Stifling Folds of Love

by John Brooke

  ‘Noradrenaline,’ repeated Judge Richand, suddenly bemused, staring at the organs.

  ‘You can call it adrenaline.’

  ‘From anger?’ asked Aliette.

  ‘Or fear,’ said Raphaele.

  ‘Or elation…even love,’ continued the doctor. ‘These emotions all register in the same place in the brain. ‘That,’ he stated, for the pleasure of Gérard Richand, ‘is a physical fact.’

  ‘But…’ Richand sensed the next obvious question. You could see him groping to form it.

  Honest scientist that he was, Conan helped him. ‘But extrapolating beyond the boundary of the body is something else again. The external catalysts for each may be a world apart. And they may not be physical.’

  Inspector Aliette Nouvelle was not as tied to the strictly rational as was Chief Magistrate Gérard Richand. The metaphysical, the totally irrational — these are often central to a criminal action, if not a police solution. She asked, ‘Can a person really die of a broken heart?’

  Doctor Conan was a scientist of the highest level. Perhaps for that very reason he did not automatically disdain metaphysical discussions relating to the heart. Not even when standing beside six pieces of raw meat aligned in trays. ‘Same as dying of fright, more or less,’ he replied. ‘There are people down the hall at the faculty considering that very question. A spouse dies, the other follows shortly after for no apparent reason. They say he or she died of a broken heart. They’re actually talking about unresolved stress throwing the heart into an irregular and fatal beat. They’re trying to see how the emotion — in the brain — can change the electrical activity in the heart. It centers around the insular cortex, the same place which handles fear and anger. The insular cortex is like a junction point, you see?…where the autonomic nervous system, which controls automatic things like breathing and heartbeat, links up with the limbic nervous system, which is apparently the domain of fear, pleasure, stress, sexual arousal and the like. We know stress floods the heart with stimulating chemicals but we’re still not sure of the sequence of events in the brain required to start the flood. Some think this place in the brain could be the key to sudden cardiac deaths.’

  ‘Like these?’

  ‘Just like these. Emotional catalysts: quite a fascinating juncture between pure physiology and, well, our poetic side.’ Conan smiled. ‘Seems we can’t get away from it, even in pure science.’

  Soon they were discussing love and death, probing links and overlapping perceptions — nexus points, as it were. Aliette Nouvelle was thinking she had an ally. One sensed Gilles Conan knew well enough how the heart is a main avenue connecting man the brute machine with the creature capable of sonnets. How love, the high and the low of it, is felt most physically in the heart — overpoweringly so at those most human moments, those times when we can’t help ourselves from blurting, I never felt so alive! And how death is always a possible result.

  ‘But murder,’ argued Gérard Richand. ‘You still haven’t drawn the connection here. Not in the legal sense. Please tell me why in the world should we even think it’s possible?’

  In truth, an esteemed heart specialist didn’t honestly know. ‘Because there are always limits and there are always possibilities, and the heart will pull in both directions?’ At this point, it was all Gilles Conan could offer.

  Commissaire Duque spoke to support him. ‘And because accessories must share the result of the action.’ Meaning accessories to crime. Meaning the action causing death. Which is a legal fact.

  ‘Anger, love, fear: your accessory is metaphysical.’ Was how Gérard Richand saw it.

  Conan asked, ‘How can you investigate what you don’t recognize as a possibility?’

  Richand riposted, ‘Exactly.’

  Too quick; immediately frowning as the deeper implication filtered through his logic.

  Aliette thought, Gérard, if scientists and cops can bring imagination, shouldn’t judges too?

  Duque, enjoying himself, said, ‘It goes to intent, Gérard.’ Which is a workable premise.

  Sipping cappuccino, they continued to bat these notions up and down a row of stainless steel trays containing hearts. They passed around the collection of police photographs. A photograph of death is useful because so starkly compelling. But it also always seems like the ultimate oxymoron, requiring a thousand if not a million words you know will never come. ‘Blood pressure could easily factor,’ commented Conan as they contemplated the whale-like corpse of Bruno Martel. And likely many other things they were bound to find — in all of them. ‘The sculptor’s anti-depression meds were made to slow his electricity down. Being over-excited and lost in a barrage of strobe lights would be like walking barefoot through a lightning storm with antennae strapped to your head.’ Because of these factors, Dr. Conan remained dryly objective. Yes, he was interested in the problem as it related to broken-hearted lovers. ‘We’re always on the lookout for any sorts of new directions…’ But he would give reality its due. There had to be physical circumstances. Life is physical. Death too.

