Murder in Belleville

Wednesday Midafternoon

BERNARD HAD FAILED TO deliver the immigrants to the airport. Now he’d be dismissed, relegated to some third-rate office at the ends of the earth.

Bernard walked away from the church. His feet carried him; his mind was blank. He wished he were numb. He found himself on familiar streets, the haunts of his later childhood. In bas Belleville, where his family had counted themselves lucky to find a cheap apartment after their exodus from Algeria. With no servants or belongings, only the clothes on their backs.

It had been a frigid, biting April, like this one. One of the coldest in years. Bernard had been surprised at the cold and gray of Paris. He’d never imagined the sheeting rain, density of human habitation, or so many vehicles. Not like Algiers, with the bleaching sun, the clamor of the medina, and the donkey droppings on the stone streets. He’d worn his coat in their small apartment, never feeling warm.

The nearby Belleville haunts of his childhood had changed. Now the narrow streets were full of discount Chinese shops, cell phone stores with signs in Arabic, even a M. Bricolage do-it-yourself home fix-it chain. Bright green AstroTurf lined the entrance. Once, he remembered, that had been a glass factory.

His first vivid memory of Paris was seeing the workers in overalls at the glass factory pouring sand into yellow cauldrons—huge, steaming pots made of black cast iron. On his way home from school, he wondered at the crisp and brittle glass sheets lined up for delivery. “Sand into glass?” he asked, and his mother had nodded yes. “But you told me you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse,” he said. “Of course, that’s different,” she sighed. “How?” he persisted, and she, weary or late for work, would say “Later, Bernard, later.” No one had ever successfully explained it to him. At the polytechnic the dry professor had discussed the chemical process. Secretly Bernard had dismissed the theory, preferring to believe in magic, as he always had. Remembering the stories of the djinn from his Berber nursemaid, and the Aicha qandicha, who, as everyone knew, had goat’s feet and one eye in the middle of her forehead.

No magic lay in his old apartment building. A restaurant stood on the ground floor where formerly a dark wood brasserie had occupied the corner. The bright, gold-trimmed Thai restaurant advertised EARLY-BIRD DINNER SPECIAL 48 FRS. Memories drew him to the door.

His stepfather, Roman, a displaced Pole who’d joined the Legion in Algeria, had been a butcher by trade. Roman had supplied the meat and played cards with the owner of the old brasserie, Aram, a Christian from Oran. Roman, he remembered, had resented—as he resented so much else—Aram’s buying the place cheap after the war. But his mother had countered: “The former owners are ashes, Roman, that’s why.” Roman’s eyes had hardened. He’d been quiet after that. His mother too.

Bernard went inside the restaurant.

“Monsieur, a party of one?” the smiling black-haired woman asked. Her gold-flecked patung caught the light, a fuchsia band encircled her waist. The scent of lemongrass came from the kitchen. He remembered the wood-paneled walls, the dark interior, and the lack of windows.

Bernard nodded.

She showed him to a table set with chopsticks and blue-and-white porcelain bowls and plates. Gold-leaf dragons, like gargoyles, protruded from the ceiling. In the half-full restaurant, low conversations hummed and glasses clinked.

“Thai iced tea?”

He nodded again, happy to follow her lead.

She shoved a plate into his hands. “Help yourself, Monsieur.”

The buffet table, with steaming soup and heated platters of rice noodles, spring rolls, lemongrass chicken, and other tantalizing dishes made him realize how hungry he was. He remembered that where the buffet stood had been the old birchwood bar. Oiled and polished by Aram every week.

Bernard was amazed. He hadn’t thought of these things in years. Memories of people and the building opposite, victims of the wreckers’ ball, flooded back to him as he ate. He felt almost giddy. Once it had been different, he remembered. Once it had.

He helped himself several times to the buffet. A calmness settled over him, like the way he felt from the little blue pills.

He went to the restroom, passing the kitchen, and looked in. The paint, the grease-spattered tile, even the pipes looked new. Only the arched ceiling downstairs in the lavatory was the same. Bland gray paint covered the old stones where Roman once hung his bloody aprons, the nights he stopped by after work to play cards.

“Ça va, Monsieur?” a shiny-faced Asian man asked, menus stuck under his arm. “Do you feel unwell?”

Bernard realized that he stood on the stairs, perspiring and shaking.

“I’m fine, sorry,” Bernard said. He wiped his brow, then gripped the man’s arm. “How long have you owned this restaurant?”

Apprehension shone in the man’s eyes. He pulled away.

“Did you buy this from Aram?”

The man erupted in a volley of Thai, then disappeared up the stairs. Bernard slapped his forehead. How dumb! Of course the man was sans-papiers. And here he was accosting an illegal to find out about the past.

Upstairs the smiling woman who’d served him had turned into a businesslike hostess. Her command of French disappeared and she pointed at the bill, then her watch, indicating closing time. His search for the past scared these people. He tried to explain one more time, but their impassive faces made him give up.

On rue d’Orillon, he paused and looked up at his old window. The peeling shutters were open, and a single line of wash hung outside. An African dialect reached his ears. A child cried, the mother’s placating rejoinder quickly soothed it. Another wave of immigrants, Bernard thought. Some things never changed.

The pager on his hip vibrated. Nedelec’s number at the ministry read ominously on the display. Bernard stopped at the corner phone.

“Directeur Berge, we’re giving you a second chance,” Nedelec said. “Mustafa Hamid wants to negotiate. We expect you at the ministry within the hour.”

Before he could protest, Nedelec had hung up.

Bernard felt cornered again.

He stumbled and lost his dinner in the vacant lot, among the rubble and wire where his neighbor’s building had once stood.