4

“The park is seeping with history,” Clavel rhapsodized. “La Villette—which means la petite ville, the little city—was once the site of a Gallo-Roman village. It was a fertile area where people made their living on the land. It was also the site of the Montfaucon gallows, which were built to render King Louis IX’s verdicts in the thirteenth century.”

Kriven grimaced and looked entirely focused on every word the woman was saying. Nico figured he was visualizing the dead men hanging from their ropes, their skin giving off a pestilential odor as they dangled over the pit beneath the scaffold.

“It was at La Villette that Baron Haussmann decided to create a single location for Paris’s animal markets and slaughterhouses, which Napoleon III inaugurated in 1867. La Villette became the Cité du Sang, the City of Blood.”

Cows stabbed in the forehead, calves and lambs slit across the throat, pigs bled dry before being roasted, animals hung from metal hooks and carved up—sights and smells as nauseating as those of the Montfaucon gallows. Now the images were flowing through Nico’s overactive brain.

“Even today, ‘La Villette’ is the name given to a thick and bloody cut of beef served in many Parisian restaurants.”

“Interesting,” Nico said. He was still managing to keep a smile pasted on his face. The director continued