MME CORPS AND
THE FLOWERS
“CAN I ASK YOU A question, Samuel?”
“Sure, go ahead . . .”
“If Marcel Duquet’s death wasn’t an accident, who killed him?”
“That’s what I was hoping to learn from you.”
“But I thought it was Lavoie’s death that interested you . . .”
“One murder brings about another. It’s a link in a chain. While I was investigating the Lavoie Affair, I became interested in the kind of people whose job it is to fake a tractor accident and make it look real. When their work has been done well, you get a few paragraphs underneath the fold. They’re anonymous artists, the unknowns of history . . . For them, killing is only the beginning.”
“That has nothing to do with the truth. Your mind was made up long before you came here.”
“Maybe. In fact, the only merit in my interpretation is that it’s more probable than the official version. More real . . . In the end, it’s my fiction against theirs.”
“I’d like to hear your explanation for Marcel’s death, and the next pastis is on me.”
“If we keep up like this, I’ll be round as a button.”
“Your mastery of French slang is remarkable.”
“Thanks. My friend Fred gave me the Dictionary of French Bistro Slang. He wanted to come to Paris, too. Fred is convinced that intelligence agents (or spies, if you prefer) sometimes kill as a means of communication. The body is the message, you see?”
“I understand, but do I believe it? That’s a whole other story. Life isn’t a spy novel, Samuel.”
“Maybe not, but you don’t need a romantic imagination to face reality as it is . . .”
“Tell me . . .”
“The simplest reason for eliminating Marcel Duquet was because he had a big mouth and had begun to open it in front of journalists. He might have been in the know about what we pretty much have to call the American angle . . . In my mind, it was Coco who was the principal contact between the Chevalier Cell and the Americans. It’s hard to say what Marcel knew for sure. In any case, his strange tractor accident sent a very clear message to those in the big house, still doing their time. Texas was off-limits. Mum’s the word. Coco furnished fake IDs for the FLQ, but who helped Coco? We now know that Montreal’s CIA satellite office, located on avenue Mont-Royal in 1970, had a resident forger with his own studio. All that’s missing is a line between Île aux Fesses and the Plateau. A line of coke, probably. Why are you smiling?”
“Because of l’Île au Fesses. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not any more. She left me a year ago.”
“You can replace her.”
“That’s what I thought, too, at first.”
“Why did she leave?”
“The month of October must have taken up too much space in my life.”
“Go back to her, Samuel . . .”
“What?”
“I see something in your eyes, I hear it in your voice. You love her?”
“You’ll have to excuse me. I think I’ll have this drink in a train compartment . . .”
Samuel stands up. The beach looks like a marble floor: fine, smooth, white sand. And Mme. Corps couldn’t be more French, with her cream-coloured pantsuit and her coquettish pink scarf. He offers her his hand.
“Thank you. You’ve been quite generous with your time.”
She takes the offered hand, tightens her grip. Doesn’t let go.
“Forget this foolish investigation and go find her, you hear me?”
“Madame . . .”
“That’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Okay. Thanks for everything.”
“You’ll have to come to the house next time . . .”
“Why not? It could be fun.”
“When you’re in Paris, you’ll come, eh? We’ll pick you up at the station, and my husband will prepare his famous rabbit in mustard sauce. You’ll like him, Samuel. He’s a cultivated man, full of kindness, and politics hold no secrets for him. I let myself be spoiled. I was married too young, but I had a second chance and have never looked back. I don’t miss Quebec, I never think about it. My first marriage, with that dearest fattest husband and his gang of cops, bidasses and bad men, all that is far, far away now.”
Sam looks at Ms. Corps, one foot still on the terrace.
“Bidasses?”
“It’s slang for ‘soldier.’ Don’t tell me you’ve never heard it before?”
“Sure I’ve heard it, but . . . What’s the link with Coco?”
“Oh, he was friends with a couple of soldiers. Everyone’s pretty tight on the South Shore. There was a base in Saint-Hubert, you know, Mobile Command and all that . . . I even went to Ottawa with Coco one time. He told me he was going to meet General Jean-B. Bédard to talk about a project they had together, that’s all I remember. And tulips, of course, I remember tulips because while he was at his meeting, I took a walk along the Canal, and — okay, so maybe I’m inventing the tulips — but the year was 1968. I remember because of Dalida’s Le Temps des Fleurs, you know, Those were the days, it was always playing on the radio . . .”
And Mme. Corps, her cheeks red, closes her eyes and begins to sing.
Those were the days, my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance, forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way
“Samuel? Are you listening . . . Samuel?”