Murder in Belleville

They kissed for a long time under the bridge. Not even the toot of a barge or an old chchard straggling by disturbed them. They were laughing together as he gave her a piggyback ride all the way up to her apartment. And they spent an even longer time in a hot bath with the next bottle.

Wednesday Evening

BERNARD PACED OUTSIDE MINISTER Guittard’s office, rubbing his eyes and trying to come up with an excuse to decline negotiating. The high, frescoed ceilings, painted murals with cavorting angels, and diamond parquetry flooring were lost on him—so intent was he on his thoughts that he didn’t notice a man emerging from the office until he collided with him.

“Je m’excuse,” he said and looked into the face of Philippe de Froissart.

Philippe, his old classmate from Fxole Nationale d’administration, looked older, dissipated, bags under his bloodshot eyes.

“Ca va, Philippe?” Bernard asked.

“Rolling with the punches,” Philippe said, his smile forced. He gave Bernard a tepid handshake, then moved on.

Bernard remembered Philippe back in the 1968 Sorbonne riots, a fiery demonstrator on the front lines, passionate about his ideals. He’d also attracted the female students. After graduation Philippe had cast his lot with the Socialistes. Later, he’d emerged as Secretaire d’ Etat a la Defense, a governor in the Defense Ministry. He’d done well, ranking high in the food chain of power.

Where had their youth gone, Bernard wondered, and the feeling that they could make a difference?

“Minister Guittard expects you, Berge,” Lucien Nedelec said, smoothing his thin moustache. He rose and gestured Bernard forward. “Your plan backfired,” he added. “Miserably, in fact. But we know you can do better.”

“Nedelec, why me?” Bernard said. “My job belongs with another ministry section.”

“Mais you’re perfect, Berge,” Nedelec said, buttoning his double-breasted suit jacket and ushering him forward.

“I don’t understand,” Bernard said, halting at the door.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Nedelec shook his head. “It’s your background, Berge! The minister’s enamored of how as a pied’noir, born in Algeria, you uphold the law.”

Bernard saw the reflection in the glass-paned doors and briefly wondered about the old man with the haunted look beside him. With a start, he realized he was staring at himself.

Wednesday Night

PHILIPPE PEERED INTO SIMONE’S bedroom. Her soft breathing and dinosaur nightlight greeted him. Philippe’s shoulders relaxed. His baby was asleep. Safe.

He shuffled downstairs, grabbed the bottle of duty-free Johnny Walker, bucket of ice, and headed to his home office. Inside the room, he pulled down the shades and poured a generous portion into a Baccarat tumbler.

Philippe unknotted his tie, then sank down on the silk carpet. He leaned his back against his desk and sighed. He stared at the saltwater aquarium wedged among his bookshelves. The only sound came from the tank’s bubbling air filter and the ice cubes tinkling in his glass.

Ignoring the work on his desk and Sylvie’s folder, which Anais had given him, Philippe pulled down his ENA scrapbook. He kept pouring the Johnny Walker, neglecting the ice cubes, and turned the pages.

On the page Bernard Berge—younger and with a lot more hair—stared back at him. The Woody Allen resemblance had been there even then. He’d always teased Bernard about it, saying they could be identical twins. Even when Bernard was in his twenties, his eyes had held that furtive look. No wonder he’d stayed a fonctionnaire, never risen high in the ministry.

Philippe saw a photo of himself posed on a rooftop terrace, the Seine behind him. His arms were around a long-haired girl. They both wore headbands, tie-dyed scarves, and not much else. He remembered that afternoon in 1968 but not the girl. Demonstrating at the Sorbonne, he’d thrown paves at the flics. All hell had broken loose. His group took over the Arts Building, proclaiming free love, free wine, and freedom of the mind. They’d formulated a new bill of human rights. The only one he remembered was, “Let it hereby be proclaimed that all humanity listen to their heart and sing.” They thought, in their arrogance and naivete, they were changing the world. And he’d never felt better in his life.

Philippe’s flat stomach and sense of freedom were gone. What had happened to him? Did he look like Bernard Berge—an old man before his time? Was he as dead as he sometimes felt? No, that couldn’t be. He struggled with the vineyard, but he’d make it work. Joy flooded him when he saw the wonder sparkle in Simone’s eyes, heard her laughter. He’d fallen in love again with his glowing wife when she’d nursed Simone.

He called to check on Anais. The nurse told him Madame slept. Philippe thanked her and sighed as he hung up the phone. He poured more Johnny Walker into his tumbler.

If only he had stayed in the commune in Normandy, joined his brother’s pop group, or traveled to India and lived on an ashram.

The phone interrupted his thoughts.

“Allo,” Philippe said.

“You are elusive, Philippe,” Kaseem Nwar said. “Talk to me, please, I must give the investors hope.”

Tired of Kaseem’s continued persistence, Philippe wanted to hang up.

“What more can I say, Kaseem?” Philippe said, annoyed. “My committee passed on the funding reins. We have no more control.”

The less Kaseem knew the better. The less anyone knew the better. Look at what happened to Sylvie.

“Can’t you reconsider, Philippe?” Kaseem said. “My investments weigh heavily on the project.”

“Kaseem, we’re subject to the whims of the Elysee Palace,” he said. “Like I’ve always told you, I do what I can. Now it looks impossible.”

“Philippe, this isn’t just for me,” Kaseem said, his tone lower and more insistent. “Others rely on the project, the funding of the mission. They’re depending on you for this!”

Philippe heard the quiet desperation in Kaseem’s voice.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he lied.

Anything to get Kaseem off his back.

Thursday Morning

“MERCI, GASTON,” AIMEE SAID, accepting the espresso from him at the counter in Cafe Tlemcen. The cafe, with its worn linoleum and lace-covered windows, felt familiar, almost comfortable to her. Rai, a fusion of Western pop with Algerian regional music, pounded from an open window across the narrow street.

“Wasn’t RaT outlawed?”

Gaston nodded. “The fundamentalists banned Rai as degenerate Western music. But I like it.”

“Me too,” Aimee said, tapping her foot as she sipped from the steaming cup. She reached for another lump of brown sugar. The odd look on Gaston’s face alerted her.

“Where can I wash my hands?” she asked, making her voice louder than usual.

“Follow me,” he said.

He nodded to the rear. Past the zinc bar were the toilet stalls and a passage to the back.