The Janeites

by Nicolas Freeling

  Like the mathematician said: ‘God exists because mathematics are coherent, and the Devil exists because we can’t prove it.’

  Had there ever been an age of innocence? Couldn’t remember any, even in boyhood. Only of inexperience, when energy was unbounded and everything so easy; of violent horseplay and word-games.

  ‘Think of a triad. Got to be three and have a magical, a poetical rhythm. An incantation.’

  ‘Right, and last one out’s a sissy. Freeman Hardy and Willis.’

  ‘Timothy Whites and Taylor.’

  ‘Bristol Myer and Squibb.’

  ‘Smith French Kline.’

  ‘Not very good, that. London Midland and Scottish.’

  ‘Ha. Atchison Topeka and Santa Fé.’

  ‘Denver and Rio Grande’.

  ‘Cheating, that’s only two. Baltimore and Chesapeake.’

  ‘Er – Hugli, Haug and Hammerschmidt.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eminent firm of Swiss notaries in Zürich.’

  ‘You just made them up.’

  ‘Fiction is better than reality, sissy.’

  So it is, thought Raymond, looking around at his bookshelves. ‘In omnibus requiem’ – though this is somebody quoting some other old bugger – ‘In everything I sought rest and never found it save in a corner with a book’. But I love Janine. This suggestion of William’s that she – even as a catspaw – fills me with horror.

  We had zest then. Pleasure was intense, in the tiniest of joys – and as for adultery… we took a romantic view of classical tragedy. Tristan and Iseult. Lancelot and Guinevere. If comic, then like the young boy in La Ronde who gives a great jump in the air, says with huge relish ‘I am the lover of a married woman!’ Whoopee.

  Janine at least wasn’t going to appear with a little bundle wrapped in a shawl. There’s that, nowadays: it isn’t much but it’s something.

  There isn’t anything vicious about her, thought William. Sees herself as ‘Belle de Jour’ – a French actress famous for her beauty playing a woman whose fantasies about sex lead her to volunteer for the bordel; talented part-time amateur, complicated longings for humiliations and punishments. Janine, he rather thinks, prefers these to remain imaginary. The Marquis giggling mightily at Belle, had probably slept with her himself. (‘Why not? Everyone else has’) But it’s a fair guess that Janine isn’t any real whore. The attraction about Ray at the start might well be his ‘apartness’. Jesuit after all, not supposed to sleep with women. Brilliant physician would make it the more exciting. Poor girl then find herself in love with him? Mm, she both is and isn’t.

  Hard not be unfair. She liked Raymond. Quite; Dr Valdez is attractive, amusing – fun to be with. Also very generous: has plenty of money though not very good at collecting it; better at giving it away. This is pretty heaven-sent for Janine who is always broke and a practised borrower. It’s easier to forget debts when the lender forgets too.

  Valdez has, however casual and negligent, social standing. Knows all sorts of people, many rich and influent. A girl like this is impressed, and on the make in a small way. ‘Don’t you know any television producers?’ You never know, it might lead to a job, a step up, however tiny that’s precious when you’re forever on the scrabble. She probably wouldn’t know about the Marquis, since if Ray is discreet at all he is so about patients, but she’s an astute picker-up of gossip, name-dropper, weaver-in of little hints and fragments. ‘Ray was laughing about Joey who can’t speak his lines without the teleprompter to feed him’ and from there it’s a small step to inventions – ‘Joey was saying only last week’ with a little disclaimer, ‘No, no, I don’t know him all that well’. Her struggle to get off the outermost fringe of show biz.

  But there is an honest simplicity to Janine, also. Affection first because he’s kind and considerate. She was touched by the little marks of his dependence upon her: he is lonely and he loves her. He is touchingly ready to believe she has talent, given a chance to an opening. (Useless as an actress but a good dancer and can sing a bit). Eager, hard worker, confident with the jargon of lighting or photography; she picks up a living, in and out of little parts. She loves him. Or so she thinks, and so he thinks. Sometimes it’s even true and she has made sacrifices for him.

  And she is of course good in bed.

