Paris Noir

by Aurélien Masson

  Now he’s driving.

  The dark ribbon of the forest of Saint-Germain stretches out before his eyes. His two combat knives are lying on the front seat.

  He thinks the boat will be a fiberglass Beneteau, an excellent brand. White with blue trim and a Yamaha engine to propel the whole thing.

  In Marseilles, the water is seventy degrees.

  Here we are. The Myosotis clinic. Lhostis parks his Honda Civic in a nearly empty parking lot. The first floor is splashed by the light coming from the hall.

  The cop puts on round glasses, a white smock complete with a stethoscope in the breast pocket, and hides a combat knife at his back, stuck inside his belt. The woman at the desk is not from Africa. She stops reading muck about stars in Voici.

  “Doctor Granger. I’m in charge of Vania, the young woman you placed in intensive care.”

  “She’s been transferred. She’s in a private room now.”

  “I’m so happy. Doctor Varant told me I could come by and visit her this evening. Is that okay?”

  “Certainly, doctor, but I don’t have anyone to take you there. She’s in room 24, on the second floor. Will you be able to find your way?”

  “No problem.”

  The second floor is drowsy. In front of room 24, Lhostis grabs his knife, holds it tight inside his arm, opens the door.

  Vania is lying in the dark. All wrapped up in bandages. Her mouth is free but her eyes are closed. The cop moves slowly forward, slipping the weapon into his hand.

  Keller’s Tokarev goes plokand its slug rips the policeman’s left eye out. A splash of blood, the body sinks down. The chauffeur takes two leaps forward, catches the cop, and drags him to the sink. What he sees there under the light satisfies him. He filches Lhostis’s wallet, then draws near Vania. He turns on a lamp that casts a subdued light. She’s not asleep. Leaning over her, he runs his finger lightly across her lips. That mouth lets out a murmur.

  “Keller … take me away.”

  The chauffeur nods, puts his gun away, and lifts the fragile body up in his arms. The rain has stopped, the scenery behind the window stands out sharply.

  Keller knows an island far away, east of Sweden.

  It rains all the time there and fish are a staple. For now, that will do.

  THE CHINESE GUY

  BY CHANTAL PELLETIER

  Ménilmontant

  Translated by Nicole Ball

  It’s the last thing Luc said to me on his way out: “Don’t be stupid, Sonia, take your pills.” I nodded. I should have started my medication again but I thought I was stable and I was sick of gulping down all that shit every day. Outside, along our windows, the first hyacinths were cutting through the soil in their ceramic pots. We went out in the courtyard and I felt a surge of affection for the two cherry trees that were dying in front of the concierge’s apartment and for the grass blades pushing their chlorophyll between the lopsided cobblestones. Even the faded look of the façades, I liked.

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  He hugged me, or more exactly, I hugged him. That’s how we were, us two. An inverted couple. I was taller, heavier. Luc had nothing athletic about him, and I had been a swimming champ as a teenager. Eighteen years later, I still had biceps, shoulders, and thighs to show for it. I think this is what Luc had liked: the masculine side of me. But that day, everything was over. Luc was leaving to face another opponent. We kissed on the cheek.

  I watched him go. I knew I wouldn’t take the time to get used to someone else again. Too much work, no more patience. As for Luc, he had started a new slalom without even bothering to train for it. So between the two of us, I was the one who smiled the most. Luc knew that by leaving he was doing a bigger favor for me than for himself. Which didn’t prevent him from feeling guilty. That almost pained me.

  He stepped outside the courtyard gate. I pictured him climbing into the overloaded van. He was probably feeling remorseful at that moment: He hated material problems. The inconvenience of moving was going to destabilize him for a long time.

  I went back to my Greek salad dressing; I added some lemon and a pinch of ground oregano. I tasted it. Not bad. I entered the recipe, list of ingredients, and all the numbered steps into the computer. I named that banal escarole-tomato-feta-black olives salad Greek Summer Salad. As with everything else, a new title is enough to make an old recipe sound fresh.