  The most compelling exhibit on display was the fact of fatal coincidence.

  But Gérard Richand did not come away convinced of a criminal act. He would wait for the expert from Strasbourg to offer him something more substantial than adrenaline, or till the police could provide him with evidence more rational than the idea of a life without Pearl Serein. He wanted something proving criminal intent before he would allow them to proceed as such.

  Until such evidence was produced, Commissaire Duque’s team really had no job at all.

  And Aliette’s mandate would remain severely limited: Find the woman. Bon courage.

  23

  A Question of Co-Enabling

  Inspector Nouvelle knew she needed to find out more from Tommi Bonneau. His ‘story’ demanded fuller explanation. The gossip’s relationship to Pearl Serein’s lovers was mean-spirited, bordering on antagonistic, but his relationship to Pearl was downright strange. The inspector’s mandate did not provide for an interpeller order on Tommi. Nor did Commissaire Duque’s. Meaning they could not compel him to talk. And even if Gérard Richand could be coaxed into summoning him, Tommi’s editor would very likely fight it tooth and nail.

  A prudent cop with scant wiggle room did not go rushing back to the house in Rue Pontbriand. No, Aliette took Monique’s file of collected clippings and headed down to the courthouse, where she sat with Substitute Procureur Maître Cécile Botrel. They had worked closely together on the case against Flossie Orain. They trusted each other. ‘Have you been following this thing?’

  ‘Hard not to, at least this past week. Before that, no…not really my crowd.’

  ‘But what do you think about it?’

  ‘She’s so bland looking.’

  Which was interesting, if not useful. Cécile Botrel was gay.

  Opening the file, the inspector found a clipping from a November day the previous autumn and passed it to Cécile: Local Scene: High-flying defense attorney Georges Pugh seemed to be wearing two left shoes yesterday, wandering in aimless circles as he made a mockery of both the principle of a reasonable defense and his own golden reputation at the extortion trial of Bertrand Loftus…another one of George’s lovely clients, now gone away for at least six years thanks to the above-mentioned aimless argument. That’s three losses in a row for Georges since the loss of Pearl. Following so sadly on the stumbling heels of Didi Belfort, Pierre Angulaire, and Jerôme Duteil, it appears bad luck is stalking those whom Pearl finds wanting!

  The sub-proc crinkled her nose, amused. She had lost a big case or two to Maître Pugh. ‘Georges deserved a lot of things, but probably not that…Insult to injury. Pretty tasteless.’

  ‘But he’s on to something. Pugh was in a tailspin…’ Tastelessness aside, Bonneau was right: Georges Pugh had started screwing up last autumn. The man had appeared lost, separated from his talents, failing utterly in front of everyone, his entire identity unraveling. It had been happening since his break-up with P
earl Serein. ‘Same applies to Duteil, Gagnon, Angulaire… All of them. In a slide. Depressed, off-guard, vulnerable. Because of Pearl Serein.’

  ‘And so? It’s just back-page bullshit.’

  ‘He calls it news of the soul. His readers hang on every word.’

  ‘And depressives are known to suffer heart attacks. But that’s not why you’re here, Inspector.’

  ‘No. It’s her…it’s these.’ Pages of images. Tommi’s commentary. ‘I’d like your opinion.’

  ‘My opinion is it’s a low-level fantasy.’

  ‘But what about Article 9?’ The privacy law. Some French celebs live off it, suing anyone who uses their image without their negotiated permission. ‘Why hasn’t she sued him for his fantasy?’ Aliette pulled the shot of Pearl on the city steps after the Duteil funeral, passed it across the table, quoting the cutline, ‘Could it have ended differently?…It’s like he blamed her for the death of Jerôme Duteil.’ Spreading more pages in front of Cécile Botrel. ‘Take a closer look. It’s like she’s the one who’s responsible for these men’s disastrous fall from grace.’

  ‘And their dying?’

  ‘You tell me. The fact is, they are dead. Now he’s aiming at Claude.’

