Chourmo (22 page)

“The seafood you can order. But leave the fish to me. And don't make such a fuss.”

He smiled, and finished his coffee.

“OK, I'm going back. The customers must be getting impatient. Thanks for the coffee, Honorine.” He turned to me, with a fatherly look. “Stop by before you leave.”

It was good to have Honorine and Fonfon with me. When they were around, I always knew there was going to be a tomorrow. That life would go on. Once you pass a certain age, it's as if you're immortal. You make plans for tomorrow. Then for the day after tomorrow. Next Sunday, and the one after. And the days pass, each one a victory over death.

“Maybe you'd like another coffee?”

“Thanks, Honorine. You're an angel.”

She went into the kitchen. I heard her bustling about. Emptying the ashtrays, washing the glasses. Throwing out the bottles. If she went on like that, she'd be changing my sheets next.

I lit a cigarette. It tasted disgusting, but the first one always did. It was the smell I needed. I wasn't sure yet what planet I was on. I had the feeling I was swimming against the current. But that was my style.

The sky and the sea were an infinite variety of blues. To the tourists, whether they come from the North, the East or the West, blue is always blue. It's only later, when you take the trouble to look at the sky and the sea, to caress the landscape with your eyes, that you discover the gray blues, the black blues, the ultramarine blues, the peppery blues, the lavender blues. Or the eggplant blues on stormy evenings. The green blues of the swell. The copper blues of the sunset, the night before a mistral. Or the blues that are so pale they're almost white.

“Are you asleep?”

“I was thinking, Honorine. Thinking.”

“With your head the way it is, there's no point. Better not to think at all than only half think, my poor mother used to say.”

There was no answer to that.

Honorine sat down, brought her chair close to me, pulled on her skirt, and watched me drinking my coffee. I put down the cup.

“Ah, that's not all. Gélou called. Twice. At eight o'clock, then again at nine-fifteen. I told her you were asleep. Well, it was true. I said I couldn't wake you right away because you'd gone to bed late.”

She looked at me with her a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“What time is it now?”

“Nearly ten.”

“Then I never really went to bed. Is she worried?”

“Well, the thing is . . . ” She stopped, and tried to look angry. “It was bad of you not to call her. Of course she's worried. She specially ate at the New York, in case you came. She left a message for you at the hotel. You know, I don't understand you sometimes.”

“Don't try, Honorine. I'll call her now.”

“Yes, because her . . . her Alex wants her to go back to Gap. He says there's no point in her staying on in Marseilles, he'll look for Guitou with you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, thinking about that. “Maybe he knows. Maybe he read the papers, and he's trying to let her down gently. I don't know. I don't know the man.”

She gave me a long, searching look. Something was bothering her. Finally, she pulled again on her skirt and said, “Do you think he's a good man? For her, I mean.”

“They're together, Honorine. They've been together for ten years. He raised the kids . . . ”

“To me, a good man . . . ” She thought for a moment. “OK, so he phones. But . . . I don't know, maybe I'm old-fashioned, but he could have come here, couldn't he? Introduced himself . . . You see what I'm saying? I'm not thinking about me, but about you. We don't even know what he looks like.”

“He'd only just gotten here from Gap, Honorine. And besides, coming home after a few days away and discovering that Guitou had disappeared . . . Surely it was more important to him to see Gélou again. The rest of it . . . ”

“Yes, maybe,” she said, not convinced. “It's strange, all the same . . . ”

“You see complications everywhere. Things are already complicated enough, don't you think? And besides . . . ” I was searching for arguments to convince her. “He's said he wants to work with me on this, hasn't he? Anyway, what did Gélou say?”

“She doesn't want to go back. The poor woman's worried. She doesn't know what to do. I think she's starting to imagine the worst.”

“Whatever she's imagining can't be anything like the reality.”

“That's why she called. To talk to you. To find out what's going on. She needs you to reassure her. If you tell her to go back, she'll listen to you . . . You won't be able to hide the truth from her much longer.”

“I know.”

The phone rang.