  Looking out the window, I saw that the cobblestones in the courtyard were less dark, the day brighter than during the previous weeks. Spring was on its way. I felt a kind of exhilaration, suddenly convinced that freedom and spring could be a beautiful wedding celebration if I wanted.

  I had not decided to call Jérôme. I’m fine, thanks!Despite what Luc says, I’m polite, especially with my clients, and Jérôme happened to be my main one: I created most of the recipes for his magazine, Foodgourmet. Swamped as usual, more than usual even, he was negotiating the sale of a Chinese edition of his magazine to a publishing conglomerate in Shanghai, and given that he was capable of selling his soul cut up in little pieces to decorate key chains, he was going berserk. One billion three hundred million potential clients. Even a thousandth of that godsend would have been a fortune.

  I knew right away he was asking for a favor. It took me longer to understand what kind: For the last three days, he had been playing guide to a Chinese man. Devotedly, and for a good reason: He was the cousin of the guy he was dealing with in Shanghai! But now, honestly, it’s too much. Could youpossibly take charge of this burden until 9 p.m. tonight in Orlywhen the cumbersome character flies off to Milan?He gave me one of his I’ll make it up to you, the future of the company is atstake,or, I’m so overwhelmed by work, I’ll pay you the equivalentof three recipes, you can’t say no. I said no,I couldn’t say no.

  Besides, taking a Chinese tourist around the capital wasn’t worse than tinkering with recipes from photographs: If you used your imagination this could pass as a tomato, that as a Béarnaise sauce, and the whole thing as a slice of calf’s head. Because that was exactly what my job had become: I looked at totally lame pictures of totally lame dishes and concocted plausible recipes from them. To tell the truth, you ended up losing your appetite, even me, and I do love to eat.

  Without this new turn of events, I would have e-mailed him my autopsy of a salad and stayed home; so I printed my page without any qualms, all excited to go out and look spring straight in the eye.

  I saw him right away as I was stepping into the offices of Food-gourmet.What a shock! My Chinese guy stood out against a lovely light and the greenery cascading down the slopes of the Parc de Belleville. In the background, misty Paris bowed down before such beauty, golden skin and turned-up lips, a true piece of China to which amber tea would have given the color of brown sugar. This is when I knew I should have taken my pills. I was losing it. And yet I wasn’t really attracted to Asian men. Too smooth, not sexy at all. There was a kind of eunuch quality about them, I thought, although I had never checked the facts. I probably associated them with the servants in the imperial court of China, castrated so His Highness wouldn’t have rivals under his roof. In short, I had no use for Chinese men. No, it was hoodlums who gave me my thrill: hairy hunks who fill out their shirtsleeves, display shoulders broad enough for two, thick arms and large, rugged hands, surly men who wheedle you into the underbrush with their tenor voices … But on that day, all of my prejudices evaporated. I would have needed heavy medication to restore my judgment which had quickly gone down the drain.

  All melted, my legs like cotton, my heart sunk between my thighs and raging as if inside a nest of red ants, I had a hard time resisting the temptation to jump on him and eat him up alive, and yet I hadn’t raped anyone in years.

  This fellow smelled of strawberries, the kind you find in woods, not in supermarkets; it activated my saliva like crazy, a sign that I hadn’t completely lost my appetite. His perfect lips flashed me an irresistible smile. The scoundrel wasn’t scared: He had no idea of the risks he was running.


  Jérôme came to the poor guy’s rescue by grabbing my arm and whispering that he would reimburse all my expenses. I couldn’t care less; I couldn’t take my eyes off him. As soon as he stood up, I noticed the son of a bitch was terrifically built, not too thin but not paunchy either, strong, straight, good thighs and a nice piece of equipment that showed through his black, flowing pants. He even had shoulders and pecs under his dark blue jacket, and in his golden face, his big eyes were shining under eyelids that seemed painted with a brush. That creaseless curve was incredible! I had never seen such a thing!

  He spoke a kind of kitchen English; I did too of course, so that was lucky. He was obviously pleased to stop posing as a piece of pottery in the lobby of Foodgourmet. I was eager to leave. I gave my Greek salad to Jérôme and grabbed the Chinese man. All he was carrying was a small bag; he traveled light, a real plus.

