Bruno, Chief of Police

by Martin Walker

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Momu. “He’s done nothing. He was defending himself against those Nazi bastards, defending you.”

  “We don’t know yet,” said Bruno, keeping firm hold of Momu’s handlebars. “It looks as if they are considering a charge of assault because Karim threw that garbage can.”

  “Bruno, Bruno,” shouted a new voice, and Brosseil came up trotting, trying to tighten the knot of his tie. “The mayor just called me, said I’d find you here.”

  Whatever the mayor had told the notary, Bruno had an angry Momu and a gathering crowd to deal with and a scene that threatened to turn ugly. He had to keep the town on his side and that meant explaining what he planned to do. Keeping one hand on the bike he raised his voice as he addressed Brosseil.

  “We want you to go in and insist on seeing Karim as his legal representative, and tell him to say nothing and sign nothing. No statements. And then you say you demand anything he has said should be struck from the record because it was said while Karim was denied a lawyer. Then you tell them you will be filing a formal complaint in the European Court of Justice for denial of legal representation, and suing Captain Duroc personally.”

  “Can I do that?” Brosseil asked. He was usually a self-important man but he suddenly looked deflated.

  “It’s European law, and it holds good in France,” Bruno said, suddenly grateful for those tendentious pamphlets in European law that regularly arrived on his desk. “They might try to deny it, but just bluster and shout and threaten, and above all stop Karim from saying anything and we’ll get a criminal lawyer here as soon as we can. Just refuse to take no for an answer.”

  Brosseil, whose main work was to draw up wills and notarize sales of property, squared his shoulders like a soldier and marched off to the gendarmerie. This might just be his finest hour.

  “You have to trust me, Momu,” Bruno said, turning back toward the swelling crowd. “I have to go in there now and try to help sort things out and I can’t have an angry mob shouting outside or forcing their way in.” He slowly let go of Momu’s handlebars and handed him his own phone. “Call the mayor. It’s on speed dial, so just hit number one and then press the green button and you’ll reach him. The mayor and I have a plan. Talk with him. Calm down and calm these people down. René, Gilbert—I’m relying on you to help keep things under control here.” With that, Bruno followed Brosseil.

  The door to Duroc’s office was wide open and the shouts of angry men mingled with the soundtrack of the riot from a video playing on the TV. Duroc was standing beside his desk roaring at Brosseil to get out, but the usually meek notary was standing his ground and yelling back with dire threats about the European Court. Tavernier was sitting calmly behind Duroc’s desk, watching the confrontation with an air of amusement. Karim sat, hunched and baffled, before the desk. Bruno sized up the situation, then moved to the TV and switched it off. Brosseil and Duroc stopped shouting in surprise.

  “Gentlemen, please,” he said. “I have an urgent message for the magistrate. A confidential matter.” He turned to Duroc, shook him warmly by the hand and began steering him out of the door. “Mori Capitaine, please, just a brief moment. Thanks so much.” Bruno kept murmuring smooth platitudes while his other hand grabbed Brosseil’s coat and tugged him along until he had them both in the hallway. He extricated himself, told Karim to join his lawyer in the hall and closed the door. He leaned his back against it and scrutinized Tavernier, whose expression was sardonic.

  “So what about this message for me?” Tavernier said mockingly.

  “An old friend and classmate of your father, Senator Man-gin, requests the pleasure of your company,” said Bruno.

  “Ah yes, the mayor of St. Denis, making up for the disappointments of his political career in Paris by running the affairs of this turbulent little town. My father tells amusing stories of his old classmate. Apparently he was out of his depth even then. Please convey my sincere respects to the mayor, but tell him I am detained on judicial business.”

  “I think the mayor’s business is more urgent, monsieur,” Bruno said.

  “I don’t agree. Please send the others back in when you leave, except for that ridiculous little notary—you can take him with you.”

  “I can do that, but I thought you’d be interested in the depositions from the generals and the minister who witnessed the events. I think the mayor wishes to discuss them with you before any further judicial decisions are made.”

