by Lavie Tidhar
Joe longed for that drink. Instead, he rose from his seat, carefully, feeling the pain travelling through him but trying to ignore it, and began to follow the girl.
She walked the short distance to the end of the park and out of it again and down below, into the Métro station of Monceau. Joe felt the pain through his body and his clothes were damp from the rain and clung to his skin and made him itch. He followed the girl down below, purchased a ticket, and followed her at a distance on and off trains until they had crossed the Seine and surfaced again at St. Michel.
The sunlight hurt his eyes. In the square the pigeons seemed suspended in mid-flight. Above the fountain the saint was frozen in the act of slaying a dragon. The water seemed to hover like mist. An accordion player teased out sad, despondent notes from his instrument. A girl was painting the Notre Dame cathedral in the distance, sitting on a folding-chair beside a small easel, brush and palate in hand. The wind picked up out of nowhere, snatched a hat from a man passing by and threw it in the air. Joe followed the girl, who made for the narrow twisting alleyways of the Quartier Latin. He lit a cigarette and blue smoke followed him as he passed, like the steam being snatched from a moving locomotive. The streets were paved and old and thronged with people, but no one paid him attention. He caught his own reflection in the window of a flower-seller: he looked like a wash-cloth that had been squeezed dry.
The thought made him smile. He followed, safely anonymous in the crowd. The girl marched on, finally passing through the courtyard of a church and entering the narrow Rue de la Parcheminerie. Joe could smell roasting coffee and smoke and cooking meat and the pervasive smell of frying garlic, and his stomach growled; and at the same time he felt nauseous. At number twenty-nine there was a bookshop, untidy heaps of books scattered outside, more books pressing against the windows inside the shops, looking out as if trying to escape. There was a side door. The girl disappeared through it. Joe leaned against the wall and watched. It was comfortable to rest against the stones. The Rue de la Parchminerie smelled of cooking foods and old paper and dust. There were few people walking past. There was a light up on the second floor but the curtains were drawn shut. Five minutes later the girl emerged through the door and began to walk down the road. Joe went to the door. There was no occupant’s name. He tried the door but it was locked. There was a small intercom and a buzzer, and he pressed the button and heard a man’s voice say, ‘What is it now, Marlene?’ in an exasperated tone, and then there was a buzzing sound, and when Joe pushed the door again it opened.
He climbed up the stairs. The stairwell was dark and musty, and wet-looking moss grew on the walls. At the top of the landing was a door and it was being pushed open as Joe climbed and he reached it and found himself face to face, at last, with his quarry.
the fat man
——
The bartender’s description, Joe thought, had been accurate enough. A pale, fat man, shaped a little like a closed-cup mushroom. He wore a flowing white robe and a dandyish hat and his feet were bare, the toes bulging and puffy. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he said and made to push the door closed, but Joe was already there and holding it from shutting, and he said, ‘I just want to talk.’
‘Sure,’ the fat man said, and blinked. ‘They are all just want to talk.’
‘Please,’ Joe said. The fat man looked at him and said, ‘What happened to you?’
‘I think some people didn’t want me to find you.’
The fat man suddenly grinned. ‘And they didn’t persuade you?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Pity.’
But his hand left the door and he moved aside, and gestured for Joe to come inside. ‘You look like you could use a drink.’
‘That,’ Joe said, ‘is truly perceptive. My name’s Joe. I’m a private detective.’
The fat man laughed. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a private detective,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Scotch?’
Without waiting for an answer he made for a small drinks cabinet in one corner. Joe looked around him.
The apartment was full of books. An old wireless box sat precariously on top of a wooden cabinet. There were prints on the walls showing women in various stages of undress. The majority of the books were paperbacks. They lay everywhere, like fallen comrades, on the two brown armchairs and the round coffee-table before them, on shelves, in piles on the floor, in cardboard boxes. The light was dim, and the blinds were thick red velvet and let in little natural daylight. There was a double bed in one corner, the bed-sheets pulled back, more books lying exhausted on top. Above the bed on the wall was a large poster showing a man with clear, penetrating eyes and a long beard, and beneath it the caption read: Wanted: Dead or Alive. Osama Bin Laden, Vigilante. A sweet, cloying smell hung heavy about the room.
