Forgetfulness (23 page)

The Chinese vessel gathered speed as it approached the outer harbor, oily smoke spilling from its twin stacks. Then the freighter seemed to shudder and stall, the captain sounding the horn, two sharp blasts—and a sloop appeared suddenly, swinging around the
freighter's bow, heeling dangerously to starboard, a collision narrowly avoided. The yachtsman, in oilskins and watchcap, shook his fist at the freighter, gathering speed once again. The sloop was beautiful, as sleek and composed as a fish, whereas the freighter was a crustacean, a formidable, slovenly, and unruly crustacean, careless in its habits. The yacht made for a mooring and the freighter lumbered on, and it was the freighter that enlisted sympathy, a hard-luck vessel, rusting where the deck met the hull, her paint peeling. The name on her stern was unreadable but her home port was Shanghai. The captain looked as though he had been born with the boat, a mariner who had been at his trade for many years; neither he nor his ship felt any need to keep up appearances. The captain emerged again at the door of the wheelhouse, smoking a cigarette. There was something stalwart about him, an old man on an old boat sailing an ancient route, and when the boat went into drydock or was taken apart for scrap, that would be the end of him, too. There would surely be other ports of call as he made his way south and then east—Aden, Mumbai, Singapore, Haiphong. Thomas continued to watch the Chinese freighter as she made her way beyond the lighthouse breakwater into the foul channel weather, waves crashing over her bow. The tug was long gone, the freighter abandoned to her fate. Thomas continued to watch but he did not register what he saw. He was thinking of his own business and how it might be satisfactorily concluded. He did not have all the time in the world. His questions were few in number but subtle in their own way and essential. He was formulating them as he turned his back on the quay and walked in the direction of Rue Georges Braque, wondering now what there was about the port city that inspired Braque. Tramp steamers and sailing ships would be part of it, and the low sky and the channel's gray water. He walked quickly because he had an errand to run before he arrived at the safe house.

In the loft the prisoners remained as they were, seated, still shackled. The guards had disappeared. In the room behind the two-way mirror the three investigators played cards in the corner. Bernhard
stood at the mirror watching the four at the long table. They appeared to be dozing. Now and then one of them would move his head or his arm or shift uncomfortably in his chair. The clock now read eleven, Antoine Mean Time. Thomas noticed that the men continued to sweat.

Bernhard looked up when he entered the room.

He said, Antoine wants them to wait some more, do some private thinking. Antoine believes in the persuasive power of boredom combined with anticipation. I think when he says anticipation he means dread. Fear of the known, Bernhard said and chuckled. Fear of the bastinado or worse. So we wait.

Thomas said, Where is he?

Somewhere in the building. He has an office. And in the office there's a cot. I imagine he's catching forty winks so's to be alert when things recommence.

Will he show up soon?

No telling. Antoine sets his own timetable.

I'll wait, then, Thomas said.

I'm glad to hear it. I had the feeling you were copping out.

No, Thomas said.

I thought you were on your way to Aquitaine.

I'm not, Thomas said.

So where have you been?

The quay. Watching the boats, specifically a Chinese freighter. Old boat, rusted, paint peeling, a veteran in every way. Her skipper is a veteran, too, but he damned near smashed up a sloop. Looked that way anyhow, a heavyweight beating up on a girl. By the way, what do the French export from Le Havre?

Wine and cheese. A few automobiles. How the hell would I know?

I thought you might.

I don't, Bernhard said.

From the corner of the room Thomas heard the slap of cards and desultory conversation. Boredom was general in the safe house.

Thomas said, How well do you know him?

Antoine? Not very well. I don't imagine anyone knows him very well. Maybe his wife does, if he has a wife.

What's he like?

Keeps to himself. He's an interrogator, for Chrissakes. He has his own outlook on things. He's focused on his work, his calculated entrances and exits, his questions. When he has any. He's not the sort of man you have a beer with at the end of the day. Why do you want to know?

I want to talk to him.

I don't know about that, Thomas. We're here at his invitation, on his sufferance. He's repaying a favor, settling a debt, if you like. We're lucky just to be here to watch how he goes about things. He's an artist. Antoine's like you except his métier's more specialized.

Thomas grunted and thought to hand Bernhard the newspaper he'd bought at the kiosk near Café Marine.

