“But Madame Danoux, you mustn’t sell the lace panels,” said a middle-aged woman’s voice. “Such intricate work, remnants of a past time. Nostalgia passes over me when I think . . .”
“Nostalgia for what?” Madame Danoux’s voice interrupted. “Nostalgia is when you want things to stay as they were. I know so many people who stay in the same place. And I think, my God, look at them! They’re dead before they die. Living is risking.”
A complete contrast to Mimi, Aimée thought. She had lifted her bandaged hand to knock when the half-ajar door swung open.
“Who’s there?”
The woman must be looking Aimée over, deciding whether to let her in . . . despite Dr. Lambert’s introduction.
Aimée took a deep breath, wishing she could see who and where she was. “Aimée Leduc, Dr. Lambert’s patient.”
Aimée wondered if her hair stuck out, if her black boots were scuffed, if the seam of her leather miniskirt was misaligned, or if the bag of salvaged belongings on her arm bulged open. “May I come in?”
“We’ll talk later, Madame Danoux,” said the middle-aged woman. A chair scraped over wood. Footsteps clicked away.
“Of course, I need a tenant,” Madame Danoux said, her words measured and careful. “Such a saint, that man, Doctor Lambert. I help him whenever he asks. You know, he saved my husband’s eyesight after that amateur botched a simple cataract operation.”
Unsure, Aimée remained in the doorway. Where was that chair . . . was there a rug to trip on . . . tables to run into?
“Thank you, if you could tell me . . .”
“Come inside, make yourself comfortable,” Madame Danoux said, her voice edging away. “I’ll just see to some tea. You take tea, of course . . . I require it for my throat, must have it.”
And then she’d gone. For a moment, Aimée wondered if the woman knew she couldn’t see. . . . Wouldn’t she have guessed from the doctor’s call?
She reached behind her, closed the heavy door, then played back in her mind the conversation she’d overheard, the chair scraping and the direction in which Madame Danoux’s voice disappeared.
Cautiously Aimée edged forward, her arm outstretched. Dr. Lambert had given her a cane but she refused to use it. A lingering scent of roses wafted from her right; dribbling hot air warmed her wrist. She figured the purring cat signaled a chair by a window with a southern exposure, still containing the heat of the day.
Hammering came from below, the whine of a saw and then a soaring contralto voice.
“No, no, no! The emphasis falls on the half-note!” A piano key was pounded repeatedly. “Zut! Go home and practice. That’s all for today.”
Then she heard the flipping of a radio channel, quick and impatient, then what sounded like a grainy radio interview. The tinny sound came from the AM radio:
“Joining us this evening on Talk to the People is Michel Albin, sociologist and author of The New Violence: France in the 90’s.”
Just what she wanted to hear, a paperback sociologist spouting his theory and hawking his book!
“Monsieur Albin, since the early nineties the crime rate has soared. What’s happened?” “Let’s give it a historical perspective,” Albin said. “The fifties and sixties were a time of social reform and recovery from the war. The seventies were political, going into the eighties brought drugs and drug trafficking. Digicode security replaced front doorbells and concierges and Parisiens pushed minorities into the suburbs. We’re living with the results today.” “But monsieur, violence isn’t a new phenomenon.” “Violence constantly evolves, mirroring Society and depending on the period.”
The windows slammed shut. “Blah, blah, blah, talk is cheap. That and six francs gets you an espresso,” said Madame Danoux. “We need him to tell us the country’s going to the dogs? Have some tea and I’ll show you to your room.”
“Merci, madame,” Aimée said. “Picture the face of a clock. Can you tell me at what time the tea cup is?”
“Three o’clock,” she said. “Sad, to lose your sight so young. Need treatment, do you?”
Aimée nodded. Sad wasn’t the half of it. She’d been attacked now for the second time. What would the radio sociologist theorize about that?
Somehow, she’d fathom a way out of her predicament. But right now, she didn’t know how.
“Do you sing in the Opéra, Madame?”
“Nodules grew on my vocal chords,” said Madame. “Otherwise . . .” she trailed off. All the what ifs in life were encompassed in that long pause. “This Bastille Opéra house was an architectural disaster. Can you believe it? The building tiles fall off. They’re keeping them in place with cargo nets in the back! The dressing rooms are notorious for being filthy. Mulitiple shows go on, so someone else has used it the night before you go in. At least, the costumes are put in place every night by staff, the makeup person comes to your room. And the acoustics are marvelous. I preferred Châtelet—more beautiful, great backstage crew and the sets: huge. But at least I’ve got my health.”
Despite Madame Danoux’s words, Aimée felt she did miss her former profession.
“Mademoiselle, did you know Cyrano de Bergerac lived nearby?”
What a shift! Aimée’s brows creased in surprise. Madame Danoux was giving her an overview of the neighborhood.
Meanwhile, where were the flics? Chantal had promised to send them over.
Several shrill rings came from the front of the apartment.
Aimée heard a rustling and footsteps on parquet. “So much coming and going, busier than the Galeries Lafayette!” said Madame Danoux. “Excuse me.”
“Mademoiselle Leduc?” asked a deep voice. “I’m Officer Nord from the Commissariat. You reported an attack.”
“Bon!” she said, turning in the direction of the voice. She wished she could see him. He sounded young. “Madame Danoux, may I impose, some tea for the officer and use of this . . .” she stumbled . . . and gestured with her arm . . . what kind of room was this?
“Parlor,” Nord finished for her.
“Bien sûr,” Madame Danoux said.
Officer Nord showed her to a seat. The low hard divan cut into her back. Aimée fidgeted. She tried to concentrate. The better she explained and painted a picture for him, the more clues he’d have. What he did with them depended on how well he’d been trained.
Aimée heard the hissing of hot water being poured as Madame Danoux served him tea, then left.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” he said.
She started with the attack in the passage. Then she described the assault in the residence.
“You know the flics treated the first attack on me as the work of the Beast of Bastille,” she said.
“Now we’re treating it as an isolated assault,” he said.
Good. She realized something new must have taken place.
“Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” said the young flic, clearing his throat.
“You’ve found the Beast of Bastille, haven’t you?”
No answer. Had her message reached Morbier? And she thought about that night. She remembered who’d been brought into custody.
“You’re charging Mathieu Cavour, the ébéniste?”
Silence.
“But why . . . what evidence did you find?” she asked.
She figured he must be searching for a way to answer this. He couldn’t have been out of the police academy for long.
“Look, my father was a flic. I know the score,” she said. “Give me the truth.”