Paris Noir (3 page)
“No. I’ll come and check.”
No music in the elevator. Fourth floor. The guy who opens is standing in the dark.
“Mister Coleman?”
He pulls me inside, bangs the door shut, and I take a hit that shatters my nose. The carpet is thick. From the corner of my eye, I adjust my vision and make out the big cop, Nico Diamantis, dressed in gym sweats. He leans over me, totally enraged, and slaps me a dozen times. I’m going to pass out.
“You showed up at MY HOUSE, you fucking whore! In my home, in front of my wife and kids, and you gave them orders! Who do you think you are, for chrissake, you’re just a piece of meat with two holes. So shut your fucking mouth and remember who you are,
capish?
”
“You impotent fuck!” I stammer.
He picks me up, grabs my head, and throws me against a framed print. I crash against the glass, my face is all bloody, I can’t see a thing; he catches me, rips my clothes off.
The carpet.
Blows.
His smell.
His fingers inside of me.
And then this, coming from the end of the world: Keller. I grab an ashtray, throw it at the closest window. The man’s breathing like an ox, turns me over, and smashes my teeth with his brass knuckles. Something red bursts in my head.
And
I
Fall
Into
The
Black
Room.
The Others
At the sudden noise, Keller quickly raises his head. Fourth floor. Vania. He grabs his Beretta from the glove compartment and, with his heart drumming, reaches the building in a few strides. He swallows up the steps, hammers on Coleman’s door. Noise of running feet inside. Keller steps back and with three kicks of his heel, knocks the latch free and rips open the right panel. Everything is dark, but in the main room he trips on a motionless pile of rags. He puts his gun away, leans above Vania, and turns her over. Her face is nothing but a puddle of blood. Keller, his heart violently pounding, leans lower. Listens to the young woman’s heart. Then he turns away, his fists clenched. A draft coming from the kitchen. The chauffeur rushes there in a state of fury. The backstairs door is open. He bends forward over the railing. Nobody. Now he goes back to the street side, turns off the light, looks down through the window, and sees Diamantis heading toward Saint Georges in his nouveau-riche car. Keller comes back to Vania. Pulls his cell out.
“Diego, it’s me, Keller. You’re still working at that clinic in Poissy? … Okay, get a room ready and call the medics. I’m on my way.”
Then the man leans over Vania again. His eyes red, his voice shaking. No one can hear him so he whispers against her hair:
My angel, my love, my little girl
. He kneels down on the acrylic carpeting, picks up the battered body, and after some hesitation, leaves through the backstairs.
In a dingy room down in the basement of his precinct house, Nico Diamantis throws a last slap in the face of a local dealer.
“Dealing drugs is bad, Rachid.”
“Fuck you.”
The Greek raises his eyes to the sky, sweeps the legs of the chair from under the teenager’s feet, and kicks him repeatedly. The kid folds himself into a fetal position. Nico gets tired of him, turns away, and leaves, locking the door behind him.
Office. A thousand pounds of files. Lhostis, breathing heavily, walks toward him. Cholesterol and Marlboros. Tubular armchair.
“I checked the three neighborhood police stations like you told me. Nobody.”
“The apartment?’
“I went in through the back door; she’s gone.”
“The morgue?”
“I called, they haven’t seen a black woman in five days. You sure she was dead?”
“I’m not sure, no. I don’t know. She wasn’t moving and I left when I heard someone banging on the door.”
“You’re in deep shit.”
“Thanks. You’re a real help.”
“What about the chauffeur, Keller?”
Now Nico is thinking. It’s a painful task, he’s not used to it.
“Yeah, I see. He’s waiting in the car, she’s not back, he knocks on the door, he knocks harder, and …”
“And what?”
“A hospital.”
“No way. You think he’s an idiot?”
“Sort of.”
“A private clinic, Nico. We’re gonna have to go through the whole phone book to find that stupid bitch. All this crap so you can show off in front of Noémie. I can’t believe it.”
“No one touches my family. Go on the Internet, it’ll be faster.”
While Lhostis is settling down behind his computer, Nico looks distractedly at his files. Then thinks. Vania. The apartment.
I’m so stupid
.
He takes his jacket, goes down to the garage where the Picasso is dozing off. Two lines of coke on the dashboard. Wow, what a boost.
He rips the car out of the garage and steers for rue des Lombards. He doesn’t see the Mercedes pulling out behind him.
Rue Saint Martin, Turbigo, then the underground parking garage of the Forum des Halles. He finally decided to rent a spot there year round to avoid getting depressed over the hunt for a space on the street. Third level, underground.
He makes a face.
Three
Homeless guys
Sharing
One
Muddy
Big Mac.
