Solea (16 page)

“You'd let me kill him?” I said, surprised. “Would you?”

“Yes, if what's driving you isn't hate, or despair, but love. The love you were starting to feel for Sonia. You know, I have very clear-cut views about things. And a strong sense of morality. But . . . Do you know how many years they gave Giovanni Brusca, the bloodiest of all Mafia hitmen?”

“I didn't even know he'd been arrested.”

“A year ago. At home. He was eating spaghetti with his family. Twenty-six years. He's the man who blew up Judge Falcone.”

“And murdered an eleven-year-old boy.”

“Just twenty-six years. I wouldn't feel any remorse if that hitman of yours died, instead of having to stand trial. But . . . we're not there yet.”

 

No, we weren't there yet. I got up. I could still hear the fire sirens, coming from all directions. The air was acrid, sickening. I closed the window. I'd been sleeping on Mavros's bed for the past half-hour. Hélène Pessayre and her team had left. And, with her agreement, I'd gone upstairs to Mavros's apartment, above the gym. I was supposed to wait there. Until another team arrived to see if it could spot the car of the guys who were following me. We were both sure they were there, right outside the door, or somewhere nearby.

“Do you have enough manpower to do that?”

“I'm dealing with two murders here.”

“Have you mentioned the Mafia in your reports?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm pretty sure I'd be taken off the case.”

“You're taking a big risk.”

“No. I know exactly what I'm getting into.”

Mavros's apartment was exceptionally tidy. There was something almost morbid about it. Everything was the way it had been before Pascale left. She hadn't taken much with her when she'd gone. Just a few trifles. Some trinkets, things Mavros had given her. A few dishes. A few CDs, a few books. The TV. The new vacuum cleaner they'd just bought.

For a modest rent, some mutual friends of theirs, Jean and Bella, had let Pascale move into their little fully furnished house in a quiet corner of Marseilles, on Rue Villa-Paradis, at the top of Rue Breteuil. They'd just had their third child, and the house, which was on two floors but narrow, had become too small for them.

Pascale had immediately fallen in love with the house. The street still looked like a village street, and was likely to stay that way for many more years to come. Mavros didn't understand. “I'm not leaving you because of Benoît,” she'd told him. “I'm leaving because of me. I need to rethink my life. Not ours. Mine. Maybe one day, I'll be able to think of you again the way I should, the way I used to.”

Mavros had made this apartment a tomb for his memories. Even the bed, on which I'd collapsed in a state of total exhaustion, didn't seem to have been touched since Pascale had left. Now I understood why he'd been in such a hurry to find a girlfriend. It was so that he wouldn't have to sleep here.

The saddest thing in the apartment was in the toilet: a collage, behind glass, of all the best photos from their years together. I imagined Mavros watching his own failure parade in front of his eyes every time he took a leak. He should at least have taken that down, I thought.

I removed the glass and placed it carefully on the floor. There was one photo I was particularly fond of. Lole had taken it one summer, at the house of some friends in La Ciotat. Georges and Pascale were sleeping on a bench in the garden, with George's head resting on Pascale's shoulder. They exuded peace and happiness. Carefully, I peeled the photo loose and slipped it into my wallet.

The phone rang. It was Hélène Pessayre.

“It's done, Montale. My men are in place. They've spotted them. They're parked outside number 148. A blue Fiat Punto. There are two of them.”

“Good,” I said. I felt as if I were suffocating.

“So, are we sticking to what we said?”

“Yes.”

I should have said more. But I'd just figured out a risk-free way to see Babette, without anyone else knowing. Even Hélène Pessayre.

“Montale?”

“Yes.”

“Are you O.K.?”

“Sure. What's up with the firefighters?”

“A big forest fire. It started in Septèmes, but it seems to be spreading. They say another one's started near Plan-de-Cuques, but I don't know any more about that. The worst of it is that the tanker planes can't take off, because of the mistral.”

“Shit,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Hélène?”

“What?”

“Before I go home, the way we agreed, I . . . I need to drop in on an old friend.”

