Chourmo (26 page)

“I know, I know, but . . . The thing is, Montale, the Vieille-Charité excavations are really nothing special. And being a friend of Hocine Draoui, Fabre must have known that. His sales pitch to the authorities in support of the parking garage project was perfectly straightforward. It didn't give anything away to the archeologists. But Draoui had no great interest in the site. I read his speech at the 1990 conference. The most exciting site is the one on Place Jules Verne. The excavations there date back six hundred years before Christ. They may even unearth the landing stage of the port of Liguria. The one where Protis landed. I'd bet my bottom dollar we'll never see a parking garage there . . . As far as I can see, Draoui and Fabre really respected each other. Which explains why Fabre, as soon as he found out that Draoui was in trouble, offered to let him stay in his house.

“From what I've been able to find out about him,” he went on, “Fabre was a cultivated man. He loved his city. His heritage. The Mediterranean. I'm sure the two of them had a lot in common. After they met in '90, they started writing to each other frequently. I read a few of Draoui's letters to Fabre. They're fascinating. I'm sure they'd interest you.”

“This story doesn't make sense,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I guessed where he was going with this, and I knew I'd be caught out. I couldn't keep playing the idiot. I couldn't keep quiet forever about what I knew.

“Yes, a beautiful friendship,” he resumed, in a lighter tone. “Which goes wrong. The kind of thing you read about in the papers every day. The friend who sleeps with the wife. The deceived husband who takes his revenge.”

I thought about that for a moment. “But it doesn't tally with what you know about Fabre, is that what you're thinking?”

“Especially as the deceived husband gets killed himself soon afterwards. She didn't kill him. Neither did you. He was killed by hitmen. So was Draoui. And so was Guitou, who was unlucky enough to find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So you think there was another motive.”

“Yes. Draoui's death had nothing to do with the fact that he'd slept with Cûc. It's more serious than that.”

“So serious that two hitmen came all the way from Toulon just to kill Hocine Draoui.”

Dammit, I had to tell him in the end!

He didn't blink. He looked straight at me. I had the strange feeling that he already knew what I'd just told him. The number of hitmen. Where they came from. But how could he have known?

“Ah. How do you know they came from Toulon?”

“They tailed me the first day, Loubet. They were looking for the girl. The one who was in bed with Guitou. Her name is Naïma. I knew that, and—”

“That's why you went to La Bigotte.”

“That's right.”

The look on his face was angrier than I'd ever known it to be. He stood up.

“A cognac,” he called to the waiter.

And he headed for the toilet.

“Make that two,” I said. “And another coffee.”

L
oubet came back from the toilet. He'd calmed down. “You're lucky you're in solid with me, Montale,” he said. “Because I could happily have smashed your face!”

I spilled it all, everything I knew. Guitou, Naïma, the Hamoudi family. Plus all the things Cûc had told me the other night that I hadn't yet told him. In detail. Like a good pupil.

Naïma had gone to see Mathias, in Aix. On Monday evening. She'd already told him the gist of it the night before, on the phone. Mathias had called his mother. He was in a panic, and at the same time really angry. Cûc, of course, went straight to Aix. Naïma told them both what had happened on that tragic night.

Adrien Fabre had been in the house that night. She hadn't seen him, but she'd heard his name being called. After they'd killed Guitou. “Fuck, what was the kid doing here? Fabre!” a man had yelled. “Come here!” She remembered the words. She'd never be able to forget them.

She'd hidden in the shower.

She'd huddled there in terror. The only way she'd managed not to scream was by concentrating on the water dripping on her left knee. Seeing how far she could count before the next drop hit her knee.

An argument had started up between the men, outside the door of the apartment. Three voices, including Fabre's. “You killed him! You killed him!” he was crying. Almost in tears. The one who was clearly the ringleader called him an idiot. Then there was a dull sound, like a slap. After that, Fabre really started blubbering. One of the men, who had a strong Corsican accent, asked what they should do. The ringleader told him he had to get a van. With three or four removal men. To empty the place of the biggest things. The most important things. He'd take “the other guy” away before he drove them crazy.

