Cold Winter in Bordeaux (28 page)

Lannes leant heavily on his stick. The old tailor had looked curiously serene in death. There had even been a wry smile on his face, as if he had cheated them. Or was that his imagination? He couldn’t be sure. But at least Léopold had chosen his own way out, though any sense of triumph must be tempered by the reflection that he had nevertheless given the bastards what they wanted – one Jew fewer. As for Yvette, poor girl, he had so nearly done what he had resolved not to do, what they both wanted, and he was ashamed to know how close he had come.

Jules was leaning with his elbows on the bar counter, and plucking at the wart on his cheek. It was a gesture which irritated Lannes. Was it unconscious, or did he deliberately draw attention to the disfiguring growth?

The bar was empty but for a couple of middle-aged men who, seeing him enter, quickly finished their drinks and left.

‘Sorry to frighten your custom away,’ he said.

‘Tell you the truth, I’m happy to see the back of that pair.’

‘So?’

Jules picked up the bottle of Armagnac which stood on the counter beside him, refilled his own glass and gave one to Lannes.

‘You’re going to need it,’ he said.

‘Bad as that?’

‘Worse.’

‘It’s Karim?’

‘How did you guess? It’s Karim. Of course it’s Karim. Thanks for coming so quickly by the way. He insisted I call you, which surprised me I have to say. You’ve certainly made an impression on him.’

‘Oh yes? Where is he then?’

‘He’s in a bad way, trembling like a leaf and barely able to speak. I put him up in my own bedroom.’

‘Been there before, has he?’

‘None of your business.’

‘As you like.’

‘I’m fond of the kid, I’ll admit that. Otherwise … in my line I can do without shit, and this is deep shit. Tell the truth, I wouldn’t have known what to do if he hadn’t said I must call you. I just hope he’s right to rely on you. I hope to all the gods I’ve ever blasphemed that he’s right.’

‘Well, I can’t know about that till I’ve heard what he has to say – if he’s capable of saying anything.’

‘He’d better be,’ Jules said, and pulled at his wart again. ‘Not that I want to know, whatever it is. My curiosity’s strictly limited. That’s how I keep going. Here’s the key. It’s the first door on the right. You’ll be gentle with the kid, won’t you?’

* * *

Karim was lying on the bed, in the foetal position. He wore only a singlet despite the freezing weather and a pair of blue cotton trousers. His leg twitched as Lannes closed the door and he turned his head towards him. His mouth was swollen and had been bleeding, and there were streaks of dried blood on his chin and on the dirty singlet. His left eye was bruised and already beginning to turn black. He gave a little moan or whimper, and screwed round to pull himself up with his back against the headrest. His mouth hung open and his lips moved as if he was making to speak, but instead he swallowed and no words came.

Lannes poured him a drink from the bottle he had brought up from the bar.

‘I know you don’t,’ he said, ‘but get this down. You need it.’

The boy stretched out his hand which was shaking and with difficulty got the glass to his lips. He did as he was told, knocking it back in one. Then he shuddered as if his stomach was heaving, and coughed. He lay back on the bed holding himself together and sweat started on his face.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Lannes said. ‘Take your time. Take all the time you need.’

He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

‘It can’t be that bad,’ he said, though he knew it could. It could always be that bad.

He lit a Gauloise and gave himself another shot of the brandy; and waited, maybe five minutes, maybe longer. The room was very silent and cold, and the boy had stopped shaking. A dog barked somewhere in the street below. Its bark turned to a howl as if it had been shut out from its home and didn’t understand why the world had turned against it.

‘He’s dead,’ Karim said. ‘It wasn’t me but he’s dead. You have to believe me. I didn’t even know she had a gun.’

‘So he’s dead and you didn’t know she had a gun. Who was he? Do you know that?’

For the first time the boy looked him in the face and when he spoke his voice was firmer.

‘Of course I do. It was that bastard, the spook you called Félix.’

‘Félix?’ Lannes said. ‘You’re sure? Sorry, silly question. You couldn’t not be sure.’

He put a cigarette between the boy’s lips and lit it, another for himself.

‘We’ll take it slowly,’ he said. ‘The whole story, from start to finish.’

‘Will you help me?’

