Chourmo (16 page)

“Tell me your name again, man.”

“Fabio. Fabio Montale.”

“Montale, that's right. That's what she calls you. The cop, or Montale. My name's Randy. I live upstairs.”

He held out his hand. I gave him mine and found it being crushed in a vise.

I told Randy that I had to talk to Pavie. Because of Serge. He was in trouble, I said, without going into details.

“Don't know where she is, man. She didn't come home today. She usually comes upstairs to our place in the evenings. I live with my parents, my two brothers and my girlfriend. We have the floor to ourselves. There's just us in the building. Us, Pavie, and Madame Gutierrez on the first floor. But she never goes out. She's afraid they'll evict her. She wants to die here, she says. We do her shopping for her. Even when Pavie doesn't stay to eat, she always comes up to say hello. To let us know she's home.”

“And does it often happen that she doesn't come home?”

“Not in a while.”

“How is she?”

Randy looked at me. He seemed to be sizing me up.

“She's making an effort, you know, man. We help her all we can. But . . . She got hooked again, a few days ago, if that's what you're asking. Stopped work and everything. My girlfriend Rose slept with her the other night, then cleaned the place up a little. It needed it.”

“I see.”

The pieces were coming together in my head. As an investigator, I still wasn't worth a dime. I rushed into things, on pure intuition, without taking the time to think. In my haste, I'd skipped a lot. Chronology, timetable. That kind of thing. The ABC of cops.

“Do you have a phone?”

“No. There's one at the end of the street. A booth, I mean. You don't need coins. You just pick up the phone and it works. Even for the States!”

“Thank, Randy. I'll be back.”

“What if Pavie comes home?”

“Tell her to stay here. Or better still, to stay with you.”

But if my hunch was right, this was the last place Pavie would come. Even when she was completely shot up. The proximity of death prolongs the expectation of life.

M
ourad broke the silence.

“I hope my sister's here.”

That was all he said.

I'd just left Rue de Lyon, and was cutting across North Marseilles to get to Saint-Henri, where his grandfather lived. Saint-Henri is just before L'Estaque. Twenty years ago, it was still a village. With a view of the northern outer harbor and the Mirabeau basin.

I grunted a slightly irritated “Me, too.” My head was humming. It was a real mess in there! Since he'd gotten in the car, Mourad had barely opened his mouth. I'd asked him questions. About Naïma and Guitou. His answers had consisted of “yes” and “no” and—mostly—“I don't know.” I'd thought at first that he was jerking me around. But he wasn't, he was worried. I could understand that. I was worried too.

“Yes, me too,” I said again, more gently this time. “I hope she's there.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. As if to say, OK, we're on the same wavelength. We both hope, but we're not sure. And it gives us the creeps, not knowing. He was a great kid.

I put on a Lili Boniche cassette. He was an Algerian singer of the thirties, who'd mixed musical styles. The whole of North Africa had danced to his rumbas, paso dobles and tangos. I'd come across a set of his recordings at the Saint-Lazare flea market. Lole and I liked to go there on Sundays around eleven. Then we'd go and have an aperitif in a bar in L'Estaque before ending up at Larrieu's, eating seafood.

That Sunday, she'd found a lovely long skirt, red with white polka dots. A gypsy skirt. That night, I was treated to a “flamenco” fashion parade. With Los Chunguitos in the background.
Apasionadamente
. A really hot album. The night turned out pretty hot too.

Lili Boniche had been the musical accompaniment after that, until sleep overcame us. It was on the third record of the set that we'd discovered
Ana Fil Houb
. A version, in Arabic, of
Mon histoire, c'est l'histoire d'un amour
. Whenever I whistled, that was the tune that most often came into my head. That and
Besame mucho
. Songs my mother was always humming. I already had several versions. Lili Boniche's was as fine as the version by the Mexican-American singer Tish Hinojosa. And a hundred times better than the one by Gloria Lasso. It was fantastic. A real joy.