  I made him walk across the park, just to show him that Paris had good green lungs and that the most beautiful city in the world had something else to show off besides the Eiffel Tower and the Sacré-Coeur. Very nice!It was indeed very nice. A group of Asian people were doing tai chi between forsythias in full bloom. They must have looked familiar to him. I explained that we were to leave his bag at my place first. What did he feel like doing after that? As you like. He shouldn’t have said that but he had no way of knowing.

  Eleven a.m. I had six or seven hours to get him in a stew. Whatever the recipe. I was ready to settle for something quick, cooked al dente. There, in the quiet of the park, I decided not to rush things, not to break anything. Nice and slow. Like a normal, regular woman.

  At the intersection of rue des Pyrénées and rue de Mé-nilmontant, Paris was shamelessly exposing her underwear up to her Eiffel Tower garters; we let the lights turn green twice, the better to enjoy the strip tease. I was thinking of poor Luc, who was hurting his back as he unloaded his van. He really had no luck. I wouldn’t have bet a dime on their happiness as a couple.

  On the way down rue de Ménilmontant, my Chinese man was looking all around him, at the Arab grocery and butcher stores, at the bazaars. Wonderful!I realized that I shouldn’t be counting on having poetic exchanges with him. A real advantage. He was nodding and smiling so much he seemed to be laughing all the time, with his plump mouth stretched out over China teeth militarily aligned. I felt pity for Luc—he was missing such an exciting show.

  Near my place, the boarded-up buildings and the construction sites didn’t exactly make for an attractive landscape, but apparently he didn’t care. As soon as we passed through the gate into my paved courtyard, everything, the shrubbery, the flowerpots, was suddenly more pleasant. He thought it was so cute!

  When he took off his jacket in the living room, I gave in. His wild strawberry scent was unbearable. He agreed to a cup of coffee so I made two small, very strong espressos and I crushed five of my most potent pills inside his cup. He was sitting on the couch, sipping his coffee without flinching. He didn’t last very long. After a Very good, it’s such a nice place,he fell asleep. Milan had gone down the tubes by then. I closed the shutters, took off my dress, and delicately stripped the product of its various cases so I could taste it. A pure delight.

  When I got back from shopping at the Chinese supermarket on rue de Belleville, he was still asleep, naked on the couch, his hands and feet tied up, his big body well sheathed in his totally smooth, amber China skin. With just that small accident of imperfect, slightly wrinkled flesh: his penis; a bit darker, with a smallish hard-on between his thighs. He was a good boy. He’d been abused for at least two hours but that hadn’t prevented him from having nice dreams. I was really lucky.

  I put away my groceries, had a bite, and went back to work. Munching on his earlobe, I could again verify that not only did he smell of wild strawberries, he also had their taste. I was sorry I had damaged him, though; his perfect lips were puffy and were turning blue; I felt upset. For fifteen minutes I gave him a hard time that left purple marks on his neck and a big scratch on his left cheek. He was grunting in his heavy sleep, his asshole looked sullen around a small, ugly rip. The guy was not used to good things. I washed him with a baby wipe and put some ointment on it. I wanted him to last for a while. In that respect, I’m like any woman, I get attached fast.

  At 4:00 a.m., exhausted, I rolled him over onto the wheelchair we had bought from the widower upstairs after the death of his crippled wife, when Luc had a badly broken leg. China was heavy but I managed to lay him down on the guest room bed. I had bitten his left breast so hard it had left a big bruise in the shape of a half moon. I did have good teeth.

  I straightened the blanket on my little darling who was blissfully asleep; it almost felt like milk was rising inside my breasts, but I managed to get ahold of myself. I locked him up and collapsed on my bed.

  Before taking a well-deserved rest, I remembered that it’s never a good idea to fall in love with guys who are not your type; it always ends up badly and knocks you out for a long time. Luc, with his tiny build and sparrow voice, had been an exception to my professed fascination for hunks—an exception that had brought me bad luck.

  I slept until 9 and had a dream about Luc in his wheelchair.