‘The story. Just what happened.’

He sat down on the bed by the boy’s feet.

‘We’ve got as long as you need,’ he said.

It took time. The boy spoke in spurts, breaking down and crying more than once. He mostly kept his eyes averted, only once or twice looking up to see how Lannes was taking it. He was trembling again. He had been brought into the world of his worst dreams.

The old woman, his mother, had let Félix in. No problem: from her point of view he was a client and they needed the money. Lannes imagined her turning away and back to her chair by the table which would have been littered with dirty dishes, plates of half-eaten and rejected food, overflowing ashtrays and of course her bottle of rum. Karim was asleep or near asleep, stretched out on his bed. He sprang up when he recognised Félix, who said, ‘You little bastard, you filthy cunt,’ and hit him, swinging his fist into his face so violently that Karim who had been getting to his feet was knocked down. Félix took hold of his hair and hauled him up, and then he hit him in the belly, so hard that Karim would have fallen down again, if Félix hadn’t kept hold of his hair. Then, with his free hand, he swiped him twice across the face.

‘I’d kill you,’ he said, ‘happily, if I didn’t need you.’

‘No,’ Karim said. ‘No, please … ’

He couldn’t meet Lannes’ eyes when he said this; he was ashamed of his fear. Ashamed to have pleaded with the man.

Félix smiled.

‘You fucking Arab whore,’ he said, ‘I see I’m going to have to remind you who you belong to.’

He threw Karim back on the bed. Karim screamed. Then, he didn’t know exactly, there was a loud bang, then another, and Félix was thrown across him. The first shot had hit the wall, the second the back of Félix’s head.

Or perhaps it was the other way round. He struggled out from under him and saw his mother standing there.

‘She didn’t even look surprised. She just let the gun fall from her hand and turned away.’

When Karim had pulled himself together and dabbed at his bleeding face with a towel, she was back sitting at the table with her glass in one hand and the other on the bottle of rum.

That at least was the course of events as Lannes reconstructed them from the boy’s halting and disjointed story. It might be true. It might not. But there it was. Karim, exhausted by the telling, was weeping again.

Lannes said nothing while he smoked two cigarettes. Whatever the truth, Félix had asked for it. And – he thought of his conversation with Jacques Maso – he himself had been done a service.

‘Are you going to arrest me?’

‘For what?’

‘And Maman?’

He had never called her that in speaking to Lannes; the old woman, the old bitch, the old sow, never Maman.

‘A boy’s best friend is his mother,’ Lannes said.

He was in no man’s land. He knew that. Whichever way he moved would determine which danger he was running towards.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said. ‘But first wash your face.’

He pointed to a jug and basin which stood on a little marble-topped table.

‘I’ll have a word with Jules meanwhile.’

* * *

He knocked on the door that let in to the bar. Jules responded at once, as if he had been waiting for a summons.

‘Did anyone see him arrive?’

‘There were a few of my regulars in the bar when he turned up. But they wouldn’t think anything of it, and in any case they’re not the sort to blab. How is he?’

‘Not good. But trouble’s over. Nothing for you to worry about.’

‘Thank Christ. I like a simple life.’

‘You do? That surprises me. All the same we might be better to leave by a back door if you have one.’

‘You’re not taking the kid in?’

‘No reason why I should. Like I said, trouble’s over.’

Which of course it wasn’t. It was only the First Act curtain. Nevertheless …

‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to bring the boy through the bar. That’s certainly the conclusion your customers would jump to. The boy’s had a bad scare. That’s all you need know, Jules.’

‘And you’ll be gentle with him.’

‘Your concern touches me. But there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be.’

* * *

The stench on the staircase was worse than ever, and there was no response when Lannes banged on the door. Karim bent down and called out ‘it’s me’, and they heard shuffling footsteps and the sound of a bolt being withdrawn. The old woman with a half-smoked cigarette stuck to her lower lip took one look at Lannes, and turned away, back to her bottle.

Karim put his hand on her shoulder and asked her if she was all right.

She shook it off and looked at him with what might have been contempt. She picked up her glass and said nothing.

