Peter May - Extraordinary People

Raffin appeared in the doorway. He too, looked flushed. ‘Sorry about that.’ Although he didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘Things are never easy at the end of a relationship.’ He tilted his head towards Enzo’s bag. ‘When you’ve read through that stuff, any questions give me a call. Meantime, I’ll get some kind of agreement drawn up on publication rights.’

When he reached the Boulevard St. Germain, Enzo saw her searching in vain for a taxi. There was still a lot of traffic in the street, and the cafés were still doing brisk business, but there were no taxis in sight.

He joined her at the traffic lights. ‘Do you want me to call you one?’

Even with a sideways look her eyes had an alarmingly disarming effect. ‘You live nearby?’

‘My studio’s just down there, near the Institute. But there’s no telephone there. I meant on my portable .’

‘Oh.’ She seemed disappointed. ‘I thought maybe you were going to ask me up for coffee.’

He looked at her, caught off guard by her directness. ‘Sure.’ The green man appeared on the far side of the boulevard. ‘We’d better cross the road, then.’

They pushed north through the crowds thronging the narrow Rue Mazarine, towards the floodlit dome of the Institute de France. The cafés and bistros were full. Voices emboldened by drink and good company, raised in laughter and argument, echoed around the canyons and mediaeval alleys of this long-time bohemian Left Bank quartier . Only now, it was no longer populated by bohemians, but by the nouveau riche of the nouveau génération , wallets bulging with euros tucked into designer pockets and bags.

A young woman laden with shopping and clutching a baby emerged in a hurry from a late-opening mini-market, colliding with Enzo and sending tins and packets clattering across the pavement.

‘ Merde !’ she gasped under her breath.

‘ Je suis désolé ,’ Enzo apologised, and he and Charlotte stooped to help her gather up her things. The baby was crying now, and the young woman was having difficulty getting everything back in the bags.

‘Here,’ Enzo said. ‘Let me?’ And he took the baby from her. For a moment, the mother appeared reluctant to let the child go, but something about Enzo seemed to reassure her, and she released the baby and turned to refill her bags hurriedly with Charlotte’s help. In the time it took the two women to rescue the shopping, Enzo had the baby laughing. ‘She’s a bright wee thing,’ he said, pulling a face and sending the infant into chuckling paroxysms. He turned to see Charlotte and the young woman looking at him, and he grew immediately self-conscious, handing the baby back to her mother and reclaiming his bag of box files.

‘ Merci .’ The young woman hurried away through the crowds into the night, her baby looking back over her shoulder at Enzo, a smile still sparkling in her eyes.

Charlotte stood in the roadway, caught in the light of the shop window, elegant and beautiful in her black dress, regarding Enzo thoughtfully, a half-smile on her face.

‘What!’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Nothing. I thought you were going to make me coffee.’

The studio apartment was on the first floor on the corner of the Rue Guénégaud and the Rue Mazarine, almost above the café Le Balto, and diagonally opposite the concrete monstrosity that housed the Paris Val de Seine School of Architecture. It was within sight of the magnificent Institute de France, home of the Academie Française which strove to protect the French language from the erosion of the modern world. Enzo had often thought there should be a similar institution to stop cretinous architects from ruining their cities.

From the first floor landing Enzo opened the door into the studio and Charlotte gasped. ‘I’d never have guessed you had such bad taste.’

Enzo grinned. ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ He closed the door behind her and followed her into the main room. The walls were lined with a padded fabric imprinted with a bold, repeating design in red, brown and cream. ‘Very nineteen sixties. Only, I’m afraid I can’t claim the credit. It belongs to the very elderly uncle of friends in Cahors. He’s in a maison de la retraite , and they can’t sell it until he dies. I love it. I hope he lives forever.’

As he made the coffee he watched her wander about the room lightly touching the trophies and artefacts that cluttered every available space. Wood-carved African figures, a Chinese lacquered box, a green and gold porcelain dragon, a bust carved from ivory. ‘Apparently he was an inveterate traveller. An interesting old guy. I’d like to have met him.’

Charlotte turned to watch him, a quizzical smile again lighting her face. ‘You live in Cahors?’ He nodded. ‘And how many children do you have?’

He looked up, surprised. ‘What makes you think I have any?’

‘Because I watch people,’ she said. ‘It’s my job. So I can’t help noticing all the little micro signes that give a person away. It makes my friends paranoid. They think I’m watching them all the time.’

‘And are you?’

She grinned. ‘Of course. Perhaps that’s why I don’t have many.’

‘So what micro signes betrayed the fact that I’m a father?’

‘Your eyes. It’s a simple physiological fact that when a man with children looks at a child his pupils dilate. If he doesn’t have children they don’t.’

Enzo handed her a coffee. ‘It’s always my eyes that give me away. I make a very bad liar. Milk or sugar?’

She shook her head. ‘And such very curious eyes. One blue, one brown. Waardenburg Syndrome?’

Enzo was surprised. ‘You’re the first person I’ve ever met who knew what it was.’

‘A genetic disorder, characterised by a white streak in the hair. Sometimes accompanied by an arched palate and exaggerated facial features.’

‘And sometimes also by deafness. Fortunately I just have the eyes and the hair. And, of course, being a genetic condition, there’s a fifty-fifty chance of passing it on to your children.’

‘And have you?’

‘Fifty-fifty. One daughter has, and one daughter hasn’t. Different mothers, though. So that might have something to do with it.’

‘You’re still married, then?’

‘Widowed.’ He sipped on his coffee to mask his discomfort. It was not a subject he liked to talk about.

‘I’m sorry. Was it recent?’

‘Just short of twenty years. Is the coffee okay?’

‘Sure.’ They drank in silence for a few moments. Then she said, ‘So…what’s your interest in the Jacques Gaillard case?’

‘Academic.’ Then he smiled sheepishly and confessed, ‘And a rather stupid wager.’

‘A wager?’

‘That it would be possible to solve an old case by applying new science.’ He paused. ‘Or not.’

‘You haven’t picked the easiest of cases, then. There was never much evidence of any kind to go on. No body, no sign of a struggle. In fact, Roger took quite a bit of flak for including it among his seven most celebrated unsolved murders. No one’s even been able to prove that Gaillard’s dead.’

‘You know a bit about it, then?’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte drank some more coffee, and Enzo had the impression that she, too, was endeavouring to conceal a discomfort. ‘You know that Roger was only motivated to write the book because of the unsolved murder of his own wife?’

Enzo nodded. ‘It’s the seventh case.’

Charlotte examined her coffee cup. ‘It’s not easy, sustaining a relationship with a victim.’ She looked up, and as if feeling the need to explain, added, ‘Survivors are victims, too, you know.’ Then, ‘I was living with him while he was researching the book.’