Solea (7 page)

“We have to take your statement.”

“Yes,” I said. “How . . . How did you find out?”

“The daycare center.”

“What daycare center?”

I took out my cigarettes and offered one to Béraud. He refused. He pulled a chair over and sat down facing me. His tone was less friendly now.

“She has a son. Enzo. He's eight years old. Didn't you know?”

“I only met her last night.”

“Where?”

“In a bar. Les Maraîchers. I'm a regular there. So was she, apparently. But we never met till last night.”

He was giving me the once-over. I knew what was going through his head. I knew the way a cop's mind worked like the back of my hand. A good cop's anyway. We'd had a few drinks, Sonia and I. We'd fucked. And then she'd sobered up, and decided to call it quits. It had been a mistake. She couldn't understand how it had happened. But it was the kind of thing that could happen to a single mother. A fatal mistake. Not uncommon. A mistake often made. Leading to a crime. And the fact that I was an ex-cop made no difference. You could still go crazy. You could still turn violent.

Unconsciously I suppose, I held out my hands towards him. “Nothing happened between us,” I said. “Nothing at all. We were supposed to meet tonight, that's all.”

“I'm not accusing you.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

Now it was my turn to give him the once-over. Béraud. A straight cop. Who'd liked working with a captain who was also straight.

“So the daycare center called you, is that it?”

“No. They started to get worried. She was always on time. Never late. So they called the boy's grandfather and . . .”

Attilio, I thought. Béraud paused. For me to take in what he was telling me. The grandfather, not the father. Clearly, he trusted me again.

“Not the father?” I said.

He shrugged. “They've never seen the father . . . The grandfather was upset. He'd already kept the boy last night, and was supposed to be keeping him tonight.”

Béraud paused. And in that silence I thought of tonight, the night Sonia and I should have been spending together.

“She was supposed to feed him, give him his bath.” He looked at me almost tenderly.

“So what happened?”

“He went to the daycare center to get the boy and take him home. Then he tried to contact his daughter at her office. But she'd left. At the same time as usual. So he called here. He thought that with it being as hot as it was, Sonia might have come home first to take a shower and . . . But there was no answer. That's when he started to get worried, and phoned her neighbor. Sonia and this neighbor often did favors for each other. When she came to the door, she found it half open. She was the one who called us.”

The apartment filled with noise, voices.

Béraud stood up. “Hello, captain,” he said.

I looked up. A tall young woman was standing there in front of me. In jeans and T-shirt, both black. An attractive woman. I extricated myself as best I could from the armchair I was sitting in.

“Is this the witness?” she asked.

“He used to be a cop. Fabio Montale.”

She held out her hand. “Captain Pessayre.”

She had a firm handshake. Her hand felt warm. Sharp black eyes, full of life and passion. For a fraction of a second, we stood looking at each other. Long enough to believe that the law could abolish death. And crime.

“Tell me all about it.”

“I'm tired,” I said, sitting down again. “Tired.”

And my eyes filled with tears. At last.

Tears are the only cure for hate.

I
hadn't spat at the stars. I couldn't.

Off the Riou Islands, I'd cut the motor and let the boat drift. It was here, more or less, that my father had held me under the armpits and dipped me in the sea for the first time. I was eight. The same age as Enzo. “Don't be afraid,” he'd said. “Don't be afraid.” It was the only baptism I'd ever had. And whenever life became too painful, this was where I came, here, between the sea and the sky. As if it was only here that I might be able to make peace with the world.

I'd come here when Lole left, too. I'd come to this spot and stayed here the whole night. One whole night running through all the things I blamed myself for. It had needed to be said. At least once. Even if it was just to the empty sky. It was December 16th. The cold chilled me to the bone. Even though I kept knocking back Lagavulin as I wept. Getting back home at dawn, I'd felt as if I was returning to the land of the dead.

I was alone now. In the silence. Wrapped in garlands of stars. Stars up above me in the blue-black sky, and below me, reflected on the surface of the sea. The only movement was the lapping of the water against my boat.