  Maître Botrel sipped her coffee. ‘What a stupid man he’s turning out to be.’

  Aliette bit her tongue and held her peace. Cécile began to read.

  Pearl Serein had first appeared in Le Vrai Tommi two and half years prior, after an item on Brigitte Bardot’s decision to sue her village veterinarian for allegedly aiding and abetting her schnauzer’s heartbreaking addiction to champagne: On the local sports scene, my spies at the Quarter Racquets Club inform me that interesting architect and international man-about-town Didier Belfort has a mighty serve. At six foot six and with a family fortune to back him up, who could doubt it? But news from the Tennis Section is that schoolteacher Pearl Serein’s return is rock solid. Quite the match, I hear.

  Three weeks later, Members of Primary One at Ecole Marthe-Richard took a day-trip across the bridge yesterday and into the Black Forest, where they made a tour of four-hundred-year-old Villa Freiss. Leading the way through the dark passages was none other than Freiss scion Didier Belfort. Making sure no one got lost and never heard from again was Pearl Serein, mistress to both the wide-eyed kinder and blue-eyed Monsieur B. The stuff of storybooks, n’est-ce pas?

  There followed notes on sightings at society parties and trendy bars throughout that autumn. Pearl the schoolteacher was invariably described as looking good, radiant, et cetera. But then, Didier Belfort stomped out of Club Diabolik last night. The occasion was meant to be a celebration of Pierre Angulaire’s new doc on the architect’s contributions to the cityscape. Sources say the display might have had something to do with the ability of D’s girl Pearl and Pierre A. to boogie through two straight sets!

  The next instalment found Pierre Angulaire’s name in place of Didi Belfort’s: I’m told by those who know that director Pierre Angulaire has been screen-testing Pearl Serein. Neither the acclaimed filmmaker nor the much admired schoolteacher will say what’s cooking. However, Pearl’s leading man was heard telling a mutual friend ‘it’s only a test — but I believe she’s got that magic.’ Magic! We love magic! Pearl and Pierre were beautiful. They lasted till mid-summer.

  Then, Pierre Angulaire tried to sell a dream but ended up losing the farm to the bank. In this case the farm is Pearl Serein, and the bank is banker Jerôme Duteil. Apparently it happened over lunch. A business lunch. This city’s north end is still reeling. A week later Tommi duly reported that Pierre had been spotted wandering in a disoriented way through Parc de la République in the rain, lost without his rudder in a summer storm, the clear result of having split with Pearl Serein.

  Cécile Botrel blinked. ‘Ouch!…He really does know how to kick a man when he’s down.’

  Aliette said, ‘But it’s part of the story.’

  Then Tommi asked, Who is this Pearl Serein? A lot of people are wondering, most particularly a well-known film director and the wife of a certain banker. We can hear a chorus out there, whispering it up and down the line. Where is she headed? What exactly is her risk rating?

  Cécile Botrel flipped though more pages. ‘Does she never get to say anything?’

  ‘Not a word,’ confirmed the inspector, adding, ‘This is what’s so strange.’

  Pearl Serein simply continued on, appearing to enjoy it — for a while.

  Then: Double loss breaks the banker… when Georges Pugh successfully defends morning man J-G Gagnon against Jerôme Duteil’s defamation suit (under Article 9), Georges becomes Pearl’s new tennis date. Some excellent doubles action. Then: One would think a man of Maître Georges Pugh’s skills might be capable of making a better case when it comes to love… as Pearl leaves Georges for Raymond Tuche. Georges goes into his tragic slide.

  Then: Raymond Tuche was spotted crying alone at a table yesterday afternoon, a table shared for eight magical weeks with our Pearl… ‘Poor Ray was reduced to blobs of clay.’

  Cécile Botrel sipped coffee. ‘Our Pearl?’

  ‘She’s their star. The brightest in this corner of the universe. According to Tommi.’

  ‘It is very weird. And still she says nothing?’

  ‘Not for the record.’ Aliette frowned, pointing to Tommi’s shot of Pearl out shopping, tight-lipped, empty-eyed…and yes, very bland.