Lannes led the way through to the bedroom. He hadn’t doubted the boy’s story, only perhaps the details. The dead man was lying face down, the back of his head shattered. Lannes rolled him over, and some of the brains fell out. If he hadn’t been told it was Félix, there wasn’t enough left of the face to recognise him, but he didn’t doubt the boy’s identification. His belt had been unbuckled and his fly-buttons undone.

‘I wonder if anyone saw him arrive,’ he said.

Karim shook his head. He looked as if he might be about to faint. Lannes told him to sit down. He obeyed of course; for the moment he had no will of his own. He was as feeble as a pawn on the chessboard, but in real life you shouldn’t sacrifice a pawn.

Lannes took out a handkerchief, picked up the gun, checked that it was now empty and slipped it into his pocket. He wondered how long the old woman had had it and where it had come from, but the answer wasn’t important, and in any case he wasn’t going to inquire. Probably she wouldn’t be able to give an answer anyway. Others, their neighbours, must have heard the shots, some of them anyway, but in these times, this place, they would be happy to know nothing about anything.

It would be dark in half an hour. He already knew what he was going to do, and he knew that in coming to this decision, he had crossed his own rubicon. He went through the dead man’s pockets, removing his notecase and any papers, then on second thoughts replaced them.

There was a trunk under the bed, a huge canvas trunk, the kind people take on a sea voyage. He leant down and pulled it out. It was covered in labels of shipping lines serving North Africa and the Levant.

‘What’s in this?’

Karim stirred.

‘It’s the old woman’s costumes,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at her now, but she used to be in a dance troupe. They toured all over the Mediterranean. It was in Algeria she met my father, or so she says. Sometimes even now when she’s having a good day and has had only a couple of drinks she likes to get them out and run her hands over them. When I was a boy of ten or twelve, we would both dress up in them and dance together to the gramophone. She wasn’t like she is now then, you understand. It was, well, lovely. You wouldn’t think it but she was quite a looker even five or six years ago.’

It was extraordinary to think of, to picture that raddled hag as an attractive woman and Karim as a pretty boy wearing one of her suggestive costumes and dancing with her. But people could always surprise you when they gave you a glimpse of the hidden parts of their life.

‘Empty it,’ he said. ‘We’re going to need the trunk. So take the things out and lay them aside.’

When the boy didn’t move, he said, ‘I’m going to help you, Karim. But I can’t do it all by myself. So, do as I say, there’s a good boy.’

He sat and smoked while Karim took out the costumes one by one, stroking some of them as if the sight brought back memories of happier days.

He thought they could get away with it, and if they didn’t, well, there would be no defence he could offer.

When the trunk was empty, he took off his overcoat, told Karim to take hold of Félix’s legs while he got hold of him under the arms, and together they lowered him into the trunk. It was a tight fit, and they had to fold his legs up, but they got him in, and Lannes sat on its lid to hold it shut while he fastened the clasps. And, astonishingly, the boy still asked no questions, not even when Lannes said they would have to wait till it was dark.

At last the light failed, he put his overcoat on again and they carried the trunk into the other room. The old woman looked up, and said, ‘Why are you letting him steal my trunk, you little bastard?’

‘Don’t be silly, Maman, he’s helping us clear up the mess you made.’

‘The mess I made! What do you mean, mess?’

‘It’s all right,’ Lannes said, ‘you’ll get your trunk back.’

He told Karim to go and check that there was no one on the stairs. He wondered if the woman remembered what had happened, what she had done, or if she had blotted it out with rum.

The trunk was heavy, and one of the handles was frayed and in danger of snapping. But they got it down the stairs, meeting nobody, and out into the night. There was an alley, a cul-de-sac, fifty yards down the street, Lannes remembered. They turned in there and, when they were behind some rubbish bins, laid the trunk down and tipped the body out. Lannes had been tempted to leave it in the trunk, but the labels might invite dangerous questions. Probably they wouldn’t. Who would have thought the old woman had once been what it seemed she had? But it was a risk better not taken.

When they were back in the apartment with the trunk, Lannes said, ‘I’m keeping your gun. You’re not safe with it.’

‘What gun?’ she said. ‘I don’t know nothing about a gun.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Best you don’t.’

He picked up his stick. At the door Karim said, ‘Will it be all right?’