by Cara Black
“No, no,” she said, rubbing her eyes, trying to rub the film away.
But Chantal didn’t answer. Nor did the man. Silence, except for the birds singing in the distance. She realized they’d entered Mathieu’s atelier. And there had been large chairs hooked on the walls and gilt frames stacked against tables. She’d seen it. Work-worn, real. Good God, she’d seen it!
She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Mademoiselle, ça va?”
And she realized her face was wet. Tears streamed down her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing them away. The vision had been so brief. So beautiful. Her body quivered. “Forgive me. Your atelier’s wonderful.”
“But it’s a mess!” he said, his voice edged with amusement. “The only other person it’s brought to tears was myself when I was twelve and forbidden to go to the cinema until I cleaned all the solvents my dog spilled. A long, tearful process.”
A cloth was pressed in her hand.
“Please, take the handkerchief.”
She wiped her face, rubbed her nose. “I forgot about . . . rocks, tools, the hue of fabrics, how things glint and catch the light.”
She shook her head, put her fist over her streaming eyes. “Forgive me. I saw an old woman’s silvery hair, your mouth moving, your face . . .” She turned away, trying to get hold of herself.
“You shame me,” he said, his voice saddened.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Non. How I think nothing of my sight and my hands, mademoiselle,” he said. “Hearing you humbles me. You’re too young. It’s not right.”
The finches sang in his courtyard. Water gurgled from what sounded like a fountain, and the scent of honeysuckle wafted inside.
She could never forget seeing sunrise over the Seine, how the first peach violet light stained the roofs, skylights, and the pepperpot chimneys, or the Seine’s green mossy quai, the brass doorknockers shaped like hands that invaded her dreams. Just one more time she wanted to trace the dewed veins of a glossy camellia leaf, see the tip of Miles Davis’s wet black nose and his button eyes. The memories passed before her; her father’s smile, the signature carmine red lipstick her mother had used, her grandmother’s worn accordion strap.
Get a grip, she told herself. She turned to where she thought Cavour stood. Again, she wished her emotions hadn’t gotten the upper hand. She had to salvage this visit, find out if the ébéniste knew anything. Better to deal with her emotions in private.
She ran her fingers along the rough wood counter permeated with smells of turpentine, wood stain, and sawdust. Her hands touched a handle. Then what felt like a rectangular plane with wood shavings curling on it.
“Attention!” said Mathieu.
Too late. She’d knocked it to the floor. Things clanged and clattered by her feet.
“I’m so sorry. What did I spill?” she said stooping down and feeling with her hands to locate whatever she’d knocked down. She had visions of having ruined a priceless piece. “I’m so clumsy!”
She felt a cold slick sheet of . . . alumininum? No. Too dense and stiff for that.
“Forgive me.” Guiltily she tried to pick up whatever her hands touched. They slid beside what felt like a long, round-edged salt shaker. But something was attached to it, like a panel.
“Let me help,” he said, taking things from her hands.
“You work in metal, too?”
She heard him grunt, then his hands taking things from hers. “Once in a while.”
She marshaled what grace she could and climbed her hands up the worktable leg. Helpless and awkward again.
“If I broke something, let me replace . . .”
“No harm done,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
She felt even more awkward, but had to find out if he knew anything.
“My partner René spoke with you about the attack on me.”
“So it’s you,” he said. “The one hurt in the Passage, non?”
“Oui.”
“I didn’t help you,” he said. “I am sorry . . .”
But could he have helped? Suspicion crossed her mind. The police had questioned him. But would he have attacked her in front of his own workshop?
It was Josiane who had been the target . . . everything pointed that way. And the police had let him go.
What if he had witnessed something he was unaware of?
“Tell me what you remember, Mathieu,” she said.
“The old lady you passed, the one whose hair you saw,” he said, his tone wistful. “I caused her to be hurt, too.”
Why did he sound so guilty?