  Then Jean-Guy Gagnon climbs into the saddle, starts calling his Pearl on-air. Tommi enjoys their lovey-dovey morning chats; though he taunts Pearl, exhorts her to have a heart! when she declines J-G’s on-air proposal.

  ‘But who in their right mind would accept like that?’

  ‘No one. That’s the thing. Claude said she refuses to buy into it.’

  Then: A morning man’s rude wake-up call…Pearl tells Jean-Guy, on-air, that she’s in need of some time alone, that she’s heading up to the Bruno Martel’s spiritual farm for some serious introspection…Jean-Guy weeps on-air! And Tommi records the moment for his gentle readers. Then the pictures of Bruno and Pearl on a snowy mountainside. Excited notes about the couple’s spiritual journey. But Pearl leaves Bruno on Valentine’s Day. Large tears! writes Tommi.

  And Pearl disappears from the Local Scene. ‘Till two weeks ago.’

  Sub-Proc Cécile Botrel was perplexed. ‘What is duo-innering?’

  ‘God knows…So what about Article 9? Could she go there?’

  Botrel jolted slightly. Shaking herself loose from Tommi’s gentle fantasy? ‘She could if she had a mind to. Several times…almost every time.’

  ‘So why doesn’t she?’

  ‘No idea.’ Musing, ‘It would be interesting to know. Although: most of those muckers have money set aside specifically for Article 9 suits, and they don’t mind spending it because the profits outweigh the costs. A princess shagging in the swimming pool is worth a lot of money.’

  ‘But they don’t share it with the princess.’

  ‘No. But I gather she has done quite well from this…story?’ The inspector nodded to confirm — very well. The sub-proc mulled it for another moment. ‘There’s also the gap between calumny and malicious gossip. Maybe she fears having to explain where that lies.’

  ‘Maybe. But she is not a gold-digger. Claude is certain.’

  ‘For what that’s worth.’

  The inspector would not argue Claude’s credibility.

  Maître Cécile Botrel said, ‘Look, if this Bonneau was a drunk, she’d be a co-enabler. But this is Article 9. A judge would tell him to stop, if she asked that it be so.’ With a shrug, she began to put the clippings back in a neat pile. ‘But Gérard Richand could have told you that.’

  ‘Gérard doesn’t want to hear about it. He finds it too demeaning. Like Claude affected him personally. Very angry. He won’t allow this to be a part of it.’ Collecting the file. Rising to leave.

  ‘Gérard sounds a bit like her,’ said Cécile Botrel.

  Like Pearl?… ‘Merci, madame le Maître.
’

  There was lonely inspiration in a Japanese novel. But there was something else at play. It was the structure of the thing. The situation could not have existed without rumor, built into the medium of the so-called ‘story.’ Envy, curiosity, ambition, pride: a soapy drama of doomed celebrity. It took two to make it happen. The one who strung it all together. The woman at the center. Where was Pearl Serein? And why? The inspector met daily with her team.

  ‘We’ve got an APB out all over the region. Trains to Paris, trains beyond.’

  Had Pearl sufficient time to get herself beyond?

  ‘I think she’s closer…With a friend. Or…’ Who?

  ‘Unless she jumped a plane to America.’

  ‘Run to her mama? Where was it?’

  ‘Connecticut.’

  Several members of the team took a try at pronouncing it. No one knew if they had it right.

  ‘People do,’ conceded Inspector Nouvelle. People run back to their mothers all the time. She herself was often tempted. You know we’re always here, dear…But there was no sign of it at the airport, an easy half-hour away, neither in the security video log nor in airline receipts. The inspector wondered if Pearl’s mother — in…Connecticut? — even knew of her daughter’s situation.

  Signs in Pearl’s kitchen suggested they talked. ‘Have we contacted her?’

  Not yet. Everyone sat there — looking to her.

  ‘I will.’ It was her responsibility.

  She went to her phone, spent half an hour getting the connection. It was still morning in America. A stilted chat — all in French, Pearl’s mama spoke good French — yielded up the claim that there were no relatives of note nearby. As for friends?

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Madame Inspector. Not anymore.’

  ‘Did you hear about this?’

  ‘Well, yes… I hadn’t heard tell of him for years. They used to be such good friends.’

  ‘Pearl and Tommi?’

  ‘I mean when they were very young… Now I gather he hunts her like one of his birds.’