Arab Jazz (12 page)

Hamelot and Kupferstein eventually continued on their way.

“Speak of the devil . . . Moktar’s in fine form today,” Jean said.

“Flying form! How many of them do you reckon they’ll find in a bloody mush in Baghdad three months from now?”

“So long as it’s Baghdad . . .”

“It’s easy to be cynical. They’re local kids. It’s our duty to look out for them.”

“I’m a policeman, not a nanny. And how do you propose we protect them from themselves? Fuck, I knew Moktar . . . He was normal. Brilliant, even. He aced his baccalaureate—got a distinction. That was before your time at the Bunker. Back then there was some fight with a white girl he’d met at college. He was in love with her. His family banned him from seeing her. ‘You are of noble blood, a member of the Soninké people . . . You must marry a girl from the same class as you!’ He flipped out—smashed up the entire house. I was on duty that day. We managed to overpower him and take him to Sainte-Anne, which was weird bearing in mind it’s not the nearest psychiatric hospital. Six days later he came home. A family meeting took place which resulted in his immediate departure to their homeland, a village in the middle of nowhere on the northern bank of the Senegal River. Three months later he was back. He’d changed but he was still fairly unstable; before long it was round two in the hospital. Maison Blanche this time, for nine weeks. That stint calmed him down for good. I don’t know what they did to him back in his village, but since that trip he just drifts between the prayer room and the crossroads. Preaching.”

The last stop on the journey took them past the evangelical church, in front of which a small queue had formed for evening prayers and healing. Pastor from Togo; a congregation made up of Africans, West Indians, whites, and Kabyles.

“I think I’ve had my fill for the evening,” Rachel said. “Come on, let’s go. Time for this
onglet!
Afterward I’ve got to swing by the Bunker to touch base with Gomes one last time about the Jehovah’s Witness side of things. I don’t know what’s behind this murder, but it certainly mirrors the neighborhood, what with these religious nut-jobs on every corner.”

By chance their favorite table by the window at the Boeuf-Couronné is free. A few minutes later, they are finally tucking into their
onglet
. Jean closes his eyes for a moment. A little concerned, Rachel asks him if he is okay.

“I don’t know. Feeling tired all of a sudden, thinking about the loneliness this evening when I get home . . . I’m struggling to deal with myself at the moment. Long days at work are fine by me. But when home time is approaching . . . Do you ever get the feeling you’ve been sentenced to life in solitary confinement?”

“No, I don’t . . . This might sound silly, but if you can’t stand loneliness why don’t you find yourself a girlfriend?”

“Why would a girl put up with me if I can’t even put up with myself? She’d have to be a real masochist!”

“They do exist, you know . . . There are plenty of them around . . . Come on, eat up! Cold steak’s not going to help anyone.”

11

Gomes is good. No doubt about it. He has managed to track down the tax inspector who handled the Jehovah’s Witness case in Niort. He now had an almost pathological aversion to religious organizations of any kind, and didn’t need to be asked twice to share everything he could with the young policeman. Vincenzo Vignola is the treasurer of the local branch of the Witnesses. He is also head of the regional body of elders, a position that entitles him to control even the most intimate aspects of his congregation’s lives. He went on to explain that the Witnesses won’t talk to strangers, but that it would be possible to find information on discussion forums for ex-members. Which was precisely what Gomes was about to do when Rachel arrived.

“Have you got a personal e-mail that you use at home? That way I can send you any contacts or links I find.”

“My personal e-mail? But it’s personal! Oh, alright then . . . [email protected]. Hey, but aren’t you going home? Haven’t you got a girlfriend, a life outside work?”

“Do you? You haven’t sat down for thirty-six hours! I’m no less of a police officer than you, Rachel! I want to catch Laura’s killer too. That’s why I do this job. On top of that, you know the Jehovah’s Witnesses have recruited masses of Portuguese people? They took one of the cousins I grew up with in Sartrouville. He hasn’t spoken to any of us since. So all of this does concern me. Go and get some sleep. If I find anything I’ll send you an e-mail.”

Rachel is astonished to see Gomes getting so animated. For the first time, she looks on him as a man. Not a man she likes, for sure, but a man—no longer a boy, even if he does have a ridiculous first name she is perhaps going to have to learn to say without so much scorn.

“Okay, Kevin. I’m out of here. Oh no, hold on. I’ve got one more thing to ask you. Have you heard anything about a new drug in the area?”

“No. What type of drug? Have you had a reliable tip?”

“Let’s just say that someone’s heard about some pills . . . Like ecstasy, just a way stronger high. Reckon we should check it out.”

“Okay. I think I know who to ask. I’ll keep you posted.”

