“Fabio,” she said again, more confidently.
Sonia’s corpse again came into my head. In all its weight and coldness. Emptying my mind of all other thoughts, all other memories.
“Babette, we have to talk.”
“Did you get the disks?”
“I’ve read them. Most of them, anyway. Last night.”
“What do you think? I did a good job, didn’t I?”
“Babette. Stop with that. The guys who are after you are on my back.”
“Oh!” Fear gripped her throat, strangling her words. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Fabio.”
“Come back.”
“Come back?” She sounded almost hysterical. “Are you crazy? They murdered Gianni. In Rome. And his brother Francesco. And his friend Beppe. And—”
“They killed a woman I loved, right here,” I said, raising my voice. “And they’ll kill others, other people I love. And then they’ll kill me. And sooner or later they’ll kill you. You can’t stay in hiding up there forever.”
Another silence. I loved Babette’s face. Quite a round face, framed by long, chestnut-red hair, curly at the ends. A Botticelli face.
I cleared my throat. “We can come to some kind of arrangement.”
“What?” she cried. “Fabio, that report is my life’s work! If you’ve looked at the disks, you must have realized the amount of work I did. So just what kind of arrangement do you think we can come to, huh?”
“An arrangement with life. Or death. Your choice.”
“Stop it! I’m not in the mood for philosophizing.”
“Neither am I. I just want to stay alive. And keep you alive.”
“Oh, sure. If I come there, I’m signing my death warrant.”
“Maybe not.”
“Is that right? So what do you suggest?”
I felt my anger rising. The wind was blowing harder than ever outside. “Fuck it, Babette! You’re dragging everyone into this fucking investigation of yours. Doesn’t that bother you? Can you sleep at night? Can you eat? Can you fuck? Huh? Answer me, damn you! Do you like it that my friends are getting whacked? And that I might be whacked, too? Huh? Fuck it! And you tell me you still love me! You’re crazy, you know, you’re a fucking crazy woman!”
She burst into tears. “You have no right to talk to me like that!”
“Yes, I do! I loved that woman, dammit! Her name was Sonia, she was thirty-four years old, and I hadn’t met anyone like her for years. So I have every right!”
“Go to hell!”
She hung up.
Georges Mavros had been murdered that morning, about seven. I didn’t find out until two hours later. My line was still busy. When the phone rang, I thought it was Babette calling back.
“Montale.”
The tone was harsh. A police captain’s tone. Hélène Pessayre. Trouble again, I thought. And by trouble, I meant that she’d start bugging me again to tell her what I was hiding. But she had something to tell me, and she wasn’t wearing kid gloves.
“Your friend Georges Mavros was killed this morning when he got home. He was found in the ring, with his throat cut. Just like Sonia. Do you still have nothing to tell me?”
Georges. Like an idiot, my first thought was of Pascale. But he hadn’t heard from Pascale in six months. He had no children. Mavros was alone. Like me. I sincerely hoped he’d had a happy night, a beautiful night, with his friend from Réunion.
“I’m coming over there.”
“Come right now!” Hélène Pessayre ordered. “To the gym. That way, you can identify him. I think you owe him that at least.”
“I’m on my way,” I replied, my voice breaking.
I hung up. The phone rang.
“Did you hear about your pal?”
The killer.
“I just heard.”
“A pity.” He laughed. “I’d have liked to be the one to tell you. But the cops don’t waste any time these days.”
I didn’t say anything. I was immersing myself in his voice, as if it might help me to make an identikit picture of him.
“Attractive woman, that cop, isn’t she? Montale, are you listening?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t try any tricks. With her or anyone else. Cop or otherwise. Or we’ll just get through the list a little quicker. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand. No tricks.”
“But you were having a stroll with her yesterday, right? What were you planning to do, fuck her?”
They were there, I told myself. They were following me. That’s it, they’re following me. That’s how they got on to Sonia. And Mavros. They don’t have any list. They don’t know anything about me. They’re following me and, depending on their estimate of how close I am to someone, they kill that person. That’s all. Except that Fonfon and Honorine had to be at the top of the list. These guys must have registered how fond I was of those two.
“Montale, how far have you gotten with the shit stirrer?”
“I have a lead,” I said. “I’ll know by this evening.”
“Congratulations. Talk to you this evening, then.”
For a few moments, I took my head in my hands, to think. But there was nothing to think about. I redialed Bruno’s number. He picked up the phone himself this time. They must have been having a council of war in Le Castellas.
“This is Montale again.”
A silence, then, “She doesn’t want to speak to you.”
“Tell her if I come up there, I’ll kill her. Tell her that.”
“I heard,” Babette growled. They’d put on the speaker.
“They killed Mavros this morning!” I cried. “You remember Mavros, don’t you, for Christ’s sake? The nights we spent with him? The fun we had?”
“What should I do?” she asked.
“What do you mean, what should you do?”
“When I get to Marseilles. What should I do?”
