A Citizen Of Nowhere Read online

  'I had to resist bundling her into a taxicab and taking her to an opium den. She looked like she might enjoy it.'

  'She is pretty then?'

  'She is, but not in the classical way. She could easily have gotten work in those German Expressionist movies; lingering in the background as Dr Caligari attempts to hypnotise her sister. There's something desperate about her which I can't quite place. This is not the desperation of an addict or of a woman who has lost a loved one.' The silence is immediate and filled with ghosts from Filatre's past. I bite my lip and mumble something about the game. He hides it well but I can tell it's too late from the way the shadow of his head is moving gently up and down over the board. I'll win this game now and the victory will rot in my mouth.

  The next two games are played in a silence disturbed only by the frequent clinking of the wine bottle against the glasses. I decide to stretch my legs and stroll around Filatre's so-called office. At one time there would have been a throng of clients visiting these rooms. Clients who would have been impressed by the floor-to-ceiling book-shelves stocked with the latest leather-bound law books. The painting of the Jardin Du Luxembourg in the Winter Time would have been new and the portrait of Marshal Ney a piece worthy of comment. Gentlemen sporting huge moustaches would have sat at Filatre's desk and smoked cigars as they discussed their business. Filatre had two partners in those pre-war days; they occupied the rooms I've taken. There were secretaries and assistants too. This building was once a hive of legal activity.

  The chaise longue under the portrait of Ney is no longer a decorative item. As well as being worn and tatty it doubles up as a place to sleep. A crumpled orange blanket lies across this makeshift bed. Filatre spends as many nights sleeping in this building as I do. Unlike me, however, he owns a small house somewhere out in the countryside beyond the grasp of the city. His morning cleaner does a good job; picking up discarded clothes and taking them to be laundered, bringing croissants, and making him coffee for breakfast. Without her assistance I'd hate to imagine what this room would look like, or smell like - probably like mine.

  Candles are burning on the mantle shelf above the open fire place. The ornate clock in the middle of the shelf keeps good time, when Filatre remembers to wind it up. The fireplace has retained some of its former elegance. A quick clean to remove the soot and it would be as good as new. Amongst the clutter deposited on this shelf sits the only photograph of his wife on display. I'm sure there are others at home or even in his wallet. Judging by her dress and that hat I would say this picture was taken around 1912 – only eighteen years ago and already she looks like someone from another age. She is wearing a formal dress which reaches to the floor. If her corset had been pulled a fraction tighter it would've cut her in two. She's staring straight at the camera and has the bored, serious, look people have in old photographs. I used to hate having mine taken; being told not to move, not to scratch my nose, not to blink, not to sneeze. I would rather have sat for an oil portrait, it would have been quicker.

  Filatre is sitting back in his chair and watching me – must be my move. He's recovered his composure. This is most pleasing; Filatre has the uncanny ability to set me off. I can think of no worse a scene than two men sat over a chess board weeping. I take my seat and scan for any crafty traps he may have set.

  'One of the things I do like about you, Salazar, is that you're such a faker.' He begins put-putting gently on his pipe which is always a sign that he's confident of victory.

  'I'm no such thing,' I say without looking up or giving too much thought to the conversation. I can see he has my knight in a tight spot, although I could exchange that for a bishop, so who cares.

  'Your name isn't really Salazar; at least it isn't the name you used to sign the lease.'

  'Quite correct, Salazar is a name I have taken, it is not the name I was given.'

  'When you speak you sound like a Parisian. There is some ambiguity about the district, but Parisian all the same. You are not a Parisian though, you are English.'

  'Also true - I don't try to hide my heritage. I am thirty-four years old and have lived in Paris for the last ten years. I also spent four unpleasant years in north-eastern France. In all that makes for fourteen of my years in this country. Should I reach the age of forty I will have spent twenty years in France and so equalled the time I lived in England.'

  'Your passport is British is it not?'

