Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [34]
Berthet is afraid. Berthet is in pain. He hopes it won’t be too long now.
He seems to hear the wind in the trees. But that would be surprising, with all the traffic and all those sirens down below.
Two minutes later, Berthet dies.
9.
Three days later, purely out of curiosity, the Voice walked around the Gare du Nord, rue de Belzunce, Place Franz Liszt. The Voice came back up through Cavaillé-Coll park, went into the church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, and the Voice prayed, quite sincerely, for the souls:
of Counselor Morland
of the blond waitress from Chez Michel
of the couple who were lunching at Chez Michel
of the two incompetent bikers
of the bum in the john at the Gare du Nord café
of Berthet
of Moreau
of the emasculated editor-in-chief
of Hélène Bastogne
Then the Voice walked out.
Autumn was still warm in the 10th arrondissement.
And the Voice said to himself that, all things considered, the operation had been rather successful.
PART II
LIBERATION LOST
LIKE A TRAGEDY
BY LAURENT MARTIN
Place de la Nation
Translated by David Ball
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.
—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
1.
Still the same smell same view same disgust. Nothing’s changed.
My bedroom window looks out on the night. The night where the lights of the city all around are shining. The night where hidden men are patiently waiting for the next day. When I was a kid, I used to think dead lights left the earth and went up to the sky in the form of stars. Dinner’s over. They’ve left. My sister Sophie and her husband. In actual fact they’re getting married tomorrow. That’s why I’m here.
A few groggy steps around my room. Nothing’s changed. The worn-out furniture. The wallpaper. The dreary smell. Took a whole day to get here. The fatigue and boredom of being here, I’m going to collapse.
When I got here, the table was already set. They had already come. His name is Patrick and my sister’s in love. That’s all I know. Mom made soup for us. Soup’s a family tradition. It’s lasted thirty years. “Eat while it’s hot.” Mom doesn’t look any older. Or hardly any. Still something sad in her eyes, and pink cheeks and jet-black hair. Not like me, verging on brown and now white. Man, do I look older. Dinner. Pretend to be interested in Patrick. With a bitch of a headache. Patrick is tall and kind of good-looking. My sister’s pretty too. The years seem to have made her look even better. Say anything at all to fill up the time and now Sophie’s urging me to tell them some of my adventures. My adventures, when I was in the submarine corps. “That’s such a different life!” “So tell us about it.” So I tell about it. The dives, the trips, the ports of call. The dangerous situations that make you shudder when you have no idea how a submarine works. I worked in the engine room. A very important job and Patrick thought I was interesting. Everybody was happy I was back, happy with my stories, and I played the prodigal son come home, as if nothing had happened, whereas I would have liked to have been very far away from here. Patrick asked me why I’d left Paris. “To see how it is somewhere else.” He could feel I was lying. There are stories I’d rather not tell. Discreetly, Sophie thanked me for coming. “Without you, something would have been missing from my wedding.”
We all separated. Till tomorrow. I was alone again in my lousy room where I spent so many shitty years looking at the stars leaving the earth, wondering if someday I’d have the courage to leave. I had to have a good reason to run away from this city and find myself in a submarine, sealed in half the time. No wonder I already have white hair and tired eyes.
2.
The first morning. Up early, first one. A Navy habit. Six o’clock, every day, never lose crappy habits. Mom’s still sleeping. I feed