Forgetfulness (26 page)

Thomas smiled at that.

You live in the Pyrenees. Do you like it there?

I do. It's quiet.

Landlocked, Antoine said.

Yes, landlocked.

Mountains bother me. You never feel caged?

Not caged. Sometimes it's lonely.

The winters are a tragedy, Antoine said.

Very cold, Thomas agreed. Snow to the eaves.

But the food. Bah!

No, Thomas said. The lamb from the Pyrenees is the best in France. Duck is a specialty, the confit. Cassoulet is a specific against the cold. You know cassoulet.

Of course, Antoine said. But it's heavy. It's anvil food. It's not like this—he held up a langoustine shell and let it drop—light and succulent, food for an angel. And it's a dangerous place, the Pyrenees.

Yes, it is.

Antoine looked at him with an apologetic smile. I meant the bears.

Oh, yes.

The imported Slovenian bears. Vicious creatures.

Thomas nodded and took a swallow of beer. He was trying to work out an idea that had just come to him. The idea depended on a rental car. But surely in a port city there would be rental agencies.

Antoine held his beer glass to the light, watching the bubbles. And how did it work out for you?

You heard it. What did you think?

We didn't learn much. He's an awful little shit. He's like a reptile. He responds only to provocation. By the way, contrary to what he said, his name is Yussef. I was surprised that he talked to you at all. Something you said must have angered him. I imagine it was your own confession.

Could be.

You were most candid with him.

I said what I wanted to say.

So you were involved with Francisco.

Yes, Thomas said.

I knew him. I had occasion to interview him once. An interview, not an interrogation. We had no charges against him. Even so, he was a difficult interview. I liked him immediately. I knew at once who you were talking about. Poor Francisco, he carried a whole world inside his head. A walking archive. It was an ugly business for him at the end. A betrayal, I imagine. Someone sold him out.

Thomas looked sharply at the Frenchman.

Not you. This one can be traced back to Bernhard.

Thomas said nothing to that.

Americans are so quick to act. So slow to repent.

Thomas looked at his watch. Too late to engage a rental car.

Well, Antoine said and raised his glass. To Francisco.

Francisco, Thomas said.

Antoine turned in his chair and held up two fingers. The waiter nodded and said something to the
patron.

I watched you with the bastinado, Antoine said. You had ideas. But you dismissed them. Put them out of your mind.

I did. What was the point of another beating?

To watch him suffer. Listen to his jaw crack. Watch him weep. Beg for mercy. Lick your shoes. They're not good with pain, these four. Yussef is better than the others but not by much. They don't mind watching violence but don't like it when it's them. And of course Yussef is protective of the boy, who may or may not be his son. We think he is. Your Bernhard disagrees. Bernhard says he has a hunch, and he always follows his hunches. A DNA test will settle the question.

I've known Bernhard for many years, Thomas said. We grew up together in a small town in the American Midwest. His hunches are usually sound. Thomas stopped talking while the waiter put down the Dortmunders on fresh coasters. From behind his back the waiter produced another plate of langoustines. Thomas said, Bernhard was a wrestler in college.

Sweaty sport, Antoine said.

Isn't it, Thomas said.

So you didn't use the bastinado.

No, Thomas said.

You decided to spare him. Yussef.

Thomas shook his head. Sparing didn't come into it. I don't care if he's spared or not spared. My wife is gone. What do I care what happens to him?

Antoine moved his beer glass in circles on the table. Surely you believe in justice, he said. A society cannot function without it. I am forced to conclude you are without conscience.

Civic conscience, Thomas said.

Yes, civic conscience. The other kind, too.

Perhaps, Thomas said.

I watched you. I watched you very closely. You wanted to do it. I wasn't sure you wouldn't beat him to death, one blow after another. I know that look. It's the look of anticipation of high satisfaction, justice done and seen to be done. No question of the Moroccan's guilt.

My satisfaction doesn't come into it, Thomas said. He took a long swallow of beer and looked again at his watch.

And if we release him tomorrow?

