Forgetfulness (20 page)

The interrogation?

Yes, the interrogation.

Thomas thought a moment and then he asked, What does he look like?

Look like?

Yes, his face. Thin, fat, clean-shaven, bearded. What?

What do you care?

Small eyes? Large? Thomas penciled in Bernhard's eyes as he spoke, making them large and dead.

Shit, Thomas. Fat-faced, I suppose. Swarthy. What you might expect. He looks like a Moroccan, for Chrissakes. Hard to read, though. It's fair to say his face is not an open book. Do you see what I'm saying here?

Thomas did not reply.

So do you want to see him or not?

I don't know, Thomas said.

What do you mean you don't know?

I don't know whether I want to see him. Why would I? Thomas tried to imagine the encounter. Would the object be to introduce remorse, make Mr. Morocco feel badly? Shout at him? He didn't care what Mr. Morocco felt or didn't feel. In any case, he did not think remorse would be in his repertoire of feelings. Thomas said again, Why would I?

I think he killed Florette, Bernhard said.

I have nothing to say to him.

Is that what you want me to tell the French?

Thomas poured a cup of coffee from the carafe on the sideboard. Without realizing he was doing it, Thomas had given Bernhard a kaffiyeh and a thick, close-cut beard and wire-rimmed eyeglasses in front of his marble eyes. If the Moroccan had, as Bernhard alleged, a Swiss bank account, then wouldn't a homburg be suitable? Somehow Thomas doubted the Swiss bank account, a Bernhard fiction. Would it give him satisfaction to slap the Moroccan? Hit him very hard, make him cry out, perhaps weep because of the pain?

Thomas?

I don't know, Bernhard.

You can look the son of a bitch in the eye—

Why would I want to do that?

I think you ought to. It'll bring closure.

You think so?

Yes, Bernhard said. One of the things that will.

I don't think so, Thomas said.

If it were me—

It's not, Thomas said.

Well, it's up to you. But a lot of people have gone to a hell of a lot of trouble.

Thomas turned to look back at the fireplace, Florette's portrait in deep shadow over the mantle. He wanted a signal from her, some sign as to how to proceed. They had always shared a sixth sense. Thomas listened for her voice but heard nothing. He looked at the sketch he had drawn, a generic Arab such as you might find in a comic or newspaper supplement or on a film set, Bernhard the pentimento. This man was not flesh and blood. He was a cliché, "a Moroccan, for Chrissakes," hard to read, self-possessed, a tough nut. Thomas wondered about his voice, thin or thick, and his eyes.

I'll let you know, Thomas said and hung up.

W
ATCHED CAREFULLY
by the men behind the two-way mirror, the prisoners came in single file up the wide plank staircase, gathering uncertainly at the top of the stairs. The time was noon. Their wrists were manacled so they hung at the belt buckle. One of the guards pointed wordlessly at the chairs placed around the long table and obediently they stepped forward and sat, their hands in their laps so the manacles could not be seen. The four wore the blue work clothes of laborers, the clothes ill-fitting but freshly pressed and starched. The belts were new and would be removed at the end of the interview. To a casual observer they were four workingmen waiting for assignment and ill at ease as to what that assignment might entail, though a closer examination would cast doubt. Three of them were middle-aged, somewhere in the vicinity of forty years old, and did not have workingmen's hands. Middle-class men, one might think, merchants or traders. The fourth was young and thin-faced, obviously nervous, perhaps a university student out of his milieu. The older men were expressionless but alert. Without being told, they had arranged themselves in a row on one side of the table according to age. The casual observer would notice also that the loft was without windows and that the overhead lights were harsh and their metal shades grilled with heavy wire. At a signal the guards stood back, giving the four men breathing room. The guards were unarmed except for leather bastinados. They were dressed casually but carried an air of authority that the prisoners did not, obviously so, since manacles reduced any standing a man might have in such circumstances. Also, the guards were conspicuous by their size and
stillness of bearing. They moved sluggishly as if they were half asleep, though naturally their eyes were wide open. The guards were clean-shaven and the four at the long table were bearded except for the boy, who wore a few days stubble.