Still whistling, I started thinking about what Rico, the owner of the Balto, had told me. Hearing certain things clearly, I could have kicked myself. Since the beginning of the week, Pavie had been coming into the Balto every afternoon. She'd have a beer and pick at the crumbs of the ham sandwich she'd asked for. She looked as if she was going through a rough time, Rico said. So he'd phoned Serge. At Saadna's. But Serge hadn't come the next day. Or the day after.

“Why didn't you call me?” I'd asked.

“I don't know where to reach you these days, Fabio. You're not even in the phone book.”

I'd been unlisted for a while. It was bad enough with Minitel. For every friend who might be looking for you, there were five million bozos who might show up at your door. I like my peace and quiet, and the few friends I still had all knew my phone number. I'd simply forgotten about emergencies.

Serge had showed up yesterday. Because of Pavie's letter. I was sure of that.

“What time?”

“Around two-thirty. He looked worried. Didn't talk much. He wasn't really himself. They had a coffee. Stayed—what?—fifteen, twenty minutes. They were talking low, but Serge seemed to be bawling Pavie out. She kept her head bowed, like a child. Then I saw him puffing. Like he was exhausted. He stood up, took Pavie's hand and they went out.”

That was the sore point. I'd forgotten all about Serge's car. How else could he have gotten to La Bigotte? Only immigrants went there by bus. And I couldn't even remember right now whether there was a bus that went all the way up there or if you had to climb the slope on foot!

“Did he still have his old Ford Fiesta?”

“Sure.”

I couldn't remember seeing it in the parking lot. But then I couldn't remember much. Except the hand holding the gun. And the shots. And Serge falling without saying goodbye to life.

Without even saying goodbye to Pavie.

Because she must have been there, in the car. Not far from where it happened. Nor far from me either. And she must have seen everything. They'd left the Balto together. Heading for La Bigotte, where Serge was supposed to meet someone. I supposed he'd promised to drive her to the psychiatric clinic afterwards. And he'd left her in the car.

She'd waited for him. She'd sat there quietly, feeling safe because he was there. As usual. He'd take her to the clinic. He'd help her, once again, to take a step in the direction of hope. One more step. The right one, this time. Of course it was the right one! This time, she'd come through. She must have believed that. Yes, sitting there in the car, she believed it really strongly. She believed that, afterwards, she'd get her life back. Friends. Work. Love. A love that would cure her of Arno. And of all the dirty tricks life played on you. A guy with a nice face, a nice car, and a bit of cash too. Who'd give her a really beautiful baby.

But there was no afterwards.

Serge had been killed. And Pavie had taken off. On foot, or in the car? No, she didn't have a license. Or maybe she had one now. My God! Was the damn car still up there? And where was Pavie now?

Mourad's voice cut into my questions. His tone surprised me. He sounded sad.

“My father used to listen to this. My mother liked it.”

“Used to? Doesn't he listen to it anymore?”

“Redouane says it's sinful.”

“This singer? Lili Boniche?”

“No, music. He says music is like alcohol, cigarettes, girls, that kind of thing.”

“But you listen to rap?”

“Not when he's home. He . . . ”

 

Oh, God, have pity on me

let me see those I love

let me forget my sorrow . . .

 

Lili Boniche was singing
Alger, Alger.
Mourad fell silent again.

I drove around the church of Saint-Henri.

“On the right,” Mourad said. “Then first on the left.”

His grandfather lived on Impasse des Roches, a street of little one- or two-story houses facing the sea. I switched off the engine.

“You didn't see an old Ford Fiesta in the parking lot, did you? A dirty blue color.”

“I don't think so. Why?”

“Nothing. We'll take a look later.”

 

Mourad rang once, twice, three times. Nobody came to open the door.

“Maybe he went out,” I said.

“He only goes out twice a week. To go to the market.”

He looked at me, worried.

“Do you know the neighbors?”

He shrugged. “Not me. But he does, I think.”

I went down the street to the next house. I rang the doorbell a few times, quickly. It wasn't the door that opened, but the window. Behind the bars, a woman's head appeared. A big head, covered in rollers.

“What is it?”