“Talk of the devil . . . ” Honorine said.

But it wasn't Gélou.

“Loubet here.” He sounded grouchy.

“Oh! Any news?”

“Where were you between midnight and four in the morning?”

“Why?”

“I'm asking the questions here, Montale. It's in your own interests, firstly, to answer, secondly, not to bullshit. It really would be better for you. OK, I'm listening.”

“At home.”

“Alone?”

“Loubet, are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“Answer me, Montale. Were you alone?”

“No. I was with a woman.”

“Do you at least know her name?”

“I can't, Loubet. She's married and—”

“When you pick up a woman, check first. Because afterwards it's too late, you asshole!”

“Dammit, Loubet! What is all this?”

“Listen carefully, Montale. I could pin a murder on you, if I wanted to. You, and nobody else. Do you understand? Or do you want me to come and get you? Sirens blaring and all that shit? Tell me her name. And if there are any witnesses who saw you together. Before, during and after. I'll see if it checks out, I'll hang up, and fifteen minutes later I'll see you here. Am I making myself clear?”

“Adrien Fabre's wife. Cûc.”

I told him everything. The evening. The places. And the night. Well, almost everything. He could imagine the rest if he wanted.

“Perfect,” he said. His voice softened. “Cûc's statement tallies with yours. We just have to check the taxi. But it'll be fine. So I want to see you here! Adrien Fabre was killed last night on Boulevard des Dames. Between two and four in the morning. Three bullets in the head.”

It was time for me to come out of my coma.

 

God knows why, but there are days when everything gets off to a bad start. At Rond-Point de la Plage, where David—a replica of Michelangelo's statue—stood naked, facing the sea, there had just been an accident. We were diverted toward Avenue du Prado and the center of town. At the Prado-Michelet intersection, the bottleneck stretched as far as Place Castellane. I turned right onto Boulevard Rabatau, then, in a fit of pique, the Le Jarret bypass. That way you could get back to the harbor without going through the center. This circular boulevard, which covers a small watercourse that's been turned into a sewer, is one of the ugliest streets in Marseilles.

I'd just passed Les Chartreux when I saw a sign saying “Malpasse-La Rose-Le Merlan,” and I suddenly it struck me where Pavie had taken refuge.

I didn't hesitate for a moment. I didn't even signal. A car honked behind me. Loubet can wait, I told myself. That was the only place she could have gone in the car. To Arno's. To that shack where she'd once been happy. Right under Saadna's nose. I should have thought of it earlier, goddammit! What a fool I was.

I cut through Saint-Jérôme, with its little villas and its large population of Armenians. I passed the school of science and technology, and came to Traverse des Pâquerettes. Just above Saadna's scrap yard. Back where I was the other day.

I parked on Rue de Muret, by the Canal de Provence, and walked to Arno's place. I heard Saadna's transistor blaring, down in the scrap yard. The air stank of rubber. Black smoke rose into the sky. The asshole still burned his old tires. There'd been petitions, but he didn't give a damn. As if even the cops were scared of him.

Arno's door was open. A quick glance inside confirmed my fears. The sheets and blankets were rumpled. There were syringes on the floor. Good God, why hadn't she gone back to the Panier? To Randy's family. They'd have been able to . . .

I went down to the scrap yard, as unobtrusively as I could. No sign of Pavie. I saw Saadna stuffing more tires into oil drums and setting fire to them. Then he disappeared. I moved forward, hoping to surprise him. I heard the click of his switchblade. Behind my back.

“I got you, asshole!” he said, pricking my back with the blade. “Now move.”

We went into his place. He took his hunting rifle and inserted a cartridge. Then he closed the door.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Pavie.”

He burst out laughing. His breath stank of alcohol.

“You wanted to fuck her too, did you? I'm not surprised. You give yourself airs, but you're nothing special. Just like that other guy. Your pal Serge. Except he wouldn't have harmed Pavie. Chicks weren't his bag. He preferred boys and their cute little asses.”

“I'm going to smash your face, Saadna.”

“Big shot, eh?” he said, waving his rifle. “Sit down.”

