Aimée leaned against the wall. It was as if Jutta Hald had struck her. Over the years, she’d imagined various scenarios. But never a mother in league with the notorious seventies Haader-Rofmein radicals, who kidnapped people, bombed jails, and robbed banks.
Were her mother’s terrorist activities connected to the bomb that had killed her father? Her hands shook. But that had happened much later. “This connects to my father, doesn’t it? That’s how you found me.”
“Enough questions,” Jutta Hald’s voice trailed off. “You don’t seem interested in buying the address book.” A look of fleeting remorse crossed the woman’s face. She dropped her gaze, unable to meet Aimée’s eyes.
“One day after school I found a note from my mother taped to the door telling me to stay with our neighbor,” Aimée told her. “That’s the last I heard from her. If the address book will help me find her, I’ll get the money. But I need some time.”
“You have until tonight,” Jutta Hald said. “Then I’m gone.”
“But …”
“I’m leaving the country,” Jutta Hald said, checking her watch. She rose and headed for the hall. “I’ll contact you later. Have you a cell phone?”
Aimée gave her the number. The door slammed behind her.
Aimée sighed. Her checking account held less than a quarter of what Jutta Hald wanted. Leduc Detective had even less.
She ran to the French doors, flung them open, and leaned over the metal railing. The quai before her was empty.
Further up the street Jutta Hald emerged from beneath an overhang, walking with a brisk step. Aimée called out to her. But the incessant beep of a van backing up drowned out her words. At the end of the quai, Jutta Hald stopped. She turned and looked up at Aimée, gave her a half-smile, then disappeared from view.
Aimée pulled on her denim jacket. She was dying for a cigarette and rifled through her pocket for Nicorette gum. But all she came up with was a software encryption manual and a travel-size flacon of Citron Vert. She’d stopped smoking last week. Again.
The longing to see her mother, that bottomless desire dormant for years, had returned. Even if she was dead, just to know where she’d been buried. Constant and nagging, it was like a piece of gravel in her shoe.
Aimée’s worn Vuitton leather wallet held fifty francs. Enough for a taxi to the office of René’s friend, Michel. She’d ask him for a loan.
She found a cab on Pont Marie and bummed a nonfiltered Gauloise from the driver. As they sped along the quai, she inhaled the harsh, woody tobacco, enjoying the jolt.
Michel had a cash-flow problem unlike most people’s. He had too much. His fashion-house backers were cyber entrepreneurs in the Sentier, the district had been dubbed “Siliconsentier” by the press. But she and René were leery of the New Economy and of software start-ups, so they’d kept to corporate security.
Space came cheap in the Sentier, the hub of the wholesale rag trade and of the flesh trade. In the entire Sentier, green space scarcely existed. Six trees in Place du Caire, a spreading plane tree in square Bidault, and several struggling saplings in the Place Ste-Foy were the most notable exceptions.
The driver let her off on crowded rue Saint Denis, the medieval route to the royal tombs. Traffic had ground to a standstill. The knock of a stalled diesel truck and its exhaust fumes permeated the narrow street.
Dilapidated hôtel particuliers, once home to the Marquise de Pompadour, Josephine Bonaparte, and Madame du Barry, had been turned into fabric warehouses. Hookers kept the rent down in the old stomping grounds of Irma la Douce. But that was what attracted the start-ups. Urban decay with a new meaning, Aimée thought.
A dense haze of heat flickered in the late summer afternoon, lit by the still shining sun. She found Michel’s place on rue du Sentier between Paris Hydro, a plumbing shop, and Tissus Arnaud, a fabric store. A welcome chill radiated from the limestone. Inside the seventeenth-century hôtel particulier, across from Mozart’s former residence, Aimée rubbed the goose bumps on her arms.
The smell of sawdust and mold rose from the floor. Watermarked walls supported a high ceiling whose paint was peeling in the cavernous foyer.
The tall door stood ajar. Peering inside, she saw expensive state-of-the-art computer monitors on makeshift shelves. Cartons labeled tissus en gros were piled against the window. Remnants of antique industrial sewing machines for punching holes in leather sat by rusted metal clothing racks.
Michel Mamou was reaching high above him for the old gas line on the wall. He balanced on a sawhorse straddled over a three-legged table and a bench. His head just missed the old hanging light fixture.
“Ça va, Michel?” she asked.
“After I cap the gas, I’ll feel happy,” Michel grinned.
“Michel, I need a favor.”
Michel’s black-framed glasses under his wool cap pulled low didn’t hide his pink eyes. Or his white eyelashes.
Michel often boasted he was the only albino Jew in Paris. Maybe that was why his family gave him free rein rather than insisting on his working in the wholesale clothing business.
He and her partner, René, a dwarf and a computer genius, had formed an unholy alliance at the Sorbonne, the albino and the dwarf, or “the freak brothers,” as some had called them.
“What do you need?”
Before she could answer, he leaned back on the sawhorse. “Stop me if I’ve told you this one,” he said, grinning. “Écoute, here in the Sentier, a wholesaler pays for his child’s studies. First, the son spends three years in law. Then he studies business for three years at the fancy Hautes Études Commerciales. After that he obtains an M.B.A. from Harvard. Then he wants to study Japanese. But the father says, ‘Listen, my boy. I paid all those years for your studies, but God says you finally have to choose your career: either clothing for men or clothing for women.’”
Michel slapped his thighs and roared. Aimée returned a thin smile as she checked the terminal ports on a nearby computer.
“Just like my uncle Nessim!” said Michel. “Too cheap to fix this place up but he lets me use it. I design upstairs. They figure they’ll make money on me. If my designs never sell, his brilliant son says he can claim it as a tax write-off, a property value loss!”
Michel had placed high in the Concours de Haute Couture, the prestigious fashion competition organized by the Ministry of Culture. His talent hadn’t gone unnoticed. He’d turned down an offer from a couture house in order to be his own boss.
“The ministry’s sponsoring our couture showing in the Palais Royal,” he said. “And my uncle’s fronting the money but I need you and René to help me with my computer system.”
“Michel, I doubt that there’s any juice for the cables and fiber optic hookups,” Aimée said, gesturing to the dusty fuse box.
“Pas grave,” he said. “With the Bourse nearby and Reuters news service in the hôtel particulier across the street, we’ve got plenty of available power.”
But what about the rats who might gnaw through the cables, Aimée thought.
“Michel, about that favor …”
“I call it couture contre couture, couture in reverse,” he said. “Rollerblading assistants, with laptops strapped to their chests, accompany the models to the clients and take orders and measurements. We do it all at once.”
So that’s why he needed the computers.
“Michel, I need to borrow fifty thousand francs.”
But she spoke to Michel’s denim-covered hindquarters. He was on his knees digging for a power source.
She got down on her knees and pulled Michel’s arm.