by Brian Moore
At one o’clock that afternoon T went down to the café on the corner and ate a sandwich. He positioned himself so that he could watch the front entrance as he ate. He could also see the entrance to the rear alley. No sign of the subject.
At four o’clock, his arse sore, he got out of the car again and went back to the café. He found the phone booth, telephoned Janine, got her machine and left a message, saying that his father was a bit better and he would call later. He said it was pouring with rain, here in Bayeux.
As the afternoon wore into evening, he walked up and down the street a few times. He was now sure it wouldn’t be today. Still, he waited until most of the lights had gone out in the priory before driving back to the Novotel Hotel. He ate fast food in a McDo, set his alarm for seven and tried to sleep. Something wasn’t right. They’d said that Brossard would arrive in Aix on the 6th. What if he doesn’t turn up tomorrow or the next day? Then we’ll be at the 9th. The horoscope said, ‘On the 9th you will be forced into an action that could do you great harm.’ Shit, he knew the horoscope had been cooked up by some cunt in an office. But that didn’t help. He was afraid of horoscopes. In the past, they had come true.
On the morning of the 7th he again arrived at the Avenue Henri Martin at eight-thirty, watched the school’s pupils go in at eight-forty-five, and checked both courtyards. No white Peugeot. By 11 a.m. the first clochards had arrived and were sitting on their arses in the back alley. The second day of a stakeout was always more boring than the first. In a place like this, a suburb, one day was just like another. You saw the same people on the streets. At noon, the school bell rang for break and he heard boys shouting as they ran into the yard. Two monks came out of the priory carrying a big soup bowl and a basket of bread. They crossed the street and went into the school. T felt he needed to take a piss. He got out and walked up the back alley just as the monks opened the rear door for the clochards’ soup. Just as he was zipping up his trousers he saw one of the monks pull aside the table that blocked the rear entrance. An old, white-headed clochard, wearing a green cardigan, was allowed into the kitchen and then the monks pulled the table back in place and went on serving soup. T watched for ten minutes. The old man didn’t come out again. He hadn’t seen the old man’s face.
T went back to the car. He saw a monk leave the priory and walk across the street to the school. After a few minutes, the same monk came out of the school with a second monk, a tall old grey-beard wearing a crucifix on a chain around his neck. The head monk? They crossed the street and went into the priory. Why did they let that old guy into the kitchen? T took out the two photographs and studied them. He checked his gun and slipped it into a shoulder holster. He did not have a plan. Not yet. If the old man came out of either entrance, he’d have to walk to the place where he’d left his car. Or to a taxi rank. The nearest taxi rank was on the Place des Tanneurs. T did not believe in improv, but you had to be flexible. Once he had a subject in his sights, he knew how to be patient. If this was the subject?
Ten minutes later, the front door of the priory opened and he saw the white-headed old man come out on to the front steps. The tall, grey-bearded monk came out with him, embraced him and stood watching as the old man walked across the courtyard, opened the front gate and came out on to the Avenue Henri Martin. T put the Renault in gear. The old man walked off in the direction of the Place des Tanneurs. T drove slowly past him, studying him through the side mirror. Brossard? He couldn’t be sure.
11
‘Safe journey, Pierre,’ he says as he gives me the Judas kiss, his arms around me on the steps of the Prieuré St Christophe. St Christophe, the patron saint of travellers. Did he see the irony of turning me away at St Christophe’s door? He offers me money but denies me shelter. As I walk away now, I know he’s watching, waiting to see how I take his betrayal. Step out like a soldier. Left, Right, Left, Right! When it’s over, it’s over. Thank you, Dom André.
And thank you, Dom Vladimir at Salon, phoning ahead to make sure I’m not welcome. Will he phone Villefranche? He might. Once your luck turns, the roulette wheel spins, the ball falls into losing slots. What will I do now, will I go directly to Villefranche?
He was walking down towards the Place des Tanneurs. His old café, La Mascotte, was on the corner. His car was in the municipal car-park three streets away. He could telephone from La Mascotte. And eat something. He remembered they had a good salade niçoise at La Mascotte. He was hungry. He’d planned his arrival at the priory to coincide with the lunch hour, coming in at the back door when the père hospitalier would be supervising the serving of soup to the clochards. Usually, if he did this, Dominic would ask him if he had eaten yet. But Dominic is dead, the new man said.
