by Michel Quint
“How should we start?”
“With Muginello! Ettore. The soccer star. You saw his name on page twenty-two: his stable of girls makes him a lot of money and he’s always recruiting. I know there’s more to his story; I’ve practically got the report already written in my head. Finish your beer and let’s get going. I hope we can get into town and that he hasn’t been crushed by a brick wall. He’d deserve it, but not just yet.”
They threw their empty cans into the trash and stowed their pint glasses in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet before heading downstairs. Hubert slid sideways down the railing: this was a day for celebration!
Chewing a calisson pastry, P.J. stepped out of the bakery with a baguette under one arm. The July sunshine hit his eyes like a flash of magnesium. His mouth full, P.J. couldn’t exactly gape at the gleaming, pale-blue Ford Galaxy parked in front of the bakery. Instead, he widened his eyes. In addition to this being his dream car, he was impressed by Carbasi, with his pink polyester shirt and dazzling smile. How could a guy who specialized in selling family cars be so nonchalant about getting out of that American beauty, which was so obviously beyond his means?
“Hey, student! You on vacation? Want to go for a ride?”
P.J. had just finished his first year of junior college. In September, he was supposed to continue his studies. He was working on a certificate in auto mechanics. This car was practically a mandatory study session, not to mention the pleasure of being seen in such a vehicle. He imagined the look on the faces of some of his buddies if they saw him drive by in this car.
He quickly swallowed his pastry and breathed a sugary assent.
Moments later, P.J. was floating on gray leather with white topstitching. Carbasi was lowering the automatic windows. What luxury! P.J. noticed a knotted blue silk scarf sitting on the dashboard. Carbasi wasn’t married. Nor was he the type of man who would wear such a perfumed and flamboyant article of clothing. Carbasi noticed P.J.’s puzzled look.
“That’s right, kiddo, sometimes in life you have to do whatever it takes. The money I earn selling cars wouldn’t pay for this beauty, nor would my military pension, especially since those of us who fought in Algeria don’t get one!”
Saying this, Carbasi slapped the satin-blue steering wheel. The car glided through Aix, the smooth sound of the white-rimmed tires echoing off the stone buildings.
P.J. was beyond happy; he felt like he was in fat city. But somewhere in the back of his mind, behind the Hollywood sensation of luxury, he knew that this was a little bit against the rules. Like the first pack of cigarettes he’d bought with Valérie, his girlfriend who let him touch her boobs. Savoring the eight cylinders, he kept quiet.
“You see, kiddo, your dad’s got money with his dealership. That’s for sure. He’s comfortable, but not like the woman who owns this car. If you want to know the truth, she doesn’t even really work. She sits back and cashes checks.”
“What does she do?”
“You might call her a kind of escort, a small-business owner. You’re a good kid, you know that? How long have we known each other?”
Carbasi smiled at P.J., who was looking straight ahead at the long shape of the hood.
“If it’s okay with you . . . do you have some time to spare during your vacation? Would you be interested in being a messenger? You would use your bike and I’d pay you. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, my dad—”
“Tut-tut . . . Her name’s Odile. I’m going to see her now. You’ll see, you’ll like her. Look, I work with her. This is her car. It’s a good life. It’ll only take a minute, and then I’ll drop you off somewhere!”
P.J. didn’t have the desire or the will to say no. The baguette on the backseat of the car was already growing tough under the harsh summer light.
CHAPTER XI
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 7:00 p.m.
Seven o’clock. They had run out of provisions, so Martine had taken the risk of going up to the apartment to make some sandwiches. Clearing the road was still everyone’s main objective. There was now one lane open to the Cours Mirabeau, and the street that Ettore had taken earlier in the day also looked clear. Everyone was thirsty. Some voices over loudspeakers had announced that water tanks would be made available, but for now, there was still nothing to drink.
The little group had already downed a good number of bottles they’d filched from Ettore’s cellar: Gigondas, Tavel, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and others. They were tipsy, and Martine’s sardines had been salty. Pierrot was perched on a car, looking out for Ettore and Rita. The others were killing time and drinking.
Inside the BMW, Martine and Simon had rolled down the windows. It was still broiling, but at least it gave Simon ample opportunity to admire Martine’s charms. The top of her dress was unbuttoned, revealing her breasts, and the hem of her skirt had crept above her garters. Nothing could have convinced either one to get out of the car. Martine wanted to demonstrate her position of privilege, and Simon was consumed by an increasingly pressing idea. Brazenly rubbing Martine’s glistening inner thigh, Simon was hatching a crazy plan.
Max and Serge were sitting on the street, passing a bottle of wine back and forth and shooting Martine and Simon knowing looks.
A trembling tension filled the hot air, presaging still more chaos.
Simon’s plan unfolded all by itself. Martine was moaning under the touch of his right hand when he pulled the trigger with his left hand. The bullet shot clean through her head, an ecstatic cry her last utterance.
No one had time to do anything. The BMW took off, dumping Martine’s body onto a sleeping Dédé.
When Simon looked at the streets, he saw a racetrack. He would have to navigate around all the emergency vehicles. There was no time to waste; the others would soon be after him!