  There’s more, which he isn’t going to find out in just one morning. Openings in the secretive defence mechanisms. Since she gets into bed with PermRep. But the Robertsau pub is no place for learning more about that. Janine being tearful in public could create a problem. She’s fairly well known ‘in the village’. And the very last person (here or anywhere else) Janine’s going to talk about will be PermRep. Who is very guarded indeed, personally as professionally.

  Instinct, a cop-instinct, tells William to steer well clear of the Permanent Representative. A prominent personage. A political personage. You do not meddle with the affairs of this sort of man. Woe betide you if you do. William has known it happen. There have been police officers; ambitious, zealous, eager to pursue corruption where suspected. Mysterious things happened to them; they could find themselves disgraced, destroyed: a career broken.

  He felt pretty sure, now, that what happened to Ray Valdez was along these lines. But a physical attack – that was uncharacteristic. More likely would be some massive smear upon a reputation. Upon a doctor, some accusation difficult to disprove; that he dealt in drugs, illegal abortions… Smashing him up seemed oddly crude. But Janine had been given a huge fright. That might be the idea. Careful, girl. Getting the nose broken – could happen to you.

  You find something out, and you reach a barrier, telling you that you aren’t getting any further. When this happens you think about it, and perhaps you find out what your friends think about it.

  Bernadette and Albert Martin are good friends. Of good counsel, and so they should be, since she is a judge and he is an accountant of whom people say, ‘Shrewd you know, a long-headed chap.’

  An investigating magistrate does not preside over a tribunal but is next door. Their job is to decide whether there is a case to answer: it is the first and perhaps the most important filter in the judicial process. They can be very good; and sometimes they are very bad. The young ones have often clean shining ideals about law and justice. ‘In such a world as this’ she says after twenty-five years of experience ‘an idealist – perhaps it’s only a sentimentalist – must be stoned to death’.

  “Oh my dear boy…” Those famous words, that judgment be justice, administered ‘without fear or favour’… “I could dine out for a year, on what I hear in a week.” The obligation to secrecy, and the Palais leaks like a sieve. The private lives of the Bench! The police, undermanned and undertrained. And as for lawyers… “Principles of good and evil are totally irrelevant. I am there to serve the Law. God asks of us to do our daily work; everything else is sentiment.” To suggest cynicism would be ludicrous. Instructing judges are mostly firm believers in sending people to prison while awaiting trial, often for months on end. Keeps them safe and cools their heels. An admission of guilt will come the readier. It is notorious around the Palais that Madame Martin never sends anybody to prison if she can possibly help it.

  In Strasbourg there’s a smack, still, of the independent mind. Betimes French and betimes German, and people have never taken kindly to either. As though a faint memory persists of being a free-imperial-city, tyrannized by bishops, distressed by local nobilities, periodically besieged-burned-plundered by warlords, remaining bloodyminded. Here you find the ‘Steckelburger’, an old boy with a stick and a funny hat, who stumps about poking his nose into everything and complaining about it. He knows where the beer is best and the tarte-flambée; he is scathing about the municipal authority and the football team. Albert is imbued with this antique civic spirit.

  ‘My young friend,’ he calls William.

  For the young man has remarkable qualities. A great pity to see him at a loose end like this. Police officers are hopeless intriguers and
many are crooks. But the Protection Service was élite material. One had little respect for their masters – politicians! – but plenty for those who looked after them. Ideals, devotion: shocking to see that go to waste. This wife – frivolous and irresponsible young woman. Illness is a dreadful misfortune to a young man in splendid physical condition. One may hope: Rupprecht is well known to be a good doctor. People say things like ‘avoid worry’. Just the thing to make you worry. Mr Martin fulminates against many things which worry him. This is a dreadful country. What have we done to deserve it?

  “I know some prosecutors,” said Bernadette pouring herself a cup of coffee, “almost as nasty as Albert”.

  “Yes, well, I was thinking of this man William has mentioned, the Permanent Representative. I’ve come across him. Be very prudent in dealings there. A lot of power, a long arm. I’m not concerned with an important foreign country, so-called friendly, with that great taste for meddling in the affairs of others, but with the man himself. I know something of him. A rigid character, one of those who has always to be in the right, superciliously dismissive of any opinion but his own. Doesn’t do to get on the wrong side of him.”

