Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

Monday Evening

KRZYSZTOF LINSKI HURRIED past the piano-shaped ice sculpture in the vast salon of the Polish Foundation’s seventeenth-century town house on the Ile Saint-Louis. He’d just make it if . . .

“Where’s your dinner jacket, Krzysztof?” Comte Linski, his uncle, demanded.

Caught! Krzysztof played with the zipper of his hooded sweatshirt. Merde! He’d be imprisoned at the gala the foundation was sponsoring if he didn’t maneuver his way out of it.

“But, Uncle, I’m late. . . .”

“The crown prince of Poland, dressed in Levi’s?” His uncle frowned as if in disapproval of the moisture-beaded magnums of champagne standing in ice buckets, ready to be poured for the assembling guests.

Leaning on his cane, his uncle blocked Krzysztof’s escape from the somber room, which was decorated with bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes whose spines were molting and crackle-surfaced oil paintings of nineteenth-century Warsaw. Everything here reeked of the past.

“Our committee’s donating Chopin’s death mask to the foundation’s collection; we expect you to say a few words to our assembled guests, but not dressed like that.”

Dream on, Krzysztof refrained from saying.

“We’re marching tonight to stop the signing of the oil agreement,” Krzysztof said, hoping to avoid an argument. “If I don’t hurry—”

“Not that silly business again!” In the chandelier’s light, his uncle’s medals gleamed. The ones he trotted out for occasions like this were all pinned to his waistcoat: ribbons earned in the Polish resistance and his French Légion d’Honneur medal, on its red ribbon.

“But I helped organize the protest, it’s vital that I be there. I need to leave now, Uncle.”

“Your duty’s more important, Krzysztof,” his uncle told him.

In Krzysztof’s opinion, preventing global pollution and the poisoning of the seas was more important than paying tribute to a man dead one hundred years.

“Your duty lies here, Krzysztof,” his uncle continued. “This is your culture, your heritage. These are your people. How can some abstract cause compete?”

Strains of a Chopin piano sonata drifted over the white-haired crowd. The old folks came out in force for a gala and free meal. No one here was under seventy. Their formal attire emitted a whiff of mothballs, Krzysztof noted.

The comte grabbed his elbow. “Think of what you owe your ancestors.”

The monarchy had ended in 1945, and their land and castles had been seized. Krzysztof took catering jobs now to supplement his living expenses while he attended the Sorbonne and his uncle, a glorified gofer, organized receptions in return for a free room at the foundation. Yet his uncle insisted that Krzysztof remember that he was descended from a princess, the Infanta Maria Augusta Nepomucena Antonia Franziska Xaveria Aloysia. That and five francs would get him an espresso, Krzysztof knew. His uncle overlooked the fact that the infanta had died in the last century and that Krzysztof was only the offshoot of an illegitimate branch.

Krzysztof knew his stories by heart. The past was like yesterday to hear his uncle and his cronies talk. They were the descendants of Polish émigré nobility who had fled to Paris from nineteenth-century insurrections and, later, tsarist troops. Still they clung to their visions of a noble past and their hopes of a restoration while they dealt in antiques to pay their rent.

Murmurs rose above the piano sonata.

“It’s time.” The old man gripped Krzysztof by the elbow. “Please, stay until the unveiling. For me,” he said, his voice softening.

Krzysztof hated to hear his uncle beg. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint him. Reluctant, he nodded.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” a voice announced from the rear of the salon, “join us for the unveiling of Chopin’s death mask, our tribute to a great musican and son of Poland.”

A bit late, Krzysztof thought. When Chopin, tubercular and estranged from the Polish aristocrats, died, his lover, George Sand, had footed the bills.

“The monarchy lives,” his uncle whispered. “You’re in the line of succession. Be proud.”

Proud? What were obsolete titles compared to toxic oil spills, killing wildlife, and depleting the ocean of oxygen? The lies of Alstrom, the guilty oil company, had to be exposed; the Ministry prevented from signing the proposed agreement.

“Pour me some champagne before it’s gone, young man.”

He turned to see an old woman, wearing a fur stole, too many pearls, and too much makeup for her age. She was feeding the Chihuahua at her side from her plate with a fork. He would humor her and then escape, Krzysztof decided.

