Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [25]
he has a predilection that does him credit for the literature of the unlucky, forgotten ’50s writers Henri Calet and Raymond Guérin;
he has a slightly less honorable predilection for the complete repertoire of the singer Sacha Distel;
he’s Berthet’s boss;
he’s a good guy, almost a friend.
“What’s wrong?” Berthet finally says. “It’s not like you to talk pussy.”
“The Unit’s ditching you,” says Morland. “They’re after your hide. And fast.”
Before the fricassée of langoustines with cèpes, Berthet and Morland had ordered a bottle of champagne as an aperitif. Drappier brut, zero dosage.
Berthet and Morland are eating some excellent charcuterie and drinking the champagne, which actually tastes like wine—something always surprising in a totally ersatz era.
“When?” asks Berthet.
“Say what you will,” says Morland. “When they start making pinot noir with this kind of expertise, there’s almost hope for the survival of the human race.”
“When?” repeats Berthet, who agrees on the zero dosage and the pinot noir as a sublimation of the vinous quality of the champagne and who even enjoys it, but who’s nevertheless somewhat upset by Morland’s information.
“When what?” says Morland, who pours them each another glass of champagne. “When are they going to kill you or when was the decision made?”
“Both,” says Berthet.
Berthet might say, Both, mon général,as the joke goes in the French army. Except that it wouldn’t be a joke. Morland is a one-star general, though not many people know it, and he probably hasn’t worn a uniform in thirty years. Morland’s cover is counselor to a European Commission member in Brussels.
Berthet and Morland look at each other.
At Chez Michel, you always feel you could be in the provinces. Rue de Belzunce is calm—a small, clean, narrow tear in the continuum formed by the Gare du Nord, boulevard Magenta, and rue Lafayette. The setting is pure Simenon. Berthet has never liked Simenon. Morland always has.
“I’m going back to Brussels on the Thalys train—come with me. We’ll plead your case …”
“That way, you’ll just have an easier time bumping me off.”
“You’re making me sad. I’m risking my life to warn you.”
They finish the champagne, the charcuterie. The fat of a Guéméné sausage relaxes Berthet, reassures him for a moment about the possibility of his body’s enduring power, almost as much as his 9mm Glock in the shoulder holster and his Tanfoglio .22 in its ankle case.
Berthet doesn’t answer. Berthet asks for the wine list. A blond waitress comes over. Berthet gets a hard-on. This is a sure sign. Death is on the prowl. Berthet concentrates on the choice of a white to go with the fricassée of langoustines with cèpes. Berthet decides on a Vouvray. Dry. La Dilettante, from Cathy and Pierre Breton.
The blonde says it’s a good choice, and Berthet wants to tell her that he’d be glad to eat her pussy.
“You’d be glad to eat her pussy, right?” says Counselor Morland.
Strange and specific kinds of telepathy exist between men who have been together a long time in close contact with state secrets and violent death.
Berthet thinks he’s going to die. Berthet knows he’s going to die, or is about to. The sudden hardness of his dick is a somatic sign that never fails to warn him. An even surer sign than Morland’s announcement.
Berthet gets hard for anyone, for anything, when death is near.
This began when Berthet was twelve years old, well before Saint-Cyr Coëtquidan military school, well before The Unit. His grandfather was being buried in a village in Picardy.
They’d had to take a train, from Gare du Nord to be precise. Berthet was as sad as if he were the one who had died.
Getting out of the taxi with his parents, Berthet had looked up through the rain at the statues with big boobs on top of the building. The statues represented international destinations. The ones lower down, in front of the vast windows, represented more local destinations. Their boobs were not so big, of course. Berthet had preferred the international ones. The big-boobs cities.
Cities where Berthet would go later