I stayed there for a long time, motionless, with my eyes closed. Until I felt the lump inside me, that mixture of disgust and sadness, start to dissolve. The cool air restored a human rhythm to my breathing. Liberating it from the anguish of living and dying.

Sonia.

“She's dead,” I'd told them. “Murdered.”

Fonfon and Honorine had been playing rummy on the terrace. Honorine's favourite card game. She always won, because she liked winning. Fonfon always let her win, because he liked to see her joy when she won. Fonfon had a
pastis
in front of him, Honorine what was left of her Martini. They'd looked up at me. Surprised to see me back so early. Worried, of course. And all I'd said was, “She's dead. Murdered.”

I'd looked at them, then, a blanket and my jacket under my arm, and a bottle of Lagavulin in the other hand, I'd crossed the terrace, gone down the steps to the boat and set off into the darkness. Telling myself, as I always did, that this sea, which my father had offered me as a kingdom, would never belong to me, because I always used it to offload all the dirty tricks the world had played on me.

When I opened my eyes and saw the stars glimmering, I knew, once again, that this wasn't true. It was as if the world had stopped moving. Life was suspended. Except in my heart, where right now someone was crying. An eight-year-old boy and his grandfather.

I took a long swig of Lagavulin. Sonia's laughter, and then her voice, echoed in my head. Everything fell back into place. Clearly. Her laughter. Her voice. And her words.

“There's a place they call the
Eremo dannunziano
. It's a belvedere where Gabriele d'Annunzio often stayed . . .”

She'd started talking about Italy. About the Abruzzi, where her family came from. The stretch of coast between Ortona and Vasto which, according to her, “was unique in the world.” Once she started she couldn't stop, and I'd listened, letting her pleasure flow into me as gladly as the glasses of
pastis
I was knocking back without a thought.

“The beach where I spent my summers when I was a kid is called Turchino. Turchino, because the water is turquoise. It's full of shingle and bamboo. You can make little junks out of the leaves, or fishing rods . . .”

I could see it all. And feel it. The water flowing over my skin. The gentleness of it. And the saltiness. The salty taste of bodies. Yes, I could see it all, so close I could touch it. Like Sonia's bare shoulder. As round, and as soft to the touch, as a pebble washed smooth by the sea. Sonia.

“There's a railway line all the way down to Foggia . . .”

She gazed fondly into my eyes. As if inviting me to take that train with her, and glide down to the sea. To Turchino.

“Life's so simple down there, Fabio. The rhythm of the train passing, the sound of the sea, pizza
al taglio
for lunch, and”—she added with a laugh—“
una gerla alla stracciatella per me
toward evening . . .”

Sonia.

There was laughter in her voice. Her words were full of the joys of life.

I hadn't been back to Italy since I was nine. My father had taken my mother and me to his village. Castel San Giorgio, near Salerno. He'd wanted to see his mother again, one last time. He'd wanted her to see me. I told Sonia about it. I told her how I'd thrown the worst tantrum of my life because I was pissed off eating pasta for lunch and dinner every day.

She laughed. “That's what I'd like to do now. Take my son to Italy. To Foggia. The way your father did with you.”

She lifted her gray-blue eyes to me, slowly. It was like the dawn coming up. She was waiting for my reaction. A son. How could I have forgotten that she'd told me about her son? Enzo. I hadn't even remembered when the cops had questioned me. What was it I hadn't wanted to hear when she'd said “my son”?

I'd never wanted a child. With any woman. I was afraid I wouldn't know how to be a father. It wasn't that I couldn't give love, it was just that I didn't think I could teach a child trust—trust in the world, in me, in the future. I didn't see any future for the children of this century. Spending so many years in the police had a lot to do with it. It had distorted my vision of society. I'd seen more kids get into dope and petty crime, then graduate to bigger crimes and end up in jail, than succeed in life. Even those who liked school, who did well at it, eventually came to a dead end. And then they either banged their heads against the wall until they almost died, or they turned around, ready to fight back, to rebel against the injustice that was being done to them, and ended up in the same old cycle of violence, and guns. And jail.

