Significance (40 page)

Florian Lebrun was a clown in comparison to the Quinets. A drunk and an opportunist thief, a fraudster and fool. But a murderer? No way.

Montaldo drank the last dregs from the can, burped, then crushed it in his right hand and threw it into a rubbish bin five feet away. It pleased him that his aim was still accurate.

He lit a cigarette and leaned back on the seat keeping watch on the door opposite. Now and then, certain women caught his gaze as they went by. He liked to watch how women moved, the roll of their hips, the sharp attenuated clip of a woman in high heels, the graceful glide of a girl in casual footwear, long slim golden legs in shorts, the dimpled knees of chubby young tourists, the round jiggly breasts of one woman, the pert high bra
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less points of another's. It was a pleasure just to consider the endless variety of women, long and lean, taut and muscular, or oozing with plump pinchable flesh. All of them with their secrets, their weaknesses and foibles.

The door Montaldo was watching remained shut. Some woman's apartment, Montaldo surmised, and he pictured a woman lying in bed waiting for that idiot Lebrun to show up.

He pictured her welcoming smile, then suddenly it was not the suspect Lebrun crossing the room to the bed, but Montaldo himself.

‘Pleased to see me?' he imagined himself saying, then he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to kiss her. His hands slipped under the covers, exploring her body. Her skin, warm and smooth, slid gratifyingly under his hands and she was sighing hungrily. He kept his shirt and trousers on, even in his imagination he couldn't quite get rid of the enflamed boils on his neck and his arse.

What Montaldo didn't imagine was a tiny kitchen, a kitchen not much bigger than a cupboard if the truth be told, and a frying pan on the two
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ring stove heating up butter. He did not see a man separating egg yolks, then beating them furiously with a balloon whisk. Who makes mayonnaise when there's a woman waiting for you in bed? Perhaps if Montaldo had been hungry he might have imagined this. Not that Montaldo's imagination really mattered. What mattered was the job, keeping his eyes on the closed door.

Forty minutes had passed. A thought occurred to Montaldo. The suspect had neither used a key, nor had he waited for someone to open the door for him. He had simply, in one easy movement, turned the handle, opened the door and slipped inside.

Montaldo crossed the road. The door was a plain cream
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painted wooden one secreted between a hardware store and a shop selling sewing and craft materials. A clear amber blind, which was meant to protect the goods on display, had been pulled down in the window of the craft shop, turning all the goods a sickly piss colour.

Montaldo put his hand on the door handle and pressed down, the unlocked door opened easily. Cautiously he swung it back. Ahead of him was a long narrow passage and halfway along a flight of steep, uncarpeted stairs. There were no signs of life, no sounds. At the far end of the passage, Montaldo could make out the outline of another door. He entered the building, closing the door quietly behind him. The light in the passage was dim, but there was just enough light to see by. He took a few steps towards the foot of the stairs and glanced up, there were three floors and above them, set into the roof, a dirty skylight that showed a smeary blue sky and one ragged cloud. He moved along the passage, which he figured ran the depth of the building. To his left, concealed under the slope of the first flight of stairs were two bicycles and a baby stroller. He tried opening the back door, but it was locked. Montaldo squatted on his haunches so that his face was level with the lock. He peered through the keyhole and glimpsed a breeze block wall in shadow and a few straggly weeds banked against it. His view was limited so he could not tell if the back yard had a gate that could provide an escape route.

Montaldo started up the stairs. He caught a waft of meat frying close by. Someone was here.

On the first floor, he stopped by the single door and studied it for clues as to its occupants. He listened, then hearing nothing, moved away and made his way up the next flight of stairs. Another door was directly above the one below. Montaldo paused to listen again. It was here that the cooking smell was the strongest.

Inside he thought he could hear a fast repetitive noise. Bed springs? An old
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fashioned headboard beating against a wall? He leaned in closer so that his ear was almost pressed against the door.

What the hell was that noise?

Then his radio cracked into life.

Montaldo sprang away from the door and, with his hand pressed over his breast pocket, managed to muffle the sound to some degree.

He moved quickly back to the stairs and descended them two at a time. He was surprisingly light on his feet, graceful even.

Sur la Table

Suzette had put on a vintage black silk slip. She wasn't sure if it was a petticoat or a bed gown, but she wore it as a dress. It had cost her just five francs at a fleamarket years ago. It made her feel like a character in a film; someone played by Isabelle Huppert or Juliette Binoche.

She was sitting at the table and watching Florian in the kitchen through the open door. He was frying steak and making mayonnaise at the same time. He jiggled the pan and prodded the steak with a fork, then he'd drizzled oil into the emulsifying eggs, beating the mixture like crazy, clenching his teeth with the effort.

Suzette watched, her bare legs stretched out straight and crossed at the ankles, her head tilted to the right while she languidly stroked her left shoulder and arm with her fingertips.

A sudden noise startled her. It sounded like a dial tuning into a radio station, then rapidly tuning away again. There was a staticky voice, then a muffled electronic buzz.

‘What was that?'

Florian looked up at the sound of her voice, raised his eyebrows and gave a questioning flick of his head.

Suzette could not tell where the sound had come from exactly. It seemed to be in the room itself.

She looked about the room, searching for the source of the noise.

‘Huh?' Florian asked. He put the bowl down and was eyeing the steaks in the pan.

‘I thought I heard something. A radio maybe.'

Florian nodded and shrugged, then with a flourish he switched off the flame under the meat.

She watched as he got plates, then sliced a beef tomato into slithers which he fanned out on each. He lifted the steaks out of the pan, and finally spooned a big dollop of mayonnaise on the side.