You won't.

No, we won't. You're correct about that. He'll be with us for some time. Yussef and the other three are working for someone, we don't know who. But we'll know everything before we're through. This business takes a strong stomach, you know. Patience. Attention to detail.

Good luck with it, Thomas said.

Perhaps it also requires a certain ideology.

And what would that be?

Antoine smiled and gave an exaggerated shrug. Anger, he said. The common denominator of all ideology. A belief in the righteousness of your cause and the squalor of all other causes. It comes easily to me because I am fundamentally a policeman. It's not for everyone, however. You need an excellent memory. You must never, ever forget. Forgetfulness leads to—

Forgiveness? Thomas said.

No, not that. Do you think so?

No, I don't. What were you about to say?

Antoine smiled again. He said, A lack of focus. A lack, I should say, of zeal. He raised his finger, struck by a new thought. Do you know Brahms's German Requiem? Of course you do. I should not have asked. He composed it after the death of his mother. I have always wondered whether his requiem counseled remembrance or forgetting. Not the death, surely. The circumstances of the death. The Requiem Mass, after all, is a call for the repose of the souls of the dead. It is to comfort those who mourn. Well. The Germans have much to remember. But they had not so much in 1867, when the piece was first performed. They had no more to remember than any other people, perhaps less because they were disorganized. The mountain of bones came later. So we must be careful what we forget, wouldn't you say?

We must not be thoughtless, Thomas said.

I think you mean careless, Antoine said.

They are the same thing, Thomas said.

I am sorry about my German lesson. Sometimes I talk too much.

Tell me. Do you like the Brahms?

Yes. It is not Verdi or Mozart. But it is very powerful.

It is sublime, Thomas said.

Antoine smiled and did not reply. Instead, he made a gesture that indicated the subject was not worth pursuing.

I'm glad we met, Thomas said.

Yes, I am too. I am glad we had a chance to talk. I can tell you this, for your ears only. Your wife was not a target in this business. The encounter was as Yussef described it. A chance meeting.

Thank you, Thomas said. I never doubted it.

Bernhard had another idea.

I know he did.

He is more conspiratorial even than the French.

His family background is German.

That explains it, Antoine said.

I worried about Bernhard's idea for a while and then I didn't worry.

If it had been someone else, the someone else would have met the same fate. Or if there had been two or more walking in the mountains, same thing. All four were armed, even the boy. Nothing was going to keep them from their business.

And that was?

Antoine shook his head. He said, We have classified your wife's death as a terrorist act.

Of course, Thomas said.

Antoine swallowed the last of his beer, leaned back in his chair, and looked around, raising his eyebrows at the café hubbub, everyone talking at once. He said, Do you plan to spend the night in Le Havre?

If you can give me the name of a hotel—

Antoine called for the check while he took a business card from his wallet and scribbled a name and address. He said, Show them this at the reception.

Thank you again, Thomas said.

It's a small hotel but very clean, of moderate price.

Antoine stood and they shook hands warmly.

I wish you luck, Thomas said.

Godspeed, Antoine said.

Will you let me know what you discover?

Assuredly, Antoine said. What I can. What is allowed.

Your information will stay between us.

The waiter delivered the check and Thomas put his hand over it. He said, Please allow me.

The Frenchman hesitated, then nodded politely and walked away, stepping delicately as if his feet hurt. At the door he turned and gave a wave that was half a salute, and then continued on out the door without a backward glance.