*

Lieutenant Kupferstein’s scooter is parked across the street from the Bunker. She lives in the eighteenth—hipster central—on rue d’Orsel, a stone’s throw from the Théâtre de l’Atelier. In the evening, and at weekends, she has to unwind, have a change of scene and forget about the pavements she paces day in, day out. Here, at the foot of the Butte Montmartre, surrounded by tourists, Parisian night owls, artists, actors, and performers, she feels good. Her apartment—a little one-bedroom attic conversion where she rarely entertains—is her lair, her hideaway. Something nags at her on her way. Despite her tiredness, she stops on rue Ordener to check out the area around the telephone booth from which the police were called about Laura’s murder. Something doesn’t fit. Why would anyone go all that way? And they telephoned the commissariat in the eighteenth, rather than the emergency number where calls are logged automatically. Whoever made the call knew about police procedure. All the more reason to take a closer look. The booth is occupied by two African women, one of whom is sporting a magnificent black eye. Clearly very angry, they snatch the telephone and start yelling down the line in broken English. A few feet away, a little guy, very thin and very pale, waits his turn. In his right hand he’s holding a plastic bag through which a large bottle of Heineken can be made out. He is gripping the neck very tightly through the bag. On the other side of the road, four Algerians, sitting on upturned red plastic crates, are chatting outside a grocer’s, monitoring everything going on across the street out of the corner of their eye. Jean was right. Someone must have seen the anonymous caller in the booth. Tomorrow we’ll see if Mercator has managed to get Enkell and his guys to chase it up.

Just as Rachel is preparing to leave, she notices that the small second-hand
brocante
shop in front of the telephone booth is still open. She has passed it many times without ever going in. The entrance is virtually barricaded by two display cases stacked with tattered copies of the worst sort of detective novels: Jean Bruce,
OSS 117
,
Son Altesse Sérénissime
 . . . She moves closer and casts an eye over the bric-a-brac in the shop: ’50s or art deco lamps, old turntables,
La Poste
calendars with gaudy ’60s colors, ashtrays on stands, armchairs, wobbly seats . . . The highs and lows of a hoarding, second-hand-dealing
brocanteur
. For weeks she has been searching for a red metal lampshade. One of those ones that you can fix straight to the bulb with a metal clip. This was to be the crowning achievement of her interior decor. Maybe she would find one here? The
brocanteur
steps out from the shadows, beer bottle in hand. A truly monstrous creation. Rachel cannot help but judge him by his appearance—everything about him is grotesque. His lecherous eyes, his shuffling walk, his dubious tone.

“Are you looking for something?”

“Yes. You know one of those little lampshades that you clip . . .”

“No, I don’t know anything,” he says, cutting her off. “It’s my one principle: to know nothing. I’ve got shitloads of lampshades, but I’d have to empty the entire store room to find them. And as you can see,” he says, indicating his beer, “I’m relaxing. It’s the end of the day.”

Rachel examines the inside of the shop closely, half-listening to him. Over the man’s shoulder she sees a television. On the screen she can make out a woman’s buttocks, behind which a man is standing with his large, erect penis in his hand. With each thrust he takes at her from behind a tacky electronic “ping” notches up another point. Rachel’s face hardens. She looks him dead in the eye.

“Yes, I can see you’re relaxing. Well then, have a good evening,
monsieur le brocanteur.”

As she turns to leave and pick up her scooter, she spots a book that seems different from the others:
Le Boucher
by Alina Reyes. Images play over in her mind for the duration of her journey home: the shop owner’s repulsive face, the porn on the TV, and
Le Boucher
 . . . The butcher, the butcher . . . In front of her building she locks up her scooter and decides to stop thinking about it all. Up to the sixth floor, key, lock, and
phew!
Rachel carefully hangs up her jacket on the Habitat clothes horse to the right by the entrance. She had bought it online after being won over by the description:

• Valet Jeeves.
  
• Created by Sir Terence Conran.
  
• 150 dollars.
  
• Folding structure; black-tinted eucalyptus.
  
• Polyurethane varnish.
  
• Marble cufflink bowl.
  
• Very Important Products
  

What really sold it for her was the marble cufflink bowl. The very definition of chic. The lieutenant scans the room: everything as it should be. She’s delighted she did the housework a couple of days previously. Now she can put her mind to rest. A glass of Cutty Sark for starters. Rachel went through a brief Lagavulin phase before finally coming to the realization that top-end, peaty, sophisticated whiskey was not her cup of tea. And so she returned to the calming simplicity of the standard, everyday brands, with some dry-roasted peanuts alongside. Reclining in her sea-green, ’70s-style plastic armchair, she is in seventh heaven. Empty. Half an hour and two whiskeys later, Lieutenant Kupfterstein starts nodding off.