“Who?” The doubt had crept back into her voice.

“This isn't a trick, Hélène. His name is Félix. He used to run a restaurant on Rue Caisserie. I promised I'd go see him. We often go fishing together. He lives in Vallon-des-Auffes. I have to go there before I go home.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“I only just remembered.”

“Call him.”

“He doesn't have a phone. Since his wife died and he retired, he's preferred to be left alone. The only way to call him is to leave a message with the pizzeria next door.” That much was true. “And he doesn't need to hear me, he needs to see me.”

“Right.” I seemed to hear her weighing the pros and the cons. “So what do we do?”

“I park in the garage of the Bourse Center. I go up to the mall, walk back out and grab a taxi. It'll take me an hour at the most.”

“And what if they follow you?”

“I'll see.”

“O.K.”

“So long.”

“Montale, if you find out anything about Babette Bellini's whereabouts, you won't forget me, will you?”

“I won't forget you, captain.”

 

A thick column of black smoke rose above North Marseilles. The hot air was seeping into my lungs. If the mistral didn't die down, I thought, this could last for several days. Several nerve-racking days. So much forest and vegetation and even scrub burning was a tragedy for the region. People still had vivid memories of the terrible fire in August 1989, which had devastated eight thousand six hundred acres on the slopes of the Montagne Sainte-Victoire.

I went into the nearest bar and asked for a beer. The owner was listening intently to Radio France Provence, and so were all the customers. The fire was spreading. It had reached the area around the little village of Plan-de-Cuques, and they were starting to evacuate people from the more isolated villas.

I thought again about my plan to get Babette to a safe place. It was still feasible, on one condition: that the mistral die down. But the mistral could blow for a day, or three days, or six, or nine.

I finished my beer and asked for another. The die is cast, I thought. We'd soon see if I still had a future. If not, there was surely a place under the ground where Manu, Ugo, Mavros and I could have a nice quiet game of
belote
.

I
started my car. I knew they'd be following me. First the Mafia guys. Then the cops. In other circumstances, I might have found it amusing to be tailed. But I wasn't in the mood to be amused. I wasn't in the mood for anything. Just doing what I'd made up my mind to do. Without any scruples. Knowing me, the fewer scruples I had, the more chance I had of seeing my plan through.

I felt exhausted. Mavros's death had at last sunk in. It was as if his corpse had taken up residence in my body, as if I was its coffin. That hour's sleep had drained me of all the emotions that had overwhelmed me when I saw his face for the last time.

With a steady hand, Hélène Pessayre had uncovered the top of Mavros's face and pulled the sheet down to his chin. She had cast a furtive glance at me. It was just a formality, identifying him. Slowly, I'd leaned over George's body, tenderly stroked his graying hair with the tips of my fingers, and kissed his forehead.

“Goodbye, old friend,” I'd said through gritted teeth.

Hélène Pessayre had taken me by the arm and led me quickly to the other side of the room. “Does he have any family?”

His mother, Angelika, had gone back to Nauplia, in the south of the Peloponnese, after her husband's death. His elder brother, Panayotis, had been living in New York for twenty years. Andreas, the youngest of the three brothers, lived in Fréjus. But Georges hadn't spoken to him in ten years. He and his wife, who had voted Socialist in '81, had switched to the PRP, and finally the National Front. As for Pascale, I didn't really want to call her. I didn't even know if I still had her number. She'd dropped out of Mavros's life. Which meant she'd also dropped out of mine.

“No,” I lied. “I was his only friend.”

His last friend.

Now, there was no one left in Marseilles I could call. Of course, there were still quite a few people I liked, like Didier Perez and a few others. But there was no one to whom I could say, “You remember . . .” That was what friendship was, all the memories you had in common that you could put on the table with a nice sea bass grilled in fennel. Only the words “You remember . . .” make it possible to confide your most intimate thoughts, those regions of yourself you feel most embarrassed about. For years, I'd unloaded my doubts, my fears, my anxieties on Mavros, and he'd driven me crazy with the way he was so certain about everything, the way he had cut and dried opinions about everything. And after a few bottles of wine, depending on our mood, we'd usually come to the conclusion that, whatever your attitude to life, joy and sorrow were nothing but a lottery.

