Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Read online

  He seemed to be thinking.

  ‘My name is Monsieur Mancebo.’

  I didn’t tell him my own name.

  ‘Why is it so important for you to know who lives opposite?’ he asked gravely.

  I had no choice. If I wanted to find out any more, this was my chance, but it would mean I had to give him something. He was behaving like someone who had something he wanted to say. Suddenly, he was standing with a stool in each hand.

  ‘Let’s sit down out here and talk.’

  He put down one of the stools and then picked it up and moved it. He did so three times. Obsessive behaviour, I thought, putting on my sunglasses and taking a seat next to him. It felt strange to be sitting next to a strange man, looking at what might be Monsieur Bellivier’s home.

  ‘We’re discreet,’ he said.

  I smiled. The entire situation was anything but. Two people sitting on the pavement in the burning heat, staring at a carefully chosen building.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know about the people who live straight across the boulevard if you, madame, let me know why you’re interested in knowing. OK?’

  And with that, he started to talk.

  ‘The cobbler’s name is Tariq. He’s my cousin. The apartment above his shop is empty, as I’m sure you saw. The pharmacy further down the street used to use it as a storeroom.’

  He paused.

  ‘A certain Ted Baker lives above the empty apartment. He’s an English writer, and he lives there with his wife.’

  He paused again and I realised that it was my turn to give him something.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit complicated … For a few weeks, I’ve been working for someone called Monsieur Bellivier. I’ve never met him, but he gives this address as his, and … I’d like to get in touch with him.’

  We sat in silence for a while, but then I took the chance to draw a little more out of him.

  ‘Could your cousin be working on anything you don’t know about in secret?’

  Monsieur Mancebo remained silent and looked down.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. We’ve drifted apart lately.’

  ‘What do you know about Ted Baker?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Why did you say no to the question about knowing who lives there at first?’

  ‘Because I’m working for Ted Baker’s wife, it’s quite sensitive.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Madame Cat.’

  ‘Cat? That sounds strange.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I mean that if you’re married, you usually have the same surname. Ted Baker could be a pseudonym if he’s a writer … but Cat just sounds weird.’

  ‘Psedadym?’

  ‘Pseudonym. Authors can write under a different name. It’s quite common. So you’re working for Madame Cat? Doing what?’

  There was no doubt that Monsieur Mancebo was debating whether to tell me the truth or not.

  ‘How long have you had your shop?’

  The question wasn’t really relevant, it was more an attempt to gain his trust, an effort to get closer to him. He chose to answer my previous question instead.

  ‘Madame Cat asked me to spy on her husband. She suspects he is having an affair.’

  Though the information wasn’t particularly spectacular, I was surprised. Somehow, the man’s task sounded closely related to mine. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Monsieur Bellivier claimed to live at an address where things like that went on. I was convinced that Madame Cat was the person I was looking for. And as a result, the man by my side became important to me. Suddenly, he jumped and positioned himself right in front of me, blocking out the sun.

  ‘There’s Ted Baker going up the stairs,’ he whispered

  Monsieur Mancebo disappeared into the shop and returned with a spray bottle. He began to spritz the fruit, looking very unnatural as he did it. I watched Monsieur Baker as he went into his apartment. What should I do now? Go and knock? Monsieur Mancebo stopped spraying the fruit and came and sat back down on the stool.

  ‘How are you spying on him?’

  ‘I keep track of when he comes and goes.’

  ‘You’ve never followed him?’

  ‘Once, in the van.’

  I decided to wait a while before I went to knock on the door. But it wasn’t long before it opened and Ted Baker was back on the fire escape. I got to my feet and smiled at Mancebo, who looked up at me with wide eyes.

  ‘What are you going to do, madame?’

  ‘I’m going to follow him. He could be going to meet his wife, and I’d like to do that too. I think she’s the one I’m looking for.’

  ‘You’re going to shadow him?’

  ‘No, I’m just going to see where he goes, and then I’ll ask him if he knows who Monsieur Bellivier is.’