At the end of the second underground level, a hole between two Clios. He rushes in. Cell phone. A little kiss to Noémie then Nico thinks again:
I’ve got to find me a whore
. Okay. He gets out of the car, heads for the elevator. Keller, squatting behind the car to the left, dives into the cop and stabs him three times near his heart. For good measure he sticks the silencer of his Beretta into Nico’s mouth and pulls the trigger two times.
Later, as he walks back to the entrance, he goes up to the guy who’s been watching the poorly parked Mercedes. An illegal alien. He hands him a twenty-euro bill.
“See, it didn’t take long.”
An officer in uniform informs Lhostis when he arrives at the Saint-Denis precinct the next day.
“Lieutenant, Diamantis got whacked.”
Lhostis freezes. So do the fatty acids.
“Shit, how?”
“Three stabs in the stomach and two bullets in the mouth. He’s getting butchered at the Institute right now.”
“Who found him?”
“A storekeeper from the Forum des Halles who was going to get his Clio. He was lying on the floor in the second underground level. The door of his car was still open.”
“I smell a contract.”
“Yeah, I agree. We’re all with you to find the son of a bitch who did it.”
“Okay, okay. I’m going over to the Institute, fast.”
Lhostis is playing back the bad movie as he drives. Vania. Noémie. The botched killings. And now this. He’s not too keen on playing the avenger. Nico, that stupid jerk. Well. Still.
Fifteen minutes later, in front of the dead meat in the morgue, he finally makes up his mind, pulls his cell out, and types in Noémie Diamantis’s phone number.
At the Poissy clinic, Keller watches over the young prostitute. The upper part of her body has disappeared under layers of gauze. Magic pipes link Vania to a complicated set of digital machinery. A doctor in a white smock reminiscent of George Clooney enters the room. Spots Keller.
“Did you notify the police?”
“No. She’s a prostitute.”
“I know some honest cops.”
“I don’t. Can I sleep in this room tonight?”
“Ask the nurse. I don’t know if she told you but this young woman will have to have reconstructive surgery on her face. Nothing is certain as far as the results …”
“I’ll tell her.”
“All right. I’ll be back in five hours.”
When Lhostis walks into the Diamantis home in Neuilly, the family is in mourning. Noémie dressed in a black Chanel suit. The kids in gray with white low socks. Noémie, furious.
“Spare me the condolences. He was cheating on me with a whore. In addition to whatever else he was hiding from me, stuff you know very well, it so happens.”
“He was the father of your children.”
“Thanks for the information. That’s why Nico has to be avenged.”
“Cops can’t avenge anyone.”
“Ten thousand euros might help you think about it.”
Lhostis in the clouds. He’s been wanting to buy a motorboat to coast around off Marseilles for a long time now. At the moment, he’s picking the color.
“Back to earth, Lhostis?”
“Five thousand now, five thousand when I deliver the man who did it.”
“The woman.”
“She couldn’t possibly have killed him. She was very badly messed up. The chauffeur maybe.”
“She’s pulling the strings. Just get your ass out there and find her.”
“I’ve checked all the hospitals in Île de France. I’m left with the clinics. It won’t be long.”
Noémie, bent over a small Regency desk, writes a check and holds it out to Lhostis. The man and the woman stare at each other.
“How will you make it now with the kids and all?”
“My parents have money. It’s not really a problem. Actually, yes, it is a problem since Nico always wanted to make money by himself. Which explains that prostitute. Destroy her.”
Keller is in Vania’s room, kneeling at her bedside. He presses the young woman’s hand, and for the first time she’s responsive.
She opens a swollen eye. Closes it again.
Keller, lost in a pagan prayer.
A storm is beating its knives against the windows.
Lhostis’s computer has coughed up sixty-five private clinics.
Three cops in uniform helped out. Then, at 8:30 p.m., the news comes in: There is an unidentified young black woman at the intensive care unit at the Myosotis clinic in Poissy. Lhostis sends the cops home so as not to miss the France-Georgia game in the early rounds of the World Cup.
Now he’s driving.
The dark ribbon of the forest of Saint-Germain stretches out before his eyes. His two combat knives are lying on the front seat.
He thinks the boat will be a fiberglass Beneteau, an excellent brand. White with blue trim and a Yamaha engine to propel the whole thing.
In Marseilles, the water is seventy degrees.
Here we are
. The Myosotis clinic. Lhostis parks his Honda Civic in a nearly empty parking lot. The first floor is splashed by the light coming from the hall.
The cop puts on round glasses, a white smock complete with a stethoscope in the breast pocket, and hides a combat knife at his back, stuck inside his belt. The woman at the desk is not from Africa. She stops reading muck about stars in
Voici
.
