Freeze Frames

Chapter Five

Paris, France, October 28, 2009

Enzo pulled up the collar of his baggy linen jacket and buttoned it against the bite of the wind. Beneath it, his light cotton shirt billowed around the hips of his cargo pants, and he wished he had dressed more appropriately for the weather. It had been sultry when he left his home in the southwest the day before. Cahors had been enjoying something of an Indian summer, and the cold winds blowing along the streets of Paris had come as a shock. Only the smokers sat out on the sidewalks along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. A hardy, if dying, breed.

His leather overnight bag bulged with the clothes he had crammed in to last him a week. He had told himself that a week really ought to be enough. In fact, he seriously wondered how he was going to occupy himself for that long. A look at the map had revealed that the tiny Ile de Groix was only eight kilometers long and three wide. With a population of just over two thousand, there were only a handful of villages, in addition to the small town above the main harbour at Port Tudy. It did not offer the prospect of very sophisticated living. And being out of season, his guide book had warned him, many of the restaurants would be shut.

He found a seat at a table in the Cafe Boneparte and glanced anxiously at his watch. His train left Montparnasse at one, connecting with the ferry from Lorient late afternoon. There would be no time for lunch. He would have to grab a sandwich at the station to eat on the train. The waiter brought him a glass of the house red, and he sat sipping it impatiently, watching the faces drift by in the place. He should have known that Charlotte would be late. She was always late.

It was nearly three months since he had last seen her. An encounter consummated by a bout of frenetic lovemaking at her eccentric home in an area of the thirteenth arrondissement, where once tanneries and tapestry-makers had lined the river. In the weeks that followed she had failed to return a single one of his calls, and he had finally determined to put his relationship with her behind him. A decision he had taken with some regret, for she was an attractive women, intellectually challenging, sexually stimulating. But she had made it clear, on more than one occasion, that while she enjoyed his company, they would never be more than friends, and occasional lovers.

She was more than fifteen years his junior, and he could see her point. He would be past retirement age when she was still in her forties. But after more than twenty years of widowhood, and with both daughters reaching their twenties, Enzo was looking for more now as he drifted toward the troisieme age.

“Still the old hippie, I see.”

He looked up to see her standing over him, dark curls tumbling luxuriantly over fine, angular shoulders, even darker eyes fixing him with their slightly quizzical smile. She wore a long, black coat over black jeans and high-heeled boots. A colourful knitted scarf was thrown carelessly around her neck. He immediately felt his heart leap and butterflies stir. She had always had that effect on him, and all his resolve to put an end to it immediately dispersed like a dawn mist as the morning breeze gets up.

“Hippie?”

“Last time we spoke you were talking of cutting off the ponytail. I’m glad you didn’t.” She sat down and waved to the waiter. “A Perrier,” she said when he arrived at the table, then turned to Enzo. “Another of those?”

“No, I won’t. I don’t have much time.”

“Oh.”

He saw her disappointment immediately. The meeting had been at her suggestion. Roger, she said, had told her he would be in town. Enzo couldn’t understand why she maintained contact with the journalist. They had been lovers for eighteen months, then broken up in acrimony. She had subsequently made it clear that she disliked him intensely. Yet for some reason they still exchanged calls, and met for the occasional drink.

“What’s so pressing?”

“I have a train to catch in just under an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“An island off the coast of Brittany. One of Roger’s cold cases. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No, he didn’t.” She seemed put out that he hadn’t. “So how long will you be?”

“I don’t know. A week anyway. Maybe longer.”

“Will you come back to Paris afterward?”

“I hadn’t been planning to.” He noticed for the first time the dark smudges staining ivory skin beneath saucer eyes. And he wondered if she had lost weight. “Are you all right?”

Her Perrier arrived and she took a long, slow sip, bubbles effervescing around her lips. “I haven’t been very well.” But she added quickly, “Nothing serious.”

He reached out a hand to brush tumbling curls from her eyes, and held his fingertips to her cheek. He looked at her fondly, filled with concern. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“How would you know if I did or not? You’re never around.”

Her rebuke stung him. It was so unfair. He took his hand away quickly, as if he had received an electric shock. “Your choice, not mine.” He paused. “Why did you want to meet me today?”

“I need to talk to you, Enzo. There’s stuff we have to discuss.” There was a coldness now, in her tone.

Even as he moved imperceptibly away, he knew that she would pick up his body language, the psychologist’s eye detecting all his micro signes. It annoyed him that he should be so easily read. “I’m listening.”

But she shook her head. “Not now. Not like this. What I have to say is far too important to squeeze in between a glass of wine and a dash for a train.” She abandoned her Perrier and stood up. “Let me know when you’re in town again, and I’ll apply for an audience.”

And with a swirl of her coat she was gone, leaving Enzo to sigh in exasperation and pick up the check.