal member of Georgette’s drawing group, Willem was staunchly with Anne-Marie. He refilled their drinks. ‘She’s my inspiration. I’ve created this dessert. I’m calling it Pearl’s Kiss.’ Willem beamed. The dour waiter guise was his protective shield — only his friends were privy to the sensitive romantic underneath.

  ‘Yes, and we women are inspired too,’ added Anne-Marie.

  Georgette protested bitterly. ‘It’s absurd. It’s demeaning and ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ reposted Anne-Marie, blithely dismissive.

  Georgette was insulted. ‘I resent that. I do not believe in this silly story.’ She stood, threatening to leave. Willem pleaded with her to stay. Please. For the sake of a beautiful evening.

  Now a solitary light could be seen at Pearl’s. The highest point. The most romantic.

  Anne-Marie left instead. Pearl was affecting their friendship. Too bad, but she was in no mood for Georgette’s gloomy bitching. She was in the mood for love — or at least some sex. She climbed in the old Westfalia van, a street girl’s home on wheels, and pointed it downtown.

  Club Diabolik shook hideously. Anne-Marie was sipping pastis, blending comfortably with the sounds of the Lonely Blue & Sad Times Band, watching a couple dancing by the stage. The music was hyperactive, hyper loud, but they were barely moving. The guy was a lanky beanpole with unkempt blond locks falling over his ears and collar, ruddy cheeks pulled taut around a weakly formed jaw, his small mouth opened wide in a painful, almost indecent ecstasy as he held his partner tight. She was a tiny thing, barely half his size. Her velvet arms circled his shapeless bum. Her face, buried under extravagant red curls, was pressed against his navel. He looked like an oversized boy dancing with a doll. Anne-Marie loved indecent ecstasy. Allez-y!…Go for it! She grooved coolly to the bass line and cheered the lovers on.

  Happy. All she ever really needed was pastis, music, the occasional man…

  Like magic, a man sat down beside her.

  He was busy loading up his camera, half an eye intently fixed on those two immodest lovers. The waiter left pastis and water. He ignored it, busy peering through his view-finder, adjusting his lens. He was not a pretty man. Anne-Marie studied the baggy eyes, waxy skin, fleshy lips. She liked his mouth. All his defects came together around that mouth. She sensed a fellow traveler. Waiting to be noticed, Anne-Marie was aware of her heart beating double-time.

  The next tune exploded. The tall blond man and his red-haired doll continued their deep slow dance, drifting closer to Anne-Marie’s table, oblivious, turning, clinging to each other. The guy beside her with the camera was lining them up, waiting for his moment. Into the first chorus, the band pushed the music up another notch. A series of flashes created a greenish halo around the two lost dancers, streaks of white brilliance pulsed into their dumbfounded eyes.

  Arms raised in front of their faces, they ran for cover on the far side of the room.

  Sitting back, the camera guy tasted his drink. And found the time to give a hovering table-mate some attention. He had horrible bloodshot eyes. Anne-Marie returned his gaze.

  Their eye contact ended with the music. Break time. The band promised to return.

  ‘Alors?’ she breathed, casual as she could make it — what’s your excuse?

  ‘Working…always working.’

  The moment did not last long. The tall blond guy was standing there and did not look happy. His milky fingers worked non-stop, smoothing his wrinkled shirt. Anne-Marie knew he was far gone on something. ‘I’m warning you. I won’t have my dignity trashed again in your slimy column.’ A squeaky voice, smoke-caked, breaking apart like his chaotic hair and ravaged face.

  The man beside her wasn’t worried. He responded, laconic, ‘But Didi, I believe in love.’

  Didi? Where had she heard that name?…and, a double take: working? With his camera.

  No! Like most of his readers, Anne-Marie had only ever seen the penetrating eyes at the top of Tommi’s space. Yes… Now le vrai Tommi was sitting beside her in Diabolik. Unbelievable! Cosmic? She would have another look at that day’s horoscope when she got back to the van.

