Thieriot was just as eager to meet with the film directors a second time. Ever since their first encounter, he’d been thinking of memories he’d forgotten to tell them, incidents he knew they’d be interested in. He was interviewing for jobs at the moment, but he happened to have the next morning free. In fact, no sooner had Rachel broached the possibility than he made a suggestion. How about the Bar du Marché des Blancs Manteaux, just a few doors down from his building? It served a very fine coffee.
“The Marais is odd,” Magda said as they walked to the restaurant the next day.
“I thought it was your favorite part of the city.”
“It is. But it’s still odd. Look.” She pointed at the rainbow-painted crosswalk beneath their feet, then across the road, at a shop sign in Hebrew. “Gay pride and strict Judaism don’t seem like they’d naturally coexist. I mean it’s not like the Old Testament approves of homosexuality.”
“I think it had more to do with a gap than a link,” Rachel said. She was slightly distracted by keeping an eye out for the restaurant. “After the war, the Marais wasn’t a traditional Jewish area anymore—there weren’t any Jews in Paris to live here. And although some came back”—she nodded toward a bearded man in a long black coat, turning a corner ahead of them, his prayer curl tucked behind his ear as he talked on his portable—“there was space for other populations too. Anyway,” she said briskly, “Judaism is as much a culture as it is a religion, so it’s not monolithic. It depends on the Jew.” She checked shopfronts as they passed and quoted idly, “‘I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan. Your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.’ That’s from the Old Testament. Ah, here we are.”
She stopped in front of a red awning.
The mornings were still a little too cool for restaurants to fold back their doors and extend outward, so at nine thirty the pavement outside the Bar du Marché des Blancs Manteaux was bare. It shone where puddles left by the street sprayer had yet to evaporate, and tables and chairs were neatly piled in a corner in anticipation of warmer days. Inside, the place was nearly deserted. At a table deep in its dim recesses, a young woman sat reading a book and nursing a coffee, occasionally turning a page before returning her hand to the side of her warm cup. A bearded young man with a tattoo of a lizard on his left forearm stood behind the bar, wiping glasses. At a narrow table across from him, facing the framed mirror that hung opposite the bar, sat Thieriot.
Today he had given the outer corners of his eyes a double cat-eye flick in black, with the lids themselves painted gold and rimmed in orange-red. At the inner corners he had pasted silvery glitter, and his lips, surrounded by a light dusting of stubble, had been colored damson. His cheeks were rosy pink, and he’d drawn a mole high on one cheekbone. He looked as if he should have a spotlight shining down on him, and because this was Paris neither of the other people in the place gave him a second glance.
He stood and kissed Rachel and Magda as though they were old friends, twice on each cheek and then once more for good measure. He would adore another coffee, thank you—“et aussi un pain au chocolat, s’il vous plait.” As they waited at the bar, in the mirror behind it they saw him examine his reflection and lean in to smooth an imperceptible flaw, but by the time they brought the drinks and the croissant back, he was sitting again, as still and perfect as Dorian Gray’s portrait before the bad deeds began.
As Magda put her portable on the table between them and set it to record, Rachel considered Thieriot over the rim of her cup of hot chocolate. Something about him felt more tightly coiled than it had a week ago—not exactly nervous, but like a compressed spring waiting for the right moment to pop open. She decided to begin as calmly and neutrally as possible.
“Given Sauveterre’s announcement on Friday,” she said, “we’re planning to extend the film to talk about Keteb Lellouch’s appointment as creative director.”
Thieriot bowed his head as if in a benediction. “He is a good choice. He will keep my Rollie’s legacy alive.”
So he had moved from connection with Guipure to ownership of him. Well, maybe they could turn that to their advantage.
“Cyrille,” she said gently, “we know that nobody can take Roland’s place.” She couldn’t bring herself to call Guipure “Rollie,” but using his first name might foster the sense that this was a casual, open conversation among friends. She tried to make her voice soothing. “But we also know you knew Roland better than anyone. That’s why we wanted to get your opinion on the choice of Keteb as his successor.” She smiled at him. “What makes you feel it’s a good choice? Were Roland and Keteb close?”
