by John Brooke
The concierge was growing irritated. ‘Arthur is at home, madame. Do you really think Arthur lives in the engine room twenty-four hours a day?’
‘While you fiddle, I am missing my show!’
‘You could come and see me in the morning.’
‘I will complain,’ said the woman. ‘I did not pay for this kind of disrespectful service.’
‘Police!’ announced Claude.
But no one believed him. The other lift opened. Five people came out, everyone else got on, including the vexed woman who was missing her show.
The door closed. Claude was alone with the concierge, who informed him, ‘You’ll have to use the stairs. Someone got up there and jammed it.’ Smiling. ‘The police are on their way.’ He left the riddle of the key ring and took Claude around a corner and opened a door. Pulling yet another key from his pocket, presenting it. ‘I hope this is the one. Should take you right into her laundry room…’ Pausing, the concierge added, ‘I thought you were in the dog house.’
Claude did not have time to explain his life. He snatched the key from the white-gloved hand.
Heart leading, he sprinted up the service stairs.
Georgette Duguay kicked, scratched and flailed at the side of Tommi Bonneau’s head with the hard edge of the book she still clutched. ‘What the hell book is this?’ muttered her attacker as he maneuvered her toward the fence enclosing Pearl’s garden…He grabbed her wrist. ‘Japanese? Never heard of it.’ Georgette broke away, running blindly. He chased, caught her, threw her down. Another flurry of long-legged kicking. He stood back, she found her feet again and ran. He caught her from behind, they recommenced their brawling pas de deux toward Pearl’s fence. With a groan and an elbow to his mouth, Georgette again broke free.
But perhaps Georgette sensed she was losing ground. Because suddenly she turned and threw the book she’d found on her way through Pearl’s apartment. It seemed she paused to watch The Three-Cornered World go flying out over the barrier, then fall.
Then Tommi had her, pummeling her around the mouth, edging her toward the barrier.
Willem van Hoogstraten could only watch, afraid to breathe, heart seized up tight.
Far below and a world away, Aliette Nouvelle arrived with Patrice Lebeau.
The inspector paused for a split second to note Pearl’s book lying on the lawn.
Poetry. Novels. Non-fiction best-sellers. The NEWS…Headlines and columns. The never-ending flow of work–related materials: Memos. Briefs. Files. Directives…Don’t forget Marie-Claire and Paris-Match. All this stuff to read if one hopes to stay on top of what is going on. Page by page. A city full of gentle readers. So many hearts’ desires. At a moment like this, one wishes for the cinematic, the better to convey the converging of these hearts’ movement toward a common highest point: No sense of time, simply engaged, all body in its collective form, pure adrenaline flowing from every direction. And if this were a movie, this would be the scene — the money scene, production values flowing free, all artifice directed here, a prolonged heroic moment, sublime, extended, deepened, for every solitary heart to observe from a darkness akin to sleep; to see and deeply feel. To own! Chief Judge of Instruction Gérard Richand is not wrong: there is this need to possess it, to hold it close in the most personal of ways.
Picture it: Georgette Duguay, flung like a giant rag doll, cracks her head, loses her breath, she can’t fight this man any longer, his eyes are remorseless, she’s only fighting to breathe as Tommi whispers, ‘Shhh,’ a finger to his lips like a father to his child before lights out. Another fist, in terrible close-up, and she can’t think, there’s no time to think, but she knows it’s over, everything finished, it’s silent now save for the wind. She believes Tommi has already pushed her into the sky and all that’s left is a woman flying, a reflection in a window — there! — feeling nothing like the bird she has always imagined when imagining her mama, a mother who had flown away from a broken heart when Georgette was still a girl. Why be afraid? It’s as if Georgette Duguay sees a woman with nothing to be afraid of and no time to think at all. The feeling lasts an eternity.
But is it time enough for Claude Néon to get there? The exiled cop was climbing, deep inside his body, controlling pain, feinting past exhausted focal points, rechanneling dwindling energy streams…Hurry, Claude! Keep it moving, this leg, now the other.