“All the jewels in the trunk! As soon as I get out of this mess, I’ll be living large—Switzerland, Tahiti, the whole world!”
Simon punched the dashboard, excitedly honking the horn and revving the motor as he quickly weaved through obstacles. People got out of Simon’s way, assuming it was an emergency.
“That idiot Ettore gave me the solution! I’ll head for the Alps. Onward and upward!”
As he neared the red light ahead, he saw that the street was still crowded with cars and debris. For all his excitement, he hadn’t driven very far. In the rearview mirror, he saw his four friends running after him. This was a race, but a crowd was blocking his way. He considered turning back. He swore at the sound of crumpling metal as he forced the BMW’s left flank past an ambulance.
Nobody stopped him.
Simon cheered when he turned left toward the city’s outskirts, heading north.
“Almost home free! The avenue to Venelles must be clear! It’s too important a thoroughfare.”
Simon accelerated the car and headed toward the crossroads. Bulldozers were releasing puffs of smoke and attacking the rubble and fallen trees. Groups of people were gathered in the streets, worried over the fates of neighbors and family members.
An excavator carelessly backed into the BMW, slamming into the passenger side. The windshield shattered from the shock, and the car flipped over on its side, sliding in a glittering explosion before coming to a stop against the concrete wall of an underground garage.
Dazed, Simon turned off the car. He was safe and sound.
The jewels!
The driver of the excavator had run to check on Simon, who reassured him that everything was fine and invented a story about how he had to pick up his kid. The man didn’t ask any questions. He already had enough to do and looked exhausted.
Simon rested his elbows on the dented roof of the BMW and took a moment to calm his nerves. When at last he straightened up, he saw that his fingers were red; he’d cut his forehead on the broken glass. He wiped them on the chair where Martine
’s blood was still drying.
Ignoring the gash on his forehead, he grabbed the bags from the trunk and ran toward the garage. The gate was closed. He entered through a gaping hole in one of the adjacent shop windows.
The window of the Renault dealership: Sinibaldi Inc.
CHAPTER XII
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 7:30 p.m.
Serge, with his birdlike build, had been able to catch up to the BMW just in time to see it speed down the alleyway on the north side of the Cours Mirabeau. He waited for his friends at the intersection. Dédé, who was still half-asleep and a little tipsy, was especially slow, and by the time he caught up with the group, he was out of breath. Max and Pierrot were carrying revolvers.
An old man was lying across a mattress placed on the ground next to the church, staring at them.
“Looting! Already. Like during the cholera epidemic in our great-grandparents’ day. The vultures will run for the hills! Fear the wrath of God, you heathens!”
“Shut up!” Max yelled.
They started running again, but lost steam at the top of the alleyway. There were two obvious solutions: Simon had either taken the city’s beltway and was headed toward Marseille or Nice, or he had turned left toward Sisteron or Grenoble. They had to split up. On foot, Pierrot and Serge would go north, and Max and Dédé south. The din of excavator engines seemed to be growing exponentially, and the boys had to scream to be heard. If they’d had a moment to consider their situation, they would have been more than a little surprised to find themselves armed and chasing after Simon and the jewels, talking about murder.
“In cold blood. He killed her in cold blood!” Dédé kept repeating. “Such a beautiful woman!”
Before separating, they agreed to meet around ten o’clock at the rendezvous point Ettore had designated.
Ten minutes later, Pierrot and Serge spotted the empty BMW. It was just feet away from where they were supposed to meet Ettore and the others.
“What should we do?” asked Serge.
“We sit and we wait,” Pierrot said. “Above all, I want Rita back. Ettore is going to want the jewels, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to get them without him. It’s the most reasonable plan. This isn’t a good time to be wandering around.”
“After what he did to Martine? I bet he stole another car. He wouldn’t get far on foot with those loaded bags.”
“Or maybe he’s hiding out somewhere. Waiting, like us.”
In the dealership garage, Simon was putting the bags of jewels into the trunk of a brand-new Renault 30 TX with dealer plates.
CHAPTER XIII
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, in the course of the afternoon.
Even as a little girl, Lydie knew she would always stay in Aix. She was like her mother, who refused to leave her small house on La Provençale Road, even after the death of her husband. When she was about ten years old, her family announced a vacation in Bandol and she burst into tears. Her dad had done some electrical work for a friend, who in turn had offered to lend them his holiday home. She stopped eating, even her favorite Aubagne olives, and they cancelled the trip. Instead, Lydie spent the vacation riding her bike through the Cours Mirabeau and its sun-drenched sycamore trees.
On her bike one afternoon, she saw a shepherd walking with his sheep on the side of the road. She was so surprised by this anachronism that she fell. That day, she didn’t make it into Aix. Sitting on the grass next to the road, rubbing her scraped knee, she looked up to see that the shepherd was standing beside her. He must have been about eighteen.
Before returning to tend to his sheep, he replaced the chain on her bike. He worked without saying a word to Lydie, who was impressed by the certainty of his movements. Then she watched as the little white bleating clouds floated off into the distance. Her eyes reflected the clouds in the sky when she lay across a patch of grass in the shadow of an oak tree.