As yet, no one had spoken.

One of the guards glanced at the wide mirror on the wall across from the four men, smiled mirthlessly, and placed a pack of Gitanes dead-center on the table, leaving it to the men to work out how they would open the pack with their hands shackled; and then they would be obliged to ask for a light. The four at the table sat staring at the pack, then the oldest rose and reached for it, sliding it toward himself where he could wrestle with the cellophane. He sat down and fumbled with it for two, three minutes, and when he opened it at last he took one for himself and politely skidded the pack laterally to the man next to him. Finally all four were sitting comically with cigarettes in their mouths, waiting for one of the guards to offer a light. But the guards did not move and in fact did not look at them, having found something in the middle distance that required their attention. There matters rested for some minutes until the oldest prisoner—his age and something in his peremptory manner suggested that he was the principal, although he was unprepossessing physically, having a soft body and large liquid eyes—took the cigarette out of his mouth and placed it on the table. The others followed suit and this was comical also, the cigarettes put down just so before each man as if they were party favors. The scene had the look of a vaudeville sketch or a magic act, in any event something worked out according to a script, the payoff or punch line to come. But there was no anticipation of laughter. With studied insolence the guards pushed off from the far wall and stood behind the prisoners and all that could be heard in the room was the slap of leather against skin as the guards began to tap each prisoner lightly on the shoulder with their bastinados.

No one had spoken.

The four at the table began to sweat, even though the room was of normal temperature, perhaps even a bit chilly. The guards were rapping to some prearranged rhythm, the blows growing sharper
with each beat. The guard standing behind the chief had reached into his pocket and withdrawn a second bastinado and was using them both like a traps player in a jazz band. The chief showed no particular emotion but continued to sweat as his jaw worked; he seemed not to be thinking of the present but of the immediate future. At a sound on the stairs the guards put their bastinados away and stepped back against the wall. The footsteps grew louder and a middle-aged Frenchman appeared at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in blue jeans and a faded corduroy jacket over a black turtleneck sweater, his eyeglasses perched on the crown of his head. He was reading from a file and did not appear to notice either the guards or the prisoners. He took a chair on the empty side of the table and sat heavily, still reading, wetting his thumb as he turned the pages. Still reading, he reached across the table and took a Gitane from the open pack, lit it with a Bic, and settled back, not without an amused glance at the cigarettes before each man. The Frenchman blew one smoke ring and another, grunting now and then, rubbing his eyes as if he could hardly believe the words on the page. He turned to one of the guards and raised his cigarette hand. The guard immediately produced an ashtray and was rewarded with a nod. At last he put down the file and looked across the table at each of the prisoners, beginning with the youngest and ending with the chief.

Then he turned back to the file.

The four were watching him carefully and did not notice a movement behind them until they heard the boy yelp and nearly fall off his chair. The guard had whacked him on the back of his head with the bastinado. And still the Frenchman did not move or give any sign that something violent had occurred. The boy's face sunk to the tabletop and stayed there.

Did you see that? Bernhard said.

I saw it. He almost took the kid's head off.

No, not that. The older one, the one at the end of the table. When the kid cried out he looked over at him and I thought he was going to start bawling. That set him back, all right.

I didn't see that, Thomas said.

You watch enough of these, you learn.

Learn what?

Learn to look at reactions. Learn to watch the second man. Or the third. I knew what was coming so I didn't have to look at that. I looked somewhere else. I looked at Yussef. That's his name, by the way. The chief of this tribe.

How do you know?

They defer to him. Little things. A shift of body weight. A sideways glance. Look and you'll see a slightly greater distance separating him from the others. And while they almost never look at him, he does look at them. Seeing how they're doing. How they're getting on. This is the first time they've been together. Always before they've been interrogated separately. Yussef had no idea the others were in custody. None of them knew. So today we have the advantage of surprise. None of them know what the others have said or if they've said anything.

Frenchman doesn't talk much, does he?