Naïma didn't know how long she spent in the shower, counting the drops of water. The only thing she remembered was that at a particular moment everything fell silent. No more noise. Except the sound of her own sobbing. She was shivering. The cold had penetrated her skin. Not from the water. From the horror around her, the horror she could imagine.

She'd saved her own skin, that much she realized. But she stayed where she was, in the shower, her eyes closed. Motionless, unable to move. Sobbing, shivering, hoping the nightmare would end. Hoping Guitou would kiss her on the lips and she'd open her eyes and he'd say gently, “Come on, it's all over now.” But the miracle didn't happen. Another drop of water hit her knee. That was real. Everything she'd just lived through was real. She stood up, with difficulty. She was resigned. She got dressed. The worst thing of all, she thought, was waiting for her outside the door. She would have to step over Guitou's body. She walked with her head turned away, in order not to see him. But she couldn't do it. This was
her
Guitou. She crouched by him, to take one last look at him. To say goodbye. She stopped shaking. She wasn't afraid anymore. Nothing else would ever matter now, she told herself, as she stood up and . . .

“And where are they now, she and Mathias?”

I assumed my most angelic expression. “That's the problem. I don't know.”

“Are you bullshitting me, or what?”

“I swear.”

He looked at me, with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Maybe two or three days in the can would help.”

“Quit kidding!”

“You've jerked me around long enough! And I don't want you under my feet anymore.”

“Even if I pick up the tab?” I said, trying to look as dumb as I could.

Loubet burst out laughing. A good honest laugh. A man's laugh. A laugh that could stand up to all the meanness in the world.

“I got you scared, didn't I?”

“You sure did! Everyone would have come to see me. Like an animal in the zoo. Even Pertin would have brought me peanuts.”

“We'll share the tab,” he went on, in a more serious tone. “I'm going to put out a wanted poster, for Balducci and the other guy. Narni.” He said the name slowly. Then he looked me in the eyes. “How did you manage to finger him?”

“Narni. Narni,” I repeated. “But . . . ”

A door had opened, and there was the worst, the most unthinkable thing of all. I felt a knot in my stomach. I retched.

“What is it, Montale? Are you sick?”

Hold on, I told myself. Hold on. Don't throw up all over the table. Keep it in. Concentrate. Breathe. Go on, breathe. Slowly. As if you were walking in the
calanques
. Breathe. There, that's better. Breathe again. Breathe out. That's good. Yeah, that's it . . . You see, you can digest anything in the end. Even pure shit.

I wiped my forehead, which was covered in sweat.

“It's all right, it's all right. Something in my stomach.”

“You look scary.”

I couldn't see Loubet anymore. All I could see in front of me was the other man. A handsome man with graying hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. And a big gold signet ring on his right hand. Alexandre. Alexandre Narni. I retched again, but the worst was over. How could Gélou have shared her bed with a hitman? For ten years, dammit!

“It's nothing, really. It'll pass. How about another quick cognac?”

“You're sure you're all right?”

I'd be all right.

“I don't even know who Narni is,” I resumed, in a jocular tone. “It was just a name that came into my head. Boudjema Ressaf, Narni . . . I was trying to impress Pertin. To make him believe you and I were in cahoots.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, not taking his eyes off me.

“So who is this Narni?”

“That name didn't just come into your head. You must have heard of Narni. I'm sure you have. One of Jean-Louis Fargette's strong arm men.” He smiled ironically. “I hope you remember Fargette at least? Eh? The Mafia and all that . . . ”

“Yes, of course.”

“For years, this Narni of yours was best known for being in charge of the extortion racket on the coast. Then his name was mentioned when Fargette got whacked in San Remo. He may even have done the job himself. Shifting alliances between families, you know how it goes. Since then, he's kept a low profile.”

“So what's he been doing since Fargette died?”

Loubet smiled. The smile of someone who knows he's about to impress the other person. I braced myself for the worst.

“He's financial adviser to an international economic marketing company. The company that handles the second account for Cûc's fashion business. And the second account for Fabre's architectural practice. Others too . . . I haven't had time to go through the whole list . . . The Neapolitan Camorra is behind it, I got confirmation of that before coming here. You see, Fabre was in it up to his neck. But not in the way you think.”