“With pleasure.” He executed a small bow, his manners ingrained. On weekends he did this for a living. “Your dog has a good appetite, Madame.” He poured and handed her a Baccarat flute of fizzing champagne.

“Tiresome, this reception fare. Always the same,” she said. “But Bibo loves pommes dauphinoise.”

He repressed a sniff. The old woman hadn’t washed in a while or maybe it was Bibo, a bulging-eyed thing whose teeth were bared at him.

The old woman said in Polish, “You’re the comte’s—”

“I speak French” he interrupted.

“Hardly a trace of an accent either,” she said. “So you’re the troublemaking prince he complains about. Highstrung, a rebel.” She smiled at the little dig she’d managed to inflict.

“My mother taught me French,” Krzysztof said. “And the system of kings and aristocrats is dead.”

To his surprise, she beamed. “Dead? Try telling them that, young man.” She waved her arm in a vague gesture at the crowd. “But I see, you’re like me.”

He doubted that.

“Believe it or not, in my day we were enthralled by the anarchists, idealists with letter bombs, all very romantic and exciting. I raised hell, too.” She patted his arm and left her hand there. “Isn’t that the expression?”

Krzysztof cringed. She still thought of herself as a coquette.

“I’m just a student.” He glanced at the hand of the Sèvres clock. “There’s a protest against North Sea pollution . . .”

“Marvellous,” she interrupted, noticing his gaze. “The young always protest, that’s your job. I find those who stir things up fascinating.”

“Stir things up?” She made it sound as if it was a lark. If they didn’t bring the facts to the world’s attention, the Ministry would sign an oil rights agreement with Alstrom the day after tomorrow.

She let out a meaningful sigh. “Boris Bakunin. Now if he’d put as much energy into revolution as he did between the sheets . . . our movement would have succeeded.” There was a wicked grin on her face. “We learned how to build, set, and defuse explosives. It was my idea—that book bomb—not that anyone cares these days.”

He shifted his feet. He wanted to slip out before his uncle noticed.

“I hope you’re involved in something illegal and thrilling.” Her eyes sparkled, amazing green young-looking eyes revealing traces of the beauty she must once have been. “It’s the only way to live, young man.” She fed Bibo a forkful, then leaned forward. “Just watch your back. If Trotsky had paid more attention to what was going on behind him, he wouldn’t have been assassinated in Mexico.”

“Pardon?” He stood, eyeing the door, distracted.

“They hatched the plot here; we knew the saboteur. I warned him myself.”

And then he realized who she was. Jadwiga Radziwill, the once notorious revolutionary, double agent, and rumored lover of a Wehrmacht general. Zut, he’d thought she was dead.

DARKNESS SHADED THE narrow cobblestone surface of the Left Bank street. Fewer than a hundred had gathered for the march; Krzysztof had expected more. And the press? Not a camera crew in sight.

Disappointed, he wiped damp hair from his forehead, passing a candle to the next demonstrator. The march would culminate two blocks away in a peace vigil on the grounds of l’Institut du Monde Arabe, the cultural foundation where the conference was being held. A multistory building part library, museum, and seminar center, l’Institut du Monde Arabe’s countless bronze light-sensitive shutters imitated the moucharabiya, an Arab latticework balcony. Another Pompidou design project not working half the time.

He looked for Orla, who’d promised to provide them with more information, but she was late as usual. A camera truck from France2 pulled up. He brightened; now they’d get coverage on the television news. The word would spread.

Fellow Sorbonne students wearing bandannas strummed guitars, and the old Socialists, always ready for a demonstration, circulated bottles of red wine among those standing in loose ranks. Handheld candles illuminated expectant faces. He smiled at his fellow organizer, Gaelle, who had draped a red-and-white Palestinian scarf over her tank top. She raised her fist in a power salute, grinning back as he dumped an empty candle box in a bin.

“My press contact’s coming. I told him you’d convinced Brigitte and the MondeFocus to sponsor this demonstration,” Gaelle said, her face flushed with excitement.

Perfect, everything was running according to plan. His nervousness evaporated. Now he was sure everything would work. He’d followed the right channels, applied for and obtained a permit. There was not even a flic or a police car in sight.

A girl with long blonde hair smiled and kissed him on the cheek, her scent of patchouli oil surrounding them both. “Comrade, help out a minute, won’t you?”