“Yes.” His voice was firm. “Very.”
This was a promising start. “Can you tell us more about that? You saw them together a lot?”
“Oh no.” Thieriot shook his head. “Rollie and I liked to spend our time together alone. I told you. But I know they had an understanding between them.”
An understanding? She tried not to get too hopeful. “What do you mean, an understanding? Had Roland told Keteb something about his plans for succession?” A nudge, but she couldn’t help herself.
Cyrille looked puzzled. “No, nothing like that.” Then his face smoothed. He widened his eyes and gazed at her earnestly. “They had an artistic understanding.” He touched his chest lightly, as if showing where the connection resided. “I remember Rollie told me once that it was as if Keteb shared his imagination. He could just describe a garment, he said, and Keteb could cut it perfectly.”
A psychic understanding? Rachel felt any excitement recede. Unless … “Did he say that to Keteb? Or when Keteb was around?”
Another shake of the head. “No, Rollie wasn’t someone who felt he had to compliment people.”
That opened up another possibility. “So would you say he was hard on Keteb?” Then, thinking that Thieriot might see this as a criticism, she added, “You know, some people use tough love to make others perform better. I hear that can be an effective management style.”
Again the wide eyes. “Oh no! Rollie would never do that. In fact, he was always interested in the little ideas and designs Keteb brought him. His little imitations, Rollie called them.” He smiled as if this insult was a prized witticism.
“I’m sorry”—Rachel took a split second to process what she’d heard—“Lellouch produced designs of his own?” A nod. “And he brought them to Roland?” Another nod. “Do you know why?”
Thieriot seemed astounded by her obtuseness. “For Rollie’s approval, I imagine. He was inspired by Rollie. Of course, his ideas weren’t very good,” he said loftily, “but Rollie humored him. And he sometimes adapted a little detail or a touch—you know, he would put them on a piece and they would be transformed by the setting.”
“And you don’t think Keteb minded those adaptations?” Rachel’s tone was gently thoughtful.
“Oh no! I think he was grateful.”
And who would not be? was the implication. But Rachel knew how she would feel if she showed her work to someone else and they co-opted its details and touches. Gratitude was not the word she would use. She probed a little more. “Did he ever say so?”
Thieriot shook his head.
“Did he ever say anything to you about Roland? Or did Roland say anything else to you about him?” Hearing the edge of impatience in her voice and seeing Thieriot’s look of surprise, she added hurriedly, “That’s the kind of things an audience likes. A sense of relationship, maybe a hint that Roland meant Keteb to be his successor all along. Anything like that?” She opened her mouth, as if eager to marvel at what he might reveal.
But Cyrille held up a hand. “Wait.” He sat up straight, and his voice became sharp. It was as if the spring inside him had suddenly been released. “Before I say anything more, we need to discuss my payment.”
Rachel was taken aback. “Your payment?”
“Yes.” Seeing her confusion, he clarified. “I’ve been talking to some friends, and they tell me that it’s customary for filmmakers like you to give your participants a little acknowledgment, a little honorarium. So before I say any more, I’d like to be sure that I’m receiving one, and, if you can tell me, how soon I’ll receive it.”
She glanced across the table at Magda, but Magda was squinting at Thieriot as if trying to evaluate him.
“Cyrille,” Rachel said, once again making her tone gentle, “we’re not giving you any money.” When he looked stricken, she searched for a plausible excuse. “If people are paid for appearing in a documentary, it compromises the integrity of the project. People will think you’re just telling us what we want to hear.”
“But—” A look of mingled disbelief and disappointment crossed his face, followed by what could best be described as worried calculation. He bit his plum-colored lip for a moment. Then he said, “All right. What about the croquis?”
Now she was completely confused. “Excusez-moi?”
“The croquis Rollie gave me. Last time, you said putting them in the film could add value to them. If you bought them from me, then you could have the benefit of that added value.” His voice had turned wheedling.
“But we don’t want the croquis.”
“But you said they could be valuable! How could you not want something that could be valuable? And what’s the point of owning something valuable if you can’t sell it when you need it?”
