Paris Noir Page 8

  But listen, all this is kind of Morland’s fault.

  It was Morland who told Berthet to talk to that journalist, Hélène Bastogne. Saying this was going to be a big help to The Unit. To pass himself off as a guy from the Service. To destabilize the Service by ratting on the Service. Because during this preelection period, The Unit is still loyal to the Old Man, the President, while the Service is rather in favor of the Opposition Candidate, the Pretender. And the Old Man wants to take down the Pretender.

  At least that’s how Morland explained it.

  Internal politics, what a pain in the ass, thinks Berthet, as he steps into a terrifically impersonal neon and stainless steel café.

  Inside there are people with that strained look of all departing travelers, and other people who have that strained look of people who aren’t departing travelers but who have nothing better to do than watch the ones who are.

  Yes, internal politics is a pain in the ass, thinks Berthet, who doesn’t mind dying in Algiers, Abidjan, or Rome, but not two kilometers from home in an arrondissement where there are nothing but train stations, hospitals, and whores.

  In other words, an arrondissement for hypothetical departures to rainy places, incurable diseases, and paid orgasms with spots of melanin on callipygian asses.

  Yes, internal politics is a drag.

  And Jesus, talk about those train stations! Berthet thinks the Gare de l’Est is even more depressing than the Gare du Nord. The Gare du Nord plays it futurist and Orwellian, but the Gare de l’Est still reeks of the draftees who went off twice in twenty years to get slaughtered on the Eastern fronts.

  Furthermore, the paradox is that Berthet has hideouts even The Unit doesn’t know about in a dozen European and African cities, but here in Paris, in the 10th arrondissement— nothing, nada, zilch.

  Berthet finally understands, though a bit late, a precept from The Art of Warby Sun Tzu. A book that everyone at The Unit claims to be reading, it’s their bible and the pretext for seminars after Commando Training in Guyana.

  Berthet used to think that reading Sun Tzu was a bit of a show-off, a little “We-at-The-Unit-are-philosopher-warriors,” a pose, really.

  But now Berthet has to admit that the old Chink was right: “What is essential is to ensure peace in the cities of your nation.” In other words, peace would be a studio known only to himself, equipped with:

  clean suits

  weapons with no serial numbers

  a set of false identity papers

  medicine in the bathroom cabinet

  some cash

  cell phones with local numbers

  These studios do exist. The closest is in Delft, between Brussels and Amsterdam. Delft—that sure does Berthet a lot of good.

  The road might be a possibility. Straight toward Porte de la Chapelle, the highway to Lille. Yeah, right.

  Berthet orders a coffee at the counter. Berthet thinks this over. Berthet understands. The Unit wants him dead to eliminate the source of leaks to the Service. The Unit, once the dirty work has been done, wants to keep its hands clean.

  Berthet feels very depressed. If The Unit has decided to do away with him like that, it’s because The Unit must think he’s outdated, old, a loser.

  Berthet could call Hélène Bastogne, tell her about having been conned. That wouldn’t do much good, just piss off The Unit. Whatever he does now anyway, he’s definitely out of the game.

  Berthet wants to take a piss. Berthet goes up to the first floor of the café. To get into the john, you have to put fifty euro centimes into a kind of piggy bank on the door handle.

  Clearly, a homeless bum is waiting for Berthet to go in and for Berthet to leave the door open when he comes out. The stinginess of this café, the bum’s stinginess, the stinginess of internal politics, all this irritates Berthet.

  In the world as it was before, you didn’t pay to piss. To accept this is more proof that a submission chip has indeed been implanted in all people born after the oil crisis.

  Berthet looks for exact change. Next to him, Berthet feels the bum’s need to piss as pressing as his own. This irritates Berthet even more.

  Then Berthet blows his fuse.