  Monsieur Mancebo gave me a confused look, but I didn’t have time to find out what was behind it. Monsieur Baker was already on the pavement, and I left the little grocer’s shop and quickly crossed the boulevard.

  Paris wakes reluctantly. The only people who are alert are the tourists, despite the heat. They want to cram in everything before they leave. Go up the Eiffel Tower, shop at Galeries Lafayette, take pictures of Notre Dame, and also find time to eat snails at a restaurant somewhere, though which restaurant they choose is less important. They don’t have time to wait for the city to wake. They don’t notice the smell of bread drifting from the bakeries. They don’t see the taxi drivers yawning in unison after they finish the night shift. They don’t manage to study the skill of the binman standing on the back of the truck, grabbing one bin after another with just one hand as the van drives on. They don’t have time to take in the morning calm on a boulevard in one of Europe’s biggest cities. They simply don’t take the time to experience the city they have come to discover.

  Mancebo is someone who has neither the time nor the inclination to discover the city. He doesn’t want to do any more searching, not for a good while. He is sitting on his stool on the pavement, watching a strange woman take up pursuit of Ted Baker. Mancebo glances at the empty stool beside him. Just a moment earlier, she was sitting there next to him, asking what he knew about Madame Cat, Ted Baker and Tariq. And, before that, she had knocked on Madame Cat’s door, and when no one answered she had madly climbed out onto the roof to peer into the apartment below. It was the first time Mancebo had used his binoculars since the attack.

  Mancebo takes a deep breath. He remembers what happened last time he felt so overwhelmed. He can’t allow it to happen again. No migraines or collapse. And so he goes inside to sit behind the counter. A copy of the newspaper Le Parisien is lying beneath a couple of invoices, and he starts leafing through it, mostly to bring himself back to reality, or away from his own reality. For a long time, he stares at an old weather report. At least that won’t give him any surprises or do anything unexpected. More of this kind of thing, Mancebo thinks, leafing forward to the page with the horoscopes. ‘Taurus: A week of speed and action which will offer many pleasant surprises. Finances: An unexpected bonus will perk up your finances. Career: Perhaps it’s time to change tack? Love: If you have a partner, you’ll discover a new side to them.’

  Mancebo has never believed in horoscopes, but he does now. He continues to leaf through the paper. Even an old horoscope has the ability to scare him these days.

  There’s no sign of Amir at lunch, and to begin with Mancebo doesn’t know whether he should ask where he is. Eventually, he plucks up the courage. He’s responsible for what he has set in motion, after all.

  ‘Isn’t Amir coming for lunch?’

  The question is aimed at Fatima. She’s the one who should know.

  ‘He’ll be here soon. He went to meet Khaled. I suppose they’ll probably both be here soon.’

  ‘So he’s feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, he’s been on his feet all day anyway.’

  Just then, the door opens and Amir comes in with a football beneath his arm. He carefully sets
it down on the rug in the hallway. Khaled closes the door behind him and comes in to greet everyone already sitting around the table. It’s a while since Khaled last came over, but Mancebo can understand Amir’s decision to invite a friend round for lunch. Mancebo would like a friendly face by his side too, someone from outside of the family. The problem is that he can’t work out who it should be, and that brings him down a little. He doesn’t know who he can trust any more. Raphaël, perhaps, but on the other hand he’s too close to Tariq. What about François? He feels relatively innocent, but you never know. The two boys sit down. Amir takes the seat at the end of the table, next to Fatima. There’s a reason for that, too. As far from the arms dealer as he can get. Tariq jokes with Khaled, and starts playing the spoons.

  ‘Save some energy for tonight,’ Fatima snorts at Tariq. ‘We need to plan the holiday this evening. When we’re going, who we’re staying with and so on. I don’t want it to be like last year, with me ringing around to find beds for all of us a few days before we leave.’

  Adèle nods. Mancebo comes back to his senses and realises that he has forgotten one crucial thing. In a week’s time, he’s meant to be shutting up shop to go to Tunisia for a month. I’m not going, he thinks. Not under any circumstances. He starts to sweat.

