A Twist of Orchids (10 page)

By now Mara was up, too, and feeling huffy. The heat of their lovemaking had long since dissipated. “With your head full of hunting down Kazim? No thanks.”

“All right. Suit yourself.” He disappeared to shower and shave.

•

Twenty minutes later Mara, wrapped in her bathrobe, was sitting at the kitchen table squinting over the top of her useless glasses at sheets of notepaper covered with a large, looping script: handwritten recipes sent from Canada by her mother, a very good cook, whose repertoire ran to rich meat pies, hearty soups, and even moose stew. Hers was the culinary expression of Quebec’s heartland
(Maman
came from the little town of Saint-Louis-du-Ha!-Ha!, a place name that rivaled Ecoute-la-Pluie for quaintness. Some said “ha! ha!” was from the antique French word for impasse; or a typographical error—“ha! ha!” was actually “ah! ah!” in admiration of the view; or an Indian exclamation of surprise). She did not look up when Julian came into the kitchen.

“Sure you won’t come with me?”

She shook her head. “Anyway, it’s my day to cook.” She scribbled something on the back of an envelope. She softened. “I’m giving you a surprise. But first I have to shop for the ingredients.”

He read aloud over her shoulder: “Potatoes.” He asked cautiously, “Another
gratin dauphinois?”

“Never you mind. When will you be back?”

“How long does it take to find a runaway son? Afternoonish, I expect.” He planted a kiss on her cheek.

She watched him as he pulled on his jacket, turning up the collar in advance against the cold. “You know, I think the private
investigator suits you. You look kind of tough and sexy with your collar up like that.”

He paused on his way to the door. “I do?”

“Uh-huh.” Her eyes dropped to his middle, bulky in the down-filled parka. “Too bad you don’t have a trench coat. That puffy jacket doesn’t quite cut it.” She grinned. “Too much like the Michelin Man.”

He left.

>Patsy
, Mara composed an email in her head that would never be sent,
what do I do with a man who’s as slippery as an egg custard?<

She imagined Patsy’s response:
>Life is short. Eat dessert first.<

•

Julian started up his van and set out north on the D710. There was very little traffic on the road that morning. He drove past soggy meadows and dark, newly plowed fields. The recent rains had left standing water in the furrows that reflected flashing ribbons of pewter-colored sky.

As he drove, he realized that, despite Mara’s little joke, he
was
playing the
limier
, the bloodhound sleuth, on the trail of a missing person. Now that he thought about it, he rather fancied himself in that role. Tough and sexy. The silly part of him wished he
did
have a trench coat. Or was it only spies and dirty postcard sellers who wore them? No, he was sure Humphrey Bogart as Philip Marlowe in
The Big Sleep
had worn a trench coat. He had seen the film on French television not long ago. It was one of his favorites. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror and tried talking out of the side of his mouth, Bogie-style:
“M’emmerdes pas, connard.”
Don’t piss me off, bastard.

Périgueux was situated some 60 kilometers north of Ecoute-la-Pluie on the River Isle. He reached the shambling outskirts of the town in forty minutes and found the Intermarché supermarket easily. To his disappointment, Nadia was not there and none of the
Sunday morning shift knew her. He wandered from the charcuterie counter to the long-life milk section, wishing he hadn’t wasted his Sunday and musing on the existence of so many kinds of milk. Cow’s milk, goat’s milk, milk in soft plastic bottles, milk in cartons, full cream, half cream, different percentages of skimmed, lactose free, fortified. Well, at least he could tell the Ismets he had tried. A kid with dirty blond hair was hunkered down at the end of the aisle, restocking the lower shelves.

“I don’t suppose you know where I can find someone named Nadia Beaubois, do you? I was told she worked here.”

The kid swiveled his head around to peer up at him sideways. Julian had a view of the dark pit of a nostril and one glaucous eye. He expected another negative. Instead, the kid said, “She used to. What’s it to you?”

•

Julian parked along the river and took the steep ramp leading up to Rue Porte-de-Graule. He was in the Quartier Saint-Front, the old quarter whose ancient labyrinth of narrow, cobbled lanes in Renaissance times had been the artisanal and commercial center of the town. Over the centuries, the buildings had fallen into disrepair. One by one they were being restored. Newly renovated, upmarket residences rubbed shoulders with dilapidated structures.