He said, Here's the newspaper.

Bernhard said, Thank you, Thomas, and immediately began to read an account of the latest car bombing in Baghdad.

Thomas stepped to the back of the room and watched the card players. He did not recognize the game. The room was filled with tobacco smoke. When Pierre threw in his hand, Thomas touched him on the shoulder. Pierre excused himself and they retreated to the curtained window.

Thomas said, I'd like to see Antoine.

Antoine? Pierre frowned, a look of grave doubt.

Yes, Antoine.

He's resting now.

I know he is. Perhaps when he wakes up—

Pierre took a step back, worried that he had been misunderstood. He is not sleeping, Monsieur Railles. He is preparing.

It's important to me, Pierre.

To speak to Antoine.

Yes. I have a question for him. Perhaps two questions. And then, soon after, I'll be on my way.

I don't know, Monsieur Railles. It's irregular.

I am greatly indebted to your service, and the French government. The apprehension of these four ... Thomas let the sentence hang and continued, Of course I have my own interest in this crime. My wife was very dear to me. I cannot think that my interest would conflict in any way with your interest. And therefore I would like to speak to Antoine. It's possible I could be of help.

Pierre stared at him, judging his sincerity. After a pause he went back to the card table and picked up the mobile phone at his place. He looked at it skeptically, then dialed a number and spoke softly into the receiver. Thomas could not hear what he said but after a moment Pierre closed the phone and with a nod of his head walked to the door. After a glance at Bernhard, absorbed in the newspaper, Thomas followed and they descended the stairs and went through a corridor that led to the rear of the house. Pierre knocked on a door, opened it, and stepped aside to admit Thomas.

Antoine was sitting in an easy chair, smoking and reading his file. There was something on the CD player at his elbow but the sound was turned low. He put the file aside and went to his desk and perched on its edge. There was no cot in the room. Antoine gestured for Thomas to take the easy chair. In the sudden silence he recognized the music at once.

Thomas said, That's Billie Holiday.

Yes, it is.

I have the same recording.

Yes, it's very popular. What can I do for you, Monsieur Railles?

Thomas said, Thank you for seeing me. I know it's irregular.

Antoine said, What do you want from me?

I want to see him alone. Without the others.

You want to see Yussef?

Yes, without the boy or the other two.

You want to interrogate him?

I want to explain one or two things to him and then ask a few questions. It would not be an interrogation.

This is not in the protocol.

I know that, Thomas said.

We stick strictly to the protocol. One interrogator.

I appreciate that.

Antoine leaned back, stretching, his hands on his hips, yawning. He stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. He was silent a minute or more and then he lit another cigarette, offering the pack to Thomas, who shook his head.

What is it you wish to do to Yussef?

Not violence, Thomas said.

Truly? No violence?

I won't touch him.

You have every right—

I know. I know I do.

I talked to people in your village. Florette was very well liked. Everyone spoke highly of her, the kind of woman she was. They spoke well of you, too. And they are suspicious people, as you know.

Thomas smiled. He said, Country people.

I, too, am from the country.

I am also, Thomas said. From the state of Wisconsin.

Two country boys, Antoine said with a dry smile. What are we doing here?

They listened to Billie Holiday, "Twenty-four Hours a Day" ending and "Let's Dream in the Moonlight" beginning, the singer in fine voice. Thomas knew the band at once, Teddy Wilson's. Wilson's piano was unmistakable.

Thomas said, I heard Wilson once in Milwaukee.

Antoine said, You are a fortunate man.

I never saw Billie Holiday in person.

Nor I, Antoine said.

How much do you know about them?

Not as much as I pretend. But you know that.

I guessed, Thomas said.

My file is a prop, like Yorick's skull or the iguana that lives under the porch. I can tell you this. They are Moroccan-born and they are surely the ones who were with your wife in her last hours.

What were they doing on the mountain?

I do not know, Monsieur Railles.

Are they affiliated with any group?

They are angry men. I believe they are freelancers but Islam is their cause. The old one, Yussef, is an intelligent man. Probably university-educated. In the early stages of the interrogation they gave away some information, not very much. And I am not convinced all of it was genuine. Now this news is between the two of us, because I have sympathy for your position. It is not to be shared with my colleagues or yours—

Bernhard.

