by Claude Izner
ROAD CLOSED
He walked round it and arrived at what had once been the bookbinder’s shop. The firemen’s hoses had transformed the charred rubble into a boggy mess. A crack, like a grinning mouth, had spread across the wall of the adjoining building. The remains of books and half-burnt pages lay strewn across the pavement where somebody had left a pile of chairs and a trunk.
‘Any victims?’ he asked a policeman on watch.
‘Fortunately, the men at the storehouse were having lunch at Fulbert’s when the fire broke out!’
‘What about the bookbinder?’
‘He wasn’t so lucky – burnt alive.’
‘He was a friend of mine.’
‘According to the firemen what’s left of him is not a pretty sight.’
Victor shuddered inwardly; burning your finger with a match was bad enough…imagine the agony of being consumed by fire! He could only hope that Pierre Andrésy had been overcome by fumes first.
‘Does anybody know how it started?’
‘The firemen think a gas lamp probably blew out, and the poor wretch lit a pipe or a cigarette and boom! The inspector and the coroner will accompany the body to the morgue, but with all the to-do in the neighbourhood it’ll take time.’
‘I assume there’ll be an investigation?’
‘We’re expecting the detectives to arrive at any moment.’
While they were talking, Victor surreptitiously stepped over the rope cordoning off the area around the shop. The policeman held him back by his sleeve.
‘You can’t go in there, Monsieur. You might destroy vital evidence.’
‘I’m terribly upset. I just wanted to make sure that…’
‘Give me your card and if we salvage any of his personal effects we’ll let you know.’
Victor walked away slowly. Pierre Andrésy’s death had set him thinking about his own existence, which he had been deliberately avoiding. More than half his life had gone by and what had he done with it? The hours spent hunting for rare books, trawling through catalogues, outbidding other dealers at auctions appeared as meaningless to him as his numerous conquests of women – pleasurable interludes that only satisfied a sexual need. By the time he reached Rue des Saints-Pères, he had come to the conclusion that his love for Tasha was what compelled him to engage in battle with this chaos of cruelty, greed and beauty.
Man believes he is able to commune with the divine powers by building places of worship, he thought. Can he not achieve that communion by considering a blade of grass or a bird on the wing, by marvelling at a work of art, or listening to the wind or contemplating the stars at night…
Upon entering the bookshop, Victor was horrified to discover that the three Fates had been replaced by two of the battle-axes. Blanche de Cambrésis, her sharp chin wagging in the direction of the Maltese lapdog Raphaëlle de Gouveline was clasping to her bosom, was as oblivious to his entrance as she was to her companion greeting him with a nod. She was too busy venting her virulent opinions.
‘These excesses are an utter disgrace! The authorities must show these degenerate students no mercy. My husband is quite right. Our Catholic youth is being manipulated by hidden forces that threaten to destroy the very fabric of society. The flood of immigrants from the East is encouraging the spread of socialism! What is this country coming to!…What is it, dear? Do you have a crick in your neck?’
Raphaëlle de Gouveline cleared her throat. The lapdog yapped, and she set it down on the floor next to a schipperke, which growled and bared its teeth.
‘Come now, Blanche dear, you’re letting yourself be influenced by a lot of nonsense. Christian charity teaches us to be tolerant, isn’t that so, Monsieur Legris? What a naughty man you are keeping us waiting like this!’
Blanche de Cambrésis quickly changed the subject when she saw Victor.
‘Did you know that divorce is on the increase worldwide? In Japan one in every three marriages ends in it. Good afternoon, Monsieur Legris. I’m back. This time I’m looking for The Blue Ibis by Jean Aicard.’
Victor doffed his hat, taking care to hide his displeasure: he found Blanche de Cambrésis’s aggressive voice as insufferable as her diatribes.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. Joseph will take care of you.’
‘I’m still waiting for him to come back from the stockroom. A charming reception, I’m sure!’
Victor curbed his irritation.
‘I shall return in five minutes. I must speak to Monsieur Mori.’