  Bernadette has a legal liking for Latin citations.

  ‘Dejiciat potentes de sede.’ He throws down the mighty from their seat.”

  William knows this one; it’s from the Psalms; it was a favourite with the Marquis. He knows the literary reference that goes with it, which – typically – the old man was fond of acting, with empressment and much relish.

  ‘Among the best pages Dumas ever wrote. Henry the Third’s brother has just died miserably – thoroughly deserved – and the King laments: Who then will succeed me? Upon the very moment the doors fly open. Dramatic announcement – His Highness, Monseigneur le Duc de Guise!’ The old boy loving it. Probably an ancestor of his. ‘The duke sees the deathbed and goes down on his knees, in the presence of God and the King. Magnificent. And Chicot quotes that splendid line – ‘He shall throw down the mighty from their seat.’ It amused William. Marky was fond of dukes – they were all his cousins!

  “I’m accustomed to these people, Albert. I’m not afeared of your lousy fascist.”

  “But you’ll be careful, dear boy.”

  “Feel sure of it.”

  What he found, or better said dragged out into daylight, while looking into Janine, was a pal of hers, young woman going by the name of Iñez. Real name Thomasina, some antenatal confusion, she was supposed to be a boy, but that’s no name to build a career upon. And a real peasant. Would talk but only for money. Yes and no and perhaps, and haven’t heard, can’t say. They’ve learned in childhood to act dim. And he has nothing with which to twist her arm.

  “If you were to put me on the payroll then.” Convinced he’s from the Ministry, and can cough up some of the ‘sonnante et trébuchante’ (which is French for chinking twinkling mint sauce). She reckons that he’ll threaten but won’t do anything, will get fed-up and start offering cake, thinking that he’ll get on better being kind. So he will, but it better be real cake.

  These ones are all the same, thought William. The day they were born they learned how to tap the electricity bypassing the meter. Aged four they were pinching cake from the baker. Aged six, shoplifting in the supermarket.

  William found himself, since nothing’s-for-free-mister, with just one hard item, and that wrung out, since Janine had let something slip: occasionally – v-e-r-y occasionally when things are really tight, these girls make a little bit on the side, courtesy of Madame Bénédicte. He has heard the name before.

  Oddly enough, from his ex-or nearly-ex brother-in-law, Geoffrey de Sainte-Anne. In an unbuttoned moment, in the company of the excellent spätlese Riesling. The Baron had also his little moment of weakness now and then, in which Madame Bénédicte specializes. She has a most appropriate address, just opposite the convent of the Bon Pasteur, where the holy nuns used to look after delinquent girls. ‘I say old boy, you’ll be discreet about that.’

  As close of mouth of Iñez he finds the lady, but a lot more sophisticated since very well protected indeed; not just by a PermRep but the entire machine, Parliament, Commission, Council, diplomatic immunity all round. Interpol have now also their data-base in Strasbourg.

  Madame offers coffee which smells so good he hates to refuse. Madame also hates to refuse, but really Monsieur, you can’t expect anything else.

  “Seeing it’s you… I’m trying to think whether I know of any little things which… Iñez – what’s the other one called? Rings no bell. Did she perhaps come with a word from Monsieur Philippe? We’re caterers you know, when there’s a big banquet one can’t be always too choosy about extra waitresses. Helps out now and again with the decorations. He has this little shop on the quays. Do give my regards to the Baron.”

  A nice Renaissance house, a dark little shop you’d never notice. Grilles on the windows and behind them pieces of jewellery cunningly lit. It hadn’t been easy to find.

  Indeed he wondered why he’d been given this much. Bénédicte the table-turner. Tells fortunes, you know. Maybe she’d seen in the Tarot that Monsieur Philippe was about to meet a Dark Lady.