  'My passport was issued by the British government but my heart does not recognise these unnatural boundaries.'

  'You claim to be a detective too.'

  'I am a detective; we've been talking about my latest client.'

  'How many clients have you had so far? You may include this one in the total if you wish.'

  'This case brings the total to three. I've never claimed to be an experienced detective.'

  'But you do, you do. I have seen you with your clients, and when you go out. You drop your pleasant, civilised, persona and adopt a rough-edged, bawdy one.'

  'It's not a persona: more another aspect to my personality. Part of me is happy to play chess and while away my days in quiet contemplation. I have another part which rages and burns. I'm sure Freud would put it down to my relationship with my father and I wouldn't contradict him.'

  'So you are not a fraud. Misunderstood perhaps?'

  'I don't know about that, we none of us are what we seem at any given moment. The man sitting placidly at his desk - copying from an insurance ledger - may become a raving drunk at six pm. The banker shouting at his staff and foreclosing on a mortgage may spend his spare-time pressing wild flowers. It's this understanding which has allowed me to see that your innocent looking bishop is preparing to kill my rook.' I move my rook to safety and allow the knight-bishop exchange to take place.

  'There isn't much glamour in it,' I say. 'I knew I'd have to spend hours in the rain spying on people. I knew that I'd have to go around buying information from corrupted bureaucrats. I thought I might also get to spend some time drinking cocktails with sparkling ladies in chic hotel bars. There's none of that though. Detection is really quite a tedious occupation.'

  'I don't believe there's much glamour in any job. Perhaps a jazz guitarist or a tango instructor: there may be some glamour in their work.' Filatre starts puffing rapidly at his pipe; that usually means he's made a blunder.

  *

  I find sleeping difficult. At least I find it difficult when I want to go to sleep. Come the morning, sleeping is easy. In a café at three pm, with people bustling all around, a coffee cup held in my hand, and I can nod off without a problem. At night, in a darkened room, wrapped up in my blankets, sleep evades me. I read and smoke until my eyelids begin closing of their own accord. The book slips from my fingers and I begin to drift off. I begin and go no further. Without the distraction of the book my mind begins to race. I think of my new client. A feisty woman with those eyes like sapphires hidden in a peat bog. Her sepulchre face with the hint of red about the lips stares down at me from the ceiling.

  Filatre is right: I am too bawdy. André is right too: I am a bastard. I ought to learn how to talk with people again. I manage it with Filatre and him alone. During the war I always got on with my fellow officers. In those days our environment always provided a good opening for conversation. Aside from Filatre I know hardly anyone anymore. If I visit a café I drink and read then leave. I don't try to make contact. I shuffle about in a blinkered isolation, lost in the lonely world of my own paranoia.

  I'll try to talk to a least three different people every day; preferably women. Having made this resolution, my mind relaxes and I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Breakfast at André's, what a delight. I take my usual seat near the window. He arrives at my table with bread, jam, coffee, and orange juice. I've placed this order nearly every day for six months - this is the first time I haven't had to ask for it.

  'OK, what's the game?' I break open the bread and inspect it for broken g
lass.

  'Isn't this what you wanted?' he asks.

  It's hard to define exactly what happened to André's face as he spoke – it could be he smiled.

  'What I want has never troubled you before. Why are you still hanging around my table? Normally, once the food's been deposited, you make good your escape.'

  'Perhaps I am turning over a new leaf. I wish only for my customers to be happy.'

  'If you keep this up any longer I'm leaving. What is it? Tell me and be done with it.' The orange juice smells like orange, and the coffee like coffee, so I feel safe taking a drink.

  'All right, I want to know what happened with that girl yesterday. She looked as if she was as repulsed by you as the rest of the world is. Then you left and she followed you up the street like a loyal puppy. How did you do it?'

  'André, my dear fellow, you shall never know.'