How was I supposed to know what she should do? I hadn’t even given it a moment’s thought. I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted it to end. I wanted the people close to me to be left alone. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want Fonfon and Honorine to be touched. That was all that mattered.
Apart from killing that son of a bitch.
“I’ll call you later and tell you. Ciao.”
“Fabio . . .”
I hung up, cutting her off.
I put on Zikr again. I needed that music to soothe the chaos inside me. To assuage the hate that couldn’t be assuaged. I fingered the ring Didier Perez had given me, and once again translated Abdullah Ibrahim’s prayer in my own fashion. Yes, I love this life to distraction and I want to live it as a free man. Insh’Allah, Montale.
12.
IN WHICH THE QUESTION ARISES OF HOW
TO LIVE IN A SOCIETY WITHOUT MORALITY
I looked around the gym. Everything in it was familiar to me. The ring, the smell, the dim lighting. The punching bags, the dumbbells. The yellow walls hung with posters. Everything was just the way we’d left it the night before. The towels on the bench, the bandages hanging from the horizontal bar.
I could hear the voice of Mavros’s father, Takis.
“Come on, boy, come and get me!”
How old was I? Maybe twelve. Mavros had said, “My father will train you.” My head was full of images of Marcel Cerdan. My idol. My father’s too. I dreamed about being a boxer. But learning to box meant, first and foremost, learning to overcome my physical fear, learning to take the blows, learning to give them. To be respected. That was something you really needed on the street. And it was how my friendship with Manu had started—with fisticuffs. Rue du Refuge, in the Panier. One evening when I was walking home with my beautiful cousin Gélou. He’d called me a wop, the lousy spic! It was just an excuse to start a fight and attract G
élou’s attention.
“Go on, hit me!” Takis was saying.
I’d punched him, timidly.
“Harder, dammit! Harder! Go on, I’m used to it.”
He was offering me his cheek to hit. I’d punched him again. Then again. And then another one. A direct, well-placed blow. Takis Mavros had appreciated that.
“Go on, son.”
I’d punched him again, really hard this time, and he’d dodged the blow. My nose hit his hard, muscular shoulder. The blood started to gush out, and I watched, dazed, as the drops fell on the ring.
The ring was covered in blood.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Fuck, Georges, I thought, we didn’t even have a chance to get plastered one last time!
“Montale.”
It was Hélène Pessayre. She’d placed a hand on my shoulder. The heat of her palm went right through my body. It felt good. I turned to face her. There was a hint of sadness in her black eyes, and a lot of anger.
“We need to talk.”
She looked around her. The gym was full of people. I’d already spotted the two cops in her team. Alain Béraud had waved at me. A gesture that was meant to be friendly.
“In there,” I said, pointing to the little room Mavros had used as an office.
She strode toward it. This morning, her jeans were sea-green and her T-shirt was wide and black and covered her ass. I guessed she was packing a gun today.
She opened the door, ushered me in, and closed the door behind her. For a fraction of a second, we stared at each other. We were almost the same height. Her slap hit me full in the face, before I’d even had time to take out a cigarette. The violence of the blow, and my surprise, made me drop the pack. I bent down to pick it up. It was by her feet. My cheek was burning. I stood up and looked at her. She didn’t flinch.
“I really wanted to do that,” she said coolly. Then, in the same tone, “Sit down.”
I remained standing. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been slapped. By a woman, I mean.”
“If you want it to be the last time, you need to tell me everything, Montale. I respect you, because of what I’ve heard about you. But I’m not Loubet. I don’t have any time to waste having you followed, or speculating about how much you know. I want the truth. I told you yesterday, I hate lies.”
“You also told me you wouldn’t forgive me if I lied to you.”
“I’m giving you a second chance.”
A second death, a second chance. The last one. Like a last life. We looked hard at each other. It wasn’t open war between us yet.
“Here,” I said. And I put Babette’s five disks on the table. The first set of copies Cyril had made for me during the night. He’d really gotten the bit between his teeth. While he worked, Sébastien and his friends had played me tracks by the latest Marseilles rap bands. My knowledge didn’t go beyond IAM and Massilia Sound System. Apparently, I was behind the times.
They introduced me to the Fonky Family, young guys from the Panier and Belzunce—who’d been part of the Bad Boys of Marseilles—and Third Eye, who were straight out of North Marseilles. Rap wasn’t really my thing, but I was always amazed by the content. How relevant what they said was. How cleverly they used words. What they sang about was the lives of their friends, on the street or in the joint. And how easy it was to die. And how many kids ended up in mental hospitals. It was a reality I’d been close to for years.
“What are these?” Hélène Pessayre asked, without touching the disks.
“The most up to date summary of the activities of the Mafia. Enough to start a fire all the way from Marseilles to Nice.”
“As bad as that?” she replied, deliberately incredulous.
“So bad that if you read it, you won’t want to spend too much time at police headquarters. You’ll be wondering who’s going to shoot you in the back.”
“You mean there are cops involved?”
