Leper Tango (28 page)

So, that's about it, until I receive some more funds from you. And, with nothing to go back to, and nothing to look forward to, do you think old Franck is going to buy a few months' reprieve by reforming?

You know me better than that.

III

The day after my release, I returned to the section of Père Lachaise where the funeral ceremony had been held, but saw no tombstone. I recognized the scattered remnants of a bouquet of white roses that Ducastin-Chanel had brought with her, but no other sign of our presence. I stood for a moment in the drizzle, then left the cemetery, and headed for the 20
th
arrondissment Mairie
on
rue Gambetta, Service de l 'Etat Civil
. I took a ticket number, sat down, waited til my number came up, told the clerk I wanted to see the Officer of the Civil Registr y. Waited some more. A securit y guard walked up to me. Pointed at a poster on the wall, depicting a cigarette. The cigarette was covered by a large red X.

“
Défense de fumer
.”

“You have got to be kidding. This is Paris. What are the ashtrays for?”

“To put them out.
Nouveau règlement
.” A man emerged from the rear offices. Smiled, friendly enough. Come with me. I followed him into an office looking out over the
rue Gambetta
. He offered me a seat.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“You remember me? You presided over the funeral of a friend. Sheba Rosenstein.”

“Of course I remember you. You created quite a scene. Very unworthy of your office.”

“I just returned from the cemetery. I can't find her grave.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“
C'est normal
. It's not there.”

“Listen, friend, I'm not here to pull teeth. What's the story?”

“No arrangements had been made. In these cases, and since no arrangements had been made, it is no longer in my jurisdiction.
Ce n'est plus dans mon rayon
. Wait a moment.”

He stood up, walked across the room to a grey metal 3
-
door vertical filing cabinet. Opened the second drawer, and pulled out two sheets of paper, sat down again and passed one of them across to me. It was titled Decree of 13 July 1948 concerning the interment of human remains.

“Look at article L-2235. Right there. ‘For entitlement to burial, the deceased must hold a reserved
titre de concession.
'”

“So, what does that mean?”

“It means that without a plot of land, no burial. And, now look at article L-2276. Where, after 45 days, the remains of the deceased are unclaimed, the
Mairie
may dispose of the remains as it sees fit.”

“Hold on. It's only been 43 days.”

“That is correct.”

“So, where the hell is she!?” “In the morgue. For two more days.”

“Christ, that's great! So, we can still do this thing!”

I punched the air upwards. He watched me, as they say, impassively.

“So, where do we start? I want to bury her.”

He stood up again, back to the same drawer, another form, back to the desk.

“Form B —
Claims pursuant to the Decree of 12 July 1948
.”

“What's this for?”

“Mr Robinson. You stated that you would like to bury Ms Rosenstein. This is France. We have laws. Usually there are fees to pay. In this case, interment is subject to a fee of 2400 francs.”

“All right, fine. I'll take it.”

“That's f ine. If you wish, I can prepare the paper work. Take this
bordereau
out to the Caisse, and then come back here. Either cheque, or Carte Bleu.”

“I don't have either.”

“I am sorry. We no longer do death on the instalment plan.”

“Look. She deserves a proper burial. Isn't there some way of discounting this?”

“I'll be back in a moment.”

He left the room. Several minutes later he returned.

“What's that for?”

“A
pêle
.”

“I know it's a goddam shovel. What's it for?”

“It's our self-service option. At the price you are willing to pay, only one person is qualified for the job. Take it or leave it.”

“I'll take it.”

“
Bien
. Go to the South entrance of the cemetery. The concierge is Monsieur Paul. I will phone him in the meantime. If you dig the hole yourself, I will take care of the rest.” By four in the afternoon, I had made good progress, but it was starting to rain. At the edge of the cemetery, I noticed an Asian man pointing in my direction, accompanied by an old woman, their faces barely visible through the rain, under an oversized umbrella.

“Robinson!
Mais, c'est formidable
!!” Ducastin-Chanel shook her head.