  The blond guy called Didi said, ‘You are grotesque, Bonneau. Unspeakably low.’

  Tommi Bonneau just laughed. ‘Me, grotesque? You’re the one who’s out dancing with his cousin. She is your cousin, eh, Didi? I heard half-sister.’ He took a pad and pencil from his pocket, peering at the diminutive woman hunched in the far corner. ‘What was her name again? Charlotte?’

  ‘She’s none of your business.’ Didi’s spindly fingers were going crazy up and down the front of his shirt.

  ‘Let’s say first cousin,’ Tommi said, making a note, sipping his Ricard, adding water, sipping again. So casual. Anne-Marie, no stranger to the violence that went on between men, admired his mode of attack. The street girl who loved brinkmanship and grace under pressure knew immediately that Tommi Bonneau lived in a special kind of pain. She observed, eyes wide, as Tommi told his enemy, ‘It’s sad, but it must be wonderful if you can get past all the rules. Your own flesh and blood. An innate understanding of each other’s needs. There’s a purity in that, when you think about it.’ Then Tommi intoned, ‘O fangeuse grandeur! sublime ignominie! …Remember that, Didi? Do you remember your Baudelaire?’

  Oh filthy splendour, ineffable shame!

  Baudelaire. Anne-Marie was no poetry fan but she knew that name.

  The man called Didi sputtered, ‘If you say anything untoward, make any of your shitty insinuations or publish any of this, I promise I will put you and your paper out of business.’

  Tommi raised his glass in a toast. ‘But you’re gorgeous, Didi. Scintillating!’ Patting his camera, he surmised, ‘I can sell these in Paris for ten times more than any judge would ever award you. They love cousin acts in Paris. Especially nobs with German connections. Mm?’ Tasting more pastis, Tommi asked, seriously now — Anne-Marie could feel how deeply serious Tommi was in broaching this moment, ‘Is a first cousin the only thing you could bear to touch after touching Pearl? The only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment. There’s a bit of de Sade, if you don’t want Baudelaire. Eh, Didi? From Pearl Serein to cousin Charlotte? I mean, is this logical? Inevitable? Spe
ak, man! My readers need to know.’

  Anne-Marie clued in. ‘You’re Didier Belfort.’ She put an excited hand on Tommi’s sinewy forearm. ‘I read all about this.’ Pearl Serein tested men and put them through the wringer.

  Ignoring her, Belfort pointed a trembling finger. ‘You’re warned. I know where to find you.’

  In a not ungentle voice, Tommi prodded, ‘Tell us about your heart, Didi. And Pearl’s. Does she even have one? This is the most important thing and Tommi’s gentle readers want to know.’ Now Tommi turned to Anne-Marie. ‘They need to know. Right?’

  Anne-Marie knew she should have paused to think more deeply. But Diabolik was not a place for thinking. Staring at the noble’s stricken eyes, she nodded to confirm, Yes: we need to know.

  Tommi sipped pastis and made a proposition. ‘I’ll trade you tonight’s negatives for an exclusive confession.’ The noble swayed as if punched, utterly befuddled by the presumption in this offer. Tommi persisted. ‘Didi, if you can articulate this downturn, this slide into…what are we going call it?’ He mulled, darkly intense for a concentrated second, then grinned as he found his phrase; ‘this fall into the warm amorality of a slow dance with a first cousin…I like that — Didi, if you can describe that for my readers, you’ll be performing a real service. I mean it. Try, Didi. Tell me your anger. Your desolation. Give me something to hang my story on.’

  Belfort’s eyes bulged. His trembling fingers wrapped into a fist. ‘I’ll beat you. I promise.’

  Then Didi Belfort walked away.

  But he made the mistake of glancing back. Tommi was ready.

  Didi Belfort was swamped in another pool of white-green light…

  And Tommi was gone by the time it faded.

