‘Where’s your place?’
‘Avenue Jean-Moulin, in the 14th.’
4 p.m. Passage du Désir
Daquin hadn’t seen Paulette again since Monday. Found that she was cracking up. He rose to give her a chair.
‘Romero, describe what happened in the Champs-Elysées a short time ago.’
Romero described it, clumsily. Paulette froze, white-faced. When Romero had finished Daquin pushed towards her two large photographs of Sener lying dead, one showing him as he had fallen, his face turned to the left, the other showing him from the front, stretched out on his back. Daquin let time pass. Paulette looked at the photographs for a long time. Without moving. Then she passed her hand gently over the dead man’s face.
‘Who killed him?’
‘A hired killer from the Turkish gang of drug traffickers for whom he worked.’
‘Why?’
‘So that we couldn’t question him. Paulette, did you know that he worked for that gang?’
‘No.’
‘So why did you repeat to him everything your husband told you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ A long silence. Paulette remained motionless. ‘No doubt I didn’t realize what I was doing. I thought we could run our joint affairs better.’ Another long silence. ‘And then I loved him.’ Pathetic.
‘Will you agree now to answer a few precise questions?’
She removed her hand from the photographs and turned her head towards Daquin.
‘Go on. I no longer have anyone or anything left to shield.’
In less than an hour everything was sorted out. The counterfeit labels: produced in Turkey, brought over in the diplomatic bag. Much less risky than having them done in France. The amount of the profits, the Swiss bank account, the retailers who sold things on. And the long confidences from her husband. (He doesn’t like you, Daquin.) Everything that she passed on to Sener. Paulette seemed outside time. There was only one question that mattered, and she tried in vain to find the answer within her memory: had Sener loved her, or had he merely used her?
6 p.m. Villa des Artistes
There had to be an end to the stress. Cook things that needed a little time and attention. Veal in white sauce with leeks, and a walnut soufflé. And afterwards, love.
Daquin came back home, laden with plastic bags. He greeted the man on guard duty who gave him an odd look.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Well, your … young man came back in a very poor state.’
‘Was that long ago?’
‘Just over an hour ago.’
Daquin went in, put his bags down on the kitchen counter and went to the sofa. Soleiman, lying on his back, had dozed off. From time to time he trembled. He certainly looked in a very bad way, his face badly damaged, traces of blood, a cut over one eye, the bridge of his nose broken, his lips swollen to twice their normal size … He’d be more comfortable in bed. Daquin lifted him up. Soleiman opened his eyes, saw Daquin and closed them again. Daquin carried him into the bedroom, laid him down on the bed, undressed him and covered him up again. Then he searched through the bathroom cabinet and returned to the bed with a whole assortment of things, thread, needles, syringes and bandages. First he had to clean up his face and disinfect the wounds. He sat down on the bed beside Soleiman. Orderly movements. Soleiman felt Daquin’s thigh against his arm, his hands over his face, wouldn’t move at all, go to sleep again. He heard Daquin speak to him: ‘I’m going to put four stitches over your eye. I don’t think you’ll feel very much.’
Soleiman relaxed completely. Pain, torpor, warmth returning.
‘Sol, two of your fingers are dislocated. I’m going to put them right. It’ll hurt, but not for long. Are you ready?’
Soleiman opened his eyes, eyelashes flickered. He moaned. Elastoplast bandaging. Wonderful feeling of relief. Then, Daquin’s hands all over his body, a light touch now from those hands, so authoritarian when he fucked him. Broken ribs. Nothing to be done, just wait. Balls swollen and painful. No sign of haemotome bruising, it won’t last long. Daquin stroked the penis with the back of his hand. A big cut on one knee, it just had to be disinfected and bandaged, that was all.
‘I’m going to give you three injections. No need to move, I’ll manage. Did you hear me?’ Eyelashes flickered. ‘Anti-tetanus and antibiotic, plus one as a painkiller, for your comfort.’
‘No, Daquin, not the third one.’ Tired. Didn’t want to talk, to explain, morphine, in Turkey, every day in the end. ‘I’m afraid of addiction.’
‘As you wish.’
The two injections. Covered him up with the duvet and stayed there, sitting beside him, stroking his hair. Soleiman opened his eyes, blue, exhaustion. Daquin’s lips close to his ear. A whisper, a caress. Sol, do you want me to fuck you? Gently, very gently … Eyelashes flickered.
24
6.30 a.m. Villa des Artistes
Soleiman opened his eyes. He was emerging from a very deep sleep. Heard Daquin downstairs, making coffee. Rapid check, he ached all over, but everything seemed to function, more or less. Sat up in bed. Groaned: had forgotten his broken ribs. Got up somehow, went as far as the bathroom. The big mirror: face almost unrecognizable, one hand bandaged, a dressing on his knee, bruises all over his body. Urine normal. I’ve got off lightly.
Daquin, in his dressing-gown, brought the breakfast up: scrambled eggs, fromage blanc, coffee. Soleiman got back into bed and began to eat. Had to be very careful about his jaw: cracking sounds, stabs of pain. Daquin still hadn’t asked any questions.
‘Do you already know what happened to me?’
‘No, I don’t know anything.’
‘I was beaten up by some cops, your buddies.’
Soleiman seemed so shocked that Daquin laughed.
‘You should have told them you belonged to me, and they needed my permission to touch you.’
Soleiman went silent. Daquin leant over towards him and kissed him on the neck.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist the temptation, you were funny when you said that. Go on, I’m listening.’
Soleiman gave a sober account of the whole incident.
‘The superintendent knew me already,’ he went on, ‘he’d seen me on Monday at the demonstration in passage du Désir. I got the impression he hated me.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No.’
‘Describe him to me.’
‘Over fifty. Not tall. Thickset. Average upmarket Frenchman.’
‘In the 10th arrondissement, highly possible it was Meillant.’
A long silence, both of them thoughtful. Soleiman, who was lying on his back in the bed, moved slightly closer to Daquin, rested his head on his thigh.
‘Listen, Daquin. This wasn’t the first beating up I’ve had. Each time I just tried to survive. I hid in a hole, and I came out when I hadn’t any more marks on my body. Today it’s different. For the first time I’m starting to exist in the eyes of others, I’ve got a past, I’m a man. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’ Daquin indicated that he did. ‘And it’s all being destroyed by that bastard. He humiliated me in front of my own people. I’ve no choice. Either I disappear again or I kill him.’ Despair in the blue eyes.
Silence for a long moment. Daquin stroked Soleiman’s left breast with its dark, hard nipple. I love this body. It suits me very well.
‘Neither solution will get you out of it, my boy, and you know that already. Look at it differently. He humiliated you, do the same to him, in front of the same public. He roughed you up because he’s a cop. Force him to resign from the police. Can you imagine the prestige you’ll get out of that?’
‘It’s beyond my reach, you know that very well.’
‘It’s not certain. We’ll operate together, you and I, to break Meillant.’
Soleiman sat up, pulled a face. His ribs were painful.