He caught a whiff of kerosene and hoped no one had brought a lantern. Their march was supposed to end in a silent protest illuminated only by hundreds of flickering candles as they submitted their alternative proposal. A lantern would ruin the effect.

She smiled up at him and slung her backpack strap over his shoulder. “Take this, will you? I’ve got to carry the rest of the candles.” The clink of bottles came from within the backpack. She winked. “I’ve brought something to quench our thirst while we keep vigil.”

He hesitated and shrugged. “Why not?” He hefted the bag. Voices around him rose in song and he recognized “The Internationale,” the old Socialist anthem. He found himself stepping out in time with the singing. And then she vanished, dropping behind the ranks of marchers, as someone hugged him.

The group linked arms and strode over the cobbles. Beside him, Gaelle held the green STOP THE OIL DRILLING banner aloft.

As they marched, their voices and laughter echoed off the stone buildings. Their candles flickered in the soft breeze from the Seine. His uncle’s speech came to his mind. Proud of his ancestry? This made his heart swell with pride.

They reached the corner and rounded it. Ranks of uniformed CRS, Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité, an armed riot squad, stood in front of l’Institut du Monde Arabe.

This made no sense to Krzysztof. They were marching peacefully to protest oil pollution.

He paused in midstep, as did the others. The CRS was drawn up in riot formation. The revolving police-car lights cast a bluish light that was reflected by the clear shields they held positioned in front of them.

This was only his second demonstration and he almost jumped out of his skin as a Mercedes limo screeched down the institute’s exit ramp and tore off toward the Seine.

“Merde,” Gaelle said at his side, “the bigwigs are taking off before we can present our proposals. The pigs!”

Krzysztof exchanged a confused look with Claude, a tall, leather-jacketed documentary filmmaker who stood on the sidelines.

“Get this on film, Claude!” he called.

Claude raised his fingers in a V, video camera crooked between his neck and shoulder. “Got it, from the beginning!” Claude considered himself a master of cinéma vérité. His ten-year-old documentary of activists fighting the building of African oil platforms was already considered a classic.

The marchers were at a standstill. Strategize, Krzysztof told himself. They had to strategize and keep the momentum going.

“Gaelle. Over here.” He made his way through the crowd, toward plane trees with peeling bark. Amid the planters holding bushes he set the backpack down.

The CRS loudspeaker broke the silence. “Advance no further.”

“Everything’s legal,” Gaelle shouted back, “approved by the—” Her voice was drowned by the clanking of the metal-heeled boots of the CRS scraping against the cobblestones.

“This is an unlawful assembly. Your permit has been revoked,” the loudspeaker blared. “Put down your weapons.”

Their permit revoked? Weapons?

“We’re conducting a sanctioned peaceful assembly,” Krzysztof shouted. MondeFocus only countenanced peaceful lawful demonstrations.

All of a sudden, a figure ran toward the front line of marchers, cradling something to her chest. “Wait . . . !”

Before he could see who it was, the stark white glare of police searchlights blinded him. He shielded his eyes.

“Krzysztof!”

He recognized Orla’s voice. But more blinding light prevented him from seeing her.

“Look, Orla’s arrived,” Gaelle said.

“This is your last warning.” Static crackled from the loudspeaker.

He stepped back in a panic. “But I obtained the permit. How could they revoke it?” he asked, dazed.

“They can’t do this,” Gaelle told him.

“Of course not. No one informed me!”

“Lies!” The crowd started chanting, their voices mounting in the humid air.

“They’ll have to understand,” Gaelle said, desperation in her voice, as she broke past the marchers and ran ahead.

The CRS advanced in a single rank, clear shields positioned in front of their faces.

Gaelle raised her candle and took a step forward, into the boulevard.

What was she doing? The CRS came closer, truncheons raised. He could see their features behind their clear shields. He sprinted forward. She took another step.

“Gaelle, non!” He reached for her arm.

People behind him shoved forward and he tripped, losing his balance. The banner fell. He was pressed against a stone bollard.

“We’re presenting a peaceful petition—”

The rest of Gaelle’s words were lost in the bone-cracking whack of a truncheon. She crumpled to the ground. For a moment, all was silent, then cries of horror rose around him. Blood spurted from Gaelle’s head, drenching her scarf. And Krzysztof was pushed to one side in the melee as the crowd surged around them.