A car, a big Renault limousine with chauffeur, drove slowly past him, going down towards the Place des Tanneurs. He looked at the back seat. No passenger. The Renault was crawling along at 20 kilometres an hour, as if the driver was searching for a street address. But then he saw that the driver wasn’t looking at the numbers on the buildings, he was peering into his side-view mirror. The steel ball in the roulette wheel dropped into the bad-luck slot. He’s looking at me.
When you picked up a tail the important thing was to make sure they didn’t know about it. He walked on at the same pace, ignoring the Renault, which now speeded up a little, entering the square before him. La Mascotte was busy. There were no tables free. Monsieur Pierre went to the bar, ordered a bíre pression and sat on a stool looking out at the square. He saw the Renault circle the square and come back slowly past the café. He didn’t think the driver could see him. He watched the Renault circle the square once again and park two streets away from where he was sitting. The driver got out, lit a cigarette and walked slowly towards La Mascotte. This time, the driver saw him sitting at the counter. The driver turned and went back to his car.
At once, Monsieur Pierre put down money for his drink, walked past the toilets and through the kitchen. Nobody paid him any attention. He came out into the lane behind the café, not knowing where he was. The lane was long. At the end of it, he came to a main thoroughfare, the Rue Renaud. He found a taxi rank and took a taxi to the municipal parking on Avenue Goncourt where his little Peugeot was parked. He was out of breath as he hurried across the car-park and settled into the driver’s seat. He took his pulse, shut his eyes and tried to empty his mind. It was an old trick, learned long ago when he was the hunter, not the hunted, a form of empty meditation in which he recited, over and over again, the first nonsense syllables that came into his head. Today it was:
Minute Papillon!
Minute Papillon!
Minute Papillon!
Minute Papillon!
His lips moved in a whisper, like a child learning to speak. He felt his mind go blank. He sat in the little car, his head bowed. Think. Put yourself in their shoes. These Yids, whoever they are, knew when I’d be in Salon and where to find me. I don’t think they followed me to Caunes. No, but they were expecting me here in Aix. They knew I would go to the priory. They staked me out there. If they know that, they know that on my usual route I’ll go from Aix to Villefranche.
Someone is giving me to them. Someone who knows my moves.
Hide. Move off the track. Nicole? No one knows about her. No one.
Nicole. He put the car in gear.
12
He saw the old man at the bar, saw him with a glass in his hand. He might eat at the bar. Afterwards, would he go back to the monks’ house? T walked back to his car and moved it closer to the Café La Mascotte. He lit another cigarette. The horoscope, he could not forget that fucking horoscope. ‘On the 9th . . .’ OK, that’s tomorrow. I’d better do it today. White Peugeot. He’s parked somewhere around here. Follow him when he comes out of the café. I could do it in the car-park, do it as he goes to get his car. If he falls between parked cars he might not be seen for a while. Anyway, relax. You have him in place. Stay in the car. The old paper-shuffler’s a professional. If you walk past the café a second t
ime, he might notice you.
But twenty minutes later he had a gut feeling that he’d better check again. He got out and walked past the café. The subject wasn’t in sight. He went into the café. No sign of the old man. He went into the toilet, a risky move. No sign. Back entrance, a long alley leading to a main street. Gone. He saw me.
Or did he? If he did, he’ll not go back to the school, he’ll find his car and disappear. Leave Aix. Pochon: ‘If for any reason you lose him, phone me at once. At once, do you hear!’
T drove back up the Avenue Henri Martin and parked at the same place as before, a street away from the school and the monks’ residence. He sat there all afternoon. Sat there because there was nothing else he could hope for but that the old man would pick up his car and come back to spend the night. But he knew. He knew. If he didn’t see me, why did he go out the back way?
And the tall monk. When they hugged each other, they were saying goodbye. He’ll not be back.
‘If for any reason you lose him, phone me at once, do you hear?’
At seven o’clock that evening he drove back to the Novotel Hotel at the airport, went into his room and picked up the phone. Shit! And it isn’t even the 9th.
