Gorski had to ask directions several times before he found Rue Saint-Fiacre. It was an unremarkable street, a little run-down, but respectable. Gorski parked and walked from one end to the other. Roland was nowhere to be seen. He walked back along the opposite pavement, pausing to look in the window of a philatelist’s. The cluttered array of goods reminded him of his father’s pawnshop.
He went into the little café on the corner. It was the sort of place that depended on a clientele too idle to walk more than the most minimal distance from their homes. The floor was polished concrete, an arc etched into it where the metal door opened and closed. Next to the door was a refrigerator bearing illustrations of various ice creams. There were four round plastic-topped tables, each with a single cone-shaped metal leg, these arranged along the wall to the right of the door. A metal rack held the day’s newspapers. Behind the counter was the usual assortment of cigarettes and lottery tickets. On the far wall next to a door to the WC, a series of yellowed clippings from L’Alsace were pinned. A small television was attached to the wall above the door by an ugly metal stanchion. It was not switched on. There were no other customers.
The proprietor was a mild-looking man of around sixty. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and fastened with clasps above the elbow. His tie was neatly knotted and secured with a silver clip. Gorski asked if a young man had been in to make a telephone call. The proprietor confirmed that he had. Gorski asked in which direction he had left. The man looked at him questioningly. If he did not answer immediately, it was not because he wished to be unhelpful, but rather because he was the type that respected the privacy of his customers. Gorski showed him his ID.
The man looked at it carefully and inclined his head in apology for his reticence. ‘I’m afraid I did not pay sufficient attention,’ he said.
A fat man with a terrier was sitting at one of the two metal tables on the pavement outside. There was no drink on the table and it appeared that he had merely stopped for a breather. Gorski went outside and repeated his enquiry about Roland. The man mulled over the question then shook his head slowly. He bent to tickle the back of his dog’s ear. Gorski went back inside and asked for a jeton. He called the station. Schmitt answered. Roland had not called again.
‘If he does,’ said Gorski, ‘tell him I’m in the café he called from earlier.’
‘Boyfriend stood you up, has he?’ said Schmitt. He started to say something else, but Gorski hung up. He approached the counter and perched on one of the three stools there. He lit a cigarette and asked for a beer.
The proprietor carefully placed a bottle on a paper doily in front of him. Then he lit a cigarette himself. Usually in such a situation, the proprietor of a bar will busy himself with some menial task—polishing glasses or wiping down surfaces—so that his customer does not feel self-conscious about drinking alone. Or he will feel the need to make some banal remarks. But the proprietor of the café on the corner of Rue Saint-Fiacre did neither of these things. He simply stood behind the counter, watching Gorski with a placid expression. Once in a while he stepped forward to tap his cigarette into the ashtray on the counter. Gorski felt quite comfortable. There was no point chasing round the streets of Mulhouse looking for Roland. It was well over an hour since he had called from the kiosk outside Weismann’s apartment.
An old woman with a pug entered the bar. She was carrying a canvas bag of vegetables. The dog struggled to climb the single step into the bar. The woman sat down at the table nearest the door. The proprietor greeted her by name and brought her a measure of brandy. The woman gazed fixedly at the drink for some minutes, as if to demonstrate the extent of her willpower. Then she raised the glass to her lips and took a tentative sip as though testing to see if it was poisoned. She set the glass back on the table and waited. Then, seemingly satisfied that the drink was uncontaminated, she picked up the glass for a second time and knocked back the remaining contents with a sharp twist of her wrist. She remained there for some minutes more, as if the brandy was merely incidental to the purpose of her visit. Then she placed a coin on the table and left. The proprietor collected her glass and, though it was quite unnecessary, wiped down the table. When he returned to his post behind the counter, Gorski ordered another beer.
Outside, there was a scraping of metal on concrete. The fat man with the dog was getting to his feet. He gave a little salute to the proprietor through the window and ambled off. Gorski liked it here. It was the sort of place he could happily get used to.
Later that evening, Gorski put his suitcase gently down in the vestibule. He had not told his mother he was coming, but there were two places set at the table by the window.
‘Ah, good, you’re here. I was just going to call you again,’ she said as he pushed open the door.
‘It’s me, Georges,’ he said.
She looked towards the door.
‘Ah,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll have to set another place.’
She made her way ponderously across to the sideboard where the placemats and napkins were kept.
‘There’s no need, Maman,’ said Gorski. ‘It will just be the two of us.’
A confused expression clouded his mother’s face, but it quickly passed and she took herself off to the kitchen, where a pot of bouillon was simmering. Gorski sat down at the place Mme Gorski had set for her husband. It took her an age to ladle out two bowls of soup and carry them to the table, but Gorski did not intervene.
When she sat down, Gorski asked if there was any wine. He already knew there were a number of bottles in the cupboard beneath the sink. Mme Gorski replied that she rarely bothered with wine now, but he was welcome to look. Gorski fetched a bottle and uncorked it. He poured a little for his mother.
‘It’s good for you,’ he said. ‘Keeps the blood clean.’ This had been one of his father’s sayings. He filled his own glass to the brim. Gorski broke up the bread that his mother had placed in the centre of the table. He buttered a piece and put it on his mother’s side plate, but she did not eat it. They ate their soup in silence. When they were finished, Gorski cleared away the bowls and washed up, taking his time in the kitchenette. When he returned, his mother was back in her chair by the fire. Gorski poured himself another glass of wine. The silence was oppressive. He did not know how to bring up that he intended to stay the night. He went out into the vestibule and took his suitcase into his old bedroom, carefully leaving the door ajar.
He had not set foot in this room for twenty years or more. It was tiny. There was space only for the small desk at which he had once sat doing his homework, the oversized wardrobe and the narrow divan. The room smelt of old books. He opened the small window. Gorski laid his suitcase on the bed. Above, there were two shelves of the detective novels he had been fond of reading as a teenager.
When he returned to the living room, he paused in the doorway. His mother smiled sadly at him from her chair. There was no need to explain anything. Gorski raised his fingers to the mezuzah attached to the jamb.
‘You know, Maman, I’ve often wondered about this little box,’ he said.
Mme Gorski appeared surprised by the question. Gorski pointed more clearly to the decorative casing.
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Gorski. ‘But I wondered how it came to be here.’
Mme Gorski gave a little shake of her head. ‘It was there when your father and I moved in,’ she said. ‘Either that or your father put it there. I can’t remember. He was always bringing knick-knacks up from the shop.’
Gorski nodded. He sat down at the table, facing his mother. Her eyes were beginning to close. After a few minutes, she announced that she was going to bed. She would leave Gorski to turn off the lights. He bid her good night. He sat at the table for some time. It felt strange to be alone in his parents’ apartment. He found himself picturing Lucette Barthelme sitting in his mother’s chair. The fact that there now was nothing to prevent him from calling on her saddened him. Perhaps he should go down to the Restaurant de la Cloche for a beer or two. What could be more natural than that? Maybe one evening he would even take up Lemerre’s offer to join his cronies for a game of cards. But he did not want his mother to hear him go out, and she might be alarmed if he returned late at night. Instead, he waited until he was sure she was asleep before fetching a second bottle from the cupboard beneath the sink.