Stifling Folds of Love

by John Brooke

  The inspector sifted through image after image of this most sought-after woman: alone, with her boyfriends…and here she was with Claude, who was confronting Bruno Martel. Aliette lingered over it, interested in Claude’s expression: The hard-set jaw, narrowed eyes, crouched posture, tensing shoulders, ready to fight. She asked, ‘What’s the big obsession, Tommi?’

  ‘Not mine. Theirs. Pearl has something to appeal to every heart.’

  But there was something distinctly proprietary in his ghastly eyes as he closed the studio light.

  She followed him back through the kitchen to his study. The shades were still down, one dim lamp burned on a desk overflowing with a computer, printer, phone, fax, books, papers, a couple of cameras. Aliette glanced at the glowing screen. He leaned across and switched it off. ‘Sorry — my editor’s my only critic till it’s on the street.’

  ‘The commissaire did not enjoy your last piece.’

  ‘What? Bruno? My readers have been wondering about poor Bruno’s fate for months.’

  ‘I mean the insinuations about him.’

  Tommi shrugged. ‘Then he’ll hate what’s coming… Think she’ll like him?’

  ‘He’s the commissaire. How could she not?’ Trying to laugh. Choking on it.

  ‘Fantastic storyline. But a pretty stupid cop.’

  Who could argue? But she was perplexed. ‘I always thought your stuff was just for a laugh.’

  ‘Some people might think that. My readers and I call it news of the soul. Ask my editor. Le Vrai Tommi is second after the horoscope in readership.’ Responding to Aliette’s clearly signaled scorn, Tommi sighed. ‘Look, ethnic cleansing makes you angry and you can’t sleep: Scum in uniforms. Politics makes you poor and bitter: A bunch of self-serving thieves. Your football team loses and it all seems completely absurd, and what can anyone do? There’s a lot going on out there but it’s too far away, too horrible, too impossible to make a difference, so why bother caring? Most people aren’t involved in much of anything except themselves and most can barely manage that. But on the back page there’s this princess by the pool, boobs all brown and lovely, some rich man sucking on her toes. You may see it as silly and cheap, but my readers see an image of love. Heroic love, as a matter of fact, because for better or for worse, it’s far bigger than they are and it’s like a kind of glue. Holds this ugly world together, lets people dare to relate one last little bit to this sorry global village.’ Tommi smiled. ‘The Pearl Sereins of the world are about the only way the little guy can care about anything bigger than himself any more, and feel like it means something.’

  ‘But it’s such soft-brained mush.’

  A shake of his ponderous head: wrong. ‘No, it’s life. Falls under “human interest,” Inspector. Humans are interested in each other. The vagaries of the heart are the meat of culture. We care about it and we discuss it as extensively as we’re able. If you have a problem connecting with it, well,’ Tommi patted his own heart, his bloodshot eyes expressed a sort of sympathy; ‘you’re a cop. Maybe you just can’t. At least not when you’re working.’

  She nodded, dumbstruck. Maybe I just can’t.

  He averred, ‘No, it’s not big-time like a Stephanie or a Fergie or a Di. But Pearl’s our star. That woman is the most fascinating thing in this dark little corner of the universe. It’s Tommi’s job to gather all the news that fits. Both the high and the low of it. And they are so greedy. Her men. You think I’m mean? Georges Pugh took all the glory. He got to touch her and he reveled in it. He loved it! They all do. But they won’t share a thing when she does a number on their hearts.’

  ‘Not greedy, monsieur. Private. Obviously it’s private.’

  ‘No, no, no, Inspector. Greedy. You get what they had, you have to share.’

  Tommi Bonneau was on a roll. Inspector Nouvelle quietly egged him on. ‘Have to?’

  ‘You say it’s cheap, I say it’s timeless. Large. Prototypical — it’s like a god’s shadow on a wall: scary, inspiring, but it’s our own shadow too and we know it. They do what we want to do but would never dare. They make love and die in front of all of us. Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge, Inspector. There’s some more Rimbaud for you. These guys are as close as we get and Tommi’s gentle readers crave it.’

  ‘I don’t want to make love in front of anyone except my lover.’

  ‘And who was your lover again?’ Tommi was daring her.

