Martin Walker: Bruno, chief of police

‘Delicious,’ said Bruno, limiting himself to an olive. ‘Well done, Claire. All that planning really paid off.’

‘Oh, Bruno,’ she said, ‘do you really think so?’

‘Of course. The Mayor’s wife looks hungry,’ he said, scooping a glass of champagne from Fat Jeanne as she swept by. ‘Perhaps you should start with her.’

He steered Claire off to the window where the Mayor stood with his wife, and was suddenly aware of a tall and brooding presence at his shoulder.

‘Well, Bruno,’ boomed Montsouris, his loud voice more suited to bellowing fiery speeches to a crowd of striking workers, ‘you have made the people’s victory into a celebration of the British crown. Is that what you meant to do?’

‘Bonjour, Yves,’ grinned Bruno. ‘Don’t give me that people’s victory crap. You and all the other Communists would be speaking German if it wasn’t for the British and American armies.’

‘Shame on you,’ said Montsouris. ‘Even the British would be speaking German if it wasn’t for Stalin and the Red Army.’

‘Yes, and if they’d had their way, we’d all be speaking Russian today and you’d be the Mayor.’

‘Commissar, if you please,’ replied Montsouris. Bruno knew that Montsouris was only a Communist because he was a cheminot, a railway worker, and the CGT labour union had those jobs sewn up for Party members. Other than his Party card and his campaigning before each election, most of Montsouris’s political views were decidedly conservative. Sometimes Bruno wondered who Montsouris really voted for once he was away from his noisily radical wife and safe in the privacy of the voting booth.

‘Messieurs-Dames, а table, if you please,’ called the Mayor, adding, ‘before the soup gets warm.’

Monsieur Jackson gave a hearty English laugh, but stopped when he realised nobody else was amused. Sylvie took his arm and guided him to his place. Bruno found himself sitting beside the priest, and bowed his head as Father Sentout delivered a brief grace. Bruno often found himself next to the priest on such occasions. As he turned his attention to the chilled vichyssoise, he wondered if Sentout would ask his usual question. He didn’t have to wait long.

‘Why does the Mayor never want me to say a small prayer at these public events like Victory Day?’

‘It is a Republican celebration, Father,’ Bruno explained, for perhaps the fourteenth time. ‘You know the law of 1905, separation of church and state.’

‘But most of those brave boys were good Catholics and they fell doing God’s work and went to heaven.’

‘I hope you are right, Father,’ Bruno said kindly, ‘but look on the bright side.

At least you get invited to the lunch, and you get to bless the meal. Most mayors would not even allow that.’

‘Ah yes, the Mayor’s feast is a welcome treat after the purgatory that my housekeeper inflicts upon me. But she is a pious soul and does her best.’

Bruno, who had once been invited to a magnificent dinner at the priest’s house in honour of some visiting church dignitary, raised his eyebrows silently, and then watched with satisfaction as Fat Jeanne whipped away his soup plate and replaced it with a healthy slice of foie gras and some of her own onion marmalade. To accompany it, Claire served him with a small glass of golden Monbazillac that he knew came from the vineyard of the Mayor’s cousin. Toasts were raised, the boy bugler was singled out for praise, and the champagne and Monbazillac began their magic work of making a rather staid occasion convivial.

After the dry white Bergerac that came with the trout and a well-chosen 2001 Pecharmant with the lamb, it became a thoroughly jolly luncheon.

‘Is that Arab fellow a Muslim, do you know?’ asked Father Sentout, with a deceptively casual air, waving his wine glass in Karim’s direction.

‘I never asked him,’ said Bruno, wondering what the priest was up to. ‘If he is, he’s not very religious. He doesn’t pray to Mecca and he’ll cross himself before a big game, so he’s probably a Christian. Besides, he was born here. He’s as French as you or I.’

‘He never comes to confession, though – just like you, Bruno. We only ever see you in church for baptisms, weddings and funerals.’

‘And choir practice, and Christmas and Easter,’ Bruno protested.

‘Don’t change the subject. I’m interested in Karim and his family, not in you.’

‘Karim’s religion I don’t know about, and I don’t think he really has one, but his father is most definitely an atheist and a rationalist. It comes from teaching mathematics.’

‘Do you know the rest of the family?’

‘I know Karim’s wife, and his cousins, and some of the nephews who play with the minimes, and his niece Ragheda who has a chance to win the junior tennis championship. They’re all good people.’

‘Have you met the older generation?’ the priest pressed.

Bruno turned patiently away from a perfectly good tarte tatin and looked the priest squarely in the eye.

‘What is this about, Father? I met the old grandfather at Karim’s wedding, which was held in the Mairie here without any priest or mullah in sight. Are you trying to tell me something or worm something out of me?’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Father Sentout nervously. ‘No, it is just that I met the old man by chance and he seemed interested in the church, so I just wondered…

He was sitting in the church, you see, while it was empty, and I think he was praying. So naturally, I wanted to know if he was a Muslim or not.’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘No, he scurried away as soon as I approached him. It was very odd. He wasn’t even polite enough to greet me. I had hoped perhaps he might be interested in Catholicism.’

Bruno shrugged, not very interested in the religious curiosity of an old man.

The Mayor tapped his glass with a knife and rose to make the usual short speech.

As he listened dutifully, Bruno began to long for his after-lunch coffee, and then perhaps a little nap on the old couch in his office, to restore himself for a tiresome afternoon of administration at his desk.

Bruno always made it his business to establish good relations with the local gendarmes, who kept a station of six men and two women on the outskirts of town, in front of the small block of apartments where they lived. Since the station supervised several Communes in a large rural district in the largest Department of France, it was run by a Captain, in this case, Duroc. Right now, a very angry Duroc, dressed in full uniform, was leaning aggressively across Bruno’s untidy desk and glowering at him.

‘The Prefect himself has telephoned me about this. And then I got orders from the Ministry in Paris,’ he snapped. ‘Orders to stop this damned hooliganism.

Stop it, arrest the criminals and make an example of them. The Prefect does not want embarrassing complaints from Brussels that we Frenchmen are behaving like a bunch of Europe-hating Englishmen. My boss in Paris wants no more destruction of the tyres of government inspectors who are simply doing their job and enforcing the law on public hygiene. Since I am reliably told that nothing takes place in this town without you hearing about it, my dear Chief of Police, I must formally demand your cooperation.’

He almost spat the final words and delivered ‘Chief of Police’ with a sneer.

This Duroc was a most unappetising man, tall and thin to the point of gauntness, with a very prominent Adam’s apple that poked out above his collar like some ominous growth. But, thought Bruno, one had better make allowances. Duroc was newly promoted, and evidently nervous about getting orders from high in his first posting as officer in charge. And since he would be here in St Denis for a couple of years at least, getting off on the wrong foot with him would be disastrous. In the best interests of St Denis, Bruno knew he had better be diplomatic, or he could forget his usual courteous requests to ensure that the traffic gendarmes stayed at home with their breathalysers on the night of the rugby club dance or the hunting club dinner. If the local sportsmen couldn’t have a few extra glasses of wine on a special night without getting stopped by the cops, he would never hear the end of it.