The house he was looking for was set slightly back between two jutting facades. He had to walk around a skip of debris to reach the entrance. To his surprise, the massive wooden front door stood partly ajar. Within, he saw a dim vestibule surrounded by more evidence of reconstruction: a couple of saw-horses, a coil of electrical cable, stacks of tiles. The air was heavy with the smells of raw lumber and new paint underlain by damp stone and mold. His groping hands found a wall switch for the
minuterie
, a timed light that illuminated the vestibule and first landing. Now he could see that a corridor ran off the vestibule
all the way to the back of the building. A decrepit but once elegant stairwell wound upward in a dizzying ovoid spiral. The house seemed untenanted, but he could hear rock music coming faintly from above.

He puffed as he made the tortuous climb, his footsteps keeping a lagging counterpoint to the strengthening basso
thump-de-thump
overhead. When he reached the second level, the light went out, plunging him into darkness. He groped along the wall and found another
minuterie
that lit the floors above.

The music came from behind a door, four stories up, at the very top. There was a doorbell, but it had been pulled out of its socket and hung on a wire. He knocked. Then he banged on the door with his fist. The music ceased abruptly. The door cracked opened.

“Wotcherwant?” said a voice in distinctly East End London English. Julian could just make out a head in a blue knit cap, dark curly hair poking out from under it, and a pair of watery eyes.

“Nadia Beaubois? Is she here?”

“Oo’re you, then?” The eyes, slightly out of focus, sized him up.

“Friend of a friend. Who’re you?”

“Peter,” said the young man, surprisingly obliging. He yelled over his shoulder, “Naahd!” and opened the door enough to allow Julian to step inside.

In addition to the cap, Peter wore a heavy pea jacket several sizes too large for him over army fatigues. Julian understood why. The apartment, which proved to be the garret, was freezing. A portable paraffin stove in the middle of the room offered an inadequate source of heat. The ceiling was pitched at an angle and badly stained. Battered pans had been placed on the floor to catch drips from a leaky skylight. It and a pair of grimy dormer windows provided the only illumination. The furnishings were
minimal: a plastic table and plastic chairs that looked as if they had been nicked from an outdoor café, a mattress strewn with rumpled bedding in a corner, a lumpy sofa piled with soiled blankets. Orange crates stacked against the wall formed a kind of shelving for a jumble of bottles, magazines, and CDs. There was an alcove with a hot plate and a sink stacked with dirty dishes. Through an open doorway at the far end of the garret Julian glimpsed a bed, unmade, and the corner of a dresser. The place, makeshift and filthy, had the look of a squat. Except for the fact that the occupants seemed to take no pains to hide their presence, the building’s owner might not have even known they were there. Julian guessed they were paying some kind of nominal rent to live in space that was probably legally condemned. Not for much longer, though. Once the work of renovation was complete, the likes of Peter and Nadia would be out on the street.

Something moved on the sofa. Julian made out the head of a girl. He had not noticed her earlier because most of her was buried under the blankets. A gold ring pierced the middle of her lower lip; a multitude of rings skewered her earlobes and eyebrows. She raised an arm to take a drag from a joint. The air was heavily sweet with it. She blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“Hey, Naahd!” the young cockney yelled again. He slouched over to the sofa. “Shove over, Brigitte.”

“
Va te faire foutre
,” Brigitte muttered. Get stuffed. With an effort she curled her legs to the side. Peter dropped down, as if exhausted, next to her. He reached across for the toke, sucked on it. The two of them regarded Julian dully.

Another woman came out of the bedroom, tugging a comb through her ragged, bicolored hair. Its black and orange streaks reminded Julian of some kind of animal pelt. Her surroundings might be trash, but this one dressed well. She wore a purple angora sweater, leather slacks, and black leather knee-high boots
with platform soles that made her look as if she were treading on bricks. What appeared to be a genuine snakeskin fanny pack was strapped around her hips.

“
Quoi?
” Two unnaturally green eyes fixed Julian in an unfriendly stare.

“
Vooz ahvez ang veezeetuhr
,” Peter said in horrible French, pointing unnecessarily at Julian.