  Aliette ignored it. She began to peruse the books piled on his desk. What was a gossip writer reading? Page-marked volumes were piled high. Les liaisons dangereuses, La morte amoureuse, Manon Lescaut, Carmen, Hérodias, Nana, Lulu… All lush classics, some had been called works of genius. Salammbô: Flaubert’s study of a sacred virgin in ancient Carthage who drives a man to destructive craziness because she will not return his love. A teacup was resting on Balzac: La peau de chagrin, a study of one Foedora, formidable in her beauty, inflexible in her sense of what she wants. A copy of Les fleurs du mal was lying open — that dark and marvelous garden, on every page Baudelaire’s vision of feminine beauty as a thing unholy, deadly, fascinating, perverse and essential. This poet was the man who coined the term la femme fatale. The inspector picked it up, read, ‘O fangeuese grandeur! Sublime ignominie!’ She asked, ‘Is this for inspiration or something?’

  ‘Research,’ replied Tommi. ‘Everything is research.’

  ‘And which one,’ wondered Aliette, ‘is Pearl?’

  ‘They’re all Pearl.’

  ‘Bit of a difference between yourself and Baudelaire. Eh, Tommi?’

  ‘Sure. Baudelaire’s dead. And these days people want direct quotes. And a picture, of course.’

  ‘On the back page of the newspaper.’

  ‘Back page is as good a place as any. No one reads poetry any more. Now it’s me.’

  No answer to that, only another question: ‘Could she really be so dark? A primary teacher?’

  Tommi’s smile was wan, depleted, the smile of a man who’d been up late enjoying himself. ‘Darkness is in the eye of the beholder, Inspector. I bet you’d know that better than most. But so is the light that attracts us, no?’

  Mm, tell me about it. On the bulging shelves she saw lots more interesting things to read. More poetry: Dante, Petrarch, some Americans, Irish and English, Persian love poets. More novels. The Republic’s major thinkers were also represented, Diderot, Descartes, Voltaire, Montesquieu, Pascal…and don’t forget de Sade. And Plato got to be there with them, as did a lot of eastern religious stuff. And art. Food and health… ‘You read all this?’

  ‘I dip in and out. It’s all useful. Wouldn’t keep it if it weren’t.’

  And birds. Photography, Audubon’s prints, much biology… ‘Ah, right. My spies tell me you started with the bird column.’

  ‘Birds are interesting,’ said Tommi.

  ‘As interesting as Pearl Serein?’

  As if in response, there was a peeping sound in the shadows at the far end of the room.

  Aliette approached the bird in the cage by the shuttered window. A finch. Chardonneret: the meager light obscured the rich crimson of its cap and mask, but she recognized the distinctive white sidebars extending from the fringe of the pate, ringing the back of the eye and wrapping below the chin. The species was common in garden feeders and kitchen cages, their colors and song a pleasing diversion. Her grandmère had kept one. She watched it shuffle along its perch.

  Tommi Bonneau joined her. ‘Some days, yes. Even more so.’ Opening the gate, Tommi extended a finger. ‘Eh, Bert? Are you interesting?’ The bird hopped on and was lifted out and up close to an inspector’s eyes. ‘The homing instinct is only the most obvious thing. The way they mate. The way they build. The way they sing to each other. We hear a three-note song, they hear a complete pattern. Very sensitive, even neurotic — or something like it. There’s a syndrome called Displacement Activity. It’s as if their nervous system shorts out and one instinct cuts into the middle of another. They’ve been observed suddenly interr
upting sex and attacking their mates. Apparently it revolves around problems of motivation and communication, and origin and evolution.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of people.’

  Tommi sniffed a laugh. ‘Some days I think I learn more from birds than I do from people.’

  She tried to touch Bert the bird, but he skittishly avoided her.

  Tommi guided him back inside his caged home.

  But birds and poetry were distracting. This was a business call. ‘Can you tell me where Didier Belfort might be when he’s not at home?’

  ‘Didi? In a cloud…the man has about five different habits.’ Casually lifting one of his cameras, Tommi Bonneau lined up Aliette Nouvelle. Another dare.

  She ignored it. In the street, she could threaten him with consequences. Here, this was the necessary trade-off, Tommi’s price for her unmandated visit. ‘I know that. But where does he hide?’

