Heartsong (15 page)

“The Peau-Rouge is here, now? In the jail?”

“He has a court appearance next week, or possibly the week after that. With all these holiday revelers, the courts are much backed up, I think.” Borely pursed his lips in a gesture of disdain. “This is not the holy season anymore, Monsieur St-Cyr. It is a season to get drunk and beat your wife or stab a North African, do you not agree?”

“Yes, of course.” But St-Cyr had been writing with careless haste: Peau-Rouge.
Vagabondage
. Leaving hospital—Conception—without permission. Christmas Eve. Crossed out. Christmas morning. “And does this American Indian have a name?”

Borely pretended to study the logbook, but he was looking right at the name. He was enjoying the suspense of the moment, but he was also a little intimidated by the American language. He didn't want to butcher the word in front of this young man of privilege, so he ended up spelling it out.

“Charging Elk,” said St-Cyr, who had studied the English language in Grenoble. His father had said English was becoming more and more the
lingua franca
of commerce, especially the American tongue. St-Cyr had no intention of becoming a capitalist like his
father, but he did learn the language to please him. “Does he speak English?”

“According to the vice-consul, he does not. He does not speak English or French. In fact, he has not spoken a word since his arrival. Perhaps the man is a mute.”

St-Cyr tapped his pen against his teeth. This was a story! An American Indian all by himself in Marseille without the ability to communicate with anyone. It didn't seem possible that it could just fall into the lap of Martin St-Cyr. “You mean, Sergeant Borely, that the Wild West show just left town without him? He's stranded here?”

“Absolutely. The vice-consul says the show is in Rome, even as we speak. He wanted to send this, this Charging Elk to Rome by ship, but of course that is impossible until the legal matters are settled. You understand, monsieur, that we can't just turn him loose at the whim of the vice-consul.”

But St-Cyr was writing again and didn't respond. Finally, he looked up at Borely with a thoughtful smile that showed his small, even teeth. “Would it be possible to have a look at this
indien
, Sergeant Borely? I would like to write a small story about him, nothing much. I think my editor would find it of some small interest.” He laughed what he hoped was a charming laugh. “I will make sure I spell your name right—in the first paragraph.” St-Cyr didn't really have much hope that the sergeant would allow such an unusual request from a lowly police reporter. Or that his editor, whom he only knew by sight, would allow much more than a few factual words. More likely he would send a feature reporter to write the story.

But Borely actually seemed to be considering. St-Cyr didn't think Borely was a vain man, but the thought of seeing one's name in print can be enticing. The desk sergeant was in control of his own little world here in the Préfecture, but when he went home in
the evening to his flat, to his civilian clothes and squabbling brats, he was as anonymous as the dock worker who lived above him.

Borely called out to two policemen who were standing in the hallway that led to offices and interrogation rooms. They had been chatting quietly, but at the sound of Borely's voice, they both came at a fast clip, their shoes clicking smartly against the marble floor.

“You, Dugommier, take Monsieur St-Cyr down to the cells. Tell the jailer that the monsieur wishes to see the Peau-Rouge.” He turned to the reporter. “This is very irregular, St-Cyr—but you are a police reporter and it is incumbent upon me to offer the cooperation of the department. I could do nothing less.”

“Merci beaucoup
,
sergent
. My newspaper always appreciates the cooperation of the Marseille Police Department.” St-Cyr fought back an impulse to laugh at Borely's puffed-up language. “And may I have your Christian name, sergeant—for the story?”

S
t-Cyr thought that Ambrose was not a name he would have associated with Borely, as he followed the policeman down the narrow, winding stairs to the depths of the Préfecture. Francis or Jerome, perhaps even Michel. Not Ambrose. Patron saint of—what? Desk sergeants?

