by Michel Quint
His father had said no. P.J., who wasn’t particularly daring, hadn’t insisted on riding in the hot air balloon, and Carbasi hadn’t insisted on bringing him. He had taken a happy and frightened Valérie. Her aim had been to make P.J. jealous by cozying up to Carbasi and the hot air balloon operator. Her own father was indifferent. He’d been drunk on pastis since nine o’clock in the morning!
Seeing her sweet face rising through the air, her arms swinging, P.J. had envied her courage.
“To the stars! Let’s go up until we reach the stars!” she cried, her torso leaning over the wicker basket.
P.J. remembered thinking that her breasts were looking lovely. He recalled their promising shape under the white muslin of her blouse.
She gaped. It suddenly occurred to P.J. that she might be sick. Great!
Then her body slipped from the basket, which continued upward, her legs floating in the sky. Valérie somersaulted twice through the air before crashing into the ground at P.J.’s feet.
He didn’t remember much of what had happened next, except that he suddenly started shivering violently, the sensation of warm needles pricking his chest and stomach. He’d collapsed next to Valérie, who was still lucid and in pain. As he regained consciousness, he thought for a moment that she was dead. Her eyes were so glassy.
The hot air balloon hadn’t been very far off the ground when Valérie had fallen. She recovered, but she was paralyzed from the waist down and would be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. On the day he learned that Valérie’s condition was irreversible, P.J. knew he would marry her. He promised her he would, and he kept his promise.
P.J. raised his eyes to the two men: an older muscular man in a rumpled gray suit and a younger guy in a leather jacket. Both were holding guns.
“Paul-Jacques Sinibaldi, a.k.a. The Gentleman, you’re under arrest for murder and drug trafficking.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
Pierrevert
Sunday, August 17, 9:00 a.m.
They walked along the vineyard-lined road, P.J. in front, followed by Imbert and Mercurey. They maintained the perfect distance. P.J. wouldn’t be able to try anything. Mercurey was lugging the bags of jewels they’d retrieved from the R18. The storm was approaching; a stampede of black clouds and flashes of lightning were rolling in. P.J. was cuffed. The police officers had left the CX in the private lane; they hadn’t wanted the sound of the motor to announce their arrival from the road.
“No funny business, do you hear me?” Imbert said, his tone firm. “You can call Madame Sinibaldi and that’s it. I think a little police search of your home is in order. You’re going to have to come clean, my lamb!”
They arrived at a tall wrought-iron fence, hidden in a thick hedge of dark-green Thujas. P.J. pressed the intercom.
“Valérie, it’s me, P.J.”
Imbert and Mercurey couldn’t make out the reply, but the gate opened with an electronic click. They entered. Imbert kept an arm on P.J. until they got their bearings.
“She’s probably by the swimming pool,” P.J. said, turning toward Imbert.
Imbert signaled for him to continue. Mercurey remained a few paces away, acting as a second security barrier.
The garden was surprisingly lush, with Cotoneasters, fig trees, Catalpas, multicolored spindle trees, Japanese flowering cherries, and maple trees, the abundance of foliage providing shade for the wide stone pathways. For some reason, P.J. couldn’t stop thinking of that fateful day at Le Jas de Baume and that glass of port.
After walking several dozen yards, they came upon a stairway and a beautiful old stone terrace, behind which rose a gigantic Provençal villa, with its climbing clematis and honeysuckle. Red-and-white-striped shutters protected the large French doors. A turret protruded from the building at an angle, to the right of which shimmered a lapis-lazuli-blue swimming pool. It was all perfectly visible from the exterior, and perfectly silent.
“Don’t you have kids?” Imbert inquired.
P.J. looked at Imbert without replying. Mercurey took the lead, walking to the pool.