  After lunch, Mancebo gives the second-to-last notebook to a girl in a pleated skirt who comes in to buy two bananas. She curtseys in thanks and then hurries out. She was a rabbit, she said, but since there weren’t any rabbits left, she took a dragon. Mancebo doesn’t even have time to put the money into the till before he, Ted Baker, the writer, his object, Madame Cat’s husband, comes into the shop. Mancebo grabs the feather duster, mostly so that he has something to hold on to, turns his back to his customer and begins dusting the canned champignons. The thought that the writer might come into the shop had never struck him before. Mancebo knows it was stupid never to consider it. He does live just over the road, after all.

  Mancebo can sense that Monsieur Baker is standing right behind him, but he hasn’t heard him put anything down on the counter. Not a good sign, Mancebo thinks. It might mean he’s come in for some other reason than to buy something. He starts to imagine that the writer’s visit might have something to do with an earlier visit that day; the woman who shadowed the writer must have squealed. This is what happens when I let out a few words about the job to an outsider. I’m in a fix now, Mancebo thinks.

  Ted Baker, the writer, the object, suddenly clears his throat.

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur.’

  Mancebo swallows, stares at the colourful feather duster and makes a silent prayer. He turns around.

  ‘How can I help, monsieur?’

  It’s as though Mancebo’s heart is trying to leap out of his chest, and he’s sure it must be obvious.

  ‘I’d like to buy a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Of course, not a problem. Which would you like?’

  Mancebo points to a few dusty champagne bottles high on a shelf behind the till. Some of them must have been standing there for over a year. It isn’t often that someone comes in to buy champagne. He does get the occasional American wanting to spend their last few euros on a bottle before they head home, but usually it’s something people buy elsewhere.

  Ted Baker peers up at his four options.

  ‘It’ll be served as an aperitif.’

  Unfortunately, Mancebo can’t help; he’s a good deal shorter than the writer and he can barely distinguish the bottles from one another.

  ‘Could I have a closer look?’

  Ted Baker gestures with his hand, as though to ask whether he can move behind the counter and study the bottles. It’s somewhere Mancebo would rather he didn’t go. Behind the counter is where he keeps the reports for Madame Cat, the binoculars and Ted Baker’s own book, The Rat Catcher.

  But Monsieur Baker is already behind the till. His blue T-shirt is just a few centimetres away from this week’s report, which documents and explains what he has been up to lately.

  ‘I’ll take the François Giraux Brut, please,’ he eventually says, though he makes no attempt to lift it down from the shelf.

  Mancebo has the feeling that Ted Baker is holding back out of respect for him, as the shopkeeper, but it also means that he must now climb up onto the stool to get it down. Mancebo fetches the stool and takes down the bottle. It’s the most expensive of the four.

  ‘Celebrating something?’

  Mancebo is proud of himself. He’s back, this time with smart questions.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. I’ve just finished a … project.’

  ‘Aha, well that’s always something worth celebrating. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to wrap the bottle in.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I just live across the boulevard.’

  ‘You do? I don’t remember seeing you before.’

  Mancebo doesn’t know if the last sentence was too much. It’s as though Monsieur Baker disappears for a few seconds. He bites his lip, turns the champagne bottle, and brings his hands to his face.

  ‘Are you OK, monsieur?’

  ‘Sorry … it’s the heat.’

  ‘Yes, it’s taking it out of all of us,’ Mancebo replies, puffing slightly.

  ‘I’ll take this too.’

  The writer places a jar of black olives on the counter. The sound of the glass against the wooden surface is one Mancebo has heard before, and he stares down at the jar.

  ‘Do you think these will go with champagne, monsieur?’

  ‘I’m sure they will. They go with most things,’ Mancebo replies.

  Mancebo hands him a bag containing the champagne, the olives and the last of the notebooks.

