The Nostradamus prophecies

8

The barman tossed his hands up melodramatically. ‘But I’ve just talked to one of your officers. Told him everything I know. Do you people want me to change your nappies for you as well?’

‘And what did this officer look like?’

‘Like you all look.’ The barman shrugged. ‘You know.’

Captain Calque glanced over his shoulder at Lieutenant Macron. ‘Like him?’

‘No. Nothing like him.’

‘Like me, then?’

‘No. Not like you.’

Calque sighed. ‘Like George Clooney? Woody Allen? Johnny Halliday? Or did he wear a wig, perhaps?’

‘No. No. He didn’t wear a wig.’

‘What else did you tell this invisible man?’

‘Now there’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m doing my duty as a citizen. I tried to protect the American…’

‘With what?’

‘Well… My billiard cue.’

‘Where do you keep this offensive weapon?’

‘Where do I keep it? Where do you think I keep it? Behind the bar, of course. This is St-Denis, not the Sacre-Coeur.’

‘Show me.’

‘Look. I didn’t hit anybody with it. I only waved it at the gypsy.’

‘Did the gypsy wave back?’

‘Ah. Merde.’ The barman slit open a pack of Gitanes with the bar ice-pick. ‘I suppose you’ll have me up for smoking in a public place next? You people.’ He blew a cloud of smoke across the counter.

Calque relieved the barman of one of his cigarettes. He tapped the cigarette on the back of the packet and ran it languorously beneath his nose.

‘Aren’t you going to light that?’

‘No.’

‘ Putain. Don’t tell me you’ve given up?’

‘I have a heart condition. Each cigarette takes a day off my life.’

‘Worth it though.’

Calque sighed. ‘You’re right. Give me a light.’

The barman offered Calque the tip of his cigarette. ‘Look. I’ve remembered now. About your officer.’

‘What have you remembered?’

‘There was something strange about him. Very strange.’

‘And what was that?’

‘Well. You won’t believe me if I tell you.’

Calque raised an eyebrow. ‘Try me.’

The barman shrugged. ‘He had no whites to his eyes.’