Imbert noticed the special equipment, a gentle slope with metal grips that allowed for someone to enter the water directly from the edge of the pool, without stepping down a ladder. Mercurey, sweating, set down the heavy bags of jewels at the edge of the pool, just paces from a canopied French door that opened onto an immense room. An outdoor seating area, with white lacquered chaise longues, was arranged under the canopy, a cool cocktail sweating on an oval table. Imbert and Mercurey exchanged a look. Total silence.
They followed P.J. into the living room, where the shutters had been closed against the sun. P.J. leaned into a Provençal buffet made of sculpted walnut.
Imbert walked toward a red stone chimney. Mercurey made the mistake of following him. He was looking at a series of old figurines when suddenly a voice hit him in the back. Their eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness.
“Don’t move! P.J., take the revolver from the breadbox.”
Imbert and Mercurey raised their heads. A gallery encircled the room, forming a raised library. Just above the French doors, barely in their line of sight, a blond woman in a wheelchair was aiming a gun at them, her expression threatening. Given their position next to the chimney, they couldn’t run without getting shot.
“Madame Sinibaldi, I presume?” Imbert asked in a deliberately polite tone.
“That’s correct.”
“Madame, I’m sorry to bother you, but I have to search your home. Your husband is going to be charged with murder, drug trafficking, and no doubt theft. This is serious, which I’m sure you realize.”
Imbert glanced meaningfully at Mercurey. As he did so, he noticed that P.J. was now holding a Smith & Wesson .45.
Mercurey leaned against the mantelpiece, his back turned to P.J. Imbert understood that they needed to buy themselves some time.
“Madame Sinibaldi, I believe you have children on the premises. You shouldn’t risk putting them in harm’s way. Be reasonable. Let’s talk.”
He took a tentative step forward, but Valérie’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Dear sir, please stay where you are. My children are with our neighbors. They won’t be home until this evening. We have plenty of time.”
The sawed-off shotgun glimmered in the shadows. Imbert sensed that this woman wasn’t going to back down. What he didn’t understand was how she’d known they were coming. He was getting scared.
Valérie added, as though reading his mind, “There’s a camera outside the gate.”
Meanwhile, P.J. had repositioned himself so that the two men were now in his line of fire.
“Madame Sinibaldi, I have something to tell you,” Imbert said, testing her.
Mercurey was sweating more and more profusely, his right hand practically invisible at his hip.
“But I’d like to introduce myself first. I’m Hubert Imbert, the police captain in Aix.”
“And?”
“And I’m sorry to inform you that your husband is none other than the man we know as The Gentleman. He’s a drug wholesaler, the supplier for a certain Ettore Muginello, who was both a drug dealer and a pimp.”
Mercurey had his hand on his gun. From where he stood, he’d have to shoot P.J. first, but P.J. was watching him. In the same moment, a bullet from the Smith & Wesson and one from the sawed-off shotgun hit Mercurey in the stomach. Imbert remained motionless. He heard Mercurey screaming at his feet. Above, the nickel-plated wheels came rolling toward him from the right.
“Monsieur Imbert, I have another cartridge, but before killing you, I want to tell you a little story. P.J., will you please keep an eye on our friend?”
Imbert watched the life flow out of Mercurey, his body crumpled on the waxed tiles.
“Once upon a time, two children were in love. Their names were Paul-Jacques and Valérie. One was
the son of a car dealership owner, the other the daughter of a simple mechanic. They used to play together in the countryside and go swimming in the rivers. From a very early age, they knew that they loved each other. She witnessed his coming of age, the growth of his member. He felt her bosom grow in his cupped hands. During vacations, they spent their days running through the scrubland, staying out until nightfall. Their bodies were long, tan, agile, and beautiful. In the sales department at the dealership, there was a magician who turned everything into gold. His name was Carbasi; he had a big smile and soft hands. He sold cars and he made plenty of money, more money than Paul-Jacques’s father, who was the king, and certainly more than Valérie’s father, who was a simple valet.
