The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery (21 page)

“So, Louis,” Bernard boomed, glancing around the table to ascertain he had everybody’s attention. “How do you like the new city picture? Have we done a decent job of cleaning up the streets?”

Louis fought to keep the sneer out of his tone. “I suppose you mean those measures you took to get the prostitutes off the streets?”

“Indeed.” Bernard nodded and sent a wink to Marie-Pierre on Louis’s right.

“It’s a shame you didn’t manage it in a more literal sense,” Louis said. “There are still dog droppings everywhere. On every street, every sidewalk.” In fact, Louis had stepped in a huge yellow liquid mess just yesterday from a dog who must have been sick. In the States, he’d gotten used to looking up when he walked. He wasn’t yet back to the habit of always scouting out the next section of sidewalk, which was necessary for the survival of his shoes in France.

Bernard’s smile fell a fraction, but he must have decided to take it as a good joke. “Hah! People should learn to watch where they’re going.”

“So you could ignore the dog droppings, but not the prostitutes?” Louis leaned back in his chair and sipped his pastis as he watched the man across the table. He hoped he projected calm and insouciance, but was boiling inside.

Bernard’s smile was gone. A calculating gleam entered his eyes. Louis was being measured up. Against what, he didn’t know. And what was the conclusion?

Might as well continue. Who knew, it might finally get these people off his back, as well as allow him to vent off some steam. “It’s not like you actually managed to put a stop to the prostitution, is it? You only moved it around a bit. You do know that my father’s body was found by a prostitute who was on her way home from work?” If his father’s death hadn’t hurt so much, he’d have found that to be poetic justice.

Joviality gone, he sat straight in his chair, hands placed loosely on the table in front of him, and fixed Louis with a steady gaze. “Yes, so I read in
le Midi Républicain
.” He made a theatrical pause before continuing in full-on politician mode. “We can’t stop prostitution with the swipe of a magic wand. All we can do is work incrementally toward a common goal. In this case, we tried to discourage the ladies from working in their customary spots.”

“You mean the richer neighborhoods,” Louis countered.

Bernard never missed a beat. “That is an added advantage. We discourage the prostitutes and clean up the streets for our tax-payers.”

Louis cocked an eyebrow. “At least you’re honest about where your priorities lie.” As if the poorer part of the population didn’t pay their taxes.

“You may think it’s a good idea to always look after the underdog, Louis.” Bernard was speaking down to Louis now, teaching him a lesson on politics and life in general. “But you must always look at the big picture. At the end of the day, the city of Toulouse is like a company. We have expenses, we have employees, and we have income. A great part of this income is from taxes, both on income and property. Who do you think stands for the most of that revenue? Is it not normal that we look after the interests of the people who fill our coffers?”

Louis felt the heat rise to his face, but fought to keep his voice cool. “That certainly will make sure the rich stay rich and in their comfortable seats.” He could feel everybody’s attention, but only focused on Bernard. He’d often had disagreements with his father on certain subjects while he grew up, but never had the courage to stand up to him. It was too late to do it with his father now, but apparently the right time to take it up with his colleagues. It felt good to stand up for his beliefs for once. “What about the prostitutes in all this? Did you consider what your measures would do to their lives?”

“The prostitutes pay no taxes at all,” Bernard said immediately, tone condescending. “They could spend their time getting an education or looking for a real job, but instead choose to take the easy way out by selling what was given to them at birth and then complaining about it.”

“That’s just-just,” Louis sputtered, searching for the right words. What the man was saying was so outrageous he didn’t even know where to start.

The waiter chose this moment to deliver their plates. Two duck breasts arrived first, closely followed by two cassoulets. Likely sensing the tension between them, the waiter chose to serve Louis and Bernard first. Louis told him a heartfelt “
merci
” and took the opportunity to gather his thoughts and take a few calming breaths.