He left them, and hurried upstairs to the first floor.
Blanche de Cambrésis straightened her pince-nez.
‘What manners! Although it should come as no surprise from a man living in sin with a Russian émigrée who exhibits her unspeakable paintings at Boussod et Valadon! Decent women aspire to live within the holy sacraments of marriage, to make a home and bring up children!’
‘Not all of them, my dear, not all of them. Polly Thomson, the oldest living British subject, has just celebrated her one hundred and seventh birthday. She never married, she says, because men enslave women. She preferred having only herself to feed.’
‘Well, all I can say is this: I hope that she’s still got enough teeth to eat stale bread!’ exclaimed Blanche de Cambrésis.
Kenji was studying a Kitagawa Utamaro print, which he had purchased in London and had just hung above his Louis XIII chest.
‘What do you think of Woman Powdering Her Neck, Victor? Isn’t she life-like? Why the long face? Is something the matter?’
‘There’s been a terrible tragedy. Pierre Andrésy has died in a fire at his shop.’
Kenji turned deathly pale. He felt a pang in his chest, as if he’d been run through with a sabre.
‘Kenji, are you all right? I have to go downstairs, there are some customers waiting.’
Kenji nodded distractedly.
‘Yes. Go…Death is vaster than a mountain yet more insignificant than a grain of sand,’ he said, as Victor left the room.
He sat limply on the corner of the futon, his glasses resting on his forehead, and stared into space.
‘There is a purpose in every event. People die; a purpose is fulfilled.’
He pictured himself and his beloved Daphné strolling along the paths in the Chelsea Physic Garden, near the Royal Hospital. He could almost taste her scent on his lips. Daphné was buried in Highgate Cemetery. Fifteen years already! He had felt lost without her – a prisoner to hostile forces that threatened to engulf him! And then he had begun to understand that death may claim people’s bodies, but their souls live on.
‘The dead are thinking of us when we think of them.’
He felt a sudden overwhelming need of affection. The image of Djina Kherson imposed itself on him. He had only met Tasha’s mother twice, but she was a woman of undeniable grace. Her heart-shaped mouth and auburn hair reminded him of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s magnificent portrait, Astarte Syriaca, which he found arousing. She radiated maturity, and possessed an almost male energy, which attracted, disconcerted and captivated him. Kenji was a conqueror by nature: when he wanted something he took it. His solitude whispered, ‘Try, you never know.’ But he knew, he knew that Djina Kherson would probably never mean anything to him.
Tasha pushed away the plate of courgettes à la crème. She had no desire to eat in this heat. She decided to add the finishing touches to the painting she was working on. Since returning from Berlin with her mother, she spent two days a week giving watercolour classes, and the rest of her time was taken up with illustrating a translation of Homer. Her own work was suffering as a result. And yet she was happy to be able to help Djina out. She missed the two other people dearest to her heart: her sister Ruhléa, who was living in Cracow with her husband, a Czech doctor called Milos Tábor, and her father Pinkus. He tried to sound positive in his letters from New York, but they betrayed his feeling of rootlessness.
During her time in Berlin, Tasha had realised how strong her attachment to Victor was, and although she was
in no hurry to get married, she had agreed to move in with him. Their home consisted of a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom and a darkroom. On the other side of the courtyard, the space she used as a studio doubled when necessary as a sitting-cum-dining room.
The bond between her and the man she loved had deepened since she had decided to create a series of paintings based on his photographs.
Victor’s studies of children at work had led to him photographing a troupe of young acrobats. From there his interest had turned towards the world of fairgrounds, to which he felt an irresistible attraction. The freaks, strongmen, lion tamers, fire-eaters, clowns, showmen and jugglers were the magical made real, and he loved working in that milieu – especially as Tasha shared his fascination. She had drawn inspiration from his prints of a wooden carousel. One of her paintings depicted a pair of soldiers capering about with two buxom women, who were dizzy from spinning, their skirts lifting as they turned. Another portrayed a solitary lad gripping the reins of his nag as he streaked past the finishing line to win the Chantilly Derby cup. She was satisfied she had followed Odilon Redon’s advice on abstract backgrounds, and she thought the relaxed posture of one of the women leaning back to kiss a soldier worked well. Her fluid brushstrokes resembled those of Berthe Morisot, differing in the precision of her contours.