“
Un scandale
! You don't make a man dig his own wife's tomb!
Mais, c'est dégueulasse
! They're treating him like a dog!
Choquant.
”

“We heard you were in prison, Robinson! When did you get out?”

Ducastin-Chanel interrupted.

“Franck, I am going right now to buy a
messe
for your girlfriend. And some flowers for you. Don't you worry a bit.”

Tranh clapped his hands.

“Absolutely right,
madame
. We must console the poor man. May I buy you a drink, Robinson? Come, come!”

IV

“J
e vous emmène, chéri?
”

Collette watched the first
arrondissement
pedestrian traffic move past through those unblinking gimlet
-
green eyes, as if she were a teller at the
quinte
window, selling tickets down at the Vincennes track, croaking out the same invitation with reptilian patience.

Collette was a great-grandmother who worked the
rue
de la Grande Truanderie
. Her features displayed nothing.
Neither kindness, nor pity. Particularly not entreaty.

She smiled invitingly at nobody in particular, that is if you are inclined to call a desert gila monster grinning in three directions at once from the edge of a scalding boulder an invitation. W hatever she hadn't already hawked on
rue St-Denis
over the previous four decades peered out through her turret face, a makeshift construction of day creams, foundation, mascara, lipstick and rouge, shrouding half a centur y of fellatio, and marking half century of cataclysms and upheavals — the Indochina and A lgeria conf licts, at tempted coups against de Gaulle, the May ‘68 revolution, the all
-
night concerts and parties with Chet Baker, the destruction of les Halles
.

“
Je vous emmène
?” she cawed again, and I realized the hoarse lilt of the question was asking a question behind the question.
Un train peut en cacher un autre
. The lizardskin epidermis collapsed into an atavistic grin. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together as if starting a fire with flint.

“
Je vous emmène
?”

Then, in an undertone.

“You've brought it with you?”

I nodded. If she belonged anywhere, it was in Marvel Comics. The Incredible Hulkette. I followed her upstairs. She removed her shoes. She had a club foot and limped heavily. We entered a second
-
floor flat overlooking the pedestrian street. On the table beside the bed, a set of knitting needles in a plastic cup. Beside the cup, a partially darned set of stockings for an infant. On the wall behind, a photo of a young woman, wearing a bridal gown, accompanied by a dark, curly-haired man wearing a tuxedo. Cherubic looks.

“Did you bring the money?”

“It's arriving on Tuesday. Western Union.”

“
Écoutez, mon mec
, you said you had the six hundred francs! To think I believed you were a law yer.
Putain.
Quel con!
”

I lit a cigarette.

“Who's that in the photo, Collette?”

“
Mêle-toi de tes oignons
. I want my money
,
or I call my pimp.”

“Tell you what, Collette. Ever been to America?”

“
Quel intérêt?
”

“
Quel intérêt?
It's every French girl 's dream! Pacific ocean.
La forêt canadienne
. Niagara Falls. A chance to begin everything.” Two tears streamed down her caulked face. Rivulets dripping through a chasm of broken dreams.

“
Conard
!
C'est le fric qu' il me faut, pauvre con! Fou-moi la paix
.”

“You know the
gamine
?”

“
Écoute, tu me fous la paix, tu m'entends
!”

Sometimes when, as the French put it, your butt is between two chairs, you end up, like I was, staring at a rhomboid
-
shaped lump of sugar on a table in an empty couscous restaurant in the early afternoon. As if it were auditioning for a Delaunay canvas. I don't suppose too many Hollywood scripts will be snapped up about guys spinning sugar cubes on table tops, but that is what I was engaged in. The label was a Euro production, approved by all the requisite Euro sugar
Appellation d 'origine con
trôlée
bodies in four languages. Zuiker. Sucre. Zucchero.
Sugar. A coagulated lump of approved soluble glucose.

