AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

Think fast, he told himself.

“Pardon, I forgot the door code,” he said to the old man. “My friends live on the second floor.”

The old man nodded, a muffler wrapped high around his neck, and Lucien edged his way inside. He waited on the dank building’s pitted stone staircase until the thumps in his heart subsided, until he heard cars pulling up and voices outside. He figured it would be easier now to blend into a crowd and cross the courtyard.

Since birth he had been taught to keep his mouth shut: aqua in boca. His grand-mere would indicate the need for silence by sliding her finger across her lips. He knew better than to get involved. He threaded his way past the police van to the gate and paused, listening. Snatches of conversation drifted on the sleeting wind. “Shooting on the rooftop” was all he could understand. No way could he get involved.

This city was filled with contradictions, unlike his native Corsica, where it was simple: all outsiders were viewed as a threat.

Satisfied that no one had noticed him in the flurry of activity, Lucien made his way across the snowdrifts in the courtyard to a jewel-like townhouse.

He opened the front door and mounted the staircase, passing several landings until an open door revealed a well-dressed crowd in the foyer. A party? He should have worn his new shirt. Conari had just told him to stop by for a brief meeting.

As a woman leaned toward an arriving couple to greet them, a scent of roses wafted from her. Familiar. Snowflakes danced outside the foyer window, catching the light and framing her tan, smooth back. Only one woman he’d ever known would wear something like that in this weather. But it couldn’t be. And then he lost her in the crowd of newcomers.

“Lucien, so glad you’re here.” A voice, loud and welcoming, came from his host, broad-shouldered Felix Conari, who filled the doorway. Long charcoal gray hair curled behind his ears. His skin was Cote d’Azur bronzed, the all-year bronze of the wealthy. “Do come in; it’s wonderful you made it.”

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Conari, my pleasure.” Lucien’s hand picked at his coat pocket, a nervous habit.

“Welcome to our annual client party.” Felix winked. “Impress with success, you know.”

Lucien didn’t, but he nodded.

Felix put an arm around him and escorted him inside the large apartment’s reception rooms, which were high ceilinged and adorned by carved moldings, parquet flooring, and marble fireplaces. Lucien managed a smile, hoping his eyes didn’t reveal his surprise. A mix of flat-chested, hollow-cheeked miniskirted models, advertising mediatheques, clad in head-to-toe black, and bourgeois matrons clad in Chanel hovered by the table, which was spread with hors d’oeuvres. The hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the air.

Right behind them a man entered and handed his overcoat to a waiter. “The police are blocking the backstreets; someone’s been murdered on a roof,” he announced with irritation. “It’s a mess. I couldn’t find a parking place!”

Someone murdered? Lucien concealed his shaking hands by putting them in his pockets. With his background, he had to steer clear of this.

“Nom de Dieu!” said Felix as a momentary hush filled the salon. “At least it seems under control.” Felix guided Lucien toward the long white-linen-covered table. “Taste the foie gras and let’s catch up in the study.”

“Merci,” Lucien said, conscious of Felix’s practiced finesse as he was marshaled, with a well-loaded Limoges plate, to the study.

A fire crackled, illuminating minimalist furniture at odds with the ornate ceiling, wood-paneled walls, and curved windows. Old world meets avant-garde.

A man came out of the door of an adjoining bathroom, toweling his wet hair.

“Had to splash myself awake,” he said, smiling.

“You’re still working?” Felix pulled Lucien toward the man, who looked to be in his thirties. He wore a rumpled black suit and scuffed Adidas sneakers. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Meet Yann, an associate. He does the brain work, I am just the brawn,” Conari joked.

Yann grinned. ”Not always.” He shook Lucien’s hand. “A pleasure.”

Lucien felt a moist but strong grip. Then Yann shut down a laptop sitting on the desk. “I promised Felix to mingle and try to improve my social skills. Excuse me.”

Lucien practiced his smile again. “You’re so kind to invite me, Monsieur Conari.”

“Call me Felix.”

Lucien had sent Conari several tapes of his music. But Felix’s invitation to come to his home to discuss them had surprised him. Lucien had no rent money in his pockets. A sleeping bag in the pantry of Anna’s Corsican Communist resto, where he worked for food, was his bedroom now. He prayed this meeting would lead somewhere.

Lucien’s cousin’s great-aunt had married a distant relation of Felix Conari’s. Felix wasn’t even Corsican, but in Corsica family meant everything. Clan ties and family connections from the thirteenth century still governed the island. The code was strong. The basics still operated in Paris.

“Have your drink while you listen to my proposal.” Felix gestured Lucien to a curved blond wood sculptural chair. “I’d like you to let me represent you and to introduce your work to the head of SOUNDWERX.”

SOUNDWERX. The European recording giant! Lucien blinked in surprise.

“You have a unique sound, haute cool,” Felix told him. “I want to help you.”

It was an offer Lucien hadn’t even dreamed of. He was almost afraid to believe it was real.

“You possess the gift, hard to define. As though you concoct words from the air and the stars sing. I’m saying it badly.” A brief sadness crossed the face of this man in a designer suit. “My sister had it, too. She was so gifted, but she passed away.” He looked down, rearranged some papers on his desk. “I couldn’t help her, but I hope you will give me the chance to advance your career.”

Lucien nodded, excited. So Felix understood his music and admired it, even if he wasn’t Corsican. He explained, “My grandfather, father, and uncle sang polyphony, the seconda, bass, and terza, ninth-century poems in a cappella. At home, our saying is ‘Three singers in harmony make an angel’s voice.’” His heart raced; it always did when he spoke about his music. “Music filled our house. I build on the traditional foundation; I use it as a base and I go on to explore. I want to open our culture to the world.”

The door opened, letting in the snare drum of a bossa nova and the murmurs of the crowd. Lucien turned. The woman he’d seen in the doorway entered the room. She’d thrown her head back, laughing. That long neck, curved, so familiar. Could it be? She wore a clinging coppery red dress; her straight black hair hit the middle of her bare back. She turned, her face caught in the light, and he recognized Marie-Dominique, his first woman. She still wore the scent of roses.

He froze. Four years . . .

“Aah, Lucien, meet my wife,” Felix said. “Forgive me for not introducing you.

Marie-Dominique, Felix’s wife?

He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Marie-Dominique’s gaze caught his as she inhaled briefly.

“Lucien,” she breathed out. “I’m happy to meet you.”

The world stopped. In Lucien’s mind the cicadas were buzzing, their loud cacophony a wall of sound in the dry heat.

The leaning pines sheltered by granite formations, the parched oleander, and withered, browning myrtle were all around them on the hill where he’d last seen her.

“Hasn’t Felix shown you around? You look lost,” she said.

Lost in the past, he thought. And pining for a future they’d never had.

“How long have you lived in Paris?” What he meant was how long had she been this sophisticated Parisienne, married to a wealthy man.

She looked down, curling a black strand of her hair around her finger. Just as he remembered her doing when she was thinking.

“Long enough,” she said.

“Marie-Dominique,” Felix said putting his arm around her, “find Lucien a seat at the table next to us.