  ‘His studio.’ Click.

  ‘No.’

  ‘His mama’s castle.’ Click.

  ‘On my list.’

  ‘Wasn’t dancing last night? Didi’s quite the dancer if he’s got the right mix of pills in him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t see him killing anyone, though,’ Musing. Click. Almost imperceptible.

  ‘Not asking for your opinion on that, Tommi. Only where he cools his heels.’

  ‘The clubs downtown. Try Diabolik? I saw him there the other night. Please smile, Inspector.’

  Aliette would not smile for Tommi Bonneau. ‘Which night?’

  ‘Oh, a week ago at least.’ Click. ‘And there are all the family places. Over the river too.’

  Tommi took another picture. She blinked.

  ‘…his mother’s castle in the Black Forest, the wine property at Bergheim.’ Click.

  ‘That’s enough, Tommi.’ Quid pro quo.

  ‘Never enough, Inspector. Always something there.’ He stopped, but he wanted more.

  Too curious. She sensed this Tommi Bonneau could shoot on and on. Till he saw what?

  A voice called from upstairs. ‘Tommi! Where’s your hair dryer?’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute!’

  Aliette knew that voice. She was sure she knew it. But it was none of her business.

  Before leaving the house on Rue Pontbriand with a list of places in Germany and Switzerland, she thanked him for his help. And now she warned him, ‘I am off the record, Tommi.’

  Tommi told her, ‘The crime page can talk about cops. Le Vrai Tommi sticks to love. I’m happy to see you. Spies are spies, n’est-ce pas?’ He flashed a smirky smile before he closed the door.

  The old Westfalia van was indeed parked in the street. Not hiding. Why should it be? And why should Aliette be sad to see it there? Not her business. Anne-Marie was free to sleep with whatever man might please her. As was Pearl Serein. As was Aliette Nouvelle.

  But people made such stupid choices, time and time again.

  And that can make a person sad.

  16

  Sunday’s Bitter End

  When she returned to her desk, there were more calls, finally one from Claude. She informed him, ‘Mathieu’s people are talking to Remy Lorentz…No, no sign of Belfort anywhere.’ In her opinion, Belfort’s absence posed a heightened risk to an already seriously compromised commissaire.

  ‘Why? There’s only one way into this place.’

  Refraining from anything smug or angry, objective — a good cop — she tried to help him see it from the other side of the equation, how other investigators were bound to start to see it: Because Raymond Tuche was dead. Because he and Claude had been seen in a violent situation within hours of his death and they — Pearl and Ray — were known to have been in love.

  ‘She never loved him.’

  She suggested statements like that were nothing if not incriminating. And because Claude was now with Pearl Serein.

  ‘Protecting her.’

  Regardless, certain people were wanting to speak to Claude and Pearl, officially — that is, in garde à vue. ‘Michel Souviron is expecting you…both of you — before he gives you to Gérard. It’s an opportunity that may not come again, monsieur.’ Because the Sunday news reports were quickly spinning Pearl Serein and Commissaire Claude Néon into a very hot item (which was totally predictable, you ass!) and that wouldn’t help his case at all.

  With a word, Claude expressed his contempt for the Sunday news reports.

  He conceded that the proc’s support was valuable and forever iffy. But, ‘Tomorrow,’ Claude said, holding tight to the logic of the boyfriends, the not-unreasonable thought that he might himself now be a target. The pattern indicated the killer would be trying to get at him, and soon.

  And Pearl? He felt they were both better positioned ensconced at the highest point in the city.

  ‘Claude, Claude, Claude. What if you’re the killer?’

  ‘Me?’ Big pause. ‘…But that’s absurd.’

  ‘But it’s a way of seeing it. Coming in right now would be the smarter thing. Let Michel protect you — from Belfort and the rumors.’ Claude and Pearl the assumed couple: this was highly volatile where it touched the public’s view of it. ‘So you spend the night in jail? It’s no shame.’

  No. ‘Tomorrow.’ They were safer where they were, legally and existentially, if not physically. ‘No way I’ll let anyone put us in a cell for the night. Press sees that, it might as well be over.’

  ‘The divisionnaire has indicated that you should surrender. Are you going to force the issue?’