The basement smelled of cooking, of rancid oil, onions, and cabbage, with a strong hint of disinfectant. The combination was not agreeable to St-Cyr's nose, and he felt the brioche and the sweet café au lait move in his stomach. He began to wonder, as he looked at the dark, sweating walls of the low, narrow corridor, if this was such a good idea after all. The place was medieval, right out of the Spanish Inquisition. He imagined torture devices in special rooms inhabited by men in brown hooded robes. Again, he felt a surge in his stomach as a wave of claustrophobia hit him.

But the corridor opened out into a larger hallway, and a man sat
behind a desk beneath a tall skylight. He was wearing a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His tunic was draped over the chair.

“Monsieur is here to see the Peau-Rouge. It is cleared with Sergeant Borely.”

The man behind the desk was obese, a condition not at all usual with the Marseillais. He had a periodical spread open before him. St-Cyr could see an illustration of a young woman in a corset and black stockings that came to just above her knees. A fringed mantle was draped across her lap.

“And what is monsieur's capacity?” The man carefully folded the periodical and pushed it to the side of the desk. It was clear that he was in charge here and took his orders from a higher authority than Borely.

“I am a reporter with
Le Petit MarseiLlaid
. I cover the activities of the police department. Today I have been sent to interview the Peau-Rouge—with the kind consent of Sergeant Borely and, of course, yourself.” St-Cyr didn't find it necessary to tell the truth, to explain that he had heard of Charging Elk just moments before.

But the fat man had quit listening to St-Cyr. He lumbered to his feet, pulling his suspender straps over his shoulders with a satisfying snap for each, all the time grumbling to the other policeman about the lack of communication between those lilywhites upstairs and the poor bastards who had to work in such a shithole as this.

He shrugged into his tunic, which he did not bother to button, then opened a small cabinet on the wall behind the desk. He continued his diatribe against those upstairs as he lifted a heavy ring of keys from a metal hook. “Insufferable bastards,” he grumbled as he walked across the hall to an iron door. He fitted one of the keys into the lock, then pushed the door inward. The groan of the iron hinges made the hair stand up on the back of St-Cyr's neck.

The jailer told the other policeman to wait outside, then slammed the door shut behind himself and St-Cyr. The corridor before them
was even dimmer than the one that had brought St-Cyr to the jailer's desk. There were no windows, no outside light, just the occasional lightbulb in a wire cage hanging from the high ceiling. St-Cyr was almost surprised to see that the jail had electricity. He had half expected to see gaslights, perhaps even torches flickering on the walls.

One side of the corridor was a stone wall; the other side, another stone wall interrupted by metal doors with no windows. St-Cyr had not been down here before and now he wished he hadn't been so eager to come. He pulled his coat tighter to afford some protection from the damp chill. He thought, This
is
right out of the Inquisition. He had always had a touch of claustrophobia—since that day as a child when he and his class at the lycee had toured an ancient dungeon and had to walk single-file through the narrow passageways and the small winding marble stairs that were lit only by small slits in the stone walls. Now he felt the familiar panic and he made himself look at the jailer's broad back.

“These are the doors to the cells, then, monsieur?”

“Oui, oui,”
said the jailer.

“And is there a prisoner behind every one?”

“Oui, oui
. Some. Not all.”

St-Cyr was annoyed by the man's abruptness but he knew that the jailer was equally annoyed by his presence. He obviously didn't approve of civilians in his fiefdom. The man was practically subhuman, a grouser and a bully, just the type that St-Cyr might have imagined working in such misery. Still, he couldn't help but be somewhat comforted by the broad back before him.

St-Cyr was trying to imagine what this American Indian would look like—would he be dressed in feathers and fur, in war paint? Would he have a fierce scowl? More important, would he be dangerous, a wild savage from the American frontier? St-Cyr had not gone to the Wild West show of Buffalo Bill. He really had no
interest in the wild west or the cowboys and Indians—at least up to a half hour ago. When he was a boy, his playmates would often play Indians and soldiers, enacting the violent scenes they had culled from the pages of illustrated adventure books. St-Cyr was more inclined to collect insects. He had had a large butterfly collection from his family's August vacations to their chateau in Perigord.

