Jacquot and the Waterman (45 page)

But tonight she was in no mood for extended hugs or pleasantries. She stepped back, holding his shoulders at arm's length, her eyes glittering with the news that she was bursting to tell him.

'Have you heard? Have you? You have?'

De Cotigny frowned, shook his head, not understanding.

Which delighted her. He hadn't heard. It was for her to break the news. The magnificent, the wonderful news.

'Daudet. The mayor. He's had a stroke,' said Madame de Cotigny breathlessly, taking his hand and leading her son into the salon. 'A bad one. He's in Temoin. Gaga, they say.'

Making himself comfortable, Hubert took his drink from Luisa and tried to get a grip on what his mother was telling him. Daudet. A stroke. He listened as she delivered the details.

She'd heard the news that morning from Virginie Lejulianne, who'd heard it from Clotilde Rollin, who'd actually called by at the Daudet residence only minutes after the discovery. They'd rushed to the hospital together, Madame Daudet and Clotilde, following the ambulance, Madame Daudet too overcome to drive herself.

'First thing this morning. In bed. At first Madame Daudet thought he was sleeping, so she tiptoes out of the bedroom, lets him sleep on; she's always complaining he works too hard, needs his rest. . . you know Madame Daudet. Likes the perks, but not the hours. Hah!'

Madame de Cotigny reached for a cigarette and tapped it on the lid of the box. Hubert leant across and lit it for her.

'So after breakfast, just before Clotilde comes calling, she goes back to the bedroom, to wake him. And he's in the same position, hasn't moved an inch. So she goes round his side of the bed and his eyes are wide open, mouth all scrunched up, drooling, a panicked look. Paralysed.'

'Who knows about this?'

'Well, if you don't. . .'

Hubert's mind went back over the events of the day - the meeting with Goulandre from the Prefecture, lunch with the British consul, phone calls from Massen at Justice, Missone at Works, a dozen others. But not one of them had said a word, not one of them sounded as though they might have heard something. Not a hint, a squeak. Somehow the mayors office had managed to keep a lid on it, but that wouldn't last. A year to go before the next elections and Daudet was gone. Or as good as.

Hubert's blood chilled. He knew at once what was on his mother's mind. She wanted him to step into Daudet's shoes. Put himself forward as a candidate, start planning an election campaign . . .

'So?' she said, shuffling herself to the edge of the sofa, plunging the half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray. 'Now's your chance, Hubert. Who else is there? Tell me. You see, you can't.'

'I don't want it, Maman.'

'Nor did your father,' she shot back.

This was followed by a silence, save for the steady tick of a grandfather clock and a distant murmur of traffic from the street below.

'My darling, it's your big chance,' she began again, softer now, changing tack but not direction. 'Of course,' she continued, 'if you really don't

Madame de Cotigny didn't finish, latching her attention onto a thread in her skirt, brows raised. Deeply hurt, deeply disappointed, but understanding.

Always her first move, Hubert knew from experience. But never her last.

He waited for her to continue. She didn't disappoint.

'Your father never regretted it for a moment. Did you know that?' There was almost a sob to accompany the recollection. 'He thought he'd hate it, but he loved it. It's in the blood, you see, and there's no getting away from that, my darling . . .' She was admonishing now, but gently, quietly.

Then, dismissively, almost icily: 'But, as I said, if you really want to stay on in . . . what is it? Planning, for the rest of your career

Madame de Cotigny knew precisely what it was that Hubert did. Hated the very thought of it. Could hardly speak the word. Planning? A de Cotigny?
Mais non.
Nothing more than a backwater posting. Political stagnation. Useful as a step up, of course, but not for five years. In Marseilles there was only one job worth having - conveniently vacated that very morning - and she wanted it for her son. Mayor. It was time for Hubert to start moving up in the world. With their connections, they couldn't go wrong. If only her son was more forceful, more . . . more ... in touch with real politics.

'Look at Chirac,' she said. 'He was mayor.'

'Of Paris, Maman.'

'Marseilles. Paris.
Quelle difference?'
she retorted, fingers fidgeting with her string of pearls. 'It's the first step. The important one. Here or there, doesn't matter a fig.' Then, softer, almost hesitating to say it: 'I know it's what your father would have wanted. He'd be so proud.'