  As Belfort’s addled eyes recovered, he stood gazing at Tommi’s empty chair. He told Anne-Marie, ‘He’s lucky this isn’t two hundred years ago. I could kill him and no one would say a word. Cut him to bits, feed him to the goldfish in the courtyard. One little problem solved.’

  Anne-Marie did not respond to that. She left money on the table and split from Diabolik. She had her own problem to solve, something in her heart that needed answering right now. Plus she had a million things to ask him. Mainly about Pearl. Stepping into the street…

  There: He was loping away, almost gone into the darkness. ‘Hey! Wait!’

  He stopped and turned. ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘I like the work you do.’

  ‘Prove it.’ A dare. Everything about him was a dare.

  Breathless, she took him by the arm. ‘You have to come with me.’

  He did not resist. They walked together. ‘Here…’ sliding open the side panel.

  ‘You live in this thing?’

  ‘Oui,’ uttered cool and low: Where else would I live? She gave him water. It came with a soft lick on his salty cheek, letting her curls fall over his bloody eyes. She hoped he was happy as she undid his belt and proceeded to wrap a lithe poodlish tongue around a lovely Bonneau bone.

  8

  Pumped-Up Cops

  Chief Instructing Judge Richand denied Commissaire Néon’s request for a mandate regarding the suspicious deaths of three leading citizens on the same day. Procureur Michel Souviron hated legal messes that touched the community’s elite — because Michel was one of them, and a very political animal. Because the thing was far less than clear, the proc had shrugged, deferring to the best judgement of his chief magistrate. Gérard’s reading of Claude’s report seized on the essential fact that Dr. Petrucci had failed to establish anything more than cardiac arrest. As coincidental and oddly similar in certain outward aspects as they may have been, in each instance a heart attack was just a heart attack. Since there were no extenuating circumstances or marks, no contusions, lacerations or the like, nor any forbidden or lethal substances found inside the victims’ systems, and since the three sites had been dusted and picked over by IJ and pronounced clean, all a prudent judge could do with Claude’s new file was crumple it up and toss it in the waste bin.

  The commissaire pushed the coincidence. ‘Same girlfriend. This high profile social thing? Come on, Gérard — at least give me a preliminary.’ Before he could reply, Claude blurted, ‘What does Michel say?’

  But it was the judge’s call. And Gérard Richand was a fan of facts and rational ideas — not so big on hunches. He felt no need to debate it. ‘It’s all just back-page fiction, Commissaire. Nothing to hold it together. Sorry.’ No murders nor tangible suspicion thereof had been established. Therefore, in official parlance, ‘No case to answer.’

  Gérard Richand’s decision did not surprise Inspector Nouvelle. Heart attacks. No evidence. There was only Pearl Serein. She was trying to assuage Claude’s abiding spite for Gérard Richand when Monique burst in with a copy of that evening’s paper, open at the Letters page.

  Mistaken Identity

  Sir, I would like to put right an erroneous claim made by your society writer. In her column yesterday she referred to me as a former institutrice maternelle. In fact, I hold an Education nationale certificate, still valid, qualifying me to teach the primary levels. Gaining such accreditation entails a basic post-secondary degree and at least one year of specialized training. By contrast, in this region maternelles proceed directly from secondary school into a two-year training program, and in many areas, completion of secondary credits is not compulsory at all. In short, the difference between the two vocations is one of pedagogical degree, and, I should add, an increasing salary differential as seniority is accrued. Pearl Serein.

  Followed directly by: We apologize. The Editor.

  Aliette was impressed. ‘The lady’s tougher than I thought.’

  But it did not alter ‘No case to answer.’ Claude raged a bit, then sulked. Monique put her Le Vrai Tommi file away. Aliette knew Claude couldn’t let it drop completely. But she could.

  There was work. There was love! You could say she was pursuing her own deep hunch.