He indicated a dirty old brown leather armchair. Sinking into it was like sinking in shit. It was almost on the ground. Once you were in it you couldn't move.

“You didn't know that, did you, Montale? That your pal Serge was the worst kind of faggot there is. The kind that likes fucking little boys.”

He pulled up a chair and sat down, some distance from me, next to a Formica table. On the table were a bottle of red wine and a sticky glass, which he refilled.

“You're talking crap.”

“No, I'm well informed. I know a lot of things. What did you think? That he'd been thrown out of the district because you were hanging out together? The cop and the priest? Like hell he was!” He laughed, showing his black teeth. “There were complaints. The parents of little José Esparagas, for example.”

I couldn't believe it. José Esparagas was a scrawny kid, the only child of a single mother. He had a really hard time of it at school. From all sides. He was beaten up regularly. In particular, he was bullied into coughing up money. A hundred francs here, a hundred francs there. The day he was asked to bring a thousand francs, he decided he couldn't take it anymore and tried to kill himself. I collared the two kids who'd been extorting money from him. Serge intervened and managed to get José transferred to another school. For several months, Serge went to his house, to help José catch up on the school work he'd missed. José got his high school diploma.

“That's just gossip. It still doesn't tell me where Pavie is.”

He poured himself a glass of red wine, and knocked it back in one.

“So it's true, you're after that little whore. You missed each other the other night. She got here right after you left. Bad luck, huh? But I was here. I'm always here. You need anything, I'm your man. Always ready to do a good turn. That's the way I am. I aim to please.”

“Cut the crap.”

“You're not going to believe this. She saw you run to Serge after they whacked him. But then the cops arrived and that freaked her out. So she took off in his car. She didn't know what to do. She drove around in circles. Then she came here. She was sure you'd come. You were bound to put two and two together. I let her talk. I thought it was funny. It cracked me up to think she took you for some kind of Zorro. So I told her you'd just left.” He laughed again. “I told her you'd run away like a rabbit when you saw this.” He indicated the rifle. “And that you weren't likely to be back soon. You should have seen her face!

“She just stood there. Right there in front of me. Not proud like when she was with Arno. In those days, you could see her ass but you couldn't lay a hand on her. But now, after a minute or two, she was perfectly willing. Provided I could get her a fix. I aim to please, like I said. I just had to make a phone call. I've got plenty of dough. So if it was a fix she wanted . . . ”

“Where is she?” I cried, anxiety rising inside me.

He drank another glass of wine.

“I only fucked her twice, you know. It was too expensive. But all the same it was worth it. Mind you, she was a little shopworn, our Pavie. Been putting it about too much, I guess . . . But nice tits and a sweet little ass. You'd have liked her, I think. You're just an old pervert, like me, I know. Hurrah for youth! I said to myself as I banged her.”

He burst out laughing again. I could feel hatred rising in me, overwhelming me. I braced myself, ready to leap at the slightest opportunity.

“Don't move, Montale,” he said. “You're just a pervert, like I said. I've got my eyes on you. If you so much as move your little toe, I'll shoot you. In the balls, preferably.”

“Where is she?” I asked again, as calmly as I could.

“You're not going to believe this. The little idiot was so out of it, she had a fix that sent her sky high. Can you imagine? She must have been higher than she'd ever been in her fucking life! What an idiot. She had it all here. Bed and board. As many fixes as she liked, all on the house. And me to fuck her from time to time.”

“It's you she couldn't bear, you fucking asshole. Even when someone's as high as a kite, they know who the real scumbags are. What did you do with her, Saadna? Answer me, dammit!”

He laughed. A nervous laugh this time. He refilled the glass with his cheap wine and knocked it back. He was staring through the window. Then he nodded in that direction. Smoke was rising, thick and black. I felt a lump in my throat.

“No,” I said, weakly.

“What did you want me to do with her, huh? Bury her in the field? And bring her flowers every evening? She was nothing but a whore, your Pavie. Good for a fuck, nothing else. That's no kind of life, is it?”