by Michelle Wan
Périgueux was situated some 60 kilometers north of Ecoute-la-Pluie on the River Isle. He reached the shambling outskirts of the town in forty minutes and found the Intermarché supermarket easily. To his disappointment, Nadia was not there and none of the Sunday morning shift knew her. He wandered from the charcuterie counter to the long-life milk section, wishing he hadn’t wasted his Sunday and musing on the existence of so many kinds of milk. Cow’s milk, goat’s milk, milk in soft plastic bottles, milk in cartons, full cream, half cream, different percentages of skimmed, lactose free, fortified. Well, at least he could tell the Ismets he had tried. A kid with dirty blond hair was hunkered down at the end of the aisle, restocking the lower shelves.
“I don’t suppose you know where I can find someone named Nadia Beaubois, do you? I was told she worked here.”
The kid swiveled his head around to peer up at him sideways. Julian had a view of the dark pit of a nostril and one glaucous eye. He expected another negative. Instead, the kid said, “She used to. What’s it to you?”
•
Julian parked along the river and took the steep ramp leading up to Rue Porte-de-Graule. He was in the Quartier Saint-Front, the old quarter whose ancient labyrinth of narrow, cobbled lanes in Renaissance times had been the artisanal and commercial center of the town. Over the centuries, the buildings had fallen into disrepair. One by one they were being restored. Newly renovated, upmarket residences rubbed shoulders with dilapidated structures.
The house he was looking for was set slightly back between two jutting facades. He had to walk around a skip of debris to reach the entrance. To his surprise, the massive wooden front door stood partly ajar. Within, he saw a dim vestibule surrounded by more evidence of reconstruction: a couple of saw-horses, a coil of electrical cable, stacks of tiles. The air was heavy with the smells of raw lumber and new paint underlain by damp stone and mold. His groping hands found a wall switch for the minuterie, a timed light that illuminated the vestibule and first landing. Now he could see that a corridor ran off the vestibule all the way to the back of the building. A decrepit but once elegant stairwell wound upward in a dizzying ovoid spiral. The house seemed untenanted, but he could hear rock music coming faintly from above.
He puffed as he made the tortuous climb, his footsteps keeping a lagging counterpoint to the strengthening basso thump-de-thump overhead. When he reached the second level, the light went out, plunging him into darkness. He groped along the wall and found another minuterie that lit the floors above.
The music came from behind a door, four stories up, at the very top. There was a doorbell, but it had been pulled out of its socket and hung on a wire. He knocked. Then he banged on the door with his fist. The music ceased abruptly. The door cracked opened.
“Wotcherwant?” said a voice in distinctly East End London English. Julian could just make out a head in a blue knit cap, dark curly hair poking out from under it, and a pair of watery eyes.
“Nadia Beaubois? Is she here?”
“Oo’re you, then?” The eyes, slightly out of focus, sized him up.
“Friend of a friend. Who’re you?”
“Peter,” said the young man, surprisingly obliging. He yelled over his shoulder, “Naahd!” and opened the door enough to allow Julian to step inside.
In addition to the cap, Peter wore a heavy pea jacket several sizes too large for him over army fatigues. Julian understood why. The apartment, which proved to be the garret, was freezing. A portable paraffin stove in the middle of the room offered an inadequate source of heat. The ceiling was pitched at an angle and badly stained. Battered pans had been placed on the floor to catch drips from a leaky skylight. It and a pair of grimy dormer windows provided the only illumination. The furnishings were minimal: a plastic table and plastic chairs that looked as if they had been nicked from an outdoor café, a mattress strewn with rumpled bedding in a corner, a lumpy sofa piled with soiled blankets. Orange crates stacked against the wall formed a kind of shelving for a jumble of bottles, magazines, and CDs. There was an alcove with a hot plate and a sink stacked with dirty dishes. Through an open doorway at the far end of the garret Julian glimpsed a bed, unmade, and the corner of a dresser. The place, makeshift and filthy, had the look of a squat. Except for the fact that the occupants seemed to take no pains to hide their presence, the building’s owner might not have even known they were there. Julian guessed they were paying some kind of nominal rent to live in space that was probably legally condemned. Not for much longer, though. Once the work of renovation was complete, the likes of Peter and Nadia would be out on the street.
Something moved on the sofa. Julian made out the head of a girl. He had not noticed her earlier because most of her was buried under the blankets. A gold ring pierced the middle of her lower lip; a multitude of rings skewered her earlobes and eyebrows. She raised an arm to take a drag from a joint. The air was heavily sweet with it. She blew smoke toward the ceiling.
“Hey, Naahd!” the young cockney yelled again. He slouched over to the sofa. “Shove over, Brigitte.”
“Va te faire foutre,” Brigitte muttered. Get stuffed. With an effort she curled her legs to the side. Peter dropped down, as if exhausted, next to her. He reached across for the toke, sucked on it. The two of them regarded Julian dully.
Another woman came out of the bedroom, tugging a comb through her ragged, bicolored hair. Its black and orange streaks reminded Julian of some kind of animal pelt. Her surroundings might be trash, but this one dressed well. She wore a purple angora sweater, leather slacks, and black leather knee-high boots with platform soles that made her look as if she were treading on bricks. What appeared to be a genuine snakeskin fanny pack was strapped around her hips.