  “Very clever,” said Tavernier after a long silence. “Are the depositions very flattering about the role of our Arab?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen them. I only know the mayor wants to discuss them with you, in the interest of furnishing all possible assistance to the judicial authorities.”

  “Like sending that pompous little notary in here spouting about the European Court of Justice.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bruno. “I do know that no responsible policeman would stand in the way of allowing someone the benefit of legal advice if they’re being questioned. I’m sure you and Captain Duroc would agree.”

  “A country policeman who follows the judgments of the European Court of Justice,” Tavernier said. “How very impressive.”

  “And the European Court of Human Rights,” Bruno said.

  “The law everywhere is evenhanded, Monsieur le Chef de Police. The outside agitators involved in the riot are facing prosecution, and so are the local townspeople who reacted with undue force. And we are still seeking to establish who was responsible for starting the violence.”

  “Then, monsieur, I am sure you will want to waste no time in consulting the depositions of such eminent witnesses as the generals and the minister, as the mayor invites you to do.”

  A silence ensued as Tavernier kept his eyes fixed on Bruno’s, and Bruno could only guess at the calculations of personal and political ambition that were taking place behind the young man’s calm features. He kept his own face similarly immobile.

  “You may inform the mayor that I shall be in his office within thirty minutes,” Tavernier said finally, and turned his gaze away.

  “One last thing. The mayor and I kindly request that you release into our protection the young man you were questioning,” Bruno said. “We guarantee that he will be available to you at any time for further questioning, along with a suitable legal representative.”

  “Very well,” said Tavernier. “You may take your violent Arab along for the moment. I think we have all the evidence we need anyway.” He gestured toward the video.

  “He was born here, so the law says he’s a French citizen. He’s as French as you or me, but I’ll remember you said that.” Bruno turned and walked out. He collected Karim and Brosseil on the way and made to leave. Duroc started to protest but Bruno looked at him and pointed back to the closed door of Duroc’s office. “Check with the boy wonder in there,” he said.

  As they emerged from the gendarmerie, a cheer came up from the crowd that had gathered at the corner of the Rue de Paris as Momu trotted forward joyfully to embrace Karim. Half the town seemed to be present, including the two old enemies of the Resistance, Bachelot and Jean-Pierre, both of them beaming. Bruno thanked Brosseil, who was jaunty with pride at his own part in the proceedings and too excited even to think about whether he might send someone a bill for his services. Bruno knew Brosseil’s forgetfulness would not last long. He slapped Karim on the back, and Momu came up apologetically to shake his hand.

  “Was that true what you said about the rafles, throwing people in the Seine?” Bruno asked.

  “Yes. Over two hundred of us. Nineteen sixty-one. They even made a TV program about it.”

  Bruno shook his head, and not in disbelief. “I’m very sorry,” he said.

  “It was the war,” said Momu. “And at times like this I get worried that it isn’t over.” He looked across to where Karim was being led into the Bar des Amateurs for a celebratory beer. “I’d better make sure he just has
the one and gets back to comfort Rashida. Thank you sincerely, Bruno. I apologize for my actions and my words.”

  “I understand how hard a time this is for you with your father and now this. Give my respects to Rashida,” Bruno said, and walked off alone up the Rue de Paris to brief the mayor.

  19

  As Bruno fed his chickens, he pondered what to wear for dinner that evening. He had decided on a pair of chinos, a casual shirt and a sports jacket. A tie would be too much. He took a bottle of his unlabeled Lalande de Pomerol from the cellar and put it on the seat of his car beside the bunch of flowers he had bought, so that he would not forget. He showered, shaved and dressed, fed Gigi, and then drove off wondering what Pamela and her friend were going to feed him. He had heard much of English cooking, none of it reassuring, although Pamela was clearly a civilized woman with the excellent taste to live in Périgord. But still, he was nervous, and not only for his stomach. The invitation to “a real English dinner” had come by hand-delivered note to his office, and was addressed “To our defender.” The women in the Mairie loved it.