The fat man came back with a glass for Joe, and one for himself. Joe took it gratefully and drank. The liquor tunnelled through him and he felt distant explosions erupt deep inside him, their warmth spreading out through his body. He was still looking at the poser and the fat man, following his gaze, said, ‘More trouble than it’s worth, this Vigilante business. They want me to stop, you see. But the money’s good. Are you a fan?’
He made ‘fan’ sound like a dirty word. Joe slowly shook his head. At last he was here, had located Longshott’s publisher. The man seemed to take an inordinate amount of precaution regarding his location. And yet he had let him in with little argument… interesting. He said, ‘Who wants you to stop?’
‘Besides the critics, you mean?’ He laughed and put out his hand. ‘I’m Papadopoulos, by the way. Daniel Papadopoulos, purveyor of fine literature to the masses.’
‘Papa D…’ Joe said.
The fat man looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The girls like to call me that. I think I bring out the maternal in them. Or is it the Oedipal?’
‘Maybe it’s a bit of both,’ Joe said. He examined Daniel Papadopoulos. There were fine cobweb lines at the corners of his eyes, and — now that he looked closely — what looked like a fading bruise on the man’s face, below his left eye, masked unsubtly with white make-up. ‘I’m looking for Mike Longshott,’ he said, and Daniel Papadopoulos sighed. ‘Are you one of them?’ he said, and he in turn was also examining Joe. ‘Refugee?’
He wasn’t making sense, but Joe merely shook his head and said, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You mean you don’t know.’ The look in the fat man’s eyes made Joe uncomfortable. ‘That’s all right. Live and let, well, live, is what I say. If you get my meaning.’
Joe didn’t. He said, ‘Who did this to you?’ and pointed at the bruise. Papadopoulos shrank back. ‘The same people who worked you over, maybe?’ he suggested.
‘What did they look like?’
‘Like gangsters,’ Papadopoulos said, and Joe thought — I’m not the only one who reads too much pulp. ‘Gangsters with the law on their side. They smelled like bacon.‘ He smiled, though there wasn’t much amusement in his eyes. ‘They were pigs. The worst kind of gangster of all is a gangster with a badge. ’
‘You mean they were policemen?’
‘Full marks, boy.’ Joe stared into the fat man’s eyes. Papadopoulos didn’t meet his gaze. Joe thought — he talks big, but he’s frightened.
‘Did they say who they worked for?’
‘No.’ Papadopoulos paused and chewed on his lower lip. It was not, Joe thought, a pleasant sight. He lit a cigarette. His mouth tasted raw and full of smoke, like the inside of a collapsed building. He washed it away with the scotch. ‘Maybe. When they were leaving I heard one of them — the leader, big guy, grey hair—’
‘I think I ran into him, yes,’ Joe said.
‘He said — I think they thought I was out by then — he said something about reporting back to the…’ the fat man fell quiet.
‘To the—?’ Joe said.
‘I think they loosed a tooth,’ Papadopoulos complained. His hand was on his cheek, massaging it. ‘Let me think.’
Joe waited. Danie
l Papadopoulos was being very forthcoming — but then, men who had been beaten up were sometimes eager not to repeat the experience. Though he sensed there was strength in the man, a conviction behind the pale watery eyes that would not be easy to scrub off. He drew on the cigarette. There was an ashtray on the low coffee-table, a brass plate with a brass girl reclining on it with her legs wide open. The stub of a cigar was resting between her thighs. Joe ashed on the carpet instead.
‘CPD,’ the man said. ‘I think. I think that’s what he said. They had to report back to the CPD.’
‘What’s the CPD?’ Joe said, and the fat man shrugged and said, ‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Where is Longshott?’ Joe said.
‘Longshott, Longshott,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said and grimaced. ‘I wish I’d never heard the name. Nothing but trouble.’
‘And the books?’
The fat man brightened. ‘Sell like, how you say? Like hot cakes. Better than Slut, even.’
‘I see.’
‘Though Countess Szu Szu does sell better overall.’
‘I’m sure she does.’
‘Still, very profitable, those ridiculous stories. Always start with a big explosion! Boom! Poof!’ he brought his hands together in a loud clap. ‘Mike Longshott. What a ridiculous name.’
‘So who is he?’
Daniel Papadopoulos shrugged. ‘How the hell should I know?’ he said.
‘You don’t know who he is?’
The fat man shook his head. ‘Never met him. Don’t imagine Mike Longshott’s his real name, either.’
Joe said, ‘Mr. Papadopoulos—’
‘Call me Daniel. Please.’
‘Daniel. I’m confused.’
‘The world does that to you,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said sympathetically. Joe sighed. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘You are Mr. Longshott’s publisher. Surely you’ve met the man?’
The fat man looked amused. ‘What on earth for?’ he said. ‘I never have any contact with writers. If I do, they just keep pestering me about getting paid.’ He shrugged, said, ‘Look. Couple of years back I get an envelope in the mail. A manuscript submission. I get several a week. It was called Assignment: Africa. Good title. I read it, I thought I could sell a few copies, I wrote back to him, sent him a cheque…that’s it. Never met the man. Every six months or so, I get a new manuscript in the post. More explosions, collapsing buildings, crashed planes, dead people. He has a busy imagination.’
‘So,’ Joe said, ‘you have an address for Mr. Longshott.’
‘Well, yes,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said. ‘And he’s very prompt at cashing the cheques, too.’
‘Can you tell me what the address is, Mr. Papadopoulos?’ Joe said.
The fat man regarded him for a long moment. ‘Why?’ he said at last.
‘Because I need to find him,’ Joe said.
‘Other people want to find him too,’ Daniel Papadopoulos said.
‘And did you give them the address?’
‘They’ve been after me,’ the fat man said, ignoring the question. ‘Not just the government people. Others, too. Like you. I have to be careful with Medusa Press anyhow — a lot of people don’t like some of the titles—’
‘Like Slut?’
‘Well…’ Daniel Papadopoulos shrugged. ‘Small-minded,’ he said. ‘So I only use that post box on Hausmann, and this little system of mine, but it doesn’t seem to make that much of a difference, in the end. Everyone can be found if you try hard enough.’
‘Even Mike Longshott?’
The fat man suddenly smiled. ‘That I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Did you give them the address?’
‘No.’
Joe looked at the fat man. ‘Will you give it to me?’ he said. ‘Please?’
‘Why?’ the fat man said again. His eyes were on Joe’s face, looking at him, not quite seeing him. ‘Ghosts,’ he said. His voice war faraway. ‘I have nothing against ghosts. But I don’t like being haunted.’
‘Mr. Papadopoulos,’ Joe said patiently, ‘I don’t wish Mr. Longshott any harm. I am merely trying to locate him. Please.’
The fat man’s eyes focused again, and he smiled. ‘No threats, ha?’ he said. ‘It makes a change.’ He went over to the drinks cabinet and replenished his glass. He didn’t offer the bottle to Joe. ‘To be honest with you, I’m a bit curious myself. And you’re a private detective…’
‘I can only take on one client at a time,’ Joe said. The fat man shrugged. He looked suddenly tired, the animation gone out of him. His face was blotchy, his eyes bruised. ‘If you find him, will you let me know?’
He had nothing to lose. He needed the publisher’s help. He said, ‘If I can, yes.’
The fat man laid down his glass on the small coffee-table. ‘Let me write it down. I want you to get out.’ He was visibly shaking now, and the glass when he put it down had bumped against the table with some force. The fat man located a piece of paper and a pen on one of the bookcases and scribbled a couple of lines. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Now get out. Close the door behind you.’
‘Thank you,’ Joe said, but the fat man was no longer listening to him. As Joe was leaving, he could not resist a final look: peering through the doorway, he saw the fat man reaching for a high shelf and bringing down a large, leather-bound volume. When he opened the book, Joe had seen enough. He left and closed the door behind him.
The book had been hollow, and he had recognised the paraphernalia inside.
dead-end
——
Back in the Montmarte hotel, Joe washed, the water warm and rust-coloured, spluttering out of the ancient shower-head. A lone cockroach scuttled as far away from the water as possible. Joe’s body hurt. After he had dried himself and pattered back across the dark hallway to his room, he lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Stains that had no definite shape stared back at him, and his tired mind tried to impose order on them, the non-shapes forming through the filter of his mind into definite ones: planes, and trains, and collapsing buildings. He had recognised the smell in the publisher’s rooms, at last; should have recognised it sooner; the same smell that clung to his friend Alfred, the smell of processed poppies, but he didn’t know what it meant, if the fact had significance. He stared at the scribbled note from Papadopoulos. Paris had been — not a dead-end, no, not quite — it had been merely a dead-letter box. Longshott wasn’t there: only his books were.
There were questions he had to ask, but again he did not feel the urge to ask them. Yet he would follow the trail. There was nothing left for him in Paris now, but for the disquieting, niggling sense as of a fading dream, that he had once been to Monceau, that there was a girl with him then. It was a spring day and they had eaten at a nearby brasserie and, bursting, had taken the walk and gone to the park and sat together on a bench: nothing more. He shook his head on the hard pillow and got up and decided it was time for a drink after all. Somewhere it was always time for a drink. Outside he could hear children shouting and the slap-slap-slap sound of running sandaled feet against the hard surface of the road and as he stared out of the window the three card man was still there, still enticing passers-by to find the lady. He realised that the hat he had bought on his first day was still in the room, had been hanging on the dresser, and he put it on, fitting it at an angle, and left the room. As he walked towards Pigalle he checked his reflection in the shops’ windows and for a moment thought he’d seen a man with black shoes following behind him, but when he turned could see nothing beyond the milling crowds and anyway he didn’t care. Paris was a maze of streets that led nowhere, a map whose directions led elsewhere, a confusion of chalked arrows all pointing to a dead-end. The bar he went to could have been one he had been to before or it may have been a different one, he really couldn’t say and didn’t care. It was quiet and he ordered scotch and didn’t bother about the ice. Later, he went back to the hotel and got his things and checked out. The sun was setting over the city as he walked down crowded
streets towards the Gare du Nord. It was as he approached the great building of the station, its arches and turrets framed against the darkening sky, that he saw the girl from the bar again.
She was lying against the wall, curled up. He almost hadn’t noticed her. It was only the sound she made, a faint mewling sound, that stopped him. He crouched beside her. There was something strange about her. Her brown skin seemed faded, and when he gently raised her head with his hand and looked in her eyes he seemed to see the wall through them, as if the eyes had lost all substance, had become windows into an empty house. There was a bottle held in the girl’s hand, but it was empty. The girl blinked when he touched her. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.
‘It’s me,’ he said. And, ‘Are you all right?’
The girl tried to laugh. The sound came out of her like gurgling water. It seemed to him, later, when he tried to remember it, as if all the sounds she made were merely the sounds of the street, as if she spoke in traffic noise, and in the words of the public announcement system, and in the sound of the wind. No one disturbed them. People went past without looking. It almost seemed to him, as he held her, that there was no one and nothing there, that what he was holding was merely a heap of old, cheap clothes left by the side of the station. ‘I can’t any more,’ the girl said. ‘I was on a bus. The bus was full of people. I was on a bus, and…’ her eyes closed. For a moment it was as if she wasn’t there. ‘I was on a bus…’