Nadia was tall, sallow-complexioned, and older-looking than Julian had expected. He found her emerald stare—tinted contacts, he supposed—unsettling.

“
Qui êtes-vous?
” she demanded, her voice sharp with distrust.

“
Un ami.
I’m looking for Kazim.”

“
Pas ici.
” Not here. Her gaze darted to Peter and then past Julian to the door. She seemed extremely jumpy. She fiddled with the comb. It snapped in half, and she threw it on the floor.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. Why do you want to know?”

“I told you. I’m a friend.”

Her upper lip curled unpleasantly. “I don’t think so.”

“A friend of the family,” he modified. “His parents are worried sick about him.” Julian did not expect this to get him very far. It didn’t.

“Them!” Nadia blew air out her nostrils. “All they want is to keep him in that lousy shop for the rest of his life.”

“Yeah, I know,” Julian agreed. “They’re a bit old-fashioned. They don’t realize Kazim’s too bright for that. He could go places if he had the chance. That’s why I want to talk to him.”
Nice touch, that
, he thought, noting her reaction.

“Oh yeah?” Curiosity vied with skepticism. “What about?”

“Well, that’s between him and me, isn’t it?”

“Look, you’re wasting my time. I’m late for work.”

“Will you give him a message?”

“Told you. Haven’t seen him. Don’t know where he is.”

“Tell him to contact me. As soon as possible. It’s important.”

“How important?”

Julian came forward, digging out his wallet. “Treat this as a down payment.” He held out twenty euros.

She gave a harsh laugh. “You’re joking. You can’t want to see him very badly.”

Julian laid on another twenty and added his card. Nadia snatched at the money and read the card aloud disbelievingly. “Julian Wood. Landscape gardener? What is this? You’re some kind of fucking grass jockey?” She nearly screamed with laughter. She gave the card a backhand toss. It sailed through the air and came to rest on the floor a little way beyond the broken comb. Then she grabbed a cape-like garment from the back of a chair and headed for the door. She was gone in a diminishing clatter of hoofs that echoed down the stairs.

Peter, who had been watching the exchange with eager interest (Julian wondered how much he had understood of the rapid French), got up and retrieved the card. Communication reverted to English.

“Any more where that came from, mate?” He rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “I could really use a few.”

“Depends on what you can tell me. I’m looking for Kazim Ismet. You know him?”

The cockney glanced at Brigitte, who was now asleep with her mouth open.

“Yeah.”

“Know where I can find him?”

“’E was ’ere for a bit, wasn’t ’e? Then ’e took off. Not seen ’im since.”

“When was that?”

“Week ago, something like that.”

“That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?”

Peter scratched his left ear. Then he said, “Used to ’ang round the cathedral, didn’t ’e?”

“Are you saying that’s where I’ll find him?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“No, swear to God. You’ll find ’im there. I wouldn’t lie to you. C’mon, man, gi’us twenty.”

Julian gave him ten. Peter grabbed it.

“There’s more if you can produce him for me. You have my card.”

He saw himself out. This time he was prepared for the
minuterie
and managed to activate the light for the lower stairs before the top one gave out. In the vestibule, he noticed something on the dirty tiled floor that he had not seen on his way in. He hunkered down for a better look: wavy deposits of mud in broken patches roughly 12 centimeters wide. Tire marks. Something had been parked there, not recently, for the mud was dry and much trodden on. A Honda Bol d’Or? Despite the fact that he had just parted with fifty euros—sixty if he counted the kid in the supermarket—he left feeling quite pleased with himself. He was getting the hang of this detecting business.

•

The cathedral was also undergoing renovation. Scaffolding braced its western face. Kids were skateboarding in the adjoining square. A group of older boys—fifteen-and sixteen-year-olds, Julian reckoned—were doing ollies off the steps leading down to the walkway along the cathedral cloister. They came off the top step at breakneck speed, crouching low on the decks of their boards, and landed in noisy, grating pirouettes at the bottom. A youth, sitting off to one side, was intent on wrapping one end of his skateboard with string. He wore jeans blown out
at the knees and a black sweatshirt with a hood pulled up over his head. His trainers were torn, and his socks had collapsed in loose folds around his ankles. His face looked gray with cold. Julian approached him.