  ‘Such bullshit. Look, Fauré likes you. Tell him I’m asking for the night to land the noble.’

  ‘And what if he says no?’ Divisional Commissaire Norbert Fauré was not one to be disobeyed.

  A large sigh at the other end. Aliette suddenly wondered if Pearl was there. Rubbing his stressed-out neck? Claude burst in on this soft image. ‘Let Fauré come up and arrest us. The vultures are all here. Let him walk through that, cuff us and lead us away. Hm?’

  Bitterness aside, the inspector had to admit that Claude had learned to think strategically. No, the divisionnaire was not to be disobeyed, but the appearance of chaos within police ranks in his fiefdom was something else again. The media vultures would just as soon eat Norbert Fauré as Claude and Pearl — Fauré had lots of tasty political fat clinging to his large presence for them to chew on. Still, the inspector counseled, ‘Better to come in of your own accord. Show the community you’ve nothing to hide. Push the Belfort angle. Let Fauré deal with the media on those terms.’ If Didier Belfort was out hunting the men who courted Pearl, he would have to break through police lines to get at Claude. If innocent, Belfort turned himself in and submitted to questions. ‘Or he stays low, runs. Whichever way, it becomes Fauré’s problem. No?’

  ‘That could take weeks,’ rebutted Claude, but tentatively. Realizing he’d put himself in a tricky corner? ‘What if we never see him again? We all know Richand’s the worst for keeping people.’

  Aliette couldn’t argue. There is no concept of bail in France. One is either released from interrogation with a promise to remain available, or kept while further investigations are carried out. Provisional freedom is at the discretion of the instructing judge. More than anything else, the détention provisoire rule has given the justice system its ominous reputation of favoring the notion of guilty until proven innocent. Gérard Richand could and would keep them if he had any doubts at all. In that sense, walking into a jail cell for the night had nothing to do with a declaration of good faith. It would only make the judge’s decision that much easier. And while Procureur Michel Souviron could be an ally, he would never publicly challenge his own chief magistrate.

  ‘Bon,’ Aliette murmured. ‘It’s your case, monsieur.’

  Claude said, ‘Find the noble.’

  ‘Working on it.’

  ‘Everybody stays in contact with everybody else.’

  ‘Oui, oui.’ She rang off, promising to keep him in the loop.

  And
she would. Because it’s our duty… But Aliette Nouvelle was no longer feeling urgent. If Claude Néon was so sure he belonged up there and not down here, let him stay up there. Claude’s bluff would certainly be called tomorrow morning. There was also the thought of Claude being sent to some outpost in the Massif Centrale, disgraced, never to be heard from again. Who would logically take over the PJ team here at Rue des Bons Enfants?

  She watered her plant and gathered her stuff. She heard the phone ringing in Monique’s office as she started down the stairs. She kept going, ignoring Junior Inspector Bernadette Milhau’s request that she take line one. That’s it for me today. Sweat, Claude. You deserve it.

  Coming out of the winding streets of the old quarter, crossing the rond-point…

  Claude’s ‘situation’ had turned into a siege. The crowd in front of Pearl’s building was growing, buzzing, spilling into the park, a circus of media and curious folk conjoined in their desire for something to happen. People clutching newspapers stood around surmising. Gossip. Grungy human curiosity. Who can claim to be above it? The inspector wandered through, anonymous, studying their expectant faces. What did they think they’d see? A happy couple waving down at them like royalty? Or maybe a pair of desperadoes trapped by their passion and cornered by the law, embracing there on the edge, then throwing themselves into the evening sky? Both those things, probably, and a thousand variations. The grist of the story was universal. Its details lay in all these separate hearts…shifting, fantastic, thrilling! All anyone had to do was pick up a copy. Le Vrai Tommi was a door to larger dreams. And they were hungering for that.

  The balance between knowing and wallowing was seriously off. It vexed her.

  Aliette lingered in the crowd, checking faces for clues to the empty thing behind each life that had allowed this spectacle to happen. Shhh! cautioned her better voice, Stop being so righteous, Inspector. People want to know about it. It’s normal.

  So she walked away from normal, climbed to her third-floor hideout, lay down for half an hour, then took a good long shower. Opened a bottle of beer.