The jailer grunted something and stopped and rattled his keys. St-Cyr had been so deep in thought he almost ran into the broad back, but now he pulled back in fear of this damp, cold, dimly lit place and its Gothic keeper. What in the name of God was he doing here? He was only a police reporter who went around the city to the various precincts to gather small facts about mostly small crimes. As he watched the jailer insert a key in one of the iron doors, he had the irrational fear that this whole business was a trap, that he was going to be locked up, that he would never see the light of day again.

The jailer swung the door open, then stepped inside. St-Cyr was surprised to see a shaft of light from the open doorway; still, he held back, just ducking his head around the corner to look inside.

The light came from a small window in the opposite wall up near the ceiling. The window was covered with woven iron, but it was high enough that a man could not reach it, even standing on a chair. St-Cyr edged forward until he was standing in the doorway, ready to bolt back the way they came at the slightest movement.

But the scene was almost tranquil—the shaft of light, the jailer standing quietly on one side of the room, his tunic now buttoned against the chill, and a figure on a bed that was suspended from the wall. It was a close room, perhaps two meters by three meters, but its height gave the claustrophobic St-Cyr great relief after the perilous journey down the low, narrow corridor. Out of nervous habit, he slid his notebook out of his coat pocket.

“Here is your Peau-Rouge, monsieur,” the jailer said, his voice
rough-edged but almost hushed.

The first thing St-Cyr noticed was the long, dark hair. It was parted in the middle and fell past the man's shoulders, almost to the small of his back. Even St-Cyr's whore, Fortune, did not have hair so long.

“Charging Elk?” said St-Cyr.

The Indian turned to the sound of his name, but he did not look directly at St-Cyr. He seemed to be looking at the door behind the reporter. His eyes were dark and there were shadows beneath his cheekbones. His mouth was closed tightly, like a seam in a burnished leather glove.

At first, St-Cyr was glad that the Indian did not look threatening—in fact, he did not look capable of violence at all. In his black coat, buttoned to the neck, and short pants and slippers, he looked almost pitifully thin. His bare ankles seemed especially vulnerable. The more St-Cyr studied him, the more concerned he became.

“Does he eat?” he said.

“Like a bird,” the jailer said. “He eats his soup and drinks his tea—that's about it. He leaves all the vegetables in his soup bowl. He has no taste for bread. I think the Peau-Rouge does not eat like real men.”

“I think he's starving, monsieur. Look at him. Perhaps you are not feeding him the right food.”

The jailer, who had been almost civil since entering the cell, now rattled his keys against his leg and blew an abrupt puff of air, obviously angry. “We do not operate a restaurant here, monsieur. We are poor jailers. We do not sit behind fancy desks upstairs and decide whether we will have bouillabaisse or couscous for lunch. Perhaps
gigue de chevreuil
for dinner. No, we do not operate like that. This one will eat what the others eat—or he will go hungry.”

St-Cyr now looked at Charging Elk. “Do you understand English?” he said in English.

Charging Elk almost responded to the word “English.” But he remembered Brown Suit, the American, and his inability to communicate with him, and he remained silent.

“How can I help you, Charging Elk? Would you like something different to eat? Eat?” St-Cyr tried to will the Indian to understand with loud, correct pronunciation, but the Indian just stared at the door behind the reporter.

St-Cyr could feel the jailer's impatience, and he knew that his time was just about up. But he didn't want to leave. He wanted to make the Indian understand that somehow he would help him. And this was surprising to St-Cyr. He was not a cold man—he helped beggars with a sou every now and then; he gave his landlady a tin of very expensive foie gras for Christmas; he brought the old man who lived across the hall from him and was dying of consumption packets of pastilles and reports of new remedies that he read about in his newspaper. Still, he let little in the way of universal human suffering affect him.