Murder in the Bastille

she was killed on her way home to rue de Cotte?

No, the passage lay several blocks in the opposite direction.

Then why would Josiane go there? But she knew why . . . the phone caller, the man had begged her to meet him.

She knew because she’d heard him.

Again she wondered if they had been having a lover’s quarrel.

“Rene, what if this involves jealousy?” she said. “Love problems. Plain and simple.”

“Since when is love plain and simple?”

He had a point.

She smelled Dr. Lambert’s Vetiver scent before his thigh brushed against hers in the booth.

“Rene, I’ll get back to you later,” she said and clicked off.

She felt her hands laced around a frosted cold glass.

“The new bartender recommended Fire and Ice. A speciality of the Antilles, where he’s from, too. He swears this will get anyone through a rough night.”

“So, doctor, what gets you through?”

“Call me Guy. If you keep calling me doctor, customers will descend on us to describe their illnesses.”

Laughter. Low and melodic. Nice.

“So what gets you through the night?” she asked again.

“Sunrise.”

What a cop out! She might as well head back to the opera singer’s and try banging her head on the wall. Maybe that would jiggle those neurons into action. It might even restore her sight.

She chugged the Fire and Ice, a mixture tasting of tomato and strawberry zinging with tabasco. Curiously wonderful.

“Look, I appreciate the drink . . .” she said, making as if to stand up. Hard in the cramped booth when she didn’t know which way to turn.

She felt a tug on her elbow and decided to stay put. She wouldn’t have known what direction to go anyway.

“Blame it on a school trip to England,” said Guy. “We saw dawn rise through the pillars at Stonehenge. And it changed my life.”

He sounded serious.

“I was fifteen,” he said. “Since then I’ve photographed hundreds of sunrises all over the world. After an eclipse comes the best sunrise. Incredible.”

And she knew what he meant. She loved sunrises herself. Watched them from her window lighting up the Seine with a luminous glow. The quiet time before the city burst alive. Like a still breath before a large exhalation, feeling as if she were the only person on the planet.

Yet, she’d imagined him otherwise; a life filled with surgery, consultations and patients. “How do you find the time?”

“The baker loves me. We share a coffee. He’s the only other one awake at dawn on my street except for the newspaper truck. Or once in a while, kids coming home from rave parties.”

“What was sunrise like this morning? Describe the colors.”

Pause.

He attempted to change the subject. “I live behind an old hardware store, famous for doorknobs. It’s been there since 1862, has more than 130 kinds. They specialize in Louis XIII style.”

Why was he avoiding her question?

“Did you miss the sunrise this morning?”

“I don’t think it’s healthy,” he said, his voice hesitant, “talking to you about this . . .”

“Please, tell me about the colors,” she asked again. If she couldn’t see the sunrise, she’d like to hear about it. Visualize it.

“As I said . . .”

“But I want you to,” she said. “Then I can see it in my mind. I miss seeing the sunrise.”

“So you like them, too.”

A pause.

Had she made points with her doctor? He grew more human all the time.

A band of pewter fog covered the Pont Neuf,” he said. ““Peach lightened up the horizon, spreading and reaching for the blue.”

“What kind of blue?” she asked.

“Innocent. Baby blue. The stars and streetlights twinkled until the bands of color became one brightness.”

She wished she could see him; the shape of his eyes, how his mouth moved, if his cheekbones slanted, and how light glinted in his hair.

“It’s not something I broadcast,” he told her. “Some might say I seem obsessed.”

“Having a passion isn’t necessarily obsession. I’m just wondering what you look like.”

That must be the Fire and Ice talking.

“Chantal’s a bad teacher if she hasn’t . . .”

“But she has,” she said, interrupting him as she passed her fingers over his face. Tentatively, she traced his chinline, felt the stubble and the soft border of his lips. His mouth. It would be rosy and he’d have straight white teeth. Her fingers traveled his earlobes, then his long fringed eyelashes that never seemed to end. Black or dark brown hair? Maybe tobacco red? She felt his forehead, smooth and . . . she stopped. Down girl . . . try and control yourself.

“Like this,” he said, taking her other hand, sliding it, with his, along her eyebrows and framing her eyes.

“I’ll leave it to the professional,” she said, enjoying this. Now if he could only give a massage.

The next table had gone quiet.

“Encore?” asked a voice near them.

“Feel like that pastis?”

“You buying?”

“Two double pastis, merci,” he ordered.

After the drinks landed on the table, she felt proud as she hooked her pinky over the glass’s edge to gauge just the right amount of water to pour into the milky pastis. The anise aroma hit her along with the buzzing conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the smoky atmosphere. Comfortable and familiar, even though she couldn’t see. The feeling that things could be worse crept into her mind. After all, there was a man at the table.

Not her man. Not her table. But it was a start.

Arm-in-arm they walked to Madame Danoux’s. She heard the hushed sound of the cars passing over the cobbled street. It must have rained while they were in the cafe. The car tires sounded different.

“Not many people appreciate sunrise,” he said, his tone low in the damp street. “They’d rather sleep.”

“My father pulled the all-night shift. When I was little, the only time we’d have to talk was before I left for school,” she said. “Sunrise was the best time of the day for me.” She remembered his worn bathrobe, tired face, and grin as he poured her steamed milk and chocolate. His thick, unread work files on the table by her bookbag. She shook off the memory.

“What’s on this street, Guy?”

“Cafe, fabric store for decorators, the offices of the La Rochelle Film Festival, and of Medecins san frontieres,” he said, pausing.

Was there something else he wanted to say?

“There’s a uniform manufacturer, a public relations agency . . . it’s written in Chinese but it looks like a wholesale accessory shop. In the courtyard there’s an organ grinder’s supplier. He’s the only one who still makes the music rolls.”

She recalled something: the sheets of music from Clothilde’s cafe . . . and the sheet of music Rene found in the garbage at Mathieu’s. Did they connect? But she’d think about that later. At the door, she reached for his hand, not knowing where to plant the customary bisous on his cheeks.