Victor loved this collaborative work, which he referred to as ‘their baby’. Djina was trying to encourage her daughter to marry and have children; she would soon be twenty-six. Tasha didn’t object to the thought of marriage, but she couldn’t imagine having a baby for several years; she was determined to be free to continue what she’d started. Victor never mentioned it any more. Did he really want to be a father? She stretched her arms, her body filled with a delicious lethargy. Madame Victor Legris! She was already associated with his photography; he’d be over the moon if she agreed to take his name as well. He was doing his best to curb his possessiveness. Of course he didn’t always succeed, like on that Thursday the previous March.
They had gone to view an exhibition by the painter Antonio de la Gandara23 at the Durand-Ruel gallery.24 She had spent ages looking at the pastels and drawings, in particular the portraits of Comte de Montesquiou and Prince Wolkonsky. An oil painting entitled Woman in Green had fascinated her. Impressed by his masterful brushstrokes and the texture of his fabrics, she had wanted to congratulate the artist, an attractive Spanish aristocrat. He had thanked her for the compliment, and with a knowing wink had suggested she sit for him. With forced good humour, Victor had swiftly pointed out that his companion preferred painting portraits to posing for them. He had then pretended to become absorbed in a drawing of a bat, but the glowering looks he kept shooting at Gandara made it perfectly clear what was on his mind.
‘Thank God you’re here! I was beginning to get worried.’
Victor had just walked in. He embraced her, and she snuggled up against him.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s been rioting in the Latin Quarter and…’
He told her briefly about the bookbinder’s death.
‘How horrible!’
She held him tight. Those unforgettable images of the pogrom…Rue Voronov splattered with blood, the flickering flames, the man stretched out in front of the house, the soldiers on horseback waving their sabres…
‘Was it an accident?’
‘Apparently…They’re not sure…’
The image of a hand tossing a scrap of burning paper into Pierre Andrésy’s shop flashed into his mind. He blotted it out.
Tasha flinched, as though she’d been reading his thoughts; would this tragedy turn into an excuse for a new case? She began to say something then stopped and brushed her lips against his cheek.
‘I do love you, you know,’ she whispered. ‘I feel so afraid sometimes. I can’t imagine life without you.’
‘Don’t worry, my darling. I shall endeavour to endure your difficult nature with stoicism.’
He began to unbutton her blouse as she pulled his shirt out of his trousers.
Chapter Four
Friday 7 July
‘YOU really have excelled yourself, Monsieur Daglan. The way you’ve fashioned the p in pigs’ trotters à la Sainte-Menehould! They look good enough to eat off the page! As for the spelling, I’ll take your word for it.’
The plump woman’s double chin quivered as she examined the finished menu based on a rough draft. She tried to pay the artist, but he refused with a smile.
‘A glass of beer will do, Madame Milent. Just carry on being my eyes and ears.’
‘That goes without saying, Monsieur Daglan. The more I see of your upstrokes and downstrokes the more I’m convinced you’ll make the ministry one day. I’m ashamed of my spidery scrawl.’
‘Come, Madame Milent, you’re the queen of cordon bleu. It’s the quality of your cooking that matters, not your handwriting.’
Frédéric Daglan finished off his beer and put away his things. By mid-morning, the main room at Madame Milent’s establishment in Rue de la Chapelle became the exclusive domain of carters transporting heavy loads, and cab drivers from a nearby rank. The back room, which was screened off by a thin partition and had a secret connecting door to the courtyard of the adjoining police station, would shortly be occupied by assistant chief of police Raoul Pérot, his colleagues, and a few literary friends.