  Realising I'm not about to start gossiping, André leaves me in peace. I could have exploited his curiosity to get breakfast on the house. To do that I would've had to endure his company – that's a price I'm not willing to pay. I drink my coffee, eat my bread, down the juice and light up a cigarette.

  This morning I'll visit the prefecture at the Hôtel de Ville. If Gustave Marty is operating at the Paris Bourse he must be registered with them. This is something Hervé could do but I fancy a walk. Before leaving I take the café copy of the local paper and have a read. During my second cigarette I remember my resolution from last night. If I can speak to someone in here I'll have the whole day to find another two.

  I replace the paper in the hanging rack near the door, return to my table, and scan the room. You couldn't pick a worse place to start a conversation. The people here know me and they would no more desire my company than I desire André's. I sit back down and subject the faces I don't recognise to further scrutiny. The clientele get uglier with each passing day; what beautiful person, when confronted with André's visage, would wish to eat in here?

  There are two women I haven't seen before. They look like dishevelled harpies. Each of them has a man, almost certainly their husbands, sitting in glum silence at their side. One fellow is looking absent-mindedly at a bottle of gin behind the counter. The other is being scolded - no doubt for getting the wrong jam or forgetting to put sugar into his wife's coffee before his own. He glances in my direction and catches my eye. I nod at him. He returns with a smile and for a brief second he is away from her; we are talking about sport and buying each other beer. Ah! But no, Monsieur, I do not believe she loves you really.

  With no suitable candidates in the café I cast my gaze out to the street. There may be an elegant woman who, despite the early hour, needs escorting to a cocktail bar - if only she could find a suitable fellow like me to do the escorting. No such person exists in my line of vision. If she did I'd probably get her as far as the front door of the Ritz before the orderlies from the insane asylum swooped down to take her back into custody.

  I'm about to return to work, satisfied that I've made a slight effort at changing my ways, when I notice a skinny lad watching me from up a side road. He is trying to make himself appear inconspicuous by smoking and looking the other way. To make sure he's watching me, I switch to the seat opposite. Then I take out a cigarette and position my cigarette case on the table to act as a mirror. The metal is dull so the reflection isn't clear. Yet I can see he's still watching me, and I don't like it one bit. He's either a mugger or he's acting as lookout while my apartment is burgled. Judging by his lack of subtlety I'd say he's not used to spying on people. I'll use that inexperience to trap him.

  Without formulating a plan I leave the café and make my way home. I ought to get into the habit of carrying my revolver. As I get closer to my apartment I light a cigarette and take a look into the large front window. I don't have a clear view from here but I do see Filatre walk into sight smoking his pipe. He pulls a book from a shelf and stands there skimming through a few pages before replacing it. I take a look behind me and see the guy waiting at a street corner. He obviously isn't the lookout for a burglar, so what then?

  I cast my cigarette into the road and walk off casually. My stomach begins twisting and dancing with excitement and nervousness. Soon I'll engineer a showdown. From this distance the lad doesn't look physically strong but he could be carrying a knife or even a pistol. If he is, one of us will come to regret it.

  I do have moments of paranoia - particularly at night - when I think people are following me. On those occasions it's a feeling, I never actually see anybody. This time there is a man of medium height wearing a dark jacket on my tail. Leading him along the road and taking indiscriminate turns here and there, I spot him trying to hide behind pissoirs and plane trees. There is no doubt that he's following me.

  I turn up a side street, then jump down a few stairs towards someone's basement apartment. This is a residential street and most of the occupants are out at work. Down here I'm partially obscured from the road. Although I know I am hidden, I feel certain he's watching me, preparing to slit my throat should I drop my guard. I hear his approaching footsteps, confident as they come around the corner. He walks past the stairway then pauses. If he turns around he'll see me and I'm vulnerable down here. I must act fast. Without thinking I creep quickly up the stairs and leap at him. I lock my arms around his legs and rugby tackle him to the ground. He lets out a yelp of surprise and topples forward on to his face.