Because Georgette is dropping through a hole in time, a lifetime, time transformed, while Claude is ramping upward, a machine that will Make it, you Know he Will MAKE it, exURrtion fragmented to essential units, a man, bare bones (metaphorical) set against the spiritual wonder (symbolic) of Georgette as she falls (inside her mind), breathless but alive in one suspended moment within her long-gone mama’s heart — as breathless as the breathless man who bursts into the scene, reaches out an arm, catches her, holds her, two of them tumbling away from Tommi Bonneau, Claude’s body doing everything it needs to, every instinct in each movement being fulfilled, so natural, a natural man: Claude Néon. Yes!
These reports of people on roofs, on towers. People flying? There are always reports and you have to read them closely. Because they’re random, some near the scene, others miles away, still others, simply dreaming. Commissaire Duque’s City force will follow up, to be sure, but let’s be real: those reports will most likely sit in drawers.
Bottom line: Claude Néon was alone with it, no credible witness (Willem’s eyes still frozen) when he got to the top, almost dead from running up eleven flights because Georgette Duguay didn’t know enough to disengage Pearl’s lift key, smashed through an already severely busted laundry room door and onto the terrace, entered the struggle and successfully, if not gracefully, prevented Tommi Bonneau from following through on his horrible scenario.
Heroic? Claude found himself in a tangled heap in the shrubbery. He knew, with the last bits of sense that could send this information, that he was fast approaching delirium. The woman, whom he’d recognized as Aliette’s bitchy old friend, appeared to have fainted in his arms. Maybe it was more serious than that. But Claude shoved her away and let her collapse as Tommi Bonneau attacked. The camera had been traded for a pole, the one Pearl used to fish bugs out of her pool. It had a spike with a hook on the other end. Ugly…Bonneau’s face was turning ugly, the way a man’s will when he’s about to strike. Claude Néon rolled one way as he pushed Georgette the other. Bonneau’s stab went between them and punched through the webbing of Pearl’s chain-link fence. When Claude looked, his attacker was trying to pull his weapon free, but the hook had caught. It gave him time to find his delirious feet.
Tommi Bonneau gave up on the spear. He came at Claude with his own brute force.
A fight to the death is essentially crude, pure adrenaline, a perfect color. Bonneau’s force turned out to be something the training machines in his dining room had barely hinted at. Claude could match the man for height, but that’s where it ended. Some blows to the face and the cop was near helpless. With a bearish grunt, Tommi corralled him and lifted — easy, no more than an inconsequential featherweight bundle to be carried to the edge and tossed back into the night. ‘Reputation belongs to the one who lives the longest,’ sang Tommi Bonneau. Claude had a moment of feeling he’d heard that line somewhere, when? how? but all he could do was clutch the chain-link fence. Moments before, powered by the adrenaline fantasy, this cop’s fingers had been veritable steel clamps — now they were bloody, soggy butcher’s string, shredding, about to break. Claude Néon held onto the chain link and tried to kick with feet that had no purchase…with a knee…or…
Bite the fucker’s nose. ‘Ah!’ Tommi reeled away in pain.
Not the most manly of moves, but it gave him another moment to regroup. Claude ran to the other side of Pearl’s pool. Grabbing a folded deck chair, he wielded it.
‘Connard,’ sneered Tommi. He leapt across Pearl’s pool, no problem, far too fast, grabbed the chair when Claude moved to strike, ripping it away and smashing him with it. ‘Stupid, weakling cop!’
Tommi Bonneau hammered Claude Néon —
— who went back-pedaling, tipping chairs, warm blood leaking down the side of his head, badly needing an angle, an advantage, desperately needing help.
Aliette found the concierge still working on the problem of the stranded lift. Someone had not thought to disengage the key (which he’d left carelessly unguarded) upon their arrival at the top-most floor. His only explanation was that Arthur, who ran the building’s engines, did not work nights. Madame Inspector would have to proceed on foot. He showed her to the back stairs. Presumably her colleague had succeeded in gaining access.
My colleague? Right, merci…
A heavy frustrated train of uphill thinking hitched itself to the inspector’s already over-extended sense of duty. She, logically, thought it must be Pearl up there with my colleague as she frantically climbed eleven flights with Inspector Patrice Lebeau. Stupid woman, Aliette. Only the 7th? Please! …these never-ending steps, each and every one weighed down by an overwhelming sense of futility. Why in God’s name did she bother? When they arrived in Pearl’s laundry room and moved with caution into the darkened apartment, she was sweating like a pig.
‘Careful…’ sending Patrice creeping down the hall toward Pearl’s bedroom, pistol at the ready.