“Quoi?” Two unnaturally green eyes fixed Julian in an unfriendly stare.
“Vooz ahvez ang veezeetuhr,” Peter said in horrible French, pointing unnecessarily at Julian.
Nadia was tall, sallow-complexioned, and older-looking than Julian had expected. He found her emerald stare—tinted contacts, he supposed—unsettling.
“Qui êtes-vous?” she demanded, her voice sharp with distrust.
“Un ami. I’m looking for Kazim.”
“Pas ici.” Not here. Her gaze darted to Peter and then past Julian to the door. She seemed extremely jumpy. She fiddled with the comb. It snapped in half, and she threw it on the floor.
“Do you know where he is?”
“No. Why do you want to know?”
“I told you. I’m a friend.”
Her upper lip curled unpleasantly. “I don’t think so.”
“A friend of the family,” he modified. “His parents are worried sick about him.” Julian did not expect this to get him very far. It didn’t.
“Them!” Nadia blew air out her nostrils. “All they want is to keep him in that lousy shop for the rest of his life.”
“Yeah, I know,” Julian agreed. “They’re a bit old-fashioned. They don’t realize Kazim’s too bright for that. He could go places if he had the chance. That’s why I want to talk to him.” Nice touch, that, he thought, noting her reaction.
“Oh yeah?” Curiosity vied with skepticism. “What about?”
“Well, that’s between him and me, isn’t it?”
“Look, you’re wasting my time. I’m late for work.”
“Will you give him a message?”
“Told you. Haven’t seen him. Don’t know where he is.”
“Tell him to contact me. As soon as possible. It’s important.”
“How important?”
Julian came forward, digging out his wallet. “Treat this as a down payment.” He held out twenty euros.
She gave a harsh laugh. “You’re joking. You can’t want to see him very badly.”
Julian laid on another twenty and added his card. Nadia snatched at the money and read the card aloud disbelievingly. “Julian Wood. Landscape gardener? What is this? You’re some kind of fucking grass jockey?” She nearly screamed with laughter. She gave the card a
backhand toss. It sailed through the air and came to rest on the floor a little way beyond the broken comb. Then she grabbed a cape-like garment from the back of a chair and headed for the door. She was gone in a diminishing clatter of hoofs that echoed down the stairs.
Peter, who had been watching the exchange with eager interest (Julian wondered how much he had understood of the rapid French), got up and retrieved the card. Communication reverted to English.
“Any more where that came from, mate?” He rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “I could really use a few.”
“Depends on what you can tell me. I’m looking for Kazim Ismet. You know him?”
The cockney glanced at Brigitte, who was now asleep with her mouth open.
“Yeah.”
“Know where I can find him?”
“’E was ’ere for a bit, wasn’t ’e? Then ’e took off. Not seen ’im since.”
“When was that?”
“Week ago, something like that.”
“That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?”
Peter scratched his left ear. Then he said, “Used to ’ang round the cathedral, didn’t ’e?”
“Are you saying that’s where I’ll find him?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
“No, swear to God. You’ll find ’im there. I wouldn’t lie to you. C’mon, man, gi’us twenty.”
Julian gave him ten. Peter grabbed it.
“There’s more if you can produce him for me. You have my card.”
He saw himself out. This time he was prepared for the minuterie and managed to activate the light for the lower stairs before the top one gave out. In the vestibule, he noticed something on the dirty tiled floor that he had not seen on his way in. He hunkered down for a better look: wavy deposits of mud in broken patches roughly 12 centimeters wide. Tire marks. Something had been parked there, not recently, for the mud was dry and much trodden on. A Honda Bol d’Or? Despite the fact that he had just parted with fifty euros—sixty if he counted the kid in the supermarket—he left feeling quite pleased with himself. He was getting the hang of this detecting business.
•
The cathedral was also undergoing renovation. Scaffolding braced its western face. Kids were skateboarding in the adjoining square. A group of older boys—fifteen-and sixteen-year-olds, Julian reckoned—were doing ollies off the steps leading down to the walkway along the cathedral cloister. They came off the top step at breakneck speed, crouching low on the decks of their boards, and landed in noisy, grating pirouettes at the bottom. A youth, sitting off to one side, was intent on wrapping one end of his skateboard with string. He wore jeans blown out at the knees and a black sweatshirt with a hood pulled up over his head. His trainers were torn, and his socks had collapsed in loose folds around his ankles. His face looked gray with cold. Julian approached him.
“I’m looking for someone named Kazim Ismet. Rides a red Honda Bol d’Or. You seen him around?”
“Négatif.”
“But you know him?”
“Négatif.”
“You know anyone who does?”
“Négatif.” Without ever looking up, the youth continued to bind the front end of his skateboard, the laminations of which were coming apart, with the string.
“Can’t you say anything but négatif? And anyway, shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet?”
“Get lost.”