“Right,” I said, evasively.

I wasn't really listening. There was a knot in my stomach. Everything was going up and down inside me. The sea urchins, the sea squirts, the oysters. The cognac hadn't helped. And I felt like crying.

“What do you think economic marketing means, for guys like these?”

I knew. Babette had explained it to me.

“Loan sharking. They lend money to businesses in difficulty. Dirty money, obviously. At crazy rates. Fifteen, twenty percent. A lot, anyhow. The whole of Italy already functions like that. Even some banks!”

Now the Mafia had started making inroads in the French market. The recent Schneider affair, with its Belgian connections, had been the first example.

“Well, the guy who runs all that is called Antonio Sartanario. Narni works for him. His specialty is dealing with people who are having problems with their payments. Or who try to change the rules of the game.”

“Was that the case with Fabre?”

“He'd started borrowing to get his practice off the ground. Then a large amount to help Cûc get started in the fashion world. He was a regular client. But these last few months, he'd needed a little more persuasion. When we went through his accounts, we discovered he'd been transferring a lot of money into a savings account. An account he'd opened in Mathias' name. So you see, Hocine Draoui was a warning to Fabre. The first warning. That's why they killed him, right there in front of him, in his own house. On Monday morning, Fabre withdrew a large sum.”

“But they killed him all the same.”

“The kid's death must really have had an effect on Fabre. What was he planning to do instead of handing over the money? Spill the beans? Blackmail them into leaving him alone? . . . Are you listening to me, Montale?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You see what a mess this whole thing is. Balducci, Narni. Guys like that don't fool around. Do you hear, Montale?” He looked at his watch. “Shit, I'm late.”

He stood up. I didn't. I wasn't steady on my legs yet. Loubet put his hand on my shoulder, like the other day in Ange's bar.

“A word of advice. If you hear anything about the two kids, don't forget to call me. I wouldn't like anything to happen to them. I don't think you would either.”

I nodded. “Loubet,” I heard myself saying, “I like you.”

He leaned toward me. “So do me a favor, Fabio. Go fishing. It's healthier . . . for what you've got in your stomach.”

 

I asked for a third cognac, and drank it straight down. It gave me the kick I'd been hoping for. A kick to unleash the storm in my belly. I stood up, with difficulty, and headed straight for the toilets.

On my knees, holding the toilet bowl in both hands, I threw up. Everything. Down to the last clam. I didn't want to keep any of that damn meal inside me. My stomach twisted with pain, I sobbed softly. Things always end like this, I told myself. Out of balance. They can't end any other way. Because that's how they started. You'd like everything to be balanced in the end. But it never happens.

Never.

I stood up and pulled the chain. Like someone pulling an alarm bell.

Outside, the weather was glorious. I'd forgotten the sun existed. It was flooding Cours d'Estiennes-d'Orves. I let myself be borne along by its gentle warmth. I walked with my hands in my pockets as far as Place aux Huiles. In the Vieux-Port.

A strong smell rose from the sea. A mixture of oil, grease and salt water. It really wasn't a pleasant smell. Any other day, I'd have said it stank. But right now that smell did me a whole lot of good. It was real, it was human. It was a whiff of happiness. It was like Marseilles catching me by the throat. In my mind, I could hear the chugging of my boat. I saw myself at sea, fishing. I smiled. Life was resuming its rightful place in me. Through the simplest things.

The ferry arrived. I bought a return ticket for the shortest and most beautiful of all journeys. Across the bay of Marseilles. Quai du Port to Quai de Rive-Neuve. There weren't many passengers at this hour. A few old people. A mother giving her baby the bottle. I found myself humming
Chella lla
. An old Neapolitan song by Renato Carosone. I was finding my bearings again. And the memories that went with them. My father had sat me down at the window of the ferry and said, “Look, Fabio. Look. That's the entrance to the harbor. See? The Saint-Nicolas fort. The Saint-Jean fort. And there's the Pharo. Look. And after that, there's the sea. The open sea.” I could feel his big hands holding me under my armpits. How old was I? No more than six or seven. That night, I dreamed I was a sailor.