Thomas was relieved to be alone at last in a place where he was unknown. The same could not be said of Antoine, the focus of covert glances from the men gathered at the zinc bar. Thomas had noted that two of them put on their hats and left when Antoine appeared. Thomas ordered a glass of wine and a dozen oysters and sat back to collect his thoughts. But he was unable to gather them coherently so he contented himself watching the show, the bar arguments and laughter and the young lovers at the corner table who were making plans for the evening. His attention was noticed because the young woman caught Thomas's eye and winked; he tipped a glass in her direction. The
patron
continued to pull the porcelain handles, glass after glass. There were fewer now because the café was beginning to empty, and seemed emptier still in the bright glow of the overhead lamps. Thomas could not remember the last time he sat in a café alone, doing nothing, without even a newspaper, merely watching the action, such as it was. His oysters and wine arrived and he began to eat slowly, taking a tiny sip of wine with each oyster. The lovers left arm in arm and he wished he had a pretty friend to share an oyster with, someone he knew well but not too well. God, he was tired. He could sleep where he sat, put his chin on his chest and say night-night. If the girl he knew well but not too
well was sitting beside him he would have to talk. He was tired of talking. And if he had this girl, what would he do with her? When the moment came, if it did, he would be forced to plead headache, sciatica, osteoporosis, or something alarming like shingles; perhaps a dangerous heart condition. Thomas glanced at the door and saw that the snow had ended; there had only been a dusting, no difficulty for the morning's drive. He hoped the hotel had a map. The next time he looked up the café was almost empty, the
patron
whistling to himself, cleaning the glassware at the bar sink. A second glass of wine arrived, and when he looked curiously at the waiter, the
patron
nodded from the bar; on the house.

Tell the boss thanks, he said.

I will do that. Are you and Monsieur Antoine friends?

Yes, we are friends.

He is a famous policeman, you know.

So I've heard.

He is from here, Le Havre. But he is often in Paris on his official duties. He and the
patron
play cards ... The waiter described the games they played and what they ate and drank during the hands. Dortmunder for Antoine, Heineken for the
patron.
The policeman was a cautious bettor, the
patron
reckless. Thomas listened and nodded, murmuring something now and then, when the waiter looked over his shoulder and backed away, pulling out the empty chair at the table.

You forgot this, Bernhard said, setting the cardboard tube on the floor next to Thomas's duffel. He sat in the chair the waiter held for him and said, Scotch, neat.

Thank you, Thomas said. Now go away.

You didn't say goodbye. I had no idea where you were.

You found me. I'm tired. Go away.

Bernhard drummed his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the Scotch neat. When it arrived he took a swallow and said, Prosit. Thomas called for the check.

That was quite a performance back there, Thomas. Jesus, I thought you were going to give him your life story. You damn near
did. And you didn't get much for it, did you? Francisco was a mistake on your part. Clever stunt with the portrait, I have to admit that. Only time I saw the little prick shaken. Maybe not shaken. Maybe only stirred, but at least you got a reaction. That was something. Antoine was impressed. But you walked away. Just walked away from him.

The waiter arrived with the check and Thomas paid it, and the first one, and laid on a heavy tip. He looked at the card Antoine had given him and hoped that the hotel was close by. Fatigue had overtaken him. His eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. He did not believe he was thinking straight and wanted out of Café Marine before he said something better left unsaid.

But we'll have time to talk about that and Francisco, too. You cut a little close to the bone there, Thomas. Francisco's a verboten subject. He's way back in the cupboard, out of sight. We don't talk about Francisco even when you don't use his name. You know that, for Chrissakes. I can't imagine what you were thinking of.

I'm going to bed, Bernhard.

So long as you understand the seriousness of it—

Thomas reached down for the cardboard tube but had to steady himself on the chair—a shudder of dizziness. Finally he gathered both the tube and the duffel in his arms and stood blinking in the bright glow of the café.

I had a call from Russ, Thomas. His little girl died last night. She ate something she shouldn't ve.

Thomas looked at him but didn't say anything.

Funeral and burial are private. New York City. I sent some flowers in both our names but you'll probably want to call him, so here's his mobile number. Bernhard passed a piece of paper across the table and Thomas took it.

He's holding up all right, Bernhard said. Probably it's a relief.

I doubt if it's a relief, Thomas said.

Whatever it is, he's holding up all right.

Thomas said, An overdose?

Russ didn't say. And I didn't ask.

Such a pretty girl, Thomas said.

A great kid, Bernhard said.

Goodbye, Bernhard. I'm going home.