  I stick my knee into the middle of his spine and put some weight into it. His arms begin flailing. I grab one and wrench it up behind his back. With my left hand I take hold of a clump of hair from the top of his head and force him to his feet. I march him down the stairs where I'd been hiding. It's dark down here and stinks of piss and rotting vegetable matter. I push him against the wall and give his arm a vicious twist. He screams out in pain. Nobody hears, or if they did they choose to ignore it. I let go of his hair while keeping my grip on his arm. He struggles so I give his head a shove. The side of his face hits the wall.

  'I'm going to ask you some questions and you're going to answer. If you don't, or I don't like your answers, I'll break your arm. Then I'll break your other arm. Then your legs.' I press his face hard against the wall and put my mouth up to his ear. 'Who are you?' I whisper.

  'Stefan Silvestre.' His voice is quavering and I can feel his body shuddering.

  I reach around to feel inside his black jacket. No gun, no knife. I get his wallet. I release his arm and punch him in the kidneys. As he wallows about on the floor moaning and getting his suit dirty, I go through his papers. If he isn't Stefan Silvestre he's carrying a forged library card. He's too inept to be a real threat. I recognise the address on the card; it's a stinking Montmartre side-alley. From what he's carrying I get the following: occupation, student; age, 20; marital-status, single; nationality, French. The wallet is old, made of brown leather – there's no money in it. Stefan is lying on the floor crying. I can see a hole in the sole of one of his shoes. He's plugged it with cardboard which has also worn through.

  'Get up and tell me why you've been following me.'

  He groans and holds on to the wall for support as he climbs to his feet. He looks resentful of the rough treatment whilst being resigned to it. I feel like punching him down again for being so pathetic. I look away for a moment as a pang of guilt erupts in my chest.

  'I wanted to find out why she was with you,' he says.

  His right cheek is grazed and his bottom lip is bleeding.

  'Why who was with me?'

  'Marie, she came to see you yesterday.'

  'Who sent you?'

  He pauses, so I slap him across the face. It's a reaction to the guilt I'd felt - a reminder that now is not the time for sentiment.

  'Nobody sent me. I watch out for her, that's all.'

  He starts blubbing and puts his arms over his head to shield himself from further blows. I want to hit him, to intimidate him into talking. Instead I crack. I give up the tough guy routine
and pass him my handkerchief. Turning his face from me he takes it and uses it to dry his eyes. From his defensive actions I can see he's expecting me to strike him again.

  'I haven't finished with you,' I say, 'but I'm not going to hit you unless you attempt to run away. Once you've finished sniffling, we're going to a café. I'll get us something to eat and you can answer my questions. I warn you though, and I don't care who might be watching, if you give me the run-around I'll break your scrawny neck.'

  For some people wine is a greater aid to talking than violence.

  We sit in a café in Montparnasse where the city sprawl rubs up against fields and pastures. This café is frequented by goat herders. They stop off here before going door-to-door selling their cheeses. Nobody pays us the least bit of attention: we are city folk, and despite living within the city limits, these are country folk.

  Stefan is moody and sulking. I withstand his silence and keep his wine glass topped up. He gulps it down, smouldering with anger. I've made a serious mistake - rather than grow talkative he looks more likely to unleash a lot of pent up rage. He's definitely the sort who'd stick a penknife in your back over some inconsequential slight. I don't take my eyes off him. I wait and smoke, trying not to think too much about what happened down those stairs.

  'So, what is she to you?' I ask.

  'Nothing.'

  'Nothing; yet you come spying on me because she visited me yesterday.'

  He shrugs like some pétanque player after an indifferent shot. We sit in silence again for a little longer. He drinks more wine, I light another cigarette.

  'More than nothing, everything.' He speaks to a remaining slurp of wine in his glass.

  'I see – you're jealous.'

  'No, not of you, a detective!' He turns his body away from me whilst folding his arms and crossing his legs. 'I followed her after she left your office. You didn't leave with her. Your connection to her is professional.'