Frédéric Daglan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said goodbye to the landlady. After he’d gone, she remained thoughtful.
‘What a handsome fellow, so charming, so elegant! Ah! If only I were twenty years younger and forty pounds lighter…’
The sun shone weakly on the peeling façades of the buildings and the sky was dappled with fleecy clouds as far as Plaine Saint-Denis.
Like shaving cream, thought Frédéric Daglan.
It was still quiet at that time of the morning after the workshops had opened. He felt euphoric during this delightful lull when the street was the preserve of delivery men and tramps. It was as if he had cast off the shackles of everyday mediocrity that gripped the city. He was master of his own destiny and, even though he’d had the odd taste of prison, no bars had ever really threatened his independence; his inner rejection of any form of authority delivered him from slavery.
‘The man who can clip my wings hasn’t been born yet,’ he muttered, walking towards the tiny public garden swarming with children, a perfect spot from which to watch without being seen.
He sat down on a bench and opened the morning paper. There it was, on page two:
ENAMELLIST MURDERED
He skimmed the article. The police were making no headway. The only clue was a visiting card with an unintelligible message on it about amber, musk, incense and leopard spots. The attack had happened so fast that the only witness was unable to describe the killer.
Frédéric Daglan suddenly felt sick.
‘Of all the filthy tricks!’
A ball landed at his feet. As he sent it flying back, the pages of his newspaper scattered around him, rustling like dead leaves. He walked away. In Rue de la Chapelle, the advertising hoardings on the blank end-walls of the buildings caught his eye. His gaze wandered from a giant mustard pot to a magnificent red Lucifer holding a pair of bellows and spraying a jet of sulphur:
VICAT INSECTICIDE POWDER
The louse! The dirty louse! How dare he! He would crush him.
Joseph paused, picked up a copy of Boule de Suif and placed it between On the Water and A Life then walked out onto the pavement and stepped back to judge the overall effect. Monsieur Legris would be pleased. The window display was a tribute to the works of Guy de Maupassant, who had died the previous day.
With no customers in the shop and all the deliveries done, Joseph felt free to relax. His favourite pastime was updating his scrapbooks, which were stuffed with strange articles taken from various newspapers. He leant on the counter and began going through the pile of newspapers in front of him, pausing only every now and then to take a bite
of his apple.
He picked up the copy of Le Passe-partout that he’d been reading on the day of the Bérenger protests, and began cutting out a news item.
Enamellist Murdered
There are still no clues in the case of the murder victim, Léopold Grandjean, stabbed by an unknown assailant in Rue Chevreul on 21 June. The sole witness is unable to describe the killer, having seen him only from behind. The police discovered a mysterious note on the victim’s body, the content of which we have decided to print for the benefit of our discerning readers: ‘Like amber, musk, benzoin and incense, May has made of ours a solitary pursuit. Can an Ethiopian change the colour of his skin any more than a leopard his spots?’
Our reporter Isidore Gouvier thinks the references are probably literary. The police…
The stair creaked. Joseph’s heart started pounding. Although Iris had been avoiding the shop since their break-up, he both longed for her to appear and dreaded it. He soon recognised Monsieur Mori’s heavy gait and hastily crammed his scrapbook and cuttings into the back of a drawer.
‘A mill without grain turns its sails in vain,’ remarked Kenji – pretending not to have noticed his assistant, whom he only spoke to now when absolutely necessary.
He sat at his desk, intent on finishing drafting a note. ‘What’s the boss droning on about mills for?’ Joseph muttered. ‘Oh! I get it! It’s a warning. He’s saying I should get a move on or else…Well, he can stuff his metaphors, and what’s more…’
‘Still carping?’ whispered Victor, emerging from the stockroom.
‘You crept up on me, that’s not fair!’
Kenji raised his head; if he had overheard he didn’t let it show.
‘Come and have a look, Victor. I’ve written a short description of the manuscript I left with Pierre Andrésy. I mean to give it to whoever is in charge of the case. If there’s any chance some of the books have been saved…’