13
‘Do you know what he thinks – he thinks if he gets us to do the room in twelve minutes he can go back to the big American boss and tell him he only needs sixteen chambermaids and not twenty-two. That’s what Yvette says. And she’s right.’
‘Yvette is a communist,’ Madame Maranne said. ‘I can do a room in twelve minutes, if I have to. If we don’t do it, they’ll bring in foreigners.’
‘Strip the bed, change the sheets, clean the toilet and washbowl in the bathroom, wet-mop the bathroom floor, put out fresh towels and soaps, dust the lamps and tables, vacuum the carpets. Twelve minutes! Room after room. At our age, that’s not work, it’s the gulag.’
They were riding the municipal bus, going home to Cannes from their jobs as chambermaids in the Majestic Hotel in La Napoule. The Majestic, taken over six months ago by an American syndicate, had been turned into a casino hotel with roulette and blackjack, and one-arm bandits in the lobby. A new pool had been installed. The public rooms had been re-furbished. Madame Maranne, who had worked in the old Majestic for seventeen years, had received a small rise in pay, a week after the Americans took over. In her opinion, Madame Dufy was talking out of turn. If the Americans wanted the rooms done in twelve minutes, then you vacuumed every second day. Nobody needed to know. Just keep your eyes open for dirt on the floor. But she held her tongue. Madame Dufy was a talker. Like Yvette. The Americans didn’t care who did the work. If you complained to the Americans, noirs and beurs would get your job.
The bus was coming into Cannes. Madame Maranne’s stop was at the Quai St Pierre. When she got up from her seat, a little package of ground beef she’d bought for Bobi spilled out of her shopping bag and fell under the seat. She didn’t notice it but Madame Dufy did. Dufy, who was twenty years younger than she, got down on her knees to pry it out. The bus driver held the door for her. She and Madame Dufy shook hands as usual. ‘Till tomorrow, then. And thank you, eh?’
Not a bad soul, Madame Dufy, when all was said and done. Madame Maranne set off down Rue Louis Le Blanc, thinking how upset she’d have been if she’d got home and had no treat for Bobi. Bobi was uncanny. That dog knew as well as any human being that this was Friday, it was pay day, it was the day for his treat. What do we know about animals? They’re God’s creatures, the same as us, I said to Mother Annunciata, I said you can’t tell me Bobi’s just going to die but that I’m going to die and go to Heaven. Animals have no soul, she said. If you think otherwise you’re going against the teachings of your religion. Nuns knew nothing about anything, certainly not about real life, and maybe not even about religion. Just because Mother Annunciata was Reverend Mother over thirty odd nuns didn’t mean she had the right to say that about Bobi. Had God given her some special knowledge, Mother Annunciata? Nuns and their notions! To think that long ago she herself had wanted to take the veil, become a nun, shut herself away from the world. Not that the world had treated her so well. No, indeed. But Bobi, I was thinking of Bobi. No human being is capable of the love Bobi has for me. No one.
At the far end of the Rue Louis Le Blanc, she waited for the Number 86 bus. Her apartment on Rue Cochet was on the ground floor, and very dark but, now that Bobi was blind, to be on the ground floor was a blessing. Bobi was an Alsatian, and because he could no longer see the stairs she would have had to carry him up and down. For he still liked his walk. Not just to do pipi and his business, but he became excited as a puppy once he smelled the open air. And she, well the truth was, the only time she forgot her age and felt young again was when Bobi started pulling at the lead as they came into the park at the Place de Gaulle.
When Madame Maranne got out her key and put it in the apartment door she listened for the usual bark. Instead, a man’s voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
She had a moment of panic, then thought of the concierge. ‘Is that you, Monsieur Delisle?’ Delisle was the husband of Madame Delisle, the concierge. He had been working on the ball and chain of the toilet.
She heard the door unlock. The door opened. It was not Monsieur Delisle. It was him. She pushed past him. ‘Bobi? Bobi, where are you?’
‘I shut him up in the kitchen,’ he said.
‘Shit!’ She turned to him as if she would slap him, then went to the kitchen and opened the door. Poor Bobi clambered up on her skirt, licking her hand. ‘There, Bobi, there Bobi,’ she said. ‘I have something nice for you, don’t you worry.’
