There was only one place in town he'd found where he could get them, and normally he'd buy Le Figaro and Le Monde — the only two available — at the same time. He'd filled the French press the first two months of escape. Front page at first, then later further back with background and new angle items: rise and fall in politics or thrown in with a soup of other political scandals — Tapie, Medecin, now Duclos.
Duclos had smiled at the articles attacking the general bungling surrounding his escape: Barielle for allowing house arrest, Corbeix for not protesting stronger against it, the entire examination process for not uncovering the fact that he very obviously had funds outside of those frozen, and finally the keystone collection of Provence cops who let him slip through their grasp.
A circus of finger pointing and mud slinging. Sitting eight thousand miles away on a palm fringed beach, Duclos found it all laughable, pathetic. A lot of ranting and political rhetoric, his name used primarily for Ministers to score points off each other as they grasped at air with empty hands, screaming for justice. Duclos sneered. Justice? What did they know.
They had no idea what he'd suffered through the years for those few dark moments three decades ago? Plagued for years by blackmail from Chapeau, then in turn his brother, his secret life with Betina and Joel. Sometimes it had felt like a hell on earth in repayment for what he'd done, one incident linking to another through the long years. That was why he'd felt so outraged when the case had re-surfaced — he felt as if he'd already paid his penance, served his term!
Except one part of the link in the chain of fateful circumstances through the years had finally led to his salvation. If it hadn't been for the blackmail, he probably wouldn't have taken political bribes — the slush fund and contacts which had finally allowed him to escape. He raised his glass to an imaginary France and smiled crookedly. At least he'd had the last laugh there. 'Salut!'
The first few months had been particularly idyllic, almost like an extended holiday. Any sense of isolation didn't set in till later, perhaps coinciding with him slipping from prominence in the French press. He decided he was sick of Brazilian TV with its endless lambada and game shows with scantily clad hostesses, and invested in a large satellite dish to get French TV. It helped, but also in part felt like nostalgic voyeurism: he was able to look at all that he loved and was familiar — food, fashion, lifestyle — from a distance, but couldn't touch it, feel it. Not long after he discovered the caipirissimas — white rum with lime, sugar and crushed ice. When Brazilian TV became too painful or French TV too nostalgic, he would retire to the terrace and his cocktail shaker.
His name had come back into prominence with the news that Corbeix was continuing with the case in absentia. Watching the proceedings from a distance, it suddenly hit him why he felt such satisfaction when his name was in the news: not only a reminder of what he'd got away with, but a sense that at least he was still in France in spirit, if not in body.
He'd also been into Salvador a few times and recently made a contact for young boys, and Cergara had phoned and invited him to the Rio Carnival next month. His next annual bio-tech payment was due soon, and some new banking arrangements had been made. Their lawyer thought it was best to meet him in person to explain the new arrangements, and he could take in the Carnival at the same time. All expenses on them. Things were looking up.
The effect of the four caipirissimas that night began to bite, he could feel their warmth coursing through him. A distant glow on the beach slowly pierced his blurred vision. Focusing, the four candles became clearer — a woman and small child silhouetted kneeling before them. Probably a Candomble ceremony. He'd seen one before: candles and a collection of seashells on a white cloth, flowers and rice thrown into the sea to appease their Gods Exu and Iemanja. But in the distant flickering flames, he suddenly saw Monique Rosselot's face, her reflection in the glass as she prayed for her dying son… the receding flames of Fornier's burning wreckage as they'd climbed up high above the lights of the Cote D'Azur.
He shook his head. Freeing the ghosts was easier now: it all felt so far away in time and distance. Almost another lifetime.
Duclos closed his eyes and let the lapping surf and the night-time pulsing of cicadas and crickets wash over him as he thought ahead to the Rio Carnival. Drums and dancing and colourful star bursts of costumes gradually matched the rhythm, lulling him gently into another caipirissima-induced sleep.
'Tudo Bem? Voce gosta de Carnival?'
Among the clatter and riot of noise and movement, Duclos would have hardly noticed the young boy if he hadn't greeted him almost as soon as he walked out of the hotel after meeting Perello. Not unusual. The street kids, abandanados, regularly worked the tourist hotels.
Seeing Duclos' quizzical expression, the boy switched to broken English: 'You want guide for Carnival? I very good. Only five dollars 'merican. Show you everything.'
Duclos noticed then how beautiful the boy was. One of the most exquisite mulattos he'd ever seen: coffee cream skin, brown curls with a tinge of light gold, soft brown eyes. The thought of spending an hour or two with the boy made his mouth suddenly dry.
The boy was right. He was a good guide. They took in the main Ipanema processions at Praca General Osorio and heading along Avenida Visc de Piraja, then ended up at Il Veronese where he bought the boy a pizza. The boy, whose name he'd discovered was Paulo, tucked in as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. Duclos smiled. He felt a warm glow in the boy's company, it felt gratifying to spend his money like this. So much pleasure gained for so little. He ended up giving the boy almost thirty dollars to ensure he stayed in his company. The boy was still looking longingly at the menu after his pizza, so Duclos treated him to an ice cream.
As the boy finished the last few scoops, he looked up thoughtfully, directly. 'You want spend longer with me. Alone?'
Duclos stared back into the boy's innocent eyes. Except they weren't so innocent, they were knowing. Senses honed sharp by years of street life. Perhaps the boy had guessed with him being so kind and attentive, or the fact that he'd hardly paid any attention to the writhing tanga bottoms and star-nippled breasts of the Carnival girls. His eyes had hardly left the boy throughout. The boy knew. But at least he could now dispense with the subterfuge. 'How much?'
The boy thought for a second, plucking a figure out of the air. 'Sixty dollars.'
Duclos smiled. It was probably twice what the boy normally charged, but Duclos would have gladly paid double. This was great. Perello had just confirmed bank transfer details for his next $120,000 payment, and here he was in the middle of bargain-basement street kid heaven. Perhaps he'd make a trip back to Rio every few months. Exile was starting to look better by the day. 'Where?' he asked. Sneaking an abandanado past his hotel reception was too risky.
'I know somewhere near.'
Duclos contemplated briefly before nodding, though he'd known what his answer would be from the first second the boy made the proposal. He paid the bill and they left.
The frenetic activity of carnival hit them again outside. Fifty yards along they turned and the noise started to recede. Then another turn away from the main processions, and finally into a small back alley almost three blocks away. Carnival activity was now no more than dull background drumming and whistling. Crowds and people had also diminished with each successive turn: the back alley was deserted.