“Doctor Granger. I’m in charge of Vania, the young woman you placed in intensive care.”
“She’s been transferred. She’s in a private room now.”
“I’m so happy. Doctor Varant told me I could come by and visit her this evening. Is that okay?”
“Certainly, doctor, but I don’t have anyone to take you there. She’s in room 24, on the second floor. Will you be able to find your way?”
“No problem.”
The second floor is drowsy. In front of room 24, Lhostis grabs his knife, holds it tight inside his arm, opens the door.
Vania is lying in the dark. All wrapped up in bandages. Her mouth is free but her eyes are closed. The cop moves slowly forward, slipping the weapon into his hand.
Keller’s Tokarev goes
plok
and its slug rips the policeman’s left eye out. A splash of blood, the body sinks down. The chauffeur takes two leaps forward, catches the cop, and drags him to the sink. What he sees there under the light satisfies him. He filches Lhostis’s wallet, then draws near Vania. He turns on a lamp that casts a subdued light. She’s not asleep. Leaning over her, he runs his finger lightly across her lips. That mouth lets out a murmur.
“Keller … take me away.”
The chauffeur nods, puts his gun away, and lifts the fragile body up in his arms. The rain has stopped, the scenery behind the window stands out sharply.
Keller knows an island far away, east of Sweden.
It rains all the time there and fish are a staple. For now, that will do.
BY
C
HANTAL
P
ELLETIER
Ménilmontant
Translated by Nicole Ball
I
t’s the last thing Luc said to me on his way out: “Don’t be stupid, Sonia, take your pills.” I nodded. I should have started my medication again but I thought I was stable and I was sick of gulping down all that shit every day. Outside, along our windows, the first hyacinths were cutting through the soil in their ceramic pots. We went out in the courtyard and I felt a surge of affection for the two cherry trees that were dying in front of the concierge’s apartment and for the grass blades pushing their chlorophyll between the lopsided cobblestones. Even the faded look of the façades, I liked.
“Don’t worry,” I said.
He hugged me, or more exactly, I hugged him. That’s how we were, us two. An inverted couple. I was taller, heavier. Luc had nothing athletic about him, and I had been a swimming champ as a teenager. Eighteen years later, I still had biceps, shoulders, and thighs to show for it. I think this is what Luc had liked: the masculine side of me. But that day, everything was over. Luc was leaving to face another opponent. We kissed on the cheek.
I watched him go. I knew I wouldn’t take the time to get used to someone else again. Too much work, no more patience. As for Luc, he had started a new slalom without even bothering to train for it. So between the two of us, I was the one who smiled the most. Luc knew that by leaving he was doing a bigger favor for me than for himself. Which didn’t prevent him from feeling guilty. That almost pained me.
He stepped outside the courtyard gate. I pictured him climbing into the overloaded van. He was probably feeling remorseful at that moment: He hated material problems. The inconvenience of moving was going to destabilize him for a long time.
I went back to my Greek salad dressing; I added some lemon and a pinch of ground oregano. I tasted it. Not bad. I entered the recipe, list of ingredients, and all the numbered steps into the computer. I named that banal escarole-tomato-feta-black olives salad G
reek Summer Salad
. As with everything else, a new title is enough to make an old recipe sound fresh.
Looking out the window, I saw that the cobblestones in the courtyard were less dark, the day brighter than during the previous weeks. Spring was on its way. I felt a kind of exhilaration, suddenly convinced that freedom and spring could be a beautiful wedding celebration if I wanted.
I had not decided to call Jérôme.
I’m fine, thanks!
Despite what Luc says, I’m polite, especially with my clients, and Jérôme happened to be my main one: I created most of the recipes for his magazine,
Foodgourmet
. Swamped as usual, more than usual even, he was negotiating the sale of a Chinese edition of his magazine to a publishing conglomerate in Shanghai, and given that he was capable of selling his soul cut up in little pieces to decorate key chains, he was going berserk. One billion three hundred million potential clients. Even a thousandth of that godsend would have been a fortune.
I knew right away he was asking for a favor. It took me longer to understand what kind: For the last three days, he had been playing guide to a Chinese man. Devotedly, and for a good reason: He was the cousin of the guy he was dealing with in Shanghai!
But now, honestly, it’s too much. Could youpossibly take charge of this burden until 9 p.m. tonight in Orlywhen the cumbersome character flies off to Milan?
He gave me one of his
I’ll make it up to you, the future of the company is atstake,
or,
I’m so overwhelmed by work, I’ll pay you the equivalentof three recipes
,
you can’t say no
. I said
no,
I couldn’t say no.