Relax. My guess is, he won't speak for an hour. God knows what's in that file. Maybe something important. Maybe his laundry list.

Thomas backed away from the two-way mirror and stretched. It was crowded in the small room, he and Bernhard and three French investigators. They had been introduced as Pierre, Paul, and some other name he didn't catch, also beginning with P. Noms de guerre, Bernhard had said. Thomas had been introduced as Mr. Railles, having no need of a nom de guerre.

The Frenchman's damn good, Bernhard said. Best I've seen.

So what does it mean?

What does what mean?

The older one who almost started to cry, according to you.

The kid's his lover. That's what it means.

How do you know that?

Bernhard smiled unpleasantly. Trust me.

I do, Thomas said. I surely do. And what's to be done with this tremendously valuable information?

As a matter of fact, Thomas, it is valuable. It helps to know that
Yussef's just another lovesick oscar. The kid means something to him. So the way to Yussef is through the kid, compris? Antoine picked it up, too. He saw what I saw. Wait a minute, you'll see the kid get whacked again.

The boy was sitting face-down, his forehead almost touching the tabletop. He was gripping the rim of the table, the manacles clicking from the effort.

I'm afraid I don't have great enthusiasm for watching the kid get beaten again.

You can turn your back, Thomas. Cover your ears.

I'll go out for some coffee.

Not recommended, Thomas. Our hosts wouldn't like it, you wandering around in unfamiliar surroundings.

Le Havre is only a port city like any other.

Not this neighborhood.

Thomas saw the Frenchman rise from his seat and begin to pace the floor, still reading from the file. The guard came up noiselessly behind the boy and hit him again but this time Thomas was watching Yussef, whose face was stricken, eyes filled with tears. Yussef's composure vanished, his lips moved as if he were praying, and then he spoke.

He said, Please stop.

The Frenchman looked at him, alarmed. He put his finger to his lips as if he were warning an unruly child. Then he shook his head and went back to his reading. The boy was face-down on the table, a tiny spot of blood on his shirt collar. When he looked up his eyes did not seem to be focused, but it was hard to tell because they, too, were filled with tears.

That was a mistake, Bernhard said.

Hitting the boy?

Speaking, Bernhard said. Speak only when you are spoken to. Those are the rules and they are inviolate. Did you see the look Antoine gave him? I tell you, the man's a great natural actor.

There's a protocol, Thomas said.

Yes, always. Different services have different protocols.

The Frenchman had paused near the stairs, continuing to read, continuing to wet his thumb when he turned a page. And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing on the stairs.

What now?

We wait, Bernhard said.

The boy had not moved, his forehead resting now on the table-top. Thomas knew by his breathing that he was still alive. At the end of the table Yussef stared straight ahead, dry-eyed now, but he had developed a tic in his cheek. The guards were studying the ceiling again. Thomas thought the proceedings as stylized as a Noh play and as hypnotizing: he, too, was perspiring from the effort. His shirt was soaked through. In the room beyond the two-way mirror, no one moved or spoke. The two men in the middle seemed to be forgotten altogether, attention having shifted to Yussef and the boy.

Jesus, Thomas said.

It's interesting, isn't it?

That would be one word, Thomas said.

We'll wait a minute now. We can relax. Antoine won't be back for a while. I expect he'll want to look at the film, to see what he's missed, if he's missed anything. Bernhard pointed to the video camera on the ceiling. Thomas had not noticed it before. He's in no rush, Bernhard said. Our terrorist friends are. But he isn't.

He has all day, Thomas said.

He has as much time as he needs, Bernhard said.

Jesus, Thomas said again.

Bernhard said, You had a pleasant trip from St. Michel?

Yes, Thomas said. Uneventful. Except for the four
A.M.
departure.

Aren't French trains miraculous? Arrive on time, leave on time, always comfortable. At least the Grandes Lignes and the TGV are comfortable. That's what happens when a society decides to spend money on practical amenities, getting its citizens from here to there comfortably and at modest cost. Of course it takes subsidies, subsidies that never end, but the results are fantastic.