Vigot’s wall. In the place of honor stood the photo of Figeac receiving the Prix Goncourt. Figeac, oblivious of his own talent, had taken it for granted.
But for Alain, as his editor, it had been the ultimate triumph—the writer he’d discovered and nurtured, baby- sat through drinking bouts, the birth of a son, disastrous political choices, a failed marriage and bitter divorce—to see him so honored.
He stared at the box of Romain Figeac’s work. Inside lay partial manuscripts and dog-eared photos from Tallimard’s banquets honoring Figeac. The last one had been an affair to remember. Jana, Figeac’s movie star wife, once the darling of Godard and the New Wave cinema, was there with her entourage of radicals. Jana had gone from being his muse to orchestrating his downfall. And her own.
Bored and restless when not working, Jana treated her son as if he were an untrained puppy when she even noticed him. Her cocaine-and-champagne lifestyle took a toll on her looks, yet she remained a temptress who drove Figeac crazy. Crazy in love with her. The miscarriage and her suicide five years later on its ghoulish anniversary had ended Figeac’s writing, as far as he was concerned.
Alain conceded he’d been jealous of her … the self-absorbed bitch. Figeac had even banked her terrorist lover’s loot for her, the loot of the supposed father of the child he’d always claimed was his.
Earlier that day Alain had submitted his resignation to Tallimard. He knew the time had come to withdraw from the world of publishing, which was being transformed by electronic books and on-demand publishing. Who knew what else they’d dream up? It was not Figeac’s or his world anymore … the bottom line was what counted. Not literacy or literature. Who even used pen and ink anymore?
He’d burn the contents of this box personally. Let Figeac be remembered as the great writer he’d been, not the alcoholic hack who’d become obsessed with his wife’s terrorist lover. But first he’d read what was inside the manila envelope Figeac had sent him before he killed himself.
RENE LOOKED UP as Aimee walked into the office.
“Christian Figeac cancelled your meeting,” he said.
Disappointed, she walked toward her desk. Christian had given her big checks yet reneged on their deal. Was he in more trouble?
Rene wore a headset while working at his terminal. He pointed to the phone on her desk. The red light blinked; she picked it up.
“Fresnes Prison visiting hours start at two P.M.,” Morbier said. “Prisoner number 3978. Today.”
Aimee looked at her watch. “But it’s …”
“Up to you,” Morbier interrupted. “The prisoner’s scheduled for transit and my contact’s retiring tomorrow.”
“Give me that number again,” she said, snatching a pen and writing the numbers on her palm.
“I’m taking Marc,” he said. “We’re leaving for Brittany
Apprehensive, she looked past the paperwork on her desk at Rene. “The phone’s buzzing worries me, Rene.”
“Maybe it’s time to check for bugs, the wireless kind,” he said, his fingers pausing on the keyboard. “Exterminator is my middle name.”
She grabbed her jacket, tried it on, then threw it on the chair.
Rene’s eyes narrowed to green slits.
“Problems?”
“What do you wear to prison?”
“Depends how long you’re staying,” Rene said. “Short-term, the linen works. Long-term, a jumpsuit with stripes. Why?”
“I’m visiting Jutta Hald’s former cell mate,” she said, scanning the faxes. “I’ll knock this out later.”
Rene gestured toward her linen jacket. “You mean we’re postponing the sushi?”
“Here’s Christian’s check for fifty thousand francs,” she said. “Should tide us over.”
Rene whistled.
That should mollify him and take care of some bills. “Don’t forget to deposit it.”
“I suppose you’ll be eternally grateful to me,” Rene said, pulling off his headset.
“And treat you to sushi every week.”
AIMEE BOARDED the dark pink Metro line for Porte d’Orleans. She hadn’t had time to ask Morbier who this prisoner was and what she was in for.
She exited on the
Most of the bus passengers were African or of Arab descent, and female. An older French woman, haggard and bleary-eyed, pounded on the folding bus doors as they closed. With a shrug, the driver let her on. Women clutched babies and prisoners’ laundry bags, as they tried to get past the folding strollers.
The ride wound past turn-of-the-century bungalows interspersed with “affordable” housing. Drab and uniform. A close commute to Paris was the only redeeming feature Aimee could see.
On the way she wondered why her mother had grown enamored of the radicals’ cause and joined them? Had she been on the run for all the years since? She shuddered, wondering if her mother had bombed and murdered innocent people.
Fresnes finally appeared. The grimy hundred-year-old brick structure was forbidding, and encased in multiple walls. As she stepped off the bus, birds twittered in the hedgerows. The leaves of tomato plants and pastel tulips waved in the breeze by the warden’s house.
She walked past the guarded gates in tandem with women lugging toddlers and pushing strollers laden with shopping bags. She felt sorry for those with children who were making this long journey. And she could imagine doing it in the rain.
Miniature vegetable gardens lined the walks of the guards’ accommodations. Prison food was notorious for starch and carbohydrates; most inmates puffed out due to the diet and lack of exercise.
Fresnes was an all-purpose prison that handled mostly inmates serving sentences of under five years as well as those awaiting sentencing. She’d heard it said that seventy to eighty percent of the prisoners were nonwhite.
The visitors shuffled into the central
Posted on the wall was the list of items forbidden to the prisoners: hardcover books, caps, scarves, ties, work outfits, and blue clothing, since the guards wore blue. No leather gloves. She imagined this was to discourage escape attempts over barbed-wire fences. No ski masks, military fatigues, bathrobes, towels, or
Under the allowed list she read: bags with handles, clothing, and plastic bags.
And then her group lined up to receive their visiting permits. Since this was a weekday, only a forty-five— minute visit was permitted. Each visitor furnished a photo ID to the guard.
One by one they walked through a metal detector. After everyone passed they went through another yellow door and sat down to wait in a dirty banana-colored room, this time for about twenty minutes until guards summoned them to an underground tunnel. The air in it reminded her of her grandmother’s cellar, drafty and laced with mold.