  Habit, and training; study and outside too. Quite a lot of effort had gone into this already. No name to the shop, but a nice logo of a double L intertwined. In Versailles that stands for the Sun King. In a formal square for Lucien Lelong, formerly a well known couture house, made very good perfume. This is in between; classy rather. An air of money being made, discreetly so. The police had been no real help; Xavier merely saying, ‘Someone we’d like to know more about’. Well, always willing to oblige a friend. He looked at the door, which was metal-sheathed and heavy; swung well-balanced but would lock itself with a distance-touch. Inside was dark after the street but lit up a lot of dark blue velvet when the door went tingaling. And a little man smiling affably came in from the back which was strongly lit behind the velvet curtain and gave a glimpse of a jeweller’s workshop. And both summed the other up in a quick practised glance. One big man smooth and blank (and looking slow) in a nice Lanvin suit, very nice Sulka tie. One small man with an apron over a baggy cardigan but carried the neck poked forward as though the collar hurt at the back; a long sloping cropped head and the scalp at the forehead seemed too large for the skull, wrinkling and contracting. A pity William never reads a book because Ray Valdez would have given his yelp of laughter. Gagool!

  “Now how may I help you?” Affable’s not the word. Carneying.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” in a Bertie Wooster voice, “but I’m looking for Iñez”. And knew instantly that he had the right address because in that instant Gagool looked out of the humble eyes.

  “Who’s that? Sorry,” with a wave of humble hands, here we have jewellery.

  “If I say so myself, extremely fine. Not the Place Vendôme, you’ll say – my colleagues. I don’t pay their rents, you don’t pay their prices. Now I can see, you’re a man women will find attractive. Shall I make some suggestions?” The hands are striking; small, thin, white; flexible.

  William did his broad open smile. “Iñez,” he said, friendly. The eyes didn’t react a second time.

  “My dear sir, we aren’t understanding each other. I speak six languages.”

  “One will do. Iñez.”

  “We seem to be at cross-purposes.”

  “No.” And the change was sudden, complete, satisfying.

  “Mess with me, friend, you’ll go where the woodbine twineth.” The fast white hand scuttled across the dark blue velvet, quick as a fleeing spider. It reappeared as suddenly, holding a pistol. “I’d recommend that you leave. At once, quietly, for good.” William maintained the fixed idiot grin.

  “Put it away. Dangerous toy.” The man did something with his foot and the lock of the door gave a soft snap. With his other hand he reached below the counter, came up with a telephone.

  “I think we’ll have some police.”

  “Are you sure you wish to draw attention to yourse
lf?” The eyes studied him for a long ten seconds. They protruded a little, hard and opaque, seeming polished. Perhaps beady was the word.

  “I wish to know something simple,” said William. “Who attacked a friend of mine. And who paid for it. Could have been you. More likely someone you hired. At whose suggestion?” The man smiled suddenly, gaily. The pistol went away, as smoothly as it had appeared.

  “For holdup artists,” in a polite way. “And that you aren’t.

  “You’re something else. A busybody. A nosy parker. We deal with them in a different way.” He moved sideways from behind the counter with neat small steps, stood facing William on the soft-carpeted floor. Nicely polished black shoes, a little apart, the neck still stretched forward, the mouth pursed up as though to whistle; the arms loose and the hands in the trouser pockets. Kind of you, thought William, to give me so much warning. Perhaps the intent is sadistic: he’s enjoying this.

  ‘We teach them a lesson. We cut them open.” The hand came up to waist height and the knife-blade clicked. “A clear case of self-defence, my dear sir. He menaced me with his fists. Little me.” This is a cliché but knife fighters do it; they sway from side to side. The effect is supposed to be like a snake, intimidating. In William’s book snakes are timid creatures and run away. If you tread on them they bite you. A straightforward transaction and he has had hours of patient training. Martial arts, they’re called. He’s a little out of training. Never mind, the adrenaline will flow when needed. He threw the right arm out and up, the left hand hooking in and down. Feinting the jab and cross counter southpaw. Good, the speed is still there.

  The left hand got the wrist. He brought up a knee and banged the knife hand on it hard. The knife jumped and fell on the carpet. The open right hand came in and slapped the face: one tries not to clonk them across the ear, which might cause damage. Perhaps it wasn’t quite hard enough because the face jerked back and spat, right on a nice clean shirt. He had still his grip on the wrist, which he twisted and brought up into the small of the back, turning the man round. Cross because of the spit William pushed hard. The man lurched quite roughly into a table and fell down.