Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [24]
He got up and this time walked over to a little writing desk. He ignored the only visible drawer, kneeled down, and stuck his head under the desk. He groped around and found it. He slid a little wooden panel and the precious objects tumbled onto the carpet. He picked them up and shoved them into the pocket of his Hugo Boss jacket. What cop would search a man dressed like him? Especially if he was coming back home in a taxi.
“I have some bad news,” he said to the old lady. “My friend and I cannot allow ourselves to be recognized. By anybody.”
“Oh my God! Oh, my God! I beg you. Please, I’m begging you. Let me live, please! I won’t say a word. I swear to you. I’m imploring you. I don’t deserve to die.”
“No one deserves to die, madame. And yet, one day or another … And just think: You have lived well up to now. You have never wanted for anything.”
“I implore you, for the love of God, take her!Take her. Take my granddaughter. Isn’t she beautiful? You’ll like her a lot, I’m sure of it. Please, please don’t kill me. I don’t deserve it. I’m giving her to you, take her!”
This kind of reaction no longer surprised him. It was, after all, a very human reaction. An old she-bear would have reacted differently, but not a grandmother.
“She deserves to live too,” he said very gently. “She’s so young. Consider what a long way she has to go in life. All the good things she can do for humanity. And believe me, I know something about humanity.”
The old woman began to spit blood.
“She’ll be of no use to anybody. She’s a slut. A lousy bitch.
She’s, she’s … she’s a whore, that’s what she is.”
Big Brother had heard enough and took care of the old woman.
The girl was still lying on the carpet, languid as an odalisque. She was beautiful. And she was sleeping like a princess in a fairy tale. Big Brother was happy she hadn’t seen all that. He was happy for her. Perhaps she would even sleep through her own night, a night without end, a night without glory.
BERTHET’S LEAVING
BY JÉRÔME LEROY
Gare du Nord
Translated by Carol Cosman
1.
Berthet and Counselor Morland are having lunch at Chez Michel on rue de Belzunce. Berthet and Counselor Morland have ordered fricassée of langoustines with cèpes as their first course, and grouse with foie gras as follow-up operations.
It’s autumn.
Berthet and Counselor Morland are men of the world before. Berthet and Morland favor only restaurants with seasonal products, and Berthet and Morland still believe in History, loyalty, and things of that nature.
Berthet and Counselor Morland know that they are out of step, but that’s just how it is. Berthet and Morland were born before the first oil crisis, and Morland way way before. Berthet and Morland are among those Europeans over forty who’ve been spared the microchip submission implant.
It would never occur to Berthet or Morland to find a temperature of twenty-seven degrees Celsius normal on the third of November.
It would never occur to Berthet or Morland that the market economy and its related carnage are not one big lie.
It would never occur to Berthet or Morland to eat sandwiches standing up or to listen to MP3 players plugged directly into their brains.
Berthet and Morland are informed of the coming end of the world.
Sometimes Counselor Morland jokes. This is rare for this high-ranking operative; also Protestant. Very rare. But it happens.
“Berthet,” Morland says, “I have a mistress who’s not even thirty, and you know, sometimes I feel like I’m gonna find myself in a USB port instead of her pussy.”
Berthet says nothing. Berthet is nervous. Berthet does not know Morland’s mistress and Berthet is not even sure Mor-land has a mistress.
What Berthet knows about Morland:
he has a cover as a European bureaucrat;
he has a tall, fuckable wife who teaches philosophy at
the French high school in Brussels;
he has no children;
he has twenty-five years’ service in The