  Berthet takes out his Glock and breaks the bum’s nose with the butt. Then Berthet finally manages to find the right coin, Berthet goes into the john, Berthet drags the body of the bum along with him, quite easily given the drug-addicted thinness of this economically deprived individual, and once the door is closed, Berthet crushes the bum’s face with a stomp of the heel of his Church’s shoe, thinking about:

  those Unit shits

  those Service shits

  that shit Sun Tzu

  that grouse with foie gras he had to skip

  that internal politics crap

  The bum is pretty quickly disfigured and dead. In place of his face there are shards of bone, bits of rotten teeth, torn flesh, and even an eye popped out of its socket looking disapprovingly at Berthet.

  Berthet takes his leak, Berthet farts, and Berthet wonders what got into him.

  Berthet washes his hands, Berthet splashes water on his face, Berthet wipes off his Church’s and the bottoms of his trousers.

  Berthet remembers, then, that he forgot to take his Hal-dol when he was having lunch at Chez Michel. And this is the upshot.

  Berthet swallows two pink gel tablets and is about to step out, when one of his two cell phones vibrates.

  6.

  “Hello, my friend!”

  Lover #2 immediately recognizes the Voice at the other end of the cell phone. Lover #2 loves this Voice. A top bureaucrat’s phrasing, a cabinet minister’s unction with media appeal to boot because the Voice publishes two essays a year on globalization, always the same ones, and because the Voice is invited everywhere to receive all the journalists’ compliments and bows. The Voice is one of the ten or twelve most powerful Voices in France.

  “Hello, sir.”

  Lover #2 tries to stay cool, relaxed. To deal equal to equal with the Voice. Lover #2 is the editor-in-chief of a major daily, after all.

  “I have a favor to ask you, my dear friend …”

  Lover #2 puffs out his chest. Lover #2 forgets that he is stark naked on Hélène Bastogne’s bed, and that his fingers smell of Hélène Bastogne. As for Hélène Bastogne, she’s taking a shower so long it might be insulting if Lover #2 didn’t have other things on his mind.

  “Go on, sir.”

  “You have a journalist on your paper called Hélène Bas-togne, I believe?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Lover #2 restrains himself from saying, That’s funny, whata coincidence, I just fucked her, rather well if I must say so myself,and now we’re going for a drink near Canal Saint-Martin. Howabout joining us? We’ll make it a threesome. These thirty-year-oldsdo enjoy a good fuck, you know. Probably because of their poors power in relation to the older generation.

  But Lover #2 doesn’t know the Voice intimately enough. That’s too bad. One day.

  “Mademoiselle Bastogne has gathered some rather sensitive information, I believe, from an agent belonging to our services, hasn’t she?”

  Uh oh. Uh oh. Careful. Careful, thinks Lover #2.

  “True. And we’re about to bring it out soon. But if this is a problem to you, sir, I can postpone it.”

  “Out of the question, my dear friend, it’s not our style to control the press. On the contrary, I’m going to tell you something in confidence: We ourselves encouraged this agent to talk. It has to do with internal stability, it’s very complicated, one day I’ll tell you about it. We are in favor of transparency, my dear friend. Only here’s the thing: This agent still has things to tell Mademoiselle Bastogne, some very interesting things.”

  “He can just come by the office again tomorrow.”

  “Now here’s the problem. A rival service has spotted him in your offices. We are in a preelection period. He’s risking his career and even his life if he visits you again. Your journalist does live in the 10th, right
? Tell her to go home. Our man is in the area. He will meet her at her place. He will feel more secure there. Do this quickly, my dear friend. Let’s say within the hour. It’s urgent. We’ll send our man to a quiet place right after.”

  “For security purposes, I would also like to be present at the interview,” says Lover #2. “You never know.”

  “Your ethics and your courage are to your credit, my dear friend, I was going to suggest the same thing. But our agent is very nervous. The idea should seem to come from Mademoiselle Bastogne, that would make him feel secure. I’m counting on you, my dear friend, and I won’t forget to thank you after the elections.”