Julian strolled around the cathedral. There was a little garden with leafless trees, grotesquely pollarded, on the south side. It was empty except for an old man and a dog. A cold wind whipped the man’s coat and flattened his trousers against bony shanks as he waited for his dog to do its business. The dog, a terrier of some kind, sniffed around the base of a bronze cannon that pointed over the garden parapet in the direction of the river. Then it lifted its leg against the cement mount.
There were a number of cafés and bars in the streets surrounding the cathedral. One, on the corner of Rue Salinière, advertised parimutuel betting and snacks. Its windows were opaque with condensation and plastered with notices of snooker competitions. Julian found the place full of men who sat or stood staring up at a television showing a rugby match in progress. Toulouse against Biarritz. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke, but the warmth from the radiators and the close press of people was welcoming. As Julian made his way to the counter, the room erupted in groans. Toulouse had missed a try. Julian ordered a coffee. He asked the woman serving if she knew Kazim Ismet.
“What’s he look like?”
Julian described him as best he could, extrapolating from the school photo and Betul’s information. “Rides a red Honda.”
The woman shook her head and called the question down to a man drying glasses at the other end of the counter, who also shook his head.
A successful try for Toulouse brought a roar of approval from the crowd. Julian looked around him. He noticed now what he had failed to see when he had entered. The patrons were men in their middle age and or older, intent on one thing: rugby. Not the kind of people who hung around or wanted to hang around with a Turkish tearaway. He finished his coffee and left.
The café a few doors down, Le Select, was not so crowded but attracted a younger, rougher-looking clientele. The television on the wall was also tuned to the rugby game. Men in denim and leather were clustered around the bar looking up at the screen. A thin fellow with the walleyed look of a bolting mule hung around the edge of the group. Julian pushed between unobliging bodies to the bar.
“Café-crème.”
When the bartender brought it, Julian put down five euros, told the man to keep the change, leaned across, and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m looking for Kazim. You seen him lately?”
“Kazim who?” The bartender, a big, bald fellow, didn’t bother lowering his voice.
“Ismet. Young, slim, dark curly hair—”
“Buddy, they all look like that,” said the other enigmatically. He gave Julian a baleful glare and moved away.
“What about you?” Julian asked two men who stood immediately next to him drinking pastis and who seemed openly interested in his inquiry. “Kazim Ismet. Turkish fellow. Rides a red Honda?”
“Why d’you want to know?” asked the one nearest him, a fellow with the hulking stance of a wrestler and small, mean eyes.
“Let’s just say I need to talk to him.”
“About what?” sneered the other. This one had very bad teeth and wore a row of signet rings like a knuckle-duster on his right hand.
“Business.”
The first man fixed Julian with a hard stare that made him decide not to give out his card. Instead he scrawled a number on the back of a coaster advertising Kronenbourg beer and left it on the bar. “Just tell him to call me. It could be worth his while.”
Neither man touched the coaster. Wordlessly they turned back to their pastis.
After a few more unsuccessful attempts in other cafés and bars, Julian gave up. Maybe his detecting skills, or his detecting persona, needed developing after all. He had reached the conclusion that Kazim, wherever he was, was not going to be found today. Nor was the Ismets’ son going to be as easy to track down as Julian had hoped. But his time had not been entirely wasted. He had discovered that the only people who knew Kazim looked like the wrong sort, and they weren’t prepared to talk. So why were they being so secretive? Whatever Kazim was up to, Julian was pretty sure the lad wasn’t on the side of the angels. How much, he wondered, did a Honda Bol d’Or cost, and how did the son of Turkish immigrant shopkeepers afford such a toy?
He became aware that someone was following him as he made his way down Rue Denfert-Rochereau. In the Place Daumesnil he paused to stare into a shop window. So did his follower, a man, that much he could make out. After a minute or two of intense study of a display of women’s lingerie, Julian began to feel conspicuous. Too bad he didn’t smoke. It would have been a natural thing to fumble in his pockets for cigarettes, take his time lighti
ng up. He could pretend to shelter his match from the wind and use the moment to turn around, get a look at his follower. Private investigators did that kind of thing. As it was, he felt obliged to move on. So did the man behind him.
Julian strolled slowly across the place. He had already decided against returning to the van by way of the narrow, deserted alleys of the old town. It was mid-afternoon, broad daylight, but he preferred to stay where there were people about. He took Avenue Daumesnil all the way to the bottom and then turned left onto Boulevard Georges Saumande. The street was like a wind tunnel. He zipped up his parka. The River Isle running below him looked choppy and cold.
A quick look told Julian that his follower was still there. The other man, who walked with a limp, quickened his pace when he saw Julian opening the door of the Peugeot. Julian counted to twenty, then turned around.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
The man stopped by the rear of the van. Julian recognized the walleyed bloke from Le Select, a sorry, slouching creature who did not inspire fear.
“You were asking about someone named Kazim?” He was extremely twitchy, and he wheezed like a leaky accordion.
“That’s right.”
“What do you want with him?”
Julian frowned. He should be the one asking questions. Instead, it always seemed to go the other way around. Time to get tough. He slammed the van door shut and strode back to confront Walleyes. Up close, Julian found that he was a good head taller than his tracker. Also that the other man smelled bad.