Then, stepping onto the terrace, she sprinted to Claude’s aid, kicking at Tommi Bonneau —
— who turned and punched her in the face.
Stars. Aliette Nouvelle saw stars…first time in her career…in her life! and went sprawling.
Then she heard Patrice yell, ‘Arretez!’ and a moment later the blunt report of his gun.
47
Face in a Pool of Light
Norbert (‘you can call me Norrie’) Fauré had been gazing down from a 7th floor window as Rose Saxe had fussed in her salle de bain. He was not undercover (as they say). He’d shown his ID card to the man guarding the club gate, and had shown it again as he walked through the front door. Not hiding at all. He made sure Gaston knew exactly who he was: Commissaire Néon’s guest.
‘Of course, monsieur.’ Fauré was shown into the bar, where he could wait for the commissaire, who was ‘out on the practice court, I believe.’ Fine. Nice service at this place. ‘What are you drinking, monsieur?’ Suze and soda. ‘Very good.’
But the man who brought it refused to take his money and Gaston appeared again to explain:
‘No, no, monsieur, one does not pay with cash or a card. It has to go on a chit.’
A chit? But whose? ‘I mean I’m not a — ’
‘B’en, Monsieur Néon’s…’ Shrugging; obviously.
Norbert Fauré balked. Having a word is one thing; having a drink that would be on the record is something else again. Then a woman walked in, in a tennis skirt, showing legs which were still quite fine. She approached Gaston, exasperated, looking for the very man he was watching. And she recognized him. ‘Aren’t you the divisionnaire? What was your name again?’ He admitted that he was and told her his name. She had taken his hand. ‘Rose Saxe…of Le Soir?’
In reply to her offer, he asked, ‘But how could we ever help each other?’
She told him. It was logical, and all the more so when it was confirmed (phone brought to the table by Gaston) that Néon had made a run for it. Well, you have to be ready to improvise. She’d put his drink on her chit and gone to change while he made a call instructing his men to blockade the house in the north end. Then Rose Saxe returned, now in smart gold buttons. Her car was in the lot. She smiled a quiet smile, ‘I’ll shower at my place.’
Fauré followed her out. A shower? She smelled fine enough to him.
They had passed the time in this apartment — a friend’s, she said — four floors below the place where that fool Néon had made his big mistake. A logical destination. A perfect place from which to watch the door while getting to know each other.
They did like each other, didn’t they? Norrie?
He felt they really did…oh, yes, very enjoyable.
So his vigil had been pleasantly distracted. But when Norbert Fauré saw the car screech to a halt below and Inspector Nouvelle and her assistant race into the building, he knew it was time to pull his pants back on and get going. How! Where! Why! demanded Rose, emerging from the bathroom. She was naked. She was feeling deceived.
‘Calm down, get dressed.’ What they were on the verge of doing would have to wait.
Rose acquiesced. She sensed an exclusive story. That could be just as good.
The lift was out; they took the service stairs. Being sixtyish, Norbert Fauré took them at a measured pace, emerging in Pearl Serein’s laundry room, feeling his gun as he moved toward the opened door, Rose Saxe right behind him, such a breathless woman, but that was part of their deal. And she was well made. And manageable for a man of his age and point of view. Not a righteous girl like that Inspector Nouvelle. But she had to keep quiet. ‘…and stay! well! down!’
‘What?…what is going on out there?’
‘Shh!’ Because no one needs to speak in this kind of situation, which is not unlike an auction, where the most subtle of motions — movement of an eye, a deflating breath indicating I give up (too often false) will indicate intentions. The divisionnaire assessed the situation: Néon was severely bloodied. Inspector Nouvelle had taken a blow. Her assistant had Bonneau lined up, but looked unsteady. Bonneau had a hostage on a precarious edge. There was a body over by the fence.
Norbert Fauré watched Inspector Nouvelle struggle to her feet.
The inspector picked herself up slowly. The pain was searing, spreading around her eyes. She dabbed tears with her shirt cuff. Tommi Bonneau came in and out of focus, a shadowy, blurry rim where Patrice held him in his sights at the top of the tower, one step onto the board. Her nose felt strangely cold. There was a throbbing. She took deep breaths and took stock: Claude had taken a beating. Was that Georgette sprawled in the bushes? Blinking, wiping her nose on her sleeve, telling Patrice with a gesture to stay cool. Her vision clearing somewhat. Tommi was gazing down at her with that smirk. Be gentle. Any pronounced movement and Willem will fall and be hung. Don’t dare him…He’s waiting to be dared. ‘It’s time to come down, Tommi.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘Please come down…very slowly.’