  The Voice hangs up. Lover #2 rises, walks over to the bedroom window. Lover #2 looks down at Cavaillé-Coll park. Kids are playing before night comes, which won’t be long now. Lover #2 scratches his balls, Lover #2 looks toward the fa-çade of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul’s. Oh, not a great example of a faux Greek temple.

  Lover #2 scratches his ass. Lover #2 has the feeling they’ve got him just where they want him. But come on, that’s paranoid, too much coke. Change dealers, must think about changing dealers.

  Hey, Lover #2 says to himself, the place where my dealer wants me to meet him is not very far away, as a matter of fact. Near Saint-Louis Hospital. I’ll go as soon as everything is settled with this Berthet. I’ll have a blast with the Bastogne girl. I’ll order bo bun from the Asian restaurant on avenue Richerand. It’s the best bo bun in Paris. Coke, bo bum, and sex. If you’re going to spend an evening in this lousy area, you might as well make it a good one.

  Behind him, the shower has stopped. The bitch has finally finished washing her ass.

  Without turning around, Lover #2 senses the damp presence of Hélène Bastogne. Lover #2’s cock swells a little. This isn’t the right time, even if at a good fifty-plus years it’s always heartening to see that the machine can react in a split second.

  “I got a tip over the phone while you were scrubbing yourself; I was told Berthet still has a bunch of stuff to spill. And fast. After that, he’s gone. He’s in the neighborhood, apparently. That’s lucky, don’t you think? We could ask him to meet us here. Do you have some way of reaching him?”

  Hélène Bastogne looks at the soft buttocks of Lover #2. élène Bastogne wants to send this lousy fuck packing. But this lousy fuck is sometimes a good journalist. Not often, but sometimes. So Hélène Bastogne says: “I have his cell number, I’ll call him.”

  7.

  “Moreau?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re still at the Brady?”

  “Where, sir?”

  “At Mocky’s, moron.”

  “At whose place?”

  “Fuck, in your movie theater.”

  “Yes, sir, and there are still black guys jerking off, sir.”

  “You’re dismissed now, Moreau. You’re to go to an apartment on Place Franz Liszt, number seven. It’s near a bar called l’Amiral. The entry code is 1964CA12. Top floor. The apartment belongs to Hélène Bastogne.”

  “And?”

  “You clean up. If Berthet isn’t there, clean up anyway and wait. Until Berthet arrives.”

  “Okay, sir.”

  “Say, Moreau, what’s the film at Mocky’s?”

  “What?”

  “The film playing on the screen.”

  “Something with the young Bourvil who filches from church collection boxes. I don’t understand anything. The actors are all terrible. Plus, with all these black guys jerking off—”

  “Moreau, you don’t understand anything about film. And this nonsense about black guys jerking off—are you racist or what, Moreau? Or did you forget to take your Haldol? Forgetting to take Haldol makes you do stupid things, you know.”

  “I took my Haldol, sir, and there really are black guys jerking off.”

  “Okay, fine, though I don’t see why anyone would jerk off watching Un drôle de paroissien,unless they’re really serious film buffs. So, your mission?”

  “Top floor, Place Franz Liszt, code 1964CA12. I clean up.”

  “Good, Moreau. All right, get moving.”

  8.

  In his pay toilet at the Gare du Nord, Berthet puts his cell phone back into his pocket. Hélène Bastogne. Who wants to see him. Maybe it’s a trap, maybe not. Actually, Berthet doesn’t care. Berthet has a headache. Berthet looks at the bum’s dis-figured corpse. Maybe they’re right at The Unit, maybe he’s gone totally rotten. The fact that he lost it just by skipping one dose of Haldol proves it. Shit.

  Might as well go see Hélène Bastogne. Berthet leaves the john. Two people are waiting. Berthet takes out a red, white, and blue official ID card.

  “Health services, closed for the moment.”

  And Berthet smiles. And Berthet signals with a broad, competent, and pleasant gesture that everybody must go back down, that he’ll be coming down too, right after them.

  Berthet leaves the café. Berthet leaves the station.