Yes, Bernhard.

He is not a colleague.

You are not attached to the embassy in Paris?

I am a painter in St. Michel du Valcabrère. Portraits.

That does not disqualify you.

Nevertheless. I am not in the spy business. I did odd jobs for Bernhard but that was many years ago. I am telling you this as earnest of my bona fides. My interest here is strictly personal.

Bernhard deceived me.

He meant no harm, Thomas said.

Deception among friends is ugly business.

He is grateful to you. I am, too.

Antoine lit another cigarette, staring thoughtfully at his hands. His fingers were yellow with nicotine.

Thomas said, Does Yussef speak English?

No, of course not.

French only? Of the civilized languages, he added with a smile.

Yes.

Thomas said nothing more, waiting for him to make a decision. Antoine was a man very easy with silence, so he would not be hurried or provoked in any way. He finished one cigarette and immediately lit another. His office was devoid of personal items, photographs or mementos of any kind. Thomas wondered what he did in his off-hours and then he remembered Bernhard's remark that Antoine spent vacations with the Comédie Française, his specialty being Molière.

Antoine said, What do you intend to do exactly?

Thomas said, First, a portrait.

And then?

Talk to him.

All right, Antoine said. You have two hours.

More than enough, Thomas said. Thank you.

You are welcome. Good luck.

You are most kind, Monsieur—

Antoine, the Frenchman said.

Then I am Thomas, he said.

Goodbye, Monsieur Railles, Antoine said.

S
HACKLED HAND AND FOOT,
Yussef sat alone at the long table. The guards had been told to wait on the ground floor. Thomas mounted the stairs slowly, a step at a time, lugging the easel and the Conté crayon box and Canson paper and cardboard tube that he had bought on Rue Victor Hugo. When he entered the loft the echo of his footsteps seemed much louder than the echo heard through the loudspeaker in the room behind the two-way mirror. When Thomas assembled the easel and opened the crayon box, Yussef looked at him without expression, and then he closed his eyes. Thomas busied himself with the Conté crayons, not the type he was used to but serviceable. He backed up to the mirror and looked hard at Yussef, the shape of his head and his shoulders, the way his hair grew, his ears, the droop of his mouth, and the almond shape of his eyes. After a moment Thomas came around the table and lifted Yussef's shackled hands from his lap and placed them on the table-top. The prisoner did not resist, nor did he open his eyes, expressive even when closed. Yussef had adopted the weary, passive look of any man whose fate was in the hands of others. Thomas thought that Yussef was willing himself to disappear, vanish in a puff of smoke like a djinni. Thomas wondered about his ancestry, parents and grandparents, what they did for a living and where they lived and the relations each to each. What had brought him to this place, a safe house in an industrial district of Le Havre. Yussef smelled thickly of disinfectant and cheap hair tonic. The disinfectant, hair tonic, and sandy smell of the artist's paper gave the room the air of a hospital laboratory. Thomas moved left and right to inspect Yussef's
face in profile, the noble nose, the sagging chin, the smooth brow, and the relation of the parts to the whole. All this time Thomas displayed a sly smile, one his friends would not have recognized. Finally he moved behind the prisoner and lifted his chin with two fingers and held it a long moment.

Good, he said in French.

Keep it like that.

Then Thomas went to work, drawing at speed. He barely looked at his subject but concentrated instead on line, beginning from the center of the sheet of paper and working out. The face was all in his memory anyway. He intended a credible likeness, some impressionism around the edges but essentially a realistic portrait of the sort sought by actors or impersonators. He spent time on the mouth and more time on the eyes, which now seemed to him expressive of infinite serenity. They were old eyes, the lids wrinkled, deep pouches beneath them. He did not know enough of Yussef's milieu to judge whether his was a face attractive to women; probably it was. There were no obvious defects except a small scar on the chin, and a scar was often an interesting abnormality. When Thomas looked back at Yussef he saw that his eyes were closed once again and that his chin had sagged. It didn't matter. He was almost finished and he knew the chin by heart; not such a difficult chin in any case. Quite an ordinary face until you got to know it well, know it in its range of emotions, and then it became as familiar as your own, more familiar unless you spent your life looking into mirrors.