Rachel felt that the conversation had spun off track somewhere. But Magda spoke for the first time since they’d sat down. “I thought you said you were interviewing for jobs.”
“I am.” Thieriot said, as if he and Magda were well embarked on a discussion about this. “I’m trying. But it’s not easy, even in hospitality, even in Paris. You need a reference from your last job, and that fils de pute at the LaLa—”
He stopped abruptly. He folded his lips together between his teeth. His face wore the expression of a man who very much wished he could wind the clock back ten seconds.
But Magda’s face wore a look of satisfaction. I didn’t even need to question him, it said. “You worked at the LaLa Lounge.” Under the table, her foot found Rachel’s and tapped it lightly. She was taking over.
Thieriot closed his eyes, and for a moment there was only an elaborate painting of black, orange, and gold stripes. Then he opened them again.
“No, I don’t work there.” His voice was still sullen. A dull red flush began to work its way up his neck and face. “I didn’t say I work there.”
But Magda met hair splitting with hair splitting. “I said that you worked there, not that you work there now. Anyway, we already knew. We interviewed the owner, and he told us that you were working there on the night Roland Guipure died. And that he fired you for running out of the club in the middle of your shift on that same night. Why didn’t you mention that to us?”
“Why didn’t you mention that you already knew?”
It’s like arguing with a five-year-old, Rachel thought. But Magda was up to the challenge.
“We hadn’t mentioned it yet.” Her voice was frosty. “The interview wasn’t over.”
Thieriot was no Naquet: it didn’t occur to him to wonder why the owner of the LaLa Lounge had been talking to Rachel and Magda about his staff, or to try to bluff his way out of the situation. Instead, he asked a question that was also an admission.
“Why is it relevant where I worked?”
“Because we’re making a film about Guipure’s life. If you were at the club on the night of his party, you were a witness to his last night.”
“You could have been the last person to see him alive!” Rachel pointed out. “Think of the impact that would have in the film.”
Thieriot responded to this chance at significance as Rachel had hoped he would: he admitted everything.
“Yes, I was there. I did see him. I didn’t want to tell you”—his face turned sly for a moment, then wiped itself clean—“because I thought he deserved privacy in his last hours. There was no need to complicate his death with stories about our personal business. But now I see … now that time has passed, I can see the value of the full story. So, yes.” He heaved a sigh. “Yes, I saw him. We met privately. But only for a few moments. I just wanted to tell him that I wished him well, and I wanted to see his face one last time.”
“Why one last time?”
Thieriot wrinkled his forehead. “Because our paths would never have any reason to cross again.” His confusion seemed genuine.
“And what did he say?”
“He thanked me. And then he apologized for hurting me and said he was grateful not to have to carry the burden of my sorrow with him anymore. When I said our love could endure even after everything that had happened, he told me he would always remember our time together as precious.” He shook his head softly. “It was overpowering; I needed space to process it.”
In other words, you asked to get back together, he gave you the brush-off, and you didn’t want anyone else to see your humiliation, Rachel thought. Still, if Thieriot was telling the truth, it had been smoothly done on Guipure’s part. She didn’t hear any anger or resentment in his voice, and what he described fit the time line outlined by the LaLa Lounge’s owner.
But Magda needed more. “That was all? You didn’t catch up about the business or his plans? He didn’t make any final confidences that you’ve been saving up to earn a bigger payment?”
“A bigger payment?” This time Thieriot’s wide eyes were not the result of a performance. His face was suddenly pale. “How did you find out? He promised me that no one would find out!”
The barman looked up from wiping the counter, mild interest creasing his face at Thieriot’s raised voice. Thieriot clamped his mouth shut.
The three of them sat silent for a long minute, then Magda let out her breath. “Why don’t we all have another drink?”
She waited until Thieriot had taken a couple of swallows of his black coffee before she said calmly, “I was talking about the payment you thought we would give you for information. But it sounds like someone has already been paying you for your knowledge. Why don’t you tell us about that?” She smiled. “Since you’re more than halfway there already.”