  The 10th arrondissement is falling into the warm November night. Global warming. Heading back home to the suburbs, the commuters are starting to flock in. Since Berthet has been bipolar—no, actually, since he’s become completely psychotic—Berthet remembers all the figures he sees. It’s terrifying.

  Just today, for instance, glimpsed on random posters and newspapers, Berthet will always remember:

  Portugal’s debt, which is sixty-three percent of their GNP;

  dial 08 92 68 24 20 to talk uninhibited with very hot babes;

  349 euros per month, no money down, for a Passat Trend TDI;

  sixty percent of the young Senegalese woman’s skin was burned after the bus attack in the projects outside Paris.

  So Berthet, who is moving against the human flow, almost automatically converts everything into numbers, and it’s no longer people he sees entering the Gare du Nord but:

  180 million travelers annually

  27 tracks

  2 metro lines

  3 regional railroad lines

  9 bus lines

  247 surveillance cameras

  1 special police precinct

  All this because a few years ago The Unit named Berthet head of a study group to mastermind terrorist attacks on the Parisian transportation system.

  People bump into Berthet. Berthet wants to vomit now. Berthet’s headache is getting worse and worse.

  Berthet avoids rue de Belzunce, taking a different route along boulevard de Denain, rue de Valenciennes, rue Lafayette. Berthet is hot. But it’s November. Shit. The end of the world is coming.

  You might wonder what’s the point of still playing cat-and-mouse in this arrondissement sinking into twilight now, what’s the point of this squabble between the Service, The Unit, the Old Man, the Pretender.

  To take over a country doomed to defeat, on a planet in its terminal phase?

  Berthet remembers another lunch with Morland at Chez Michel, maybe a year ago. Then, too, figures, secret numbers. Berthet doesn’t want all these numbers to come back to him. Berthet takes another Haldol.

  A pink pill against the apocalypse. Poor fucker.

  Berthet reaches Place Franz Liszt. Berthet thinks of knocking back a glass at l’Amiral before going up to see Hélène Bas-togne. Berthet hesitates, gives up the idea even though the Haldol is making his mouth terribly dry.

  The code. The stairs. He draws the Glock and then bends down to take the Tanfoglio from its holster on his left ankle. An intuition. The intuition of an operative. The intuition of a psychotic.

  Top floor. Berthet gives a small push to the half-open door. Hot light from a lamp. He says, “Hélène Bastogne?” No answer.

  Berthet gives the door a hard kick.

  Berthet does a roll, head first.

  Berthet hears the flatulent noise of a silencer. Berthet feels bullets going into his abdomen, his thorax, and also ripping the lobe off his left ear.

  Berthet sees a Combas reproduction on the wall—that’s thirty-year-old taste for you!—and fires blind.
To his right with the Glock, to his left with the Tanfoglio. It sounds like badly adjusted speakers, a broken stereo. Berthet empties his clips.

  Berthet gets up. Berthet is spitting blood. Berthet is coughing in the smoke.

  Berthet stumbles into a living room furnished in secondhand chic and sees Hélène Bastogne on a ratty club chair with her throat cut, and an aging Romeo he’s noticed at the newspaper as he vaguely recalls. He’s had his throat cut as well, and he’s been emasculated for good measure. His balls are in a vintage Ricard ashtray, on a low table, Vallauris style.

  That’s why Berthet is hardly surprised to see Moreau stretched out on a threadbare kilim, with two round openings in his forehead, the Tanfoglio’s signature bullet holes. Moreau was also taking Haldol, but Moreau was probably skipping pills. Otherwise, Moreau wouldn’t have screwed up the job at the restaurant like that. Moreau wouldn’t have castrated the Romeo guy. Moreau would not have left the door half open.

  Berthet coughs. Clots of blood. Not to mention his ear that’s hurting like hell.

  Well, at least Berthet got Moreau. Berthet sits down in another club chair. It’s night now in the 10th arrondissement. Berthet sees the tops of the trees in Cavaillé-Coll park, the top of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul’s façade.

  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