“The day came when the children reached their fifteenth year. In truth, they weren’t really children anymore—”
Valérie interrupted herself. She had rolled her wheelchair over the length of the gallery. When she arrived behind P.J., she stopped, entering a very handy elevator, which took her down to the ground floor, where P.J. and Imbert were standing.
A blanket hid her legs. She was superb. Short, curly hair framed an exquisite face, in which were set pale, almost transparent eyes, a white silk blouse perfectly complementing her sculptural bust.
Her sawed-off Purdey was still aimed at Imbert, who felt completely dehydrated.
She continued her story. “Not long after that day, a miracle occurred. On a windy night—a Saturday, to be exact—an indescribable desire blossomed in Valérie. She and P.J. were embracing, and when he ejaculated onto the ground, she felt a sensation of frustration and injustice.”
Imbert started shaking uncontrollably, his mouth nervously opening and closing, but he was incapable of interrupting Valérie.
“The next morning, a Sunday, it was as hot as it is today. Valérie was leaning against a blue car in the window of the dealership, her mind wandering over her fantasies and desires. Carbasi the magician found her pretty and told her so as he reached a hand between two buttons of her dress. When Valérie saw him again that afternoon, he offered to take her with him into the air, to teach her to fly. She said yes. As soon as the hot air balloon began its ascent, the magician tried to work his magic on her adolescent body. P.J., innocent, raised his eyes to the wicker basket. She fell.”
Valérie fell silent.
“Do you like my little story, Monsieur Imbert?”
Beside himself, afraid he might wet his pants, Imbert asked permission to sit.
“Carbasi the magician transformed the princess into stone. Actually, the magician was the devil. Nevertheless, P.J. married his princess and gave her two children, though she never again felt that internal fire. So the princess took revenge. Carbasi was a drug trafficker—morphine, heroin, cocaine. He and his partner, Odile Rocher, were put out of business. Your predecessor, Monsieur Imbert, helped with that, making arrests, writing out death certificates. The princess oversaw everything. It was all her work.
“She used P.J. as her valet, her right-hand man. He was in charge of organizing the business, the refinement, the itinerant labs, and the distribution. Some people even started calling him The Gentleman! I might as well tell you, sir, now that I’ve reached the end of my story, and you the end of your life, The Gentleman isn’t P.J. I am The Gentleman!”
Then, everything happened very fast. Imbert, stunned from his seat on the floor, stuttered and ran a nervous hand through his hair.
P.J. reported in a regretful tone, “Valérie, I killed Ettore.”
Surprised, Valérie looked at P.J., and Imbert took advantage of the momentary distraction, but since he was sitting he had trouble withdrawing his revolver. Still, he managed to shoot P.J. under the eye—like Lydie—and with a bang, the Purdey flattened him against his chair, which toppled to the ground under his weight.
A strange silence filled the room, heightened by the deafening thunder of the coming storm.
Valérie wheeled herself out under the graying sky, the gun resting across her lap. She cried without sobbing, and the downturned corners of her mouth made her look like a little girl.
The bags at the edge of the swimming pool attracted her attention. Just as she was opening them, the rain started to fall in thick, hot, steely drops, and she heard her children running into the garden, their voices loud and joyful. She dropped the open bags onto the ground, their contents slowly slipping into the pool. The rain was torrential. At the bottom of the pool, beneath the liquid mirror, the stones shone like the eyes of shadows.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michel Quint is a French writer and classicist from the Nord-Pas-de-Calais. He was awarded the Grand Prix de littérature policière (Grand Prize in Detective Literature) in 1980 for Billard à l’étage (Billiards Upstairs). He is also the author of In Our Strange Gardens, which was adapted for the silver screen in 2003 by Jean Becker.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Photo © 2015 Antoine Bargel
Alexis Pernsteiner is an American translator living in the south of France. She studied French literature and theory at the University of Oregon and the University of California, Los Angeles, with a special emphasis on contemporary fiction. She has translated numerous books, short stories, and poems. For more information on her work, please visit her website: www.pernsteinertranslations.com.