Thieriot took another sip, plainly to buy time, but his face said he could think of no way out.
He blotted his lips with the paper napkin and sighed. “Rollie spoiled me. I know that. But once he was taken away, it was hard to go back to the way things were before. And, well, I have needs.” He gestured at his face. “You think this is easy? It takes money to look like this. This eyeshadow is Tom Ford.” He sighed again. “At first I thought I could be one of those influencers. But companies won’t send you things for free unless you have a certain number of followers, and you can’t get followers without stuff to show off. People aren’t interesting on their own. I got a job at the LaLa, but that wasn’t enough for me to manage on by itself. So I thought about what I had to offer, and”—he leaned forward—“I had information.” He plainly expected this to be a bombshell, and when neither of the women reacted, he looked a little crestfallen. He went on awkwardly, “So I—well, Quelles Nouvelles … he’s a person. I mean there’s a person running that site. And he doesn’t—he can’t collect all that information himself. He works off … tips.” He said the word as if it tasted unpleasant in his mouth. “He pays for them.”
Magda leaned forward too. She said softly but precisely, “You fed information to the man who writes Quelles Nouvelles?”
Thieriot looked around. The girl had left, and the man behind the bar had now gone outside and begun to unstack the tables and chairs. Thieriot said, “Well, mostly to him.” He leaned back again, stretching out his legs. “I knew a lot. The story that Cecile Phan was going to go geisha goth with her autumn/winter haute couture in 2015? That was me! I heard from Rollie that Rihanna was going to walk the runway for Dior, and I passed that on to him. He knew before anyone else!”
Rachel didn’t look at Magda, but she knew they were both thinking the same thing: Why were they talking to Thieriot when they could be talking to Quelles Nouvelles?
“Can you get in touch with him again? Ask him if he’d be willing to talk to us?” Almost too late, she remembered their cover story. “It would be great for the film.”
They couldn’t wait to reach the Hôtel de Ville métro station before talking. Instead, they walked the few hundred meters to the Rue de Rosiers and stood in the shadow of the Korcarz bakery awning, facing away from the Rue Vieille du Temple in case Thieriot should unexpectedly pass by and spot them as they debriefed in low, urgent whispers.
“He admitted he followed Guipure into the men’s room,” Magda began.
“‘Met privately,’” Rachel’s tone was wry. “He admitted they ‘met privately.’”
“Whatever. He admitted they were alone together.” She snorted. “Even if he did try to make up all that gag-worthy stuff Guipure supposedly said to him while they were in there.”
Rachel laughed. “Oh, that I completely believed. It sounded exactly like something someone fresh out of a twelve-step program would say. They’re supposed to make amends, remember?”
Through the window behind Magda, she saw a tiny elderly woman holding an even tinier bichon frisé and pointing a girl behind the counter toward an enormous éclair. While the girl transferred it to a box, the woman checked with the bichon to be sure it approved of the choice, then kissed it.
She returned to the conversation at hand. “He also made it clear Roland stole Lellouch’s ideas. I can’t imagine that went down well.” She remembered the remark about Guipure not being the kind to compliment people. “And he sounds like a bastard. Especially to Lellouch.”
“If being a bastard was enough to get you murdered, the halls of politics would be littered with corpses,” Magda said.
“And if being in a bathroom with someone was enough to make you a murderer, so would women’s rooms all over the world,” Rachel snapped back.
This standoff was broken by the elderly woman coming out of the bakery. She clutched her purchase in one hand and the leash of the bichon in the other. The dog was rather portly, Rachel was unsurprised to notice, and as it trotted behind its mistress, it had eyes only for the cardboard box in her hand.
Rachel sighed. “Well, I think we can agree that the best thing we got from him was the phone number that will put us in touch with Mr. Quelles Nouvelles. He’ll be much more useful than Cyrille.”
This was the closest she would come to acknowledging that Thieriot had not been the source she had hoped for, and Magda took it in the spirit it was intended. “Let’s go have a mid-morning falafel at that place down the street.” She took Rachel’s arm. “Hey, did you see that fat little dog that just went past?”