She sensed he’d gone down another track. Again, in her mind she saw his blue work coat, the way his mouth moved, and his hands caressing the wood chair.
That’s what she’d forgotten. The more she thought, the more briefly glimpsed images came back to her. The way he’d touched the wood, the atmosphere in the atelier, his obvious love of his craft.
How did it come together? The attack on her in the passage, Josiane’s murder, the Romanian thugs, Vincent, and Mathieu’s atelier? How could it? Yet somehow, in her gut, she knew it did.
Her brief moment of vision illumined her sense of Mathieu, and she was thankful. Intuitively, she knew he was a good man. But good men make mistakes, like bad men, like everyone.
“Look Mathieu, try to remember where you were when you heard. . . . Had you seen Josiane?”
“Josiane loved the Bastille,” he said. “She spearheaded our association to save this historic quartier.”
That piece fit in the puzzle.
“So could you say Mirador was alarmed by her investigative reporting?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would Mirador encourage her to reconsider her article on the evictions? Or hire thugs to threaten her?”
Only the finches chirped in response.
“We can keep it between us, Mathieu,” she said. “Mathieu?”
“Since when do you have such pretty visitors, Mathieu?” said a man’s voice behind her.
Aimée stiffened. She knew that voice.
“Monsieur Malraux,” said Mathieu.
“No wonder the piece isn’t ready, eh. A nice distraction to occupy you.”
Was there an edge in the man’s tone?
But she heard a warm, slow laugh.
“I like to tease him, mademoiselle,” he said. “He hardly ever gets out, shuts himself up with his work.”
“Let me check for you,” said Mathieu. His voice receded along with the clop of wooden clogs—sabots her grandmother had called them—over the floor.
“What brings you here, Mademoiselle Leduc?” asked Malraux.
Now she remembered. She thought fast. “Trying to solicit a donation for the Résidence, Monsieur Malraux, just as we are from you trustees.”
Again that nice laugh.
“Bon, but you could have asked me to intercede with Mathieu. I’d be more than happy to help you. Don’t tell Chantal, let’s keep it between ourselves for now, eh, but I’ve got her a van.”
“That’s wonderful!” Aimée turned to his voice. But he was moving. She tried tracking him and then gave up. Too much work. She pulled her dark glasses on. “Chantal will be thrilled.”
“I really feel I should be doing more,” he said. “Especially after Chantal explained how vital these programs are. She’s a wonder, that woman: working, volunteering. Never stops.”
Aimée felt a pang of guilt. What a caring man. . . . So what if he was an Opéra patron, well-connected and wealthy? Unlike most of those social climbers, he shared, helping those less fortunate. A rarity.
“Chantal’s wonderful,” said Aimée. “She teaches me a lot.”
“Matter of fact, just between us, I’m getting two vans donated,” he said. “My cousin’s father-in-law’s a Renault dealer in Porte de Champerret.”
That’s how it worked. Through connections. Her friend Martine would no more consult the Yellow Pages in th
e phone book than eat food off the floor. It wasn’t done. One went through a friend or a work colleague or a great-aunt’s cousin, in the time-honored tradition. Probably unchanged since feudal times.
Malraux rose higher in her estimation. Favors begat favors. Now he’d owe the donor.
Where was Mathieu?
A gust of damp, subterranean air encompassed her. Accompanied by a strong scent of paint.
“Have you commissioned a work from Mathieu?” she asked, turning her head and hoping she faced him. Sun from an overhead skylight warmed her. Was it her imagination or did pale haze creep from the corners of her vision?
“Indirectly. My client needs a special vernissage on a piece.”
She liked the smooth cadence of Malraux’s voice. Imagined what he might look like. Tall, well-built. She figured he paid attention to detail.
And then her mind went back to Vincent. He obsessed over detail. But Vincent was short and bursting with nervous energy. While Malraux projected an aura of effortless charm in dealing with people and projects . . . like an aristo, someone to the manor born. Or maybe that mode of operating was de rigueur in the art world.