He came into the kitchen behind her as she took down Bobi’s bowl and mixed up the ground meat with a fork.
‘I have something nice for you,’ he said.
She paid him no heed. What was he doing here? What did he want, he wanted something, you could bet on that, it was always the same with him. It was over a year since he’d been back to pester her. In the old days he came for sex, but now he was getting too old for it, they both were. She hunkered down to watch Bobi eat his treat. ‘Good Bobi, good baby. You like that, don’t you?’
That dog, I tell you, there was never another animal like him. Imagine, hungry as he was, Bobi stopped eating, looked up at her with his poor eyes, white with glaucoma, and reached his head forward, sniffing her arm, then licking it before he went back to his treat. The other one came around behind Bobi, fanning out in his hand, like a pack of cards, a fistful of 500-franc notes. ‘Where did you get that?’ she said.
‘From a dead Yid. I’m superstitious. It wouldn’t be lucky for me to spend Jew money just now. So I decided I’d make you a nice present.’
She looked at the money in his hand, then looked away. There must be 5,000 francs there, maybe more. I said a long time ago that I’d not take another penny from him, even though there’s no reason I shouldn’t, he left me long ago, ditched me, told me lies, 5,000 francs, if he’s offering that sort of money he wants something special, of course he does.
‘I don’t want your money,’ she said. ‘Get out of here. I’ve told you, I don’t want to see you any more. You must have had a key made the last time. Give it to me.’
‘Come on, Nicole,’ he said. ‘6,000 francs. Take it. I’d like to stay a few days and I’ll need the key to get in and out.’
‘You’re not staying,’ she said. ‘I told you before. Give me the key.’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘I’ll change the lock.’
‘You won’t. You’re my wife. I have a right to be here.’
‘You have no right. We’ve been through all that.’
He sat down at the kitchen table as if he owned it. ‘It’s only for a few days,’ he said. ‘I have to get in touch with someone to find out my next move. In the meantime, nobody in the whole world knows I’m here. It’s the perfect place for me, just now.’
‘There isn’t any perfect place for you any more,’ she said. ‘Your picture was in Le Provençal last
month.’
‘That? It’s a police photo, years old. Even you wouldn’t know me from it.’
He folded the 500-franc notes into a roll, put a rubber band around it and tossed it on the table. ‘There you are, dear,’ he said. ‘Now, why not go out and buy us a nice dinner. And get some more meat for our dog. Eh, Bobi? Come here, boy.’
Poor Bobi, blind, hearing his name, got up and came tail-wagging towards the sound. He reached down and fondled the dog’s ears. ‘What about a steak, Bobi? Let’s buy him a nice horse steak. Why not? Nothing’s too good for our dog.’
The liar. Our dog. ‘Bobi?’ she said. ‘Come here.’
Bobi ducked his head from under those false fondling fingers and came up to her, putting his nose in her skirt. She turned and went out of the kitchen, Bobi behind her. She went into her bedroom, shut the door, locked it, then lay down. Bobi clambered on to the foot of the bed and settled in at her feet. Poor Bobi, lying there, his muzzle between his paws. He’ll fall asleep now. When he sleeps, what does he dream? Does he remember the days when he was a little puppy? When Pierre first brought him to me in Hyères, sixteen years ago, you could pick him up with one hand. Does he remember those days? Does he remember the flat in Hyères? I’ll never forget the first time I saw him. Pierre came into the room and said, ‘I have something for you.’ And I said, ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want it.’
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It’s in the car.’
I remember I went to the kitchen window and looked out. I thought: So he’s bought a car now that he’s left me. Him that wouldn’t go out in the daytime for fear someone would recognize him, now he’s driving around in a car. And sure enough, I saw a 2CV parked in the yard. I saw him reach into the car to get the present, whatever it was. I thought it would be flowers or chocolates and I was ready to throw his present back at him, but he came across the yard and up the stairs with this lovely little puppy in his arms. The bastard! Back in those days I’d said over and over again that I wanted a dog and, over and over again, he’d said no, we might have to move in a hurry, maybe the next place they wouldn’t allow us to keep a dog.
