Bruno, Chief Of Police

him down, which made it even worse. To reject a mayoral request in St Denis was

unheard of, and to decline his invitation when a Minister of the Republic and

two generals were to grace the town’s proceedings was close to revolution.

‘You’ll have to carry the flag of France, Bruno,’ the Mayor said testily. ‘Old

Bachelot and Jean-Pierre refuse to take part in your little ceremony. They made

it quite clear that they don’t approve of Muslims, Algerians or immigrants in

general and do not intend to honour them.’

Bruno noted the ‘your’. If his idea of making the anti-racism march into a

patriotic commemoration of a French war veteran went wrong, it would be his

fault.

‘What will Montsouris be carrying?’ Bruno asked. ‘We can’t have the red flag

since there is no sign that Hamid had any politics at all, least of all

Communist.’

‘I think he’s planning an Algerian flag,’ said the Mayor, sounding rather tired

of it all. ‘You know we have the Interior Minister coming with a couple of

generals? I’ve already had to do two interviews this morning, including a long

one with France-Inter, and there’s a woman from Le Monde who wants to see me

this afternoon. The only one staying in town is a chap from Libération, who

probably can’t afford to join the rest of them at the Vieux Logis. Funny how

these media types always seem to sniff out the best hotels to stay at. All this

attention, of the worst possible kind. I don’t like it all, Bruno. And now you

say the Juge-magistrat seems convinced that young Richard is going to be

formally charged with murder?’

‘Tavernier is his name, very modern, very go-ahead, very determined,’ said

Bruno. ‘And very well connected.’

‘Yes, I think I knew his father from the Polytechnique.’ Bruno was not much

surprised. The Mayor seemed to know everybody who mattered in Paris. ‘And his

mother wrote one of those dreadful books about the New Woman when feminism was

all the fashion. I’ll be interested to see how the boy turned out. Now you’d

better go and make sure that everything is organised for midday. We don’t want

chaos in front of all these media types. Quiet and dignified, that’s the style.’

Outside in the town square, two TV cameras were taking shots of the Mairie and

the bridge, and a knot of what Bruno assumed were reporters had taken over two

outdoor tables at Fauquet’s café, all interviewing each other. At the bar inside

were some burly men drinking beer, probably Montsouris’s friends from the trade

union. Bruno waved away a reporter who thrust a tape recorder towards him as he

climbed into his van, and drove off to the college where the march was to begin,

noting some coaches parked in the lot in front of the bank. Montsouris must have

organised a bigger turnout than expected.

Rollo had half the school lined up in the courtyard already, some of them

leaning on homemade placards that said ‘No to Racism’ and ‘France Belongs to All

of Us’. Rollo wore a small button in his lapel that read Touche Pas ŕ Mon Pote,

Hands Off My Buddy, a slogan that Bruno vaguely recalled from some other

anti-racist movement of twenty years ago. Some of his tennis pupils called out

‘Bonjour, Bruno’ and he waved at them as they stood in line, chatting and

looking reasonably well-behaved and soberly dressed for a bunch of teenagers. Or

perhaps they were intimidated by the presence of the entire St Denis rugby

squad, both the first and the A team, about thirty big lads in uniform

tracksuits who were there for Karim’s sake, and as a guarantee against trouble.

Bruno looked around, but there was no sign of Montsouris, the man who had come

up with this idea of the solidarity march. He would probably be in the bar with

his friends from the union, but Montsouris’s dragon of a wife was there in the

schoolyard with Momu, and Ahmed from the Public Works, carrying a large Algerian

flag. Just about all the immigrant families in town had turned out, and to

Bruno’s surprise, several of the women were wearing head scarves, something he

had not seen before. He supposed it was a symbol of solidarity for the march. He

hoped it was no more than that.

‘We’ll leave here at eleven forty, and that’ll get us to the Mairie in time for

midday,’ said Rollo. ‘It’s all arranged. Ten or fifteen minutes for a couple of

speeches and then we march to the war memorial with the town band, which gives

us time to give the children lunch before classes start again this afternoon.’

‘There may be more speeches than we expected. The Minister of the Interior is

turning up, and with all these TV cameras he’ll certainly want to say a few

words,’ said Bruno. ‘And you’ll have to carry the tricolore. Bachelot and

Jean-Pierre have decided to boycott the event since they have apparently

developed rather strong feelings about immigrants.’

‘The bastards,’ snapped Madame Montsouris, who had somewhere found a rather

small flag that Bruno assumed was the national emblem of Algeria. ‘And that

bastard Minister of the Interior. He’s as bad as the Front National. What right

does he have to be here? Who invited him?’

‘I think it was arranged with the Mayor,’ Bruno told her calmly, ‘but the

programme does not change. We want an orderly commemoration of an old war hero,

along with a show of solidarity with our neighbours against racism and violence.

Quiet and dignified, the Mayor says.’

‘We want a stronger statement than that.’ Madame Montsouris spoke again, loudly

now so that the other teachers and schoolchildren could hear her. ‘We have to

stop this racist violence now, once and for all, and make it clear that there’s

no place for fascist murderers round here.’

‘Save it for the speeches,’ Bruno said. He turned to Momu. ‘Where’s Karim? He

ought to be here by now.’

‘On his way,’ said Momu. ‘He’s borrowing a Croix de Guerre from old Colonel

Duclos so he can carry the medal on a cushion at the war memorial. He’ll be here

in a moment.’

‘Don’t worry, Bruno,’ said Rollo. ‘We’re all here and everything’s under

control. We’ll start as soon as Karim arrives.’

And no sooner had he said it than Karim’s little Citroën turned into the parking

lot in front of the college and he came out in his rugby club tracksuit, holding

a velvet cushion in one hand and brandishing the small bronze medal in the

other. Rollo formed them up, Momu and Karim and the family at the front with

half a dozen of the rugby team, and then the school students in columns of

three, each class led by a teacher and all flanked by the rest of the rugby

team. Rollo shepherded a schoolboy with a small drum on a sash around his neck

into the column beside him, and the lad started to beat out the cadence of a

march with single taps of his drumstick.

Bruno stood back to let them get started and then went out to the main road to

stop traffic. They made, he thought, a brave and dignified parade, until

Montsouris’s wife produced a bullhorn from her bag and began chanting ‘No to

racism, no to fascism.’ Fine sentiments, but not quite the tone that had been

planned. He was about to intervene when he saw Momu step back to have a word

with her. She stopped her chanting and put the bullhorn away.