‘A camera never killed anyone.’
‘Then your problems will be less than they appear.’
‘I was looking for the limits of the heart.’
‘Tell this to the court.’
‘Don’t you patronize me.’ Tommi stood up there, defiant. ‘People need to know!’
‘What if it can’t be told? What if there are no words?’
‘I have my camera. My lights. My lights see everything…But they don’t kill.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘They don’t. How could they?’
Wiping more tears, too aware of the dull stabbing between her eyes, too weary of men and their excuses. ‘She didn’t love them. Her reasons are her own. This won’t do, Tommi. Be realistic.’
‘No!’
‘Please. For Pearl. You’ve caused a lot of pain. If nothing else, show some compassion for Pearl.’ That confused him — she could see his eyes react.
Almost prayerful, Tommi whispered, ‘Eternal woman draws us upward.’
Aliette heard it through the night wind. Beside her, Patrice Lebeau muttered, ‘Goethe.’
Georgette, clearly struggling, beaten, choking, called, ‘It’s garbage! What you do is garbage!’
‘Ta guelle!’ (Shut up!) Angry, Tommi moved, the board bent, Willem wavered…moaned.
‘Georgette!’ commanded Aliette, ‘Please!’
Too late: A popping sound outside the wind, hardly audible (Norbert Fauré favored silencers), a bullet through Tommi’s brain, all circuits instantly shorted, Tommi dropped into the glowing pool.
Willem teetered… He didn’t topple, but it appeared he was going to faint.
Patrice Lebeau scrambled up the ladder and sec
ured him. Aliette allowed herself to breathe.
Tommi Bonneau floated to the surface of Pearl’s pool, face up. Tommi’s face in the greenish water was frightening in its heartless emptiness. The inspector, delicate nose swelling grossly, subtle eyes puffing black and blue, turned away to attend to the living.
Claude was incoherent, babbling about a wall. ‘Which wall, Claude?’
‘This wall…She was flying away…Me! I caught her!’ He meant Georgette.
Aliette ignored it. Claude had suffered some serious blows.
As for Georgette, she’d collapsed again. Badly beaten. It wasn’t looking good.
To Patrice Lebeau: ‘Is she in there?’ Meaning Pearl.
Patrice indicated negative. No, no one.
48
Pearl’s Recurring Dream
It’s not that hard to hide in a mid-sized city. Or somewhere near it. Two days later, when she gave herself up to the police, Pearl Serein refused to say. But wherever she was at the penultimate moment on her much talked-about terrace, Pearl was safe in a bed, fast asleep. And dreaming.
She dreamed her usual dream of Tommi Bonneau, balanced at the end of her diving board, rocking lightly, testing its spring, gazing up at the stars. Watch: With no fear at all, Tommi pushes hard and is launched into the night sky where he does a perfect-ten, straight-bodied backflip, alights, boom, then another…spinning up into the darkness, landing lightly, arms outspread, elated, shining like a daring saltimbanque who knows he controls the hearts of all attending.
But Pearl is the only one attending, always, and he always bows toward her window, smiling.
And she always has to clap, soundless, from the depths of her sleep, marveling…
Yes, this was the dream Pearl Serein told Claude Néon, more or less. Pearl had roused herself and gone to him. She had traded access to her body for another ear to hear her dream. There was always slight relief in the arms of some imperfect man, leaving Tommi alone with his tricks and his smiling. Until it came again. She told the dream to Willem van Hoogstraten. Of course she had told it to her seven lovers. And to Remy Lorentz before them. What Pearl did not tell Claude, or Willem, or any of them, was the fact of herself, enthralled by Tommi’s every nerveless movement. How she watched with affection and deepest admiration. How she loved to see him — Tommi, the bravest man on earth! spinning in the air for her. Pearl knew it was a love that was unreal, foreign to the waking world, and it made her ache with dream-borne longing. You feel the dream within your body, poignant joy, tactile sadness. She always felt her heart was trapped. I want reality.
