chubby angel’s mouth onto the greenish surface covered with floating plants. She was staring, engrossed, at the pond. Only the sound of his steps interrupted her contemplation and made her turn her head.
Corso put his canvas bag on the bottom step and sat down next to her. He lit the cigarette he’d had in his mouth for some time. He inhaled, his head to one side, and threw away the match. He turned to the girl.
“Now tell me everything.”
Still staring at the pond, she gently shook her head. Not abruptly or unpleasantly. On the contrary, the movement of her head, her chin, and the corners of her mouth was sweet and thoughtful, as if Corso’s presence, the sad, neglected garden, and the sound of the water were all peculiarly moving. She looked incredibly young. Almost defenseless. And very tired.
“We have to go,” she said so low that Corso scarcely heard her. “To Paris.”
“First tell me what your link is with Fargas. With all of this.”
She shook her head again, in silence. Corso blew out some smoke. The air was so damp that the smoke floated in front of him for a moment before gradually disappearing. He looked at the girl.
“Do you know Rochefort?”
“Rochefort?”
“Whatever his name is. He’s dark, with a scar. He was lurking around here last night.” As he spoke, Corso was aware of how silly it all was. He ended with an incredulous grimace, doubting his own memories. “I even spoke to him.”
The girl again shook her head, still staring at the pond.
“I don’t know him.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
“I’m looking after you.”
Corso stared at the tips of his shoes, rubbing his numb hands The tinkle of the water in the pond was beginning to get on his nerves. He took a last drag on his cigarette. It was about to burn his lips and tasted bitter.
“You’re mad, girl.”
He threw away the butt, stared at the smoke fading before his eyes.
“Completely mad,” he added.
She still said nothing. After a moment, Corso brought out his flask of gm and took a long swig, without offering her any He looked at her again.
“Where’s Fargas?”
She took a moment to answer, still absorbed, lost. At last she indicated with her chin. “Over there “
Corso followed the direction of her gaze. In the pond beneath the thread of water from the mouth of the mutilated angel with empty eyes, he saw the vague outline of a man floating facedown among the water lilies and dead leaves
IX. THE BOOKSELLER ON THE RUE BONAPARTE
Lucas Corso ordered a second gin and settled back comfortably in the wicker chair. It was pleasant in the sun. He was sitting on the terrace of the Cafe Atlas on the Rue de Buci, in a rectangle of light that framed the tables. It was one of those cold, luminous mornings when the left bank of the Seine crawls with people: disoriented Japanese, Anglo-Saxons in sneakers with metro tickets marking their place in a Hemingway novel, ladies with baskets full of lettuces and baguettes, and slender gallery owners who’ve had their noses fixed, all heading for a cafe during their lunch break. An attractive young woman was looking in the window of a luxury charcuterie, on the arm of a middle-aged, well-dressed man who might have been an antique dealer or a scoundrel, or both. There was also a Harley Davidson with all its shiny chrome, a bad-tempered fox terrier tied up at the door of an expensive wine shop, a young man with braids playing the flute outside a boutique. And at the table next to Corso’s, a couple of very elegant Africans kissing on the mouth in a leisurely way, as if they had all the time in the world and as if the arms race, AIDS, and the hole in the ozone layer were all insignificant on that sunny Parisian morning.
He saw her at the end of the Rue Mazarin, turning the corner toward the cafe where he waited. With her boyish looks, her duffel coat open over her jeans, her eyes like two points of light against her suntan, visible from a distance in the crowd, in the street overflowing with dazzling sunlight. Devilishly pretty, La Ponte would no doubt have said, clearing his throat and turning his best side—where his beard was a little thicker and curlier—to her. But Corso wasn’t La Ponte, so he didn’t say or think anything. He just gave a hostile glance at the waiter, who was putting a glass of gin on his table—
He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. The street was a series of vague outlines, of shapes with blurred faces. One stood out and became clearer as it drew nearer, although it never grew completely sharp: short hair, long legs, and white sneakers acquired definition as he focused on her with difficulty. She sat down in the empty chair.
“I found the shop. It’s a couple of blocks away.”
He put his glasses back on and looked at her without answering. They had traveled together from Lisbon, leaving Sintra for the airport posthaste, as old Dumas would have said. Twenty minutes before departure, Corso phoned Amilcar Pinto to tell him that Fargas’s torment as a book collector was over and that the plan was canceled. Pinto would still be paid the sum agreed, for his trouble. Apart from being surprised—the call had woken him—Pinto reacted fairly well. All he said was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Corso, you and I didn’t see each other last night in Sintra.” But he promised he’d make some discreet inquiries into Fargas’s death. After he heard about it officially, of course. For the time being, he knew nothing and didn’t want to, and as for the autopsy, Corso should hope that the forensic report would give the cause of death as suicide. Just in case, Pinto would pass the description of the individual with the scar on to the relevant departments as a possible suspect. He’d keep in touch by phone. He urged Corso not to come back to Portugal for a while. “Oh, and one last thing,” added Pinto as the departure of the Paris flight was being announced. Next time, before he thought of involving a friend in murder, Corso should think twice. Corso hurriedly protested his innocence as the phone swallowed his last escudo. Yeah, yeah, said Pinto, that’s what they all say.
The girl was waiting in the departure lounge. Corso, still dazed and in no condition to tie up loose ends (there were loose ends all over the place), was surprised to see that she had been extremely efficient and managed to get them two plane tickets without any difficulty. “I just inherited some money” was her answer when, seeing that she had paid for both, he made an ironic remark about the limited funds she supposedly had. Afterward, during the two-hour flight from Lisbon to Paris, she refused to answer any of his questions. All in good time, she repeated, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, as if sneaking a glance, before she became absorbed in the trails of condensation left by the plane in the cold air. Then she fell asleep, or pretended to, resting her head on his shoulder. Corso could tell from her breathing that she was awake. It was a convenient way of avoiding questions that she wasn’t prepared, or allowed, to answer.
Anyone else in his situation would have insisted on answers, would have shaken her out of her pretense. But Corso was a well-trained, patient wolf, with the instincts and reflexes of a hunter. After all, the girl was his only real lead in this unreal, novelistic, ridiculous situation. In addition, at this point in the script he had fully assumed the role of reader-protagonist that someone, whoever was tying the knots on the back of the rug, on the underside of the plot, seemed to be offering him with a wink that could be either contemptuous or conspiratorial, he couldn’t tell which.
“Somebody’s setting me up,” Corso said out loud, nine thousand meters above the Bay of Biscay. He looked at the girl, but she didn’t move. Annoyed by her silence, he moved his shoulder away. Her head lolled for a