Besides, taking a Chinese tourist around the capital wasn’t worse than tinkering with recipes from photographs: If you used your imagination this could pass as a tomato, that as a Béarnaise sauce, and the whole thing as a slice of calf’s head. Because that was exactly what my job had become: I looked at totally lame pictures of totally lame dishes and concocted plausible recipes from them. To tell the truth, you ended up losing your appetite, even me, and I do love to eat.
Without this new turn of events, I would have e-mailed him my autopsy of a salad and stayed home; so I printed my page without any qualms, all excited to go out and look spring straight in the eye.
I saw him right away as I was stepping into the offices of
Food-gourmet.
What a shock! My Chinese guy stood out against a lovely light and the greenery cascading down the slopes of the Parc de Belleville. In the background, misty Paris bowed down before such beauty, golden skin and turned-up lips, a true piece of China to which amber tea would have given the color of brown sugar. This is when I knew I should have taken my pills. I was losing it. And yet I wasn’t really attracted to Asian men. Too smooth, not sexy at all. There was a kind of eunuch quality about them, I thought, although I had never checked the facts. I probably associated them with the servants in the imperial court of China, castrated so His Highness wouldn’t have rivals under his roof. In short, I had no use for Chinese men. No, it was hoodlums who gave me my thrill: hairy hunks who fill out their shirtsleeves, display shoulders broad enough for two, thick arms and large, rugged hands, surly men who wheedle you into the underbrush with their tenor voices … But on that day, all of my prejudices evaporated. I would have needed heavy medication to restore my judgment which had quickly gone down the drain.
All melted, my legs like cotton, my heart sunk between my thighs and raging as if inside a nest of red ants, I had a hard time resisting the temptation to jump on him and eat him up alive, and yet I hadn’t raped anyone in years.
This fellow smelled of strawberries, the kind you find in woods, not in supermarkets; it activated my saliva like crazy, a sign that I hadn’t completely lost my appetite. His perfect lips flashed me an irresistible smile. The scoundrel wasn’t scared: He had no idea of the risks he was running.
Jérôme came to the poor guy’s rescue by grabbing my arm and whispering that he would reimburse all my expenses. I couldn’t care less; I couldn’t take my eyes off him. As soon as he stood up, I noticed the son of a bitch was terrifically built, not too thin but not paunchy either, strong, straight, good thighs and a nice piece of equipment that showed through his black, flowing pants. He even had shoulders and pecs under his dark blue jacket, and in his golden face, his big eyes were shining under eyelids that seemed painted with a brush. That creaseless curve was incredible! I had never seen such a thing!
He spoke a kind of kitchen English; I did too of course, so that was lucky. He was obviously pleased to stop posing as a piece of pottery in the lobby of
Foodgourmet
. I was eager to leave. I gave my Greek salad to Jérôme and grabbed the Chinese man. All he was carrying was a small bag; he traveled light, a real plus.
I made him walk across the park, just to show him that Paris had good green lungs and that the most beautiful city in the world had something else to show off besides the Eiffel Tower and the Sacré-Coeur.
Very nice!
It was indeed very nice. A group of Asian people were doing tai chi between forsythias in full bloom. They must have looked familiar to him. I explained that we were to leave his bag at my place first. What did he feel like doing after that?
As you like
. He shouldn’t have said that but he had no way of knowing.
Eleven a.m. I had six or seven hours to get him in a stew. Whatever the recipe. I was ready to settle for something quick, cooked
al dente
. There, in the quiet of the park, I decided not to rush things, not to break anything. Nice and slow. Like a normal, regular woman.
At the intersection of rue des Pyrénées and rue de Mé-nilmontant, Paris was shamelessly exposing her underwear up to her Eiffel Tower garters; we let the lights turn green twice, the better to enjoy the strip tease. I was thinking of poor Luc, who was hurting his back as he unloaded his van. He really had no luck. I wouldn’t have bet a dime on their happiness as a couple.
On the way down rue de Ménilmontant, my Chinese man was looking all around him, at the Arab grocery and butcher stores, at the bazaars.
Wonderful!
I realized that I shouldn’t be counting on having poetic exchanges with him. A real advantage. He was nodding and smiling so much he seemed to be laughing all the time, with his plump mouth stretched out over China teeth militarily aligned. I felt pity for Luc—he was missing such an exciting show.
Near my place, the boarded-up buildings and the construction sites didn’t exactly make for an attractive landscape, but apparently he didn’t care. As soon as we passed through the gate into my paved courtyard, everything, the shrubbery, the flowerpots, was suddenly more pleasant. He thought it was
so cute!