 

When I got to the Bourse Center, I did what I'd said I would. I managed to find a parking space without too much difficulty two levels underground, then took the escalator up to the mall. The air conditioning was a pleasant surprise. I could happily have spent the rest of the afternoon here. The place was crowded. The mistral had driven the people of Marseilles off the beaches, and they were killing time as best they could. Young guys especially. They could eye up the girls, and it cost less than a ticket for a movie.

I'd wagered on the fact that one of the two Mafiosi would follow me. I'd also wagered on the fact that he wouldn't be too happy to see me taking such an interest in the summer sales. So, after lingering for a while, looking at shirts and pants, I took the central escalator up to the second level. There, a metal footbridge led across Rue Bir-Hakeim and Rue de Fabres. Then I took another escalator back down to the Canebière. All the while, acting as casual as possible.

The taxi stand was nearby. Five drivers were waiting by their cabs, desperate for customers.

“Did you see this?” the driver I chose asked, showing me his windshield.

It was covered with a fine layer of soot. That was when I noticed the flakes of ash coming down. The fire must be huge.

“Fucking fire,” I said.

“And fucking mistral! The fire's spreading and no one can do anything. I don't know how many firefighters and rescue workers they've sent. Fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred . . . But it's coming from all directions now. They say it's even reached Allauch.”

Allauch!

That was another village on the edge of Marseilles. A thousand people lived there. The fire was encroaching on the city's green belt, stripping the forest bare. There were other villages in its path. Simiane, Mimet . . .

“And of course, they're busy protecting people and houses . . .”

It was always the same story. The priority for the firefighters and the tanker planes—if and when they could fly—had to be the villas and the housing developments. But the question was why there weren't strict rules that builders had to follow. Heavy shutters. Nebulizers. Water tanks. Firebreaks. Quite often, the fire engines couldn't even get in between the houses and the front of the fire.

“What are they saying about the mistral?”

“It should die down during the night. Get weaker. I hope it's true.”

“So do I,” I said, thoughtfully.

The fire was ahead of me. Yes, but not only the fire.

 

“You can't be sure, Fabio,” Félix said.

He'd been surprised to see me. Especially in the afternoon. I visited him every two weeks. Usually after leaving Fonfon's bar. We'd have an aperitif, and chat for a couple of hours. Céleste's death had really shaken him. At first, we thought he was going to let himself die. He didn't eat, and refused to go out. He didn't even want to go fishing, and that was really a bad sign.

Félix was only a Sunday fisherman. But he was part of the fishermen's community in Vallon-des-Auffes. They were all Italians, from around Rapallo, Santa Margarita and Maria del Campo. Along with Bernard Grandona and Gilbert Georgi, he was responsible for organizing the local fishermen's festival, the festival of Saint Pierre. Last year, Félix had taken me out in his boat to witness the ceremony from beyond the sea wall. The foghorn had blown, and flowers and petals had been strewn on the water in memory of those who'd died at sea.

Honorine—who'd known Céleste since they were children—and Fonfon took turns with me in keeping Félix company. At weekends, we'd invite him to dinner. I'd come and fetch him, and take him back home later. Then one Sunday morning, he arrived at my house by boat. He'd been fishing. It was a fine catch. Sea bream, rainbow wrasse, and even a few gray mullet.

“Dammit!” he laughed, as he climbed the steps to my terrace. “You haven't even gotten the barbecue started.”

For me, that moment was more moving than the Saint Pierre festival. It was a celebration of life over death. Of course, we drank to that, and for the umpteenth time Félix told us how, when his grandfather wanted to get married, he'd gone all the way to Rapallo to find a wife. Before he'd even finished, Fonfon, Honorine and I cried in unison, “And by boat, if you please!”