  It had been a tiresome day, with half the newspapers and TV stations in France wanting to interview “the lone cop of St. Denis,” as France-Soir had called him. He turned them all down, except for his favorite, Radio Périgord. The interviewer, however, seemed disappointed when he said that the lone cop was being overwhelmed and it was the presence of Inspector Isabelle Perrault that had made the difference. Isabelle had then called him to complain that Paris Match wanted to photograph her in her karate uniform and the damn female media expert at police headquarters was insisting she submit. But she accepted his invitation to dinner the following evening, only, she said, because she wanted to get a good look at his black eye and bruises.

  It was still fully light outside as Bruno parked at Pamela’s, yet there were lights blazing throughout the house, an old oil lamp glowing softly on the table in the courtyard, and some gentle jazz playing. An English voice called out “He’s here,” and Pamela appeared, looking formal in a long dress and her hair piled high. She was carrying a tray with a bottle of what looked like Veuve Clicquot and three glasses.

  “Our hero,” she said, putting the tray on the table and kissing him soundly on both cheeks as he offered his flowers and wine. Standing so close she realized how many stitches his wound had required.

  “That’s one of the best black eyes I’ve ever seen, Bruno,” she said. “I’m not surprised, after seeing that club he hit you with.” She turned as Christine appeared. “Just look at Bruno’s stitches.”

  Christine came up, kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him tightly, bathing him in her perfume. “Thank you, Bruno. Truly, thank you for saving us the other day.”

  “We heard you on the radio this afternoon,” Christine said. “And we bought all the newspapers.”

  He wanted to shift the discussion. “I’m just sorry that St. Denis now has this reputation for fighting and racial troubles,” he said. “Some of the tourist businesses have had cancellations already. I hope it won’t hurt your rentals this summer, Pamela. I was told there was something in the English newspapers.”

  “And on the BBC,” said Christine.

  “I should be fine,” Pamela said, handing him the Champagne to open. “I don’t use St. Denis in the address of this place, only the postal code. I just give the name of the house, then the name St. Thomas et Brillamont, the hamlet that we are part of, and then Vallée de la Vézère. It sounds so much more French to the English ear.”

  “I didn’t know the house had a name,” he said, gently tapping the hollow at the base of the bottle to prevent the foam from overflowing.

  “It didn’t before I christened it—Les Peupliers, for the poplars,” she said. “There were certainly enough on the property to justify that.”

  “I think you would call that le marketing,” Christine said, making him smile as he began pouring the wine. She was wearing a long dark skirt and blouse, and her hair had been freshly curled. They had dressed up for him and he began to regret not wearing a tie.

  “I’m really curious to know what you cooked—a real English dinner,” said Bruno.

  “Christine helped me with the menu.”

  “But that’s really all I did,” said Christine. “My contribution was to spend the day on the computer on your behalf, researching your Arab soccer team.”

  “I tried the sports editor of la Marseillaise today,” said Bruno. “He was very helpful when it dawned on him that I was the same St. Denis cop whose picture was in his newspaper, but there was nothing in their files. He even looked through the back issues of those months in 1940, but he said they didn’t seem to cover amateur leagues. He said he would ask some of the retired journalists about it.”

  “Well, I have something,” Christine said. “I decided to check the thesis database. You know there are all these new graduate studies in areas like sports and immigration history? Well, they all have to write theses, and I found two that could be useful. One of them is titled “Sport and Integration: Immigrant Football Leagues in France, 1919-1940,” and the other is called “Remaking Society in a New Land: Algerian Social Organizations in France.” I couldn’t get the texts from the Internet, but I did get the name of the authors, and I tracked down the first one. He teaches sports history at the University of Montpellier, and he thinks he knows about your team. There was an amateur league in Marseilles called Les Maghrébins, and the team that won the championship in 1940 was called Oran, after the town in Algeria where most of the players came from. And here is his telephone number. He sounded very nice on the phone.”

  “This is amazing,” Bruno said. “You got all that from your computer?”