Vincent . . . could he have . . . ?
“So, of course, I come here,” Malraux was saying. “Mathieu’s one of the few left who know this vernissage technique.”
Malraux seemed very sure of his status, something she sensed Vincent craved. A hunger coloring all his efforts.
She heard the clop of wooden sabots up the stairs.
I’m sorry, but the last layer of lacquer won’t be dry until “tomorrow,” said Mathieu. “Not today.”
“But they must pack . . . well, the backstage prop manager told me he’s loading the container this evening.”
So Malraux was having a piece fixed for the Opéra? But he’d said for a client. If the client was the Opéra, she wondered, did Malraux know Vincent?
Mathieu’s voice cut in on her thoughts.
“Linseed oil takes time,” said Mathieu. “You know it’s not always possible to predict the drying rates in changeable weather. Especially these past few days.”
“But this needs . . .”
“The work will be ruined,” Mathieu asserted. “It’s still wet.”
Something in Mathieu’s voice was strained. Was it because he had to refuse Malraux’s demand? But it wasn’t only that. She heard an underlying tension. Was Mathieu stressed about Josiane?
“Excuse me,” said Malraux. “I’m late for the Opéra board meeting. Mademoiselle Leduc, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Hope to see you again.”
She heard footsteps, then the door shut. Aimée was wondering at Mathieu’s silence when the phone in her pocket rang. Josiane’s phone. The one she’d been attacked for.
“Allô?”
“Where are you?” said René, his voice raised. In the background she heard klaxons blaring.
“In Mathieu’s shop in the passage.”
“I found Dragos’s bag,” he said, his voice vibrating with excitement.
“Dragos’s bag?”
“No, I stole it,” said René. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”
Aimée realized Mathieu was beside her, silent.
“Go on, René.”
“You have to see this,” he said. “I can’t describe it over the phone.”
“Slight problem, René,” she said. “I can’t see.”
“Get your white cane, come out to rue Charenton in three minutes.”
Her heart thumped. She didn’t want to walk there. Again.
“I don’t have a cane.”
“Why not?”
“A dog’s better.”
She didn’t want to admit she’d refused the white cane. Pride had prevented her from learning how to use one. Stupid. Face it. She needed one now.
“The Citroën’s too wide to get by the construction. My God, Aimée, it’s a medieval passage. Come out in two minutes, you’ve got less than fifty meters to walk.”
Her head hurt. Her brief period of sight with no depth perception, the resulting lack of balance had disoriented her. But she gathered her bag, thinking back to the layout she’d seen. Unease lingered in her mind. She didn’t want to ask Mathieu for help.
All she could think of was that awful choking. No air. Having to walk there alone, again. Her hands went to the dressing still on her neck, covered by a scarf.
“Excuse me, Mathieu,” she said. “My partner’s waiting.”
Mathieu guided her to the door. She refused his offer of further help. She stretched her hands out, felt the cold stone, and took small steps, guiding herself along the wall.
The passage felt much warmer than on the night she’d been here. Noises of trucks, the chirp of someone’s cell phone, and the smell of espresso came from somewhere on her left.
Something gnawed at her. Stuck in the back of her mind. But what was it? Immersed in the fear and frustration of blindness, had she missed details . . . important ones?
Now it all came back: the dankness from the lichen-encrusted pipes, the dark sky pocked with stars, the cell phone call’s background noise, the tarlike smell of the attacker.
She felt sick . . . had it been Mathieu? Had he thought she was Josiane?
“René?” she said, hearing the familiar Citroen engine.
“Door’s open.”
She smelled the leather upholstery he’d oiled and polished. And what smelled like fresh rubber latex.
“Put these gloves on and feel this.” She felt René thrust latex gloves in her lap, then what felt like a glass tube.
The car shuddered as he took off down the street.