The only woman I'd have liked to have a child with was Lole. But we'd told each other that we didn't want children. We were too old, that was our excuse. Often, though, when we were making love, I found myself hoping that she'd stopped taking the pill, without telling me. And that she'd announce one day, with a tender smile, “I'm expecting a baby, Fabio.” A gift, for the two of us. For our love.

I knew I should have told her I felt that way. I also knew I should have told her I wanted to marry her, really wanted her to be my wife. She might have said no. But everything would have been clear between us. Whether the answer was yes or no, at least we would have talked about it, simply, like two people happy to be together. But I'd kept silent. And so had she, of course. Until the silence had torn us apart.

Instead of answering Sonia, I finished my drink.

“His father dumped me,” she continued. “Five years ago. We've never heard from him since.”

“That's tough,” I heard myself saying.

She shrugged. “When a guy abandons his own son, never makes any attempt to contact him . . . Five years, you know, and not even at Christmas, not even on his birthday . . . Well, I guess it's better this way. He wouldn't have been a good father.”

“But a child needs a father!”

Sonia had looked at me in silence. We were sweating through every pore. Me more than her. Her thigh was still up against mine, lighting a fire I thought I'd never feel again. A raging inferno.

“I brought him up on my own. Well, my father helped, of course. Maybe one day I'll meet a guy I'll be happy to introduce to Enzo. He could never be his father, I know that, but I think he could give him what a child needs as it's growing up. Authority, and love. And trust. Dreams too. A man's dreams . . .”

Sonia.

At that moment, I had the impulse to put my arms around her and hold her. Gently, she freed herself, laughing. “Fabio.”

“All right, all right.” I raised my hands above my head, to show her I wouldn't touch her.

“We'll have a last drink, and then we'll go for a swim. O.K.?”

I'd thought to take her out in my boat. We'd go swimming in the sea. In deep water. In the very place I was right now. Thinking back on it, I was amazed I'd even suggested it. I'd only just met her. My boat was my desert island. My place to be alone. I'd only ever taken Lole out in it. The night she came to live with me. And Fonfon and Honorine, just recently. No other woman had ever been judged worthy to get in my boat. Not even Babette.

I'd signaled to Hassan to pour us another round. “Sure,” he'd said.

Coltrane was playing. I was completely drunk, but I recognized “Out of This World.” Fourteen minutes that could devour a whole night. Hassan would soon be closing, I realized. Coltrane was always to send his customers on their way. To their lovers. Or their lonely nights. Coltrane was for the road.

I was quite incapable of getting up from my chair.

“You're beautiful, Sonia.”

“And you're plastered, Fabio.”

We both roared with laughter.

Happiness. It was still possible.

Happiness.

 

The phone was ringing when I got in. Ten past two. Jerk, I said to whoever was daring to phone me at such an hour.
I let it ring until they gave up.

Silence. I didn't feel tired. But I did feel hungry. Honorine had left a note for me in the kitchen. Propped up against the clay casserole she used for stews. “It's
soupe au pistou
. You can eat it cold if you like. Have some. Lots of love. Fonfon says hi.” Next to it, in a little saucer, she'd put some grated cheese, just in case.

Soupe au pistou
was vegetable soup with garlic and basil, and I suppose there were a thousand ways to make it. Everyone in Marseilles said, “My mother used to make it this way,” and so that was how they made it. It always tasted different. It depended on the vegetables you put in. It depended especially on getting the garlic and the basil in the right proportions, and how you mixed both of them with tomato pulp heated in the same water you'd cooked the vegetables in.

Honorine made the best
soupe au pistou
. Haricot beans, kidney beans, French beans, a few potatoes and macaroni. She'd let it simmer all morning. Then she'd tackle the basil and garlic. Crushing them in an old wooden mortar. You really couldn't disturb her when she was doing that. “If you're going to stand there like a statue, watching me, I'll never finish.”