  An image which in fact represented the last stage of our love rivalry. A few weeks of recovery and I had been subjected to the whole spiel: lies, scenes. From one physical therapy session to the next, Luc had fallen in love with his physical therapist, and after that I seemed to him like a half-measure at best. He was wrong. My Chinese man, if he ever woke up, could testify to my energy to perform; I could do a beautiful job.

  At 10, the breakfast tray was ready but he wasn’t. He had trouble opening his eyes; they had completely shrunk in his swollen face, which was kind of yellow now. How old was he? Slightly younger than me. Thirty-two, thirty-three. But supposedly, Chinese people don’t look their age. Maybe he was a fraud.

  I slipped a basin under the blanket and grabbed his penis:

  “Pee?” I asked, in case he didn’t understand.

  I heard the gurgle and a wave went through my hand. Not bad. I shook his little hose before removing the basin. I think this made him feel good.

  I lifted his head, brought the glass of water to his lips. He tasted it first, thought about it; he didn’t trust me. I honestly couldn’t resent him for that; he finally drank half of it but turned down the coffee. I could understand that. I pushed the croissant into his mouth and he ate all of it. Good: I had stuffed the carefully crushed drugs inside the dough.

  He regained his spirits briefly and started to scream. I couldn’t care less, no one would hear him; the widower upstairs had been in the hospital for the last three months, and the only window in the bedroom looked out onto a blind courtyard. Faced with my unruffled calm, he stopped and looked at the ceiling.

  “I feel sick,” he said in a blank voice.

  “You’ll be better soon,” I replied with a shrug.

  To tell the truth, if he kept on popping all the pills instead of me, chance was he wouldn’t.

  He closed his eyes. Not a fighter. Quite a fatalist. It’s supposed to be an Oriental thing. Back in China, he was used to being mistreated perhaps. He was really calm for someone being held in confinement, I thought.

  When I pulled the blanket off him and brandished the whip, he looked at me with an imploring expression, but pity is a feeling I loathe. And please, no bullshit: His dick was half stiff, and that never lies. He must have understood; he turned slightly to present his ass, or rather to protect his more fragile parts. His buns were a lot more fleshy than Luc’s, who loved to be spanked, something I never refused him in fifteen years, something he couldn’t complain about. The jerk should never have left, we had our little ways together, and that’s not easy to lose all of a sudden, especially for someone unstable like I am, and when spring is on its way.

  It’s true, we were still very much in love, Luc and I. It was not like before, of course. Aside from the well-polished rituals we had established to relie
ve ourselves, we both kept twisting and turning to avoid any unnecessary contact with each other. Lips sealed in reaction to hurtful words, legs disentangled after sleep had unfortunately intertwined them, but we were used to it and that counts. So much dodging for some peace; marital art is a martial art, an art we had completely mastered: black belt, fourth dan. Okay even for KOs; we would crash painlessly on the tatami. The Chinese man hadn’t exactly agreed to the situation so he was in pain. It’s all in the head, I say! I thought he might be a bachelor and knew little about women. I hear they lack women in China.

  When I had my fill of it, I felt very relaxed; I let him sleep and went to take a shower. Maybe I could keep my Chinese guy for a long time in that state—weeks, months, years even. Paris was a lot better than Milan, after all. All I had to do was feed him right and not mess him up too much. I could set up a TV and DVD player in his room to keep him entertained and then, little by little, he would learn French. That would at least be something positive.

  I put on clean clothes. It was beautiful out; I watered my plants. I was happy that Luc let me live here. Our place was becoming myplace, for years to come; that’s what he had said and that was nice, he didn’t have to. We had bought that first-floor apartment together fifteen years ago for peanuts with a loan from the bank, and we had fixed it up ourselves, quite nicely. All I needed to do was pay the mortgage every month. Nothing to worry about, I had the means, I couldn’t complain.

  That’s when I fell upon my man’s backpack. As light as he was. I found his passport. In Chinese, obviously. One hundred dollar bills. A good-sized stack. It would be for our honeymoon. My honey bun had everything thought out.

  All perked up, I sat down in front of the computer to play with the keyboard a little. I had a message from Jérôme: Attachedare three recipes to return to me before this evening, baby. Was everything okay yesterday? How was he?