  A week later, the morning after the Mari Morgan’s verdict had finally come down, Inspector Nouvelle awoke to the sound of a banging balcony door. Overnight, April in Alsace had reverted to its usual self — rainy and inconsistent, with a blustery wind from the north. Then the phone rang.

  ‘Oui? Non!…merde!’ She dressed, fed Piaf, went out and hailed a cab.

  Cars and trucks were massed in front of the old Legal Arts building in Rue Maginot. Word had spread like wildfire. Reps from all the local press and media were scrummed in the foyer, yelling questions at a stone-faced uniform guarding the lift. Those who recognized the inspector began yelling questions at her. Aliette pushed past, ignoring their noise, protruding mics, flashes, the red light over the eye of a video camera. As she stepped into the waiting lift, a woman stepped forward. The thickly painted eyes of television reporter Tina Trintingant, known as Cakeface at Rue des Bons Enfants, locked onto hers. A camera peered over Cake’s shoulder.

  Aliette smiled, touched the button, the lift door slid closed. When it opened again, another uniform escorted her to the end of the hall: Georges Pugh, Avocat.

  Maître Pugh had been on a losing streak lately. This was satisfying. Georges’ losing streak meant a winning streak for cops such as herself. Yesterday, there’d been a memo from the courthouse the minute the Mari Morgan’s verdict was pronounced. And a moment of quiet, professional satisfaction. Bye-bye, Flossie Orain. Aliette had known Flossie was guilty half a year ago. She had testified in February, then moved on. The verdict was affirmation: Sometimes the world worked right. But she had nothing personal against Georges Pugh.

  Now Georges was dead. Famous boyfriend number four.

  Pugh’s secretary was sitting in her usual place, shocked but tearless, waiting to be instructed. Going through to Georges’ office, the inspector found Claude Néon, Raphaele Petrucci, three more uniforms, one snapping Polaroids, and two SAMU paramedics. The city’s most colorful lawyer was seated at his desk, a pallid statue. It was a study in pressure: his shirt and tie like soiled tea
towels, his besieged hair exploding in disjointed clumps, his glass of scotch still clasped in his left hand. His vacant eyes stared through the open window into eternity.

  ‘Same thing?’ she asked.

  Raphaele nodded. ‘Heart attack.’

  ‘Last night,’ Claude said.

  ‘We’re saying eleven…maybe ten hours ago,’ Raphaele added.

  At a cursory glance, Georges Pugh’s death betrayed no signs of struggle, no blood.

  As the inspector nosed around the office, Claude indicated that Raphaele and the SAMU team could proceed with transferring the body to the morgue. Raphaele hesitated. He knew Claude was blatantly ignoring the non from Gérard Richand. Claude snapped, ‘Get moving! I’ve already talked to Souviron. He says do it — he’ll smooth it out with Strasbourg.’ Followed by a not so subtle huff, ‘Richand can stick it in his fat bum.’ A proc’s OK trumps a magistrate’s no. His own ass covered, Raphaele directed the removal of the body. With Georges removed, the empty spot on the blotter protecting the surface of the antique desk loomed large — the spot where his hand had been firmly placed at the time of death.

  It was a basic desktop writing pad, more decorative than functional: a square of green blotter paper under a sheet of plastic, the two surfaces held flush by embossed morocco shoulders. Slotted between plastic and paper were keepsakes: photos, ticket stubs, cards, a blue ribbon. Something was missing from the place where Georges Pugh’s hand had been — this easily deduced because the blotting paper retained its original rich green where the missing object had shielded it from sunlight.

  ‘A photo.’ Aliette carefully slid another photo from the other corner of the blotter (Pugh at the helm of a motor-yacht) and fit it perfectly to the blank spot. ‘A photo of her?’

  Pugh’s secretary was summoned. She barely glanced at the spot. ‘That woman.’ A flicker of distaste sparked in her face. ‘Topless, with Georges on his boat at Lac Como.’