“At the book stall by Pont Neuf,” Hugo said. He leaned across the desk and extended his hand. “I believe we saw each other there a few days ago. I'm Hugo Marston.”
“Yes, I remember now.” Gravois nodded slowly. “You were asking questions.” Despite the warmth of the office, he wore gloves and, as if to explain, said, “I am undergoing treatment for cancer, I have to be careful about infections.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Hugo said. That explained the baldness and lack of eyebrows. “As I told your assistant, I am a journalist. I'd been told that a bouquiniste called Max worked at the stall, that he'd give me an interview.”
“Ah, oui? About what?” He spoke slowly, his voice deep and gravelly, his words as deliberate as his movements.
“About the bookstalls. Their history, what it's like to work at one, what they think of tourists.”
“Alors. Sit, Monsieur Marston, please.” Gravois directed his guest to one of two identical seats opposite him and sat down himself. “Tourists pay the bouquinistes' rent, what do you suppose they think of them?”
“True,” said Hugo. “But they don't have to like them.”
“And you think,” Gravois said, “that my bouquinistes are stupid enough to tell you they don't like Americans?”
“No, no, you misunderstand. That's not the focus of my article at all.”
“And who is your employer? Do you have credentials?”
“I'm freelance. I hope to sell to one of the airlines, actually. They pay the best.”
“And your credentials?”
“Unfortunately,” Hugo shrugged, “you only get those when you work for a news organization. We freelancers have to rely on our charm.”
“Indeed.” Gravois shifted in his seat. “What do you want from me?”
Hugo pulled out the notepad and pen that he'd bought at a tabac en route. “I've always wondered how the bouquinistes get their stalls.”
“Like Monsieur Chabot, for example?”
“Monsieur…?” Hugo played dumb, as good at this routine as anyone. But Gravois was inscrutable. He would make a great interrogator, Hugo thought; you had no idea what he knew, but you suspected he knew a lot.
“No matter.” Gravois waved a hand. “Bouquinistes have been around for many years, over a century. How the stalls are passed along varies, Monsieur Marston. Sometimes father to son, sometimes friends.”
“Sometimes the SBP?”
“Yes. We are a resource for our members in many ways. That is one of them.”
“What else does the SBP do?”
“Many things.” Gravois looked away from Hugo for the first time, checking the alignment of his pen. Almost perfect but not quite. Gravois straightened it, then looked up again. “We are a lobbying organization. If the government tries to oppress our members, we represent them. We provide supplemental health packages for those who do not want to rely on the current system.”
“And for that your members pay a fee?”
“Like any union, yes, of course.” Gravois smiled, but there was no change in the eyes. “Even journalists have unions, you know.”
“So I've heard,” said Hugo. “Just not in America.”
“No? America is an interesting country, I should visit one day.”
“You should.” Hugo cleared his throat. He knew he would have to choose his words carefully, that for some reason suspicion was already aroused. That fact alone told Hugo plenty, about Gravois if not about what he was doing. Fastidious and suspicious, and either his temperament or some position of power allowed him to slap a man in public and fear no recrimination. It probably didn't matter if Hugo got thrown out as a fraud, but until he knew where Max was, he had no desire to antagonize anyone. “Are all bouquinistes members of the SBP?”
“Yes. It is, as the English say, ‘a closed shop.’ Your French, by the way, is excellent. For an American.”
“Thank you.” Hugo ignored the slight. “Let me ask you this, do you suppose Monsieur Chabot would give me an interview? Background on the SBP is of great interest but so too are the daily activities of your members.”
“You did well to come to me first, monsieur. I think that few bouquinistes, none perhaps, would talk to you without my…our permission. You must understand that the police, government officials of several kinds, they go around looking for petty violations. Those spots are valuable real estate and I think some bureaucrats resent that we get them so cheaply. To them, money is more important than tradition. It's a shame.”
“Yes, it is. But with your permission, I can interview Monsieur Chabot?”
They locked eyes for a moment, each man trying to read the thoughts and intentions of the other. Gravois spoke first.
“No. I think it is better that the bouquinistes retain a little mystery about them, don't you?” A thin smile. “You are free to write whatever pleases you, but I would prefer it if you did not bother my members, monsieur.”
The interview was clearly over but Hugo made no attempt to get up. “Then one last question, Monsieur Gravois. How exactly did Monsieur Chabot come to be in possession of that stall?”
Again the deliberate pause. “Why your interest in him?”
Hugo shrugged. “When I spoke to him he didn't seem to know much about books. He seems young and I'm not sure he has the highest ranking in, or respect from, the SBP.” Yes, I saw you hit him. “And yet he suddenly comes into possession of what must surely be one of the best stalls in Paris.”
“Suddenly?” Gravois stood. “What makes you say it was sudden?”
“Just something Chabot said.” Hugo flipped his notebook closed, well aware that Gravois had been looking to see if he'd been taking notes. He had. “I don't remember what exactly, he just left me with that impression.”
“I hide nothing from you, Monsieur Marston, when I tell you that he is a stupid man. But even stupid men need to make a living, no?”
“Of course.” Hugo reached for his hat as Gravois limped around the desk, leaning on it for support.
“I expect that with his limited intelligence and your good but imperfect language skills, there was a miscommunication.” Gravois picked up his cane and walked to the door. He opened it and waited. “That is, of course, another reason why an interview is not a good idea. It would benefit no one for you to misrepresent their words in your article. Good day, Monsieur Marston. And bonne chance.”
Hugo paused in the doorway and turned to face Gravois, close enough to smell stale tobacco on the man's breath. Funny, he hadn't noticed an ashtray in here. It was an intentional invasion of space and Hugo felt satisfaction when Gravois shifted his weight to his bad foot.
“Do you know where Max Koche is, Monsieur Gravois?”
“Max Koche?” His face was impassive. “I'm not familiar with the name. We have several hundred members, I do not know them all.”
“Then maybe you can look him up. Jean Chabot is running his stall.”
“Au revoir Monsieur Marston. And as they say in America, ‘take care.’”
Chapter Twelve
It wasn't much of a café, and wasn't one at all except for those who knew it was there. On a narrow street less than a block from the Seine, a weathered board spelled Chez Maman in peeling black letters and hung over an entrance that showed no particular sign of welcoming strangers. It was five o'clock, a good time to find a table and some peace, and maybe wash away the bitter taste that had settled in his mouth in Rue Nollet.
Hugo put his shoulder to the door and stepped into a small room filled with trails of smoke that rose past the blank, tired faces of men who stared into cups of coffee, beer, and shot glasses of amber liquid. A scarred stone floor and the heavy elbows of the bar's patrons made every one of the dozen or so tables wobble, though no one was moving much. Above Hugo's head dark beams striped the low ceiling, the plaster stained yellow from a hundred years or more of cigarette and cigar smoke.