Murder in Belleville

Wednesday Night

PHILIPPE PEERED INTO SIMONE’S bedroom. Her soft breathing and dinosaur nightlight greeted him. Philippe’s shoulders relaxed. His baby was asleep. Safe.

He shuffled downstairs, grabbed the bottle of duty-free Johnny Walker, bucket of ice, and headed to his home office. Inside the room, he pulled down the shades and poured a generous portion into a Baccarat tumbler.

Philippe unknotted his tie, then sank down on the silk carpet. He leaned his back against his desk and sighed. He stared at the saltwater aquarium wedged among his bookshelves. The only sound came from the tank’s bubbling air filter and the ice cubes tinkling in his glass.

Ignoring the work on his desk and Sylvie’s folder, which Anaïs had given him, Philippe pulled down his ENA scrapbook. He kept pouring the Johnny Walker, neglecting the ice cubes, and turned the pages.

On the page Bernard Berge—younger and with a lot more hair—stared back at him. The Woody Allen resemblance had been there even then. He’d always teased Bernard about it, saying they could be identical twins. Even when Bernard was in his twenties, his eyes had held that furtive look. No wonder he’d stayed a fonctionnaire, never risen high in the ministry.

Philippe saw a photo of himself posed on a rooftop terrace, the Seine behind him. His arms were around a long-haired girl. They both wore headbands, tie-dyed scarves, and not much else. He remembered that afternoon in 1968 but not the girl. Demonstrating at the Sorbonne, he’d thrown paves at the flics. All hell had broken loose. His group took over the Arts Building, proclaiming free love, free wine, and freedom of the mind. They’d formulated a new bill of human rights. The only one he remembered was, “Let it hereby be proclaimed that all humanity listen to their heart and sing.” They thought, in their arrogance and naivete, they were changing the world. And he’d never felt better in his life.

Philippe’s flat stomach and sense of freedom were gone. What had happened to him? Did he look like Bernard Berge—an old man before his time? Was he as dead as he sometimes felt? No, that couldn’t be. He struggled with the vineyard, but he’d make it work. Joy flooded him when he saw the wonder sparkle in Simone’s eyes, heard her laughter. He’d fallen in love again with his glowing wife when she’d nursed Simone.

He called to check on Anaïs. The nurse told him Madame slept. Philippe thanked her and sighed as he hung up the phone. He poured more Johnny Walker into his tumbler.

If only he had stayed in the commune in Normandy, joined his brother’s pop group, or traveled to India and lived on an ashram.

The phone interrupted his thoughts.

“Allô,” Philippe said.

“You are elusive, Philippe,” Kaseem Nwar said. “Talk to me, please, I must give the investors hope.”

Tired of Kaseem’s continued persistence, Philippe wanted to hang up.

“What more can I say, Kaseem?” Philippe said, annoyed. “My committee passed on the funding reins. We have no more control.”

The less Kaseem knew the better. The less anyone knew the better. Look at what happened to Sylvie.

“Can’t you reconsider, Philippe?” Kaseem said. “My investments weigh heavily on the project.”

“Kaseem, we’re subject to the whims of the Elysee Palace,” he said. “Like I’ve always told you, I do what I can. Now it looks impossible.”

“Philippe, this isn’t just for me,” Kaseem said, his tone lower and more insistent. “Others rely on the project, the funding of the mission. They’re depending on you for this!”

Philippe heard the quiet desperation in Kaseem’s voice.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he lied.

Anything to get Kaseem off his back.