  “Yes, and he e-mailed me a copy of his thesis and I have it all printed out and ready for you.”

  “This is very kind,” said Bruno.

  Pamela intervened. “Enough of crime and violence. We’re about ready to eat, so tell us what you expect of English cooking,” said Pamela.

  “Roast beef that is overcooked,” said Bruno. “Mustard that is too hot, sausages made of bread, fish covered in soggy thick batter and vegetables that have been cooked so long they turn to mush. Oh yes, and some strange spiced sauce from a brown bottle to drown all the tastes. That’s what we had when we all went over to Twickenham for the rugby international. We all liked the big egg-and-bacon breakfasts, but I have to say the rest of the food was terrible.”

  “Well, Pamela’s cooking will change your mind,” said Christine. “What did you think of the Champagne?”

  “Excellent.”

  “It’s from England.” Pamela turned the bottle so he could see the label. “It has beaten French Champagnes in blind tastings. The Queen serves it. Christine brought me a bottle and it seemed a good time to serve it. I should confess that the winemaker is a Frenchman from the Champagne district.”

  “I’m still impressed.”

  Bruno was beginning to relax. It was the first time he had dined in an English home and also the first time he had dined alone with two handsome women. Dining alone with either one would have been easier, on the familiar territory of flirtation and discovery. The evening had already more than justified itself, thanks to the news of Christine’s research.

  The women led him indoors, and Bruno looked around with interest to see what the English would do with a French farmhouse. He was in a large, long room with a high ceiling that went all the way to the roof, and a small balustraded gallery on the upper floor. There was a vast old fireplace at the end of the room, two sets of French windows, an entire wall filled with books, and half a dozen wide and evidently comfortable armchairs, some of leather and some covered in chintz.

  “I like this room very much,” he said. “But I can’t imagine it was like this when you arrived here.”

  “No,” said Pamela. “I had to repair the roof and some of the beams, so I decided to do away with half the upper floor and make this high ceiling. Come through to the dining room.”
/>   This was a smaller, more intimate room, painted a color somewhere between gold and orange, with a large oval table of dark and ancient-looking wood and eight chairs. Three places were set at one end, with glasses for both red and white wine. On one wall was a carefully spaced array of old prints. The flowers he had brought had been placed in a large pottery vase on the table. As in the living room, the floor was laid with terra-cotta tiles, scattered with rugs of rich reds and golds that glowed in the soft light of some lamps and the two candelabras on the table. On the long wall hung a large oil portrait of a woman with auburn hair and startlingly white shoulders, wearing an evening dress from an earlier era. She looked very like Pamela.

  “My grandmother,” Pamela said. “She was from Scotland, which helps explain the one part of the meal where I cheated, just a little. I’ll explain later, but do sit down and we’ll begin.”

  She went to the kitchen and returned with a large white tureen of steaming soup. “Leek and potato soup,” she announced. “With my own bread, and a glass of another English wine, a Riesling from a place called Tenterden.”

  The bread was thick and brown, with a solid, chewy texture that Bruno found unfamiliar but decided that he liked, and it went well with the filling soup. The wine tasted like something from Alsace, so he declared himself impressed again.

  “Now comes the bit where I cheated,” said Pamela. “The fish course is smoked salmon from Scotland, so it isn’t quite English, but Christine and I agreed that it still counts. The butter and the lemons are French, and the black pepper comes from heaven knows where.”

  “This is very good saumon fumé” Bruno said. “It’s paler than the kind we usually have here. Very delicate. Delicious!” He raised his glass to the women.

  Pamela cleared away the fish, then brought in a large tray that held warmed plates, a carafe of red wine, two covered vegetable dishes and a steaming hot pie with golden pastry.

  “Here you are, Bruno. The great classic of English cuisine: steak-and-kidney pie. The young peas and the carrots are from the garden, and the red wine is from Camel Valley in Cornwall. They used to say you could never make good red wine in an English climate, but this proves them wrong. And now, prepare for the most heavenly cooking smell I know. Come on, lean forward, and get ready for when I cut the pie.”