The telephone rings—Jeanteau over in Niort.

“Lieutenant, the parents struck me as strange to say the least. As if their daughter’s fate didn’t have anything to do with them. It was like I was reading a newspaper announcement to them, if you know what I mean.”

“I think so, yes.”

“I barely got a word out of them. They listened to me very politely, totally composed, before saying that they didn’t want to be rude, but that it was time for them to go to the Kingdom Hall. That’s their place of worship, if I’m not mistaken. It gave me the creeps, that meeting. Only the mother spoke when I mentioned identifying the body: ‘Laura chose the way of the devil—she shall remain with the devil. She only ever came here to sully us, to heap the filth of the earth on us . . .’ At that point the husband gave her this look . . . That shut her up. I left it there—didn’t think I’d get anything more out of her with him sitting next to her. But I got a strange feeling from that trip. I hope all this proves helpful. Don’t hesitate to call me back if you need anything. This case is beginning to interest me.”

“‘The filth of the earth’ . . . What could she have meant by that?”

“I’m not sure, Lieutenant . . . I’m not sure. But it was odd, I’m telling you!”

“Thank you very much for going, Commissaire. It may well be that I’ll come pay you a little visit if we’re not making any headway in Paris. Perhaps we’ll need to check out the filth in Niort. Good night.”

“Oh yes, one other thing before you go. The mother was nondescript and sour, but the father was extremely handsome. A bit like Robert Mitchum in
The Night of the Hunter
—know the one?”

“Yes, I see . . .”

“Well, an older version, of course. Right, that’s me. Until next time, all the best!”

Into the bathroom: teeth, toilet, pee, basin, hands. Not long until bed. Pants folded, pants in the laundry basket, followed by bra and white shirt. Yves Saint Laurent—a men’s shirt. Spoils from a one-night stand. Not a great night, but a lovely shirt. Crimson nightie. Bed: a futon on top of a tatami mat, thick, slightly rough sheets—the old kind—with the initials A.V. embroidered in cursive script. Still warm enough not to need a blanket. No comforter either . . . she can’t stand them. Rachel’s in bed. Her head is tired, yes, but it doesn’t want to sleep. The ghastly face of the
brocanteur
won’t go away. So she searches for a remedy. She thinks about Ahmed. Imagines him alone in his bed, in torment too. Him over there, below Laura’s apartment. Her, back here in her lair. Tossing and turning in every direction. It reminds her of something. An old Wong Kar-wai film. That’s the one:
Fallen Angels
. A handsome hit man working for a beautiful girl who selects targets for him and pays him. They never see each other, yet she thinks of no one but him. One scene cross-cuts between each of them alone in their beds, frantic with lust. The woman touching herself through her clothes, pleasuring herself the only way she can. Who played the man? His face is unclear, vague. So she conjures up Tony Leung from
L’Amant
. Desire starts welling up gently. The tips of the fingers of her right hand brush her left arm, up as far as the crook of her elbow. Tracing every contour, caressing its softness. It feels good. She follows it down to the palm of her hand. As if she were touching a man. As if a man were touching her. Tony Leung—elegant and dignified—swaggering through the busy streets. He arrives at the house where the lovers meet. Rachel watches as Jane March lets him in. They kiss. But they don’t, because it’s Rachel who has swapped places with the actress. His hands stroke her stomach lightly through the satin of her nightdress before moving down, down. Desire dictates the movements—some familiar, others new. Never before has she yielded to herself like this. Sometimes images of men come to her. Sometimes they don’t. Her fingers move quickly, slowly. Playing across the surface or exploring the depths. Pleasure for her given by her. Tonight she prefers to let her touch linger through the fabric. Feeling it soak, dampen. That wetness is her—her life. Now Rachel slides up the bottom of her nightie. She needs direct contact with her flesh. Strong, fast movements. Two words return to her from some uncertain place. Two words with a rhythm all of their own. Matching her own.
In, out. In, out
. Right until the end she keeps Tony Leung in her mind, crystal clear. That powerful, slow-motion image of him in the humid street from
In the Mood for Love
. She loses herself in him. That’s what real movie stars are for. After she’s come, Rachel drifts, keeping sleep at bay for the moment. A thought pops up. Does Ahmed fantasize about Maggie Cheung? She laughs out loud. Then she turns on the light, rummages in her bag, and takes out her spiral notebook. She saves Bintou and Aïcha’s numbers in her cell. If one of them calls at 3:00 a.m. she wants to know who they are, to gather her thoughts before picking up. Lights out. Sleep.