“Wait . . .” She wanted a cigarette. And for the fireworks to subside in her head. Her pills. She’d forgotten to take them. She found the pill bottle inside her pocket, uncapped it, and popped two pills. Dry.
“Let’s stop. I need water and a pharmacy.” As the Citroën sped down cobbled streets, Aimée was glad for the smooth suspension.
René pulled up at the curb. “Here’s a pharmacy. Let me . . .”
“I’ll manage,” she said, feeling her way on the sidewalk. “How many steps to the door?”
But the doors opened automatically. Pharmacy smells and warm air enveloped her. Now if only she could find the tar shampoo. The one the attacker smelled of. She took small steps and listened for voices.
“May I help you, mademoiselle?” said an older woman.
“Water, please,” she said. She smelled floral bouquet soap. “Am I near the shampoo?”
“Keep going, end of the aisle, on your right.”
Aimée felt slick plastic bottles, smooth boxes, and more perfumed smells. Not what she looked for.
“Madame, what about the medicinal shampoos?”
“Here’s your water,” the woman said, grasping Aimée’s hand, putting a cold bottle in it. “Right here. Which one would you like?”
She craned her neck forward, sniffing the boxes. Both rows. And then she smelled it. “This one. What’s it called?”
“Aaah, super-antipelliculaire shampoo. This one really fights dandruff. Tar-based. It’s the most effective.”
“Merci, madame.” She paid for the water and shampoo and edged her way back to René’s car.
“What was all that about?” asked René.
“Whoever attacked me has dandruff,” she said. “And uses this shampoo.”
“Him and thousands of others,” said René.
“It’s a start,” she said. “How often does it say to shampoo?”
“Once a week, but for increased effectiveness, every three days,” said René.
“Then he’s about due if he’s conscientious.”
She dialed Morbier’s line.
“Commissaire Morbier’s attending a refresher training course in Créteil,” said the receptionist.
So he’d gone. What about that explosives case he’d mentioned? He’d always said he was too old a dog to learn new tricks.
Didn’t he care? Deep down
she’d thought maybe he’d . . . what? Give up his caseload and devote himself to her? That wasn’t Morbier.
Morbier always struggled with his emotions. Even when her father died. He’d avoided seeing her in the burn hospital after the explosion.
And though she wasn’t surprised, it had hurt.
What more could she do?
She wanted to avoid faxing their information about Vaduz to Bellan. Too many prying eyes in the Commissariat. Maybe he wasn’t back yet from Brittany? Lieutenant Nord had promised he’d call her.
Right now she had to concentrate on what René wanted to show her.
“Why don’t we check Dragos’s bag?”
René parked at tree-lined Place Trousseau. Aimée rolled down the window of his Citroen. A police siren reverberated in the distance; the gushing of water and the noise of plastic rakes scraping over the stone sounded in the background.
She inhaled the soft, autumn air tinged by dampness. Sounds of crackling leaves and a dog’s faint bark reminded her of why she loved this time of year.
“What does the bag look like, René?”
“Dirty natural canvas, D.I. stitched on the inside of the flap,” he said. “Long strap. You know, the ones people drape around themselves on motorcycles.”
Common and available everywhere. She pulled the latex gloves on, finger by finger, an arduous process. It reminded her of when she was little and her grandfather insisted she put her winter mittens on by herself. Never mind that she couldn’t see where her fingers were going.
“Tell me what you see,” she said.
“Better yet,” said René. “Open your hands.”
“No guessing games.”
Too late. Again she felt a long, glass-hard tube. Then another. “Feels like a beaker. From a laboratory. Any markings?”
“Just worn red lines indicating measurements.”
She smelled a cloth exuding stale sweat.
“Can you describe this?”
“That’s a bandanna, here’s some used Métro tickets, a stick of cassis chewing gum,” said René, “a roll of black masking tape and a flyer for the Chapel of the hôpital Quinze-Vingts.”
“Does the flyer have a map?”
“Non, but isn’t the Chapel on the right of the hospital as you enter?”