“Shocked, are you?” Bernard teased with a kindly smile. “You’re not a child anymore, Louis. It’s time to grow up and realize that you live in the real world.” He picked up his fork and speared a piece of sausage before pointing it in Louis’s direction. “We have real problems and need to come up with real solutions that are in the interest of the city, not the individual.”

“Unless the individual is a rich one, apparently.” Louis mumbled the comeback, but both Bernard and his closest neighbors heard.

Bernard uttered a small “hah!” before biting into the sausage.

Marie-Pierre rolled her eyes, then leaned closer to Louis to mumble, “He loves coming off as being hard as nails, but he does have a soft spot. He helps me out in my work with the elderly and does quite a bit of work with the homeless of Toulouse—usually in person.”

Louis had trouble believing this of the man across the table, but decided to let the peace offering work.

A surprising action came from his mother’s side. She patted Louis’s hand between them on the table and said in a tone Louis associated with teachers in middle school, “Well done,
chéri
.”

Mouth falling open in surprise, Louis turned to his mother. With a small smile, she looked into her own cassoulet and fished out a piece of duck leg.

“But what about Papa?” Louis asked, leaning close to make sure Bernard didn’t overhear. He needn’t have bothered; the man was dedicating his entire being into consuming the food in front of him. “Those measures against the prostitutes were his idea, if I remember correctly.”

His mother looked at him over the rims of her glasses and tsked. “We live in a democracy, remember? Just because all of these people belong to the same political party, it does not mean they agree on everything. Everybody is allowed to express his or her opinion, then the party will promote the opinion of the majority.”

Louis pondered that as he ate. It did make sense that even within a political party, there would be discussions and disagreement. He allowed himself to consider the possibility of entering the ranks of the Republican Party. The discussion he’d just had with Bernard had been exciting. He liked voicing his opinion. He’d love to be able to influence the decisions made for the city of Toulouse. But what was the point, really, when his voice would drown in a group of people who didn’t have the same opinions? He would be able to argue, but chances were slim to none that he’d actually change anyone’s opinion on subjects like the treatment of prostitutes. The Republicans weren’t catastrophic for the city, but Louis was often left with the feeling that things could have been done a little better. The thought of joining the Socialist Party crossed his mind, but was quickly dismissed. He couldn’t do that to his mother. His sister would probably beat him up, despite being a head shorter. He’d be better off staying in the background and letting the people with political experience make the decisions.

Someone had ordered a dark red wine, which complemented the rich and greasy food perfectly. Louis picked up the bottle and served everyone, being especially generous with his own glass.

He was going to sleep like a baby that night, and probably fart like one too.

***

Louis slammed the newspaper down on his bed.
I hope you can forgive me in turn
, indeed! That slimy Englishwoman had changed the picture for the article. Instead of using the one they had studied in detail together displaying the body of Geraldine Hérault, she submitted a different picture with less zoom. As a result, on the very first page of today’s
Midi Républicain
, his father could be seen bowing on his knees—
Like a Muslim during prayer, except faced in the wrong direction
—a hand outstretched toward the money in Geraldine Hérault’s hand.

Louis had had enough.

His father was dead and the police weren’t getting any closer to finding the murderer. His father had been corrupted and his mother and sister were fine with that so long as he didn’t get caught. The members of the Republican Party, and more specifically the city council members, all expected him to go into politics with them when they had the most outrageous viewpoints on certain social subjects. And now, to top it all off, Catherine had turned against him too.

It wasn’t even only the picture. She went on and on about the accusations of corruption, underlining with the proof the police had found, and then extrapolating to the conclusion that his father might have been taking bribes on other subjects during his long reign at the Capitole. According to Catherine, the Saint-Blancat family was apparently closely related to the mafia.

Louis slammed the door to his closet open and dragged out his suitcase. He threw it on the bed next to the newspaper and zipped it open. He pulled out all the clothes he had so recently unpacked and threw them into the suitcase.