“Hello, Madame,” I said going up to the window. “I'm here to see Monsieur Hamoudi. I'm with his grandson. But there's no answer.”

“That's strange. I saw him at noon, in the garden. We had a chat. Then he always takes an afternoon nap. So he must be there.”

“Maybe he's sick.”

“No, no, no. He's in very good health. Wait, let me open the door.”

She let us in a few seconds later. She'd put a scarf on her head, to hide the rollers. She was huge. She walked slowly, puffing as if she'd just run up six flights of stairs.

“I'm always careful before I open my door. With all the drugs and all these Arabs around, they can attack you in your own home.”

“You're right,” I said, though I couldn't help smiling. “You have to be careful.”

We followed her into the garden. Hers and the old man's were separated only by a low wall about three feet high.

“Monsieur Hamoudi!” she called. “Monsieur Hamoudi, you have a visitor!”

“Can I climb over?”

“Yes, go on! Holy mother of God, I hope nothing's happened to him.”

“Wait for me,” I said to Mourad.

It wasn't difficult to get over the wall. The garden was identical, and as well tended as the other one. I'd hardly reached the steps when Mourad joined me. He got into the living room before me.

Grandpa Hamoudi was on the floor, his face covered in blood. He'd been beaten up. Before they'd left, the bastards had stuffed his military medal into his mouth. I took it out, and felt his pulse. He was still breathing. He was just woozy from being knocked out. It was a miracle. But maybe his attackers hadn't wanted to kill him.

“Let the lady in,” I said to Mourad, who'd kneeled beside his grandfather. “And phone your mother. Tell her to take a taxi and get here as soon as she can.”

He didn't move. He was paralyzed.

“Mourad!”

He stood up, slowly. “Is he going to die?”

“No. Now go! Hurry up!”

The neighbor arrived. Fat as she was, she moved fast. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” she cried.

“Didn't you hear anything?”

She shook her head.

“You didn't hear a scream?”

She shook her head again. She seemed to have lost the power of speech. She was standing there, wringing her hands. I took the old man's pulse again, then felt him all over. I noticed a sofa bed in the corner of the room. I lifted him. He didn't weigh much more than a sack of dead leaves. I laid him down, and put a cushion under his head.

“Get me a bowl and a washcloth. And some ice. And see if you can make something hot. Coffee. Or tea.”

By the time Mourad came back, I was cleaning his grandfather's face. He'd been bleeding from the nose, there was a cut on his upper lip, and his face was covered in bruises. But apart from his nose, maybe, nothing was broken. Apparently, they'd only hit him on the face.

“My mother's on her way.”

He sat down next to his grandfather and took his hand.

“It's all right,” I said. “It could have been worse.”

“Naïma's satchel is in the hall,” he stammered, weakly.

Then he burst into tears.

What a fucking life, I said to myself.

I was anxious for the old man to come to his senses and tell us what had happened. A beating up like that didn't seem like a random act of criminality. It was the work of a pro. The old man had Naïma staying with him. Naïma had spent Friday night with Guitou. Guitou had been killed. And so had Hocine Draoui.

I was sure Naïma had seen something. She was in danger. Wherever she was.

 

The old man was going to be all right. The doctor I'd sent for confirmed that there was nothing broken. Not even the nose. All he needed was rest. He wrote a prescription, and advised Mourad's mother to go to the police. Yes, of course, she said. Marinette, the neighbor, offered to go with her. “It's not right, to come and attack people in their own houses.” This time, she didn't say anything about all those Arabs who went around killing people. It wasn't appropriate right now. And she was a good woman.

While the old man was having a cup of tea, I had a beer Marinette offered me. I drank it quickly, trying to get my thoughts back on an even keel. Marinette went back to her house. If we needed her, we knew where to find her.

I moved a chair close to the bed. “Do you feel like talking a little?” I asked the old man.

He nodded. His lips were swollen. His face was turning purple, in places blood-red. The man who'd beaten him had been wearing a huge signet ring on his right hand, he'd said. He'd used only that hand to hit him.