When he took off his jacket in the living room, I gave in. His wild strawberry scent was unbearable. He agreed to a cup of coffee so I made two small, very strong espressos and I crushed five of my most potent pills inside his cup. He was sitting on the couch, sipping his coffee without flinching. He didn’t last very long. After a
Very good, it’s such a nice place,
he fell asleep. Milan had gone down the tubes by then. I closed the shutters, took off my dress, and delicately stripped the product of its various cases so I could taste it. A pure delight.
When I got back from shopping at the Chinese supermarket on rue de Belleville, he was still asleep, naked on the couch, his hands and feet tied up, his big body well sheathed in his totally smooth, amber China skin. With just that small accident of imperfect, slightly wrinkled flesh: his penis; a bit darker, with a smallish hard-on between his thighs. He was a good boy. He’d been abused for at least two hours but that hadn’t prevented him from having nice dreams. I was really lucky.
I put away my groceries, had a bite, and went back to work. Munching on his earlobe, I could again verify that not only did he smell of wild strawberries, he also had their taste. I was sorry I had damaged him, though; his perfect lips were puffy and were turning blue; I felt upset. For fifteen minutes I gave him a hard time that left purple marks on his neck and a big scratch on his left cheek. He was grunting in his heavy sleep, his asshole looked sullen around a small, ugly rip. The guy was not used to good things. I washed him with a baby wipe and put some ointment on it. I wanted him to last for a while. In that respect, I’m like any woman, I get attached fast.
At 4:00 a.m., exhausted, I rolled him over onto the wheelchair we had bought from the widower upstairs after the death of his crippled wife, when Luc had a badly broken leg. China was heavy but I managed to lay him down on the guest room bed. I had bitten his left breast so hard it had left a big bruise in the shape of a half moon. I did have good teeth.
I straightened the blanket on my little darling who was blissfully asleep; it almost felt like milk was rising inside my breasts, but I managed to get ahold of myself. I locked him up and collapsed on my bed.
Before taking a well-deserved rest, I remembered that it’s never a good idea to fall in love with guys who are not your type; it always ends up badly and knocks you out for a long time. Luc, with his tiny build and sparrow voice, had been an exception to my professed fascination for hunks—an exception that had brought me bad luck.
I slept until 9 and had a dream about Luc in his wheelchair.
An image which in fact represented the last stage of our love rivalry. A few weeks of recovery and I had been subjected to the whole spiel: lies, scenes. From one physical therapy session to the next, Luc had fallen in love with his physical therapist, and after that I seemed to him like a half-measure at best. He was wrong. My Chinese man, if he ever woke up, could testify to my energy to perform; I could do a beautiful job.
At 10, the breakfast tray was ready but he wasn’t. He had trouble opening his eyes; they had completely shrunk in his swollen face, which was kind of yellow now. How old was he? Slightly younger than me. Thirty-two, thirty-three. But supposedly, Chinese people don’t look their age. Maybe he was a fraud.
I slipped a basin under the blanket and grabbed his penis:
“Pee?” I asked, in case he didn’t understand.
I heard the gurgle and a wave went through my hand. Not bad. I shook his little hose before removing the basin. I think this made him feel good.
I lifted his head, brought the glass of water to his lips. He tasted it first, thought about it; he didn’t trust me. I honestly couldn’t resent him for that; he finally drank half of it but turned down the coffee. I could understand that. I pushed the croissant into his mouth and he ate all of it. Good: I had stuffed the carefully crushed drugs inside the dough.
He regained his spirits briefly and started to scream. I couldn’t care less, no one would hear him; the widower upstairs had been in the hospital for the last three months, and the only window in the bedroom looked out onto a blind courtyard. Faced with my unruffled calm, he stopped and looked at the ceiling.
“I feel sick,” he said in a blank voice.
“You’ll be better soon,” I replied with a shrug.
To tell the truth, if he kept on popping all the pills instead of me, chance was he wouldn’t.
He closed his eyes. Not a fighter. Quite a fatalist. It’s supposed to be an Oriental thing. Back in China, he was used to being mistreated perhaps. He was really calm for someone being held in confinement, I thought.
When I pulled the blanket off him and brandished the whip, he looked at me with an imploring expression, but pity is a feeling I loathe. And please, no bullshit: His dick was half stiff, and that never lies. He must have understood; he turned slightly to present his ass, or rather to protect his more fragile parts. His buns were a lot more fleshy than Luc’s, who loved to be spanked, something I never refused him in fifteen years, something he couldn’t complain about. The jerk should never have left, we had our little ways together, and that’s not easy to lose all of a sudden, especially for someone unstable like I am, and when spring is on its way.