And why had she added that last paragraph? Did she
have
to make his life even more difficult by basically proclaiming him the future mayor of Toulouse? She wasn’t with the Republican Party. She hadn’t even met him before they bumped into each other at his father’s wake. Why did she have to keep putting into print that he was back in Toulouse to take over his father’s mantle?

Suitcase only halfway full, Louis didn’t find anything else to shove in. What had he brought with him from the States? Did the gifts and souvenirs really take up that much space?

No matter. His bags were ready. He would go to the opera with Mouad tonight like he had planned, and say goodbye to his friend. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d be on a train for Paris. He’d figure out where to go from there.

First priority: get away from Toulouse.

***

Louis’s father certainly knew how to choose seats at the opera. When his mother gave him the tickets, Louis readily accepted. He hadn’t been to the opera in ages. It wasn’t something he was ready to pay for out of his own pocket, but he came along gladly when his parents invited him in the past. His father had season tickets and planned to see
Aïda
with his mother. She didn’t want to go without her husband, so gave the tickets to Louis, telling him to invite a friend.

So here he was in the second floor foyer of the Toulouse Opera having a glass of white wine with Mouad. One last positive memory with his friend before leaving Toulouse.

Leaning on a covered grand piano doubling as a table in a corner of the room, Louis raised his glass to Mouad. “To friendship. I hope we’ll meet up again sometime soon. We haven’t really had time to catch up, I’m afraid.”

Mouad touched his glass of orange juice to Louis’s, but wore a grim expression. “Nobody’s forcing you to leave, idiot. You belong in Toulouse. You should stay.”

“Will you please stop telling me what to do?” Louis winced at the whine in his own voice. “I’m thirty-five years old,
bordel
. I get to decide what to do with my life.” To avoid his friend’s hard eyes, Louis pretended to study the pictures adorning the walls between the high windows. They showed various operas and ballets having been performed at the Théâtre du Capitole in the past.

“All right,” Mouad said, fixing Louis with his chocolate-brown eyes. “What
are
you going to do, then?”

Louis took on an indifferent air. “I don’t know. I’ll start by going to Paris and see if I can find a job there. Or perhaps go back to the States.” It might also be a good idea to contact the friend he planned to stay with in Paris and not just show up on his doorstep tomorrow afternoon.

Mouad grunted and looked out the window next to him. The Théâtre du Capitole occupied a fourth of the Capitole, which was a great part of the opera theater’s charm. “Sounds like a grand plan,” Mouad mumbled. Even Louis’s best friend was judging him. It really was time to leave. But he didn’t want anyone to think he ran off with his tail between his legs. “What’s wrong with that plan? I happen to be happy with moving around and meeting new people.”

“There are a million people living in and around Toulouse. It should be possible even for a Saint-Blancat to meet new people every day, right here.” Mouad was still looking out the window instead of at Louis. It was as if he was having the conversation in his head. Mouad didn’t expect to convince Louis. He’d already given up on him.

Oddly enough, Louis wasn’t happy about that either. “Everybody here expects me to go into politics!”

“Well, you should,” Mouad said, voice calm. “Toulouse needs you.”

Louis sniffed. “Toulouse has one mayor and twenty-six deputy mayors. That should be more than enough to take care of one city.”

Mouad turned his full attention on Louis. “You’re unable to see further than the Republican Party. It’s like you’ve chosen to see everything from only one perspective, which doesn’t even please you.”

A couple of students slipped past Mouad to get to the window. The view of place du Capitole by night was stunning with the dark arcades over the Galerue, bustling cafés, and the huge bronze Occitan cross embedded into the center of the square. The cross was created by the same man who made the paintings in the Galerue, Raymond Moretti, and represented the actual cross with its twelve points—three on each of the four branches of the cross—each containing the depiction of a zodiac sign, and the drawn lines of the artist, less accurate than the finished cross. When standing on place du Capitole, it was difficult to make out the beauty of the design since it was so big and one usually found oneself in the middle of the piece of art. But from up here, a slightly different perspective, it was breathtaking.

Louis faced Mouad. “What kind of perspective are you proposing?”