With a soft knock on the door Luisa bobbed into the salon and announced that dinner was served. Madame de Cotigny drained her whisky glass and Hubert stood to accompany her through to the dining room.

Of course the news about Daudet was staggering. But as he pulled back his mother's chair and helped her into her seat, de Cotigny knew one thing for sure. Even if he'd wanted to, there was no way that he could possibly run for mayor. Certainly not now. Not after seeing that videotape.

Over dinner, his mother laid out her plans for his succession but Hubert only half listened, his mind always finding its way back to his study, three nights earlier, and the honeyed demands of his guest. Hubert could see him now - tall, dark complexion, the curl of floppy black hair, the sharp clothes, the knowing smile and gentle explanations. A familiar face, as though he'd seen him somewhere . . .

Then the cassette pushed into the video-player - that place in Cours Lieutaud. He recognised it immediately. That and the lapping of bodies, the swipe of the cane, the harsh grunting of the soundtrack - accompanied by a simple request, what the man wanted, as the images unreeled on the TV screen. As though he, de Cotigny, had any alternative, watching his performance with a rising, chilling horror. If only his guest knew the whole story, thought de Cotigny. But who was to say he wouldn't find out?

And now, if his mother had her way, it wouldn't just be the Head of Planning his late-night visitor had in thrall. If Hubert did what she wanted - run for mayor and get elected - the man would have an even bigger fish to fry. The whole thing was simply, horribly, out of the question. But how in God's name would he ever be able to break the news to his mother?

Later, after Madame de Cotigny had helped him on with his coat, passed him his briefcase and kissed him goodnight, she reached up a hand to smooth his cheek, fondly, proudly. She didn't have to say a thing.

But he did, and as he buttoned up his coat he promised her that he'd think about it.

As expected, tears welled in his mother's eyes. On the way home, Hubert de Cotigny pulled over in Endoume, opened the driver's door and threw up his dinner in the gutter.

“You haven't forgotten, have you?'

The voice on his mobile, as Jacquot headed for home, had been immediately familiar. Dark, with a syrupy hint of accent.

Sydne. Sid and Cesar Mesnil. Dinner. Thursday. A few friends ... a bottle or two . . . maybe a couscous . . . nothing special . . . That was the brief. That was what Sid had said when she'd called to invite him the week before.

But Jacquot had forgotten. Though he didn't say that.

'Would I forget?'

'It's been known,' replied Sid suspiciously. 'I know you . . . remember?'

'Except it'll just be the one.'

'Boni on call?'

'You could say.'

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. You didn't need a sledgehammer with Sydne Mesnil.

'And?'

'And nothing, Sid. It'll just be me.'

'Are you all right? Tell me, Daniel.'

'Later maybe. Right now I'm trying to get home. And the traffic's murder. See you at. . . what. . . ? Eight, wasn't it?'

'Eight-thirty,' she replied.

'Eight-thirty? No problem,' he said, then hung up before she could ask anything else.

It was a typical Sid and Cesar evening. Nothing formal, no
placement.
A dozen people - colleagues of Cesar's from the University, friends of Sid's, people they'd known for years, people they'd only just met but taken a liking to - spread around the Mesnils' top-floor apartment in St-Victor, sitting and standing, drifting from one room to another, smoking, drinking, helping themselves to the food when they felt like it - couscous as advertised and a dozen different salads, plates of
mezes,
warm pastries, fruit, cheese, trays of honey-sweet baclava from the market in Belsunce - set out on a long trestle table on the loggia, John Coltrane playing in the background.

It was the way Sid and Cesar did things. The way you did it if you grew up in Istanbul, as Sid had done, or Tunisia, as Cesar had done. This odd couple who'd been Jacquot's friends since Sid, an osteopath, had sorted his shoulder, a recurring discomfort from the rugby pitch.

Despite instructions Jacquot had come late - the last to arrive, judging by the crowd inside. As Sid took his jacket, flung it on a pile by the door, leant up to kiss, hug him, tell him off as she always did - he was working too hard, he should learn to relax - Jacquot wished that he hadn't forgotten the prospect of this evening; it would have been something to look forward to, something to ease him through the days since Bonis departure.