He rubbed his arms. “She’s heavy, that one!”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” she said, hating to have to smile and to try to coax the favor from him.
In answer, he wheeled a hydraulic lift from a nearby shed. She stared at the coffin, faded sepia images of her mother crowding her mind. Was her mother crumbling in one of these somewhere?
“If there’s no payment in three days, she’s out. Permanently,” he said. “I don’t do this twice.” The grave digger pumped the lift and pushed the coffin toward the mausoleum.
Aimée watched him. She stood perspiring in the heat, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat. “I thought you said she was heavy.”
“Mais she was!”
“Don’t tell me she lost weight since you moved her.”
He leered. “The other day she was heavy … you think I’m lying?”
“But, look, aren’t coffins supposed to be sealed?”
She pointed to the cracked white chips along the coffin lid ledge.
“I didn’t do that.”
“Why so defensive all of a sudden?”
“Freaks,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Satan worshippers.” He looked over his shoulder, lowered his voice. “We don’t tell the families but cults break in here some nights. I find candles melted on the stones, even a dead chicken once!”
“Do they rob the coffins?”
He wouldn’t meet her eye, but he swiped his dirty finger across his lips. She took it to mean that he wouldn’t say.
“Open it,” she said. “I’m not paying otherwise and I’ll make a big stink with your boss.”
It was the last thing she wanted to see but Liane Barolet should know if she was being ripped off for an already desecrated coffin.
He handed her the crowbar. “Not my job.”
And he shuffled away over the gravel.
The lid moved easily. Too easily.
As the late afternoon sun slanted through the leaves, a bird swooped up into the hard blue sky. She steeled herself to look in the dark, earthy-smelling interior. Instead of a shrouded, decaying corpse she found an empty coffin.
She pushed the lid up further. The only things inside were a crumpled brown plastic bag with Neufarama written across it and dried leaves that crackled as she touched them. She remembered buying a sweater from a Neufarama store but they’d gone out of business in the seventies.
Tuesday Afternoon
OUSMANE SADA, THE KORA PLAYER, wanted to help Idrissa, but first he had to get direction. And only the marabout, the fortune-teller, could point the way.
Ousmane mounted the worn wooden steps of the Sentier hotel. Too bad Idrissa hadn’t come with him, but at least she was safe staying at his place. He knocked twice on the hotel door with the number 5 stenciled on it. From inside he heard a muffled “Entrez.”
He removed his embroidered skullcap, took a deep breath, then opened the door.
“Bonjour,” he said. “I seek guidance.”
The marabout nodded.
In the cheap hotel room on rue Beauregard, maps of star constellations were strewn over the ragged chenille-covered bed. He set an envelope in the marabout’s hollowed-out gourd bowl. The marabout, a bland-faced foreseer of the future, ignored his action. A marabout never acknowledged hadiya, gifts from his taalibe, his followers. In Ousmane’s village outside Dakar in Senegal, the price had been chickens.
The marabout’s taalibe would rebuild their wealth on the path to salvation. Hard work and many hadiyas improved one’s chances of going to Paradise. A spiritual economy, his father had called it.
But Ousmane’s father’s marabout, whose photo he wore in the talisman around his neck, would frown on this visit. Loyalty to one’s marabout was important. Even though Senegal was thousands of miles away, his pulse beat rapidly.
Ousmane inhaled the familiar willow bark and cinnamon scent from the burning cones. He saw the day’s fortune in Arabic letters tacked on the gouged plaster wall. He twitched. He’d felt out of sorts for days now. Must have la grippe—the flu. Sweating and feverish, he felt thirsty.
The marabout would throw the shells, arrange the beads, and interpret the signs. Tell him if his woman, Cheike, still waited to marry him. So he would return home, which was what his heart told him. And the signs would show him how to keep Idrissa safe.
He’d borrow the fare from his cousin Khalifa, a sanitation engineer, to keep him from drinking it away. Khalifa was different, he liked it here. The food clotted with cow’s excrement they called butter, the raw horse meat eaten only by jaguars and tigers in his country, the painted women who preened and sold themselves on the street like pheasants in the market.
Since his childhood, Ousmane had strung fishing lines, patched and woven the nets, to face another day in the tepid ocean. He remembered gripping the flapping fins and shining scales of the fish his family caught in the turquoise waters. At first, his work in the Sentier sewing factory had seemed bearable. He slept alongside other workers on mattresses on the factory floor, like he’d done at home on mats with his siblings. Yet the cold damp from the stone floor seeped into his bones. Stayed there. No crusty vanilla sand caked on his calves. There were no warm orange sunsets laced by the smell of roasting peanuts.
Idrissa had noticed. His music suffered. Some nights he felt so tired after pressing and ironing the clothes in the factory, too tired to pluck the strings of his kora to accompany Idrissa’s songs.
“Ask your question,” said the marabout.
A stained yellow floral drapery flapped in the breeze from the open window. Hesitant at first, Ousmane wiped his brow, then gathered his courage and spoke.
The marabout threw the shells. The sound as the cowries clicked competed with the shouts of cart pullers below in the street. The marabout frowned. “Your question was not framed with a pure heart,” he intoned. He pointed to the shells’ configuration. “Don’t be stingy with the truth.” The marabout’s long brown fingers snaked over the shells. He waited, lost in thought.
“Tell me what the shells say.” Ousmane trembled, asking in their language, Wolof.
“Tiens!” said the marabout, refusing to speak their native tongue. “Your request rebounds on you. Where is your respect?”
“I’m confused.”
The marabout reached over and flipped Ousmane’s shirt collar down. He pointed to the talisman around Ousmane’s neck. “The shells confirm, you belong in another’s following.”
Ousmane cringed.
“It’s forbidden, you know that,” the marabout said. “Now a curse will bite at your heels, as wild dogs guard a village.”
Guilt filled Ousmane. Would the marabout’s curse doom him, or Idrissa?
WEDNESDAY
Wednesday Afternoon
AIMÉE RAN INTO the office of Leduc Detective and threw her leather bag on the settee. “I need to go to Frésnes tomorrow. May I borrow your car, René?”
“What happened?”
“Something bizarre.” She told him about visiting Liane Barolet in Frésnes and the empty coffin in Montmartre cemetery.
“For more than twenty years, Liane’s been paying?” he asked.
Aimée waved the plastic Neufarama bag.
“Pretty expensive just to store a plastic bag,” he said. “I’d demand a refund.”
Now it came back to her. She recalled Jutta’s comment that her mother must have returned to Aimée’s apartment or to the cemetery. At the time, she thought Jutta had been talking in riddles. Now it made sense.