He brought the plates to the table and proudly set one in front of her, before sitting down himself.

Suzette looked from her food to Florian, and before even picking up her knife and fork, she stood up and placed her hand softly on the crown of his head.

‘Thank you,' she said, then leaned in close to kiss him quickly on the lips.

He grinned.

Then together, they ate in companionable silence.

Halfway through, Florian remembering the wine he'd brought, went to the kitchen to fetch the bottle and two tumblers. Back at the table, he sloshed it generously into the glasses.

‘To life!' he said, tapping the rim of his tumbler against Suzette's. They each took a sip.

‘To good food!' Suzette said.

‘To good sex!' Florian replied, then smiled broadly and winked.

Suzette blushing, returned her gaze to her food. She did not know what to say to that, it rendered her momentarily speechless, partly as she was remembering, in an acutely physical way, the sex they'd had just a couple of hours ago. And it had been good, so good that she wanted to do it again. Right now and to hell with the food.

Florian watched her and noticed the blush. The way she'd coyly turned her face from him made him worry he'd said the wrong thing. He hadn't meant to be crude, he hadn't used a slang term.

‘Hey,' he said, ‘Suzette? Sorry, I didn't mean…'

She glanced at him, then looked away again.

At first he could not quite read her expression, but then he saw an irresistible smile dance around the edges of her mouth.

She carefully cut a small piece of the steak and dipped it into the mayonnaise and popped it into her mouth, then slowly nodded.

He watched as she chewed, then swallowed.

‘It's good,' she said at last, composing herself enough to meet his eyes. ‘It's all good. Really good. The best!' She left it to him to interpret that as he might.

They finished eating the steak, then sat at the table nibbling fruit and cheese, each waiting for what would happen next.

Florian refilled their glasses. Outside it was hot, the sky blue, the estuary and the river glinted in the sun. The little locomotive engine set off on its scenic trip to the even smaller town of Belle Plage on the other side of the bay. The river boat, which did hour
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long trips out to sea and back again, filled up with tourists. Inside in this quiet room Florian and Suzette sat on either side of a small table. Within sight was the still rumpled bed. This, then was civilisation. Food, wine, conversation. Unspoken, and unacted desire ran once more like a dangerous and unearthed electric current between them.

How to get there; how to move from sitting and coolly drinking the Bordeaux Supérieur to touching and kissing, to undressing, to Suzette straddling him, to all that delicious and sweet passion. To climax. Then falling from one another, until the next time. The rise and rise and rise and fall of desire.

When something good and pleasurable is experienced, one wants it again. A fairground ride, a lamb chop done in a particular way, a lover's kiss.

Again and again and again until it loses its meaning, its rarity.

The table then, Suzette thought, the table offers some protection. She feared the loss of love even as she felt herself falling, falling.

She could hardly look at him, though she knew his eyes were on her.

God, all this stupid coyness! This fear. When all she wanted to do was rise from her chair and go to him.

Needing courage she drank the last of her wine in two gulps. He had lifted the bottle to refill her glass, but she was on her feet standing next to him.

She stood there in her slip, her black silk slip with its pretty lace border at the neckline and hem. She took his hand. He did not protest, but put down the bottle without pouring any of the wine. She pulled his hand gently towards her. He stood up and with her free hand she touched his neck, his face. He understood. What was there not to understand? They kissed.

The blinds were still drawn. The sun at its edges burned with sharp white inexhaustible light. The train to Belle Plage sounded its whistle, a thick clot of people made their way onto the jetty that led to the river cruiser. Delicately, Florian slipped the shoulder straps of her slip off her shoulders and pulled the top down so her breasts were freed. He dipped his head and licked, lapped, sucked at her nipples.

She sighed and awkwardly slid her hands under his t shirt then tugged it off over his head.

The moment they had each privately and secretly sought, was upon them stepping crabwise towards the bed. Then. Now. In the moment. Tangled. Outside time for as long as it lasted.

And then.

To feel. To live, and love, and perhaps procreate. To hold onto love until death.

Ultimately that was the end.

So the point was to say, I lived. I felt this. While the sun shone and the locomotive once again chugged along the coast to Belle Plage, I existed.

Suzette held onto Florian. She held on with the pretence of passion. There was passion, but also something else. Eternity.
The everlasting. The moment.

Then, a knock at the door.

Mirrors

Scott was shown into a small windowless room. There was an ugly metal
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legged desk with a wooden top and four mismatched chairs. On the table attached by wires to a wall
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mounted switch was a microphone on a small stand.

To the left of this table a large mirror filled the entire top half of one wall.

Yeah.
A mirror
? Scott had seen enough films and TV cop shows to know what was hidden by this seemingly innocent glass. He pictured shadowy figures behind it, watching him and analysing his every move and gesture.

And actually, he reasoned, (after he had been instructed to sit on the plastic moulded chair on one side of the table and had watched himself do it in the mirror) even if it was only a perfectly ordinary mirror with a completely solid and ordinary wall behind it, it was still unnerving if only because it forced you to continually regard yourself in the guise of the accused. You became, in short, the bad guy. Or in another fictional version of this dislocated image, you became the guy who is accused, but innocent, you were the character in ‘The Fugitive', Dr Richard Kimble, the one who is fated to hide and run endlessly in order to clear his name after being accused of his wife's murder.

It crossed Scott's mind that he should have insisted on contacting his embassy in Paris, or at least tried to find a lawyer. But there again it was only an altercation in the street, a minor matter, and involving the Canadian Embassy or a good English
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speaking lawyer would no doubt involve a delay of hours as well as money.