This countryside, together with the neighboring city of Aix, quivered in the heat, finding an eternal place in her heart, her skin forevermore infused with its scent of savory wild thyme.
At least that’s what the young man who became her husband liked to say whenever he made love to her after a stroll through the picturesque Luberon. Back then, she was still a classics undergrad at the University of Aix. He’d just finished his studies in dental surgery—a lucrative line of work if ever there was one. So lucrative that she didn’t mind not getting a teaching post once she finished school. Instead, she would read Tacitus and do her husband’s secretarial work.
At least to start out; later, he hired a secretary, and Lydie was free to wile away her time. Herodotus, Pindar, and Suetonius: together, they opened up her horizons. She went back to school to study sociology. The old myths had convinced her to start over again and question this shitty, money-driven society.
Toward the end of the first month of classes, she took a lover, a young classmate who made violent love to her in a car parked in the middle of the countryside. His car had run out of gas, and she’d agreed to help him procure a canister of fuel and drive him back to where he’d parked. He’d turned his eyes toward the holm oaks lining a little path and unbuttoned her skirt, tearing off his scarlet boxers. Then he lowered her seat, and all she could see was the roof of the car. After that, she spent two or three afternoons in his company, without really desiring it, before he ended up completely ignoring her whenever they crossed paths on campus.
After three months of classes, sociology started to bore her, and she began to divide her time between idle visits with her bridge friends and tending to her mother’s garden. It was there that she rediscovered her love of the earth and of plants. Her father had died, cruelly, a few days after his retirement, as if all his work-related obligations had actually been serving a salutary purpose.
He’d gotten up one morning, opened the house’s front door, and her mother had watched him crumple to the ground. A group of thrushes, pecking at various crumbs scattered about, were sent flapping in a chaotic cloud.
The burial had taken place on a stormy day. Everything had happened really fast, with just friends and family, no one else. They returned from the cemetery in a torrential rain, and Lydie remembered their neighbor Fausto, a mason who’d stared at her breasts under the wet, almost transparent fabric of her black blouse. Meanwhile, her newly widowed mother served bitter brandy.
Lydie didn’t think of any of this when, after the earthquake, she rushed toward the little house, its garden filled with tomatoes and zucchinis. But somewhere in the back of her mind, old emotions were swelling. Earlier, on an impulse, she had thought of the visit to her mother as an absolute necessity. She had left P.J., the kid, and the entire camp of refugees, and started running for La Provençale Road. Now, Lydie was realizing how tired she felt, and she regretted her decision. Her mother wasn’t alone. The neighbors would take care of her—if she had survived. If she hadn’t, then nothing mattered.
Still, she didn’t turn around, mostly because she had told P.J. of her plan to see her mother and because she had been feeling determined to return to childhood ever since her brush with death. How else was she to go about ensuring that her internal universe remained intact?
The same horrible sights appeared as she continued down the road. Screaming, rubble, blood, devastation. She’d started out at a jogging pace, trying to clear her mind of the morning’s images. Gérard lying across the door, the caretaker’s son, his head splattered across the room after P.J.’s shot. Then she slowed her pace, her pretty espadrilles preventing her from running over the jagged debris. She didn’t want to twist an ankle.
She tried to take shortcuts. Once again, chance intervened. As she was passing through the old quarter of Aix, which was filled with emergency vehicles, she happened to witness rescuers pull a woman out of the rubble. The woman needed blood. A positive. Lydie was A posit
ive. A young intern, pale faced, with dark circles under his eyes, performed the transfusion.
When she left the scene, she received a pat on the back. It was all the intern could offer. Lydie had lost more than an hour.
As she was stepping into an alleyway lined with chestnut trees, she stopped in her tracks. About ten yards from where she stood there was a kid, about seventeen or eighteen, standing with his back to her, his legs spread apart. He was holding a hunting rifle. Another teenager was posted a little farther on. Between these two guards, three other adolescents were piling expensive furniture onto a handcart. The surrounding townhouses were still standing, but their inhabitants had likely fled. A stroke of luck for looters.
This was only the beginning.
Lydie was forced to wait until the cart was full before she could continue. A tall wrought-iron gate remained open, revealing a pile of objects that the looters hadn’t managed to take with them. Among the refuse: a road bike.
Lydie commandeered it.
The rest of her journey flew by blindly. Lydie was lost in her thoughts.
By the time she arrived at the country house, the afternoon was already coming to a close, the fiery colors of the setting sun foretelling strong winds.
CHAPTER XIV
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 5:10 p.m.
Hubert Imbert grabbed Alain’s sleeve and jerked him out of harm’s way. Otherwise, the BMW would have thrown him into an uprooted sycamore.
“Asshole! Get his number, Mercurey. He’s going to be hearing from me! To hell with it. Given the situation . . . a ticket,” Hubert said. “A BMW. It almost looked like the one that belongs to Ettore.”
Hubert had managed to park his Citroën CX near Ettore’s apartment, the first place on his list he wanted to investigate. He hadn’t yet revealed the second place to Alain.