A heavy smog had descended over the city. I lit a cigarette, stubbed out the one still burning, caught sight of the pink neon sign overhanging the entrance to the
Brasserie
Guignotte
. Lobster was on special. The banner in the win
dow announced
Homard du Canada — fraîchement impor
tée!!
I recalled the last time I had made love to her, and it
suddenly didn't seem like a beautiful thing anymore. More like a couple of lobsters, beady, stalking eyes, oversized pincers; fighting for space on a stone-bed in an aquarium, oozing trails of lime-green unguent too vile to name.

Just about noon. Tranh would be arriving soon. I had enticed him with the image of Canadian lobster and
vin
de Bourgogne
. Bourgogne. Dijon, capital of Bourgogne.

Any place principally known for its mustard to be avoided at all costs. The pinnacle of municipal achievement a tripartite concoction of rape seed, vinegar and water. On the other hand,
Bourgogne Aligoté
was a nice base mix for a Kir. After a few of those, and lunch with Tranh, if I could squeeze a few hundred francs from him, I could pay an afternoon visit to Galicia and persuade her to give me a half hour of her time down in the former leprosarium. For old times sake. It wasn't perfection, but it was a hell of a lot better than living in Dijon.

Tranh entered the
Brasserie Guignotte
just as I waved the waiter back for a refill of my Kir.

“Cancel the order,” Tranh called out, “a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and two flutes.”

“What's the occasion?” I asked as he took a seat.

“The most remarkable occurrence, Robinson. My wife has died!”

“She died, or you killed her?”

“Incredible, Robinson.
Inoubliable.
Now, I can tell you everything. But, first promise me. Will you come to the funeral?”

“I don't know, Tranh. Not too big on ceremonial rites. We'll see.”

“All right, fine, that's fine, we can discuss that over the champagne. Waiter, oh good, he is coming. My wife had made a last request. Victor, she had said to me before her decline, no matter how difficult, I want you to make love to me before we go to the Netherlands. It will bring me good luck. Of course, I agreed, despite the obvious logistical difficulties. And, yesterday was the big day. I will not bore you with the mechanics of the event, Robinson, but I will say that from my standpoint, it could not have been better. And, in mid-thrust, she expired, Robinson! Have you ever heard anything like it?

Sudden cardiac death. I shall either be imprisoned, or go down in medical history. Or both!”

I had seen Tranh overexcited before, but it was the first time I saw him happy. We caught up on some other news in and around the quarter, when the topic of Alena came up.

“Robinson. Speaking of funerals, did I mention to you that I attended Alena's?”

“Our Alena? The one who jumped into the Seine?” “One and the same. There were only three of us at the burial. Alena excluded, of course. Her mother was in attendance. A short, fat, non-descript woman from the Vienne region. She worked as a Monoprix cashier. Have you ever noticed those throw-away nail files the girls use on the street?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“They all come from the same Carrefour. A
grande

surface
in Poitiers. A competitor!”

“So, who was the third person at her funeral?”

“You'll never believe it. Yannick, the doorman.”

“What was he doing there?”

“It turns out he was madly in love with her, Robinson. During the ceremony, he threw himself into the open grave. During a rainstorm in Père Lachaise,
im
agine-toi
. Alena's mother and I spent over half an hour
just dragging him out of the hole. In the end, we were all covered in mud. So, other than that, nothing much.

How are things with you?”

“Couple of residual issues. Nothing serious.”

“The Vietnam veteran is still after you, I presume.”

“Actually, Tranh, just between you and me, I don't think he'll be a problem.”

Tranh sipped his champagne for a moment in silence.

He was watching me, trying to figure something out. It didn't really bother me. He was far enough outside the loop. No dangers of the
téléphone arabe
being accessed.

“I mean, he's not quite as dangerous as I made out.”

“But what about the wanted poster, Robinson? And the threats against your person.”

“Actually, uhh, I sort of had something to do with that.”

“Is it possible?”

“Oh yeah, it's possible all right. More than possible.”