  Mancebo has eyes like a hawk. No one buys champagne for themselves. He must be planning to share it with someone. Mancebo almost starts to feel sorry for the writer. He seemed so out of it. He said he had finished a project, and Mancebo wonders whether that might mean he has ended a love affair. There’s just one thing I should be focusing on, Mancebo thinks. Who will Ted Baker be sharing the champagne with? Even if it requires different surveillance methods, he’s determined to find out. He swings back on the stool and brings the useless fan to his face.

  Tariq raises his hand to show that it’s time for a drink. Mancebo hurries to shut up shop, and is ready by the time Tariq makes it over the road. The plan is clear. They start making their way down the boulevard, the afternoon sun lighting their way. But as they turn the corner by the last building, Mancebo suddenly says:

  ‘No, damn it! I forgot to drop off a bag of food at Monsieur Beton’s.’

  A few times a month, an old veteran by the name of Jean Beton calls Mancebo to place an order, cans mostly, because he is convinced that war is approaching. Usually, it’s Amir who drops off the goods.

  Monsieur Beton lives in an apartment above the bakery, but Mancebo hasn’t heard from him for two months now. Madame Cannava told Mancebo that Monsieur Beton is probably dead, but he doesn’t care about that now, and he hopes Tariq hasn’t heard about any deaths.

  ‘Can’t the man wait an hour?’

  ‘I promised it before four, and you know what he’s like. The food’s all packed and ready, I just need to take it up. You go ahead, I’ll come along if I have time.’

  ‘Can’t Amir do it?’

  Tariq offers Mancebo his mobile phone, because he knows his cousin rarely brings his own.

  ‘No, I don’t want to bother him, he’s playing football with Khaled.’

  Tariq shoves his phone back into its case, which Mancebo suddenly realises looks like a pistol holster. He trots back to the shop, and gets there just in time to see the door close. Ted Baker has company.

  Mancebo positions himself at the corner of Boulevard des Batignolles and Rue Clapeyron. Strategically, it’s a good location. He has a good view of the fire escape, and if Tariq decides to come back early, Mancebo will spot him relatively quickly, perhaps even quickly enough to hide. Fatima, Adèle and Amir won’t be able to see him
from the apartment and wonder what he’s doing there. Purely in terms of surveillance, it isn’t the smartest of places to wait, since he can’t actually see into the writer’s apartment, meaning he also can’t see which room the man is in. But Mancebo isn’t so dumb that he can’t guess.

  Despite the exceptional circumstances Mancebo finds himself in, he manages to maintain a calm that any other private detective would be impressed by. His cool state is based on the fact that, for once, he is in control, but also because he knows that this is the start of the end. The thought brings with it a slight sense of melancholy, which in turn results in yet more calm. He glances at his watch and guesses that the visit will soon have been going on for twenty minutes. What will I do if she never comes out? Though she has to at some point. He won’t make the same mistake he did last time he caught sight of the woman’s arm. This time, he’ll keep his cool.

  Mancebo decides not to leave his spot on the corner before Tariq comes back. Monsieur Beton must have wanted a long chat. I’ll have you soon, Mancebo thinks. You marriage wrecker, people like you should be nailed to the wall.

  His pulse picks up. What should he do if the woman leaves the apartment alone? Mancebo starts to feel unsure, he knows that this situation could lead to any number of surprises, which is precisely what he wants to avoid. But he has no choice. He quickly debates it with himself, but he can’t come up with any other solution than to follow the woman if she comes out alone. He needs to see who she is, where she lives, maybe even talk to her.

  Madame Cat didn’t explicitly say that she wanted to know who her husband was having an affair with, but maybe it’s obvious that she does. If Fatima was unfaithful, wouldn’t he want to know who the man was? The thought of Fatima with someone else still seems unlikely, despite her secrets. He glances at his watch. He feels like a racehorse seconds before the start, shut up in a box waiting to give it his all. Horses usually drool, but Mancebo’s mouth is bone dry. Not an ounce of his melancholy is left. This isn’t the end. It may be the end of the writer’s double life, the end of Ted Baker and Madame Cat’s marriage, the end of his notes and the money in the olive jar. It may even be the end of the entire story, but Mancebo’s new life has just begun. His right eye begins to twitch.