She was as calm as ever. I didn’t know what kind of inner strength she had, but it seemed as if nothing could shake her. Like Loubet. The opposite of me. Maybe that was why I’d never been a good cop. I was too sensitive.
“Lots of people are involved. Politicians, industrialists, businessmen. It’s all here: their names, how much they’ve made, which banks their money’s in, the account numbers, all that kind of thing. As for the cops . . .”
She’d sat down, and I did the same.
“Can I have a cigarette?”
I held out my pack. She took a cigarette and I lit it for her. She put her hand on mine to bring the lighter closer to her.
“What about the cops?”
“Let’s just say they have a good working relationship with the Mafia. Especially when it comes to passing on information.”
For years, according to Babette’s file on the Var, Jean-Louis Fargette had paid police officers a good price to tap the phones of certain politicians. Just to make sure that they weren’t cheating him out of the commission they were supposed to pay him. And to put pressure on them if it became necessary. Some of the phone taps provided details about their private lives. Their families. Their sexual preferences. Which ones used prostitutes. Which ones were pedophiles.
Hélène Pessayre took a long drag on her cigarette. Like Lauren Bacall, only more natural. Her face was turned to me, but her eyes were lost in the distance. In some place where, I supposed, she had her reasons for being a cop.
“What else?” she said, her eyes coming back to me.
“Everything you’ve always wanted to know . . .”
I remembered another section of Babette’s draft report. There has been a fundamental change in the structures of post-war capitalism, and legal and illegal businesses are increasingly interconnected. The Mafia invests in legitimate businesses and, at the same time, these businesses channel financial resources towards the criminal economy, by taking over banks or commercial enterprises involved in money laundering or with strong links to criminal organizations.
The banks claim that these transactions are carried out in good faith and that their directors are unaware of the source of the funds deposited. Not only do the big banks agree to launder money, in return for substantial commissions, but they also lend money to criminal organizations, rather than investing in genuine industrial or agricultural concerns.
There is a close connection, Babette wrote, between world debt, illegal trade and money laundering. Since the debt crisis at the beginning of the 1980s, the price of raw materials has plummeted, bringing about a dramatic downturn in the fortunes of developing countries. As a result of austerity measures imposed by international creditors, state employees have been dismissed, nationalized companies sold off, public investment frozen, and funds to farmers and industrialists reduced. With rampant unemployment and falling wages, the legal economy is in crisis.
This was the point we’d reached, I’d told myself during the night, reading these words. What we called the future was all mapped out. A new age of human misery. How much had they fined that housewife who’d stolen a few steaks from a supermarket? How many months of prison had they given those kids in Strasbourg for breaking windows on buses and in bus shelters?
I remembered what Fonfon had said. A newspaper without morality isn’t a newspaper anymore. Right, and a society without morality isn’t a society anymore. Same with a country. It was easier to send the cops to throw the committees of the unemployed out of welfare offices than to tackle the roots of the evil. This corruption that was eating away at mankind.
“More than two years ago we froze money that came from a big drug deal in France,” Bernard Bertossa, the public prosecutor of Geneva, said at the end of his interview with Babette. “The perpetrators have been sentenced, but the French legal system still hasn’t presented any demand for restitution, despite repeated requests.”
Yes, this was the point we’d reached, the lowe
st point of morality.
I looked at Hélène Pessayre. “It’d take too long to explain. Read it if you can. I didn’t get any farther than the list of names. I didn’t really have the guts to know the rest. I wasn’t sure that, if I did, I’d still feel happy sitting on my terrace looking at the sea.”
She smiled. “Where did you get these disks?”
“A friend of mine sent them to me. A journalist named Babette Bellini. She’s spent the last few years investigating all this. It’s an obsession.”
“How are the deaths of Sonia De Luca and Georges Mavros connected with this?”
“The Mafia don’t know where Babette is. They’d like to get their hands on her. There are certain papers they want to get back. I think it’s the lists they’re interested in. The lists of banks, individual account numbers.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and saw Babette, her smile. “Then they’ll kill her, of course,” I said.
“And where do you fit in?”
“The killers have asked me to find her. As an incentive, they’re killing off the people I love. And they’re going to carry on until they get to the people who mean the most to me.”
“Did you love Sonia?”
There was no harshness in her voice now. She was a woman talking to a man. About a man and another woman. Almost as if we were old friends.
I shrugged. “I wanted to see her again.”
“Is that all?”
“No, that’s not all,” I replied sharply.
“What else?”
She was sympathetic but insistent. Forcing me to talk about what I’d felt that night. My stomach clenched.
“It wasn’t just desire!” I said, raising my voice. “Do you understand? I really felt we might have a future. We might even live together.”
“All in one night?”
“One night or a hundred, one look or a thousand, it makes no difference.” By now, I wanted to scream.
“Montale,” she said quietly, and her voice had a calming effect on me. I liked the way she said my name. It seemed to carry in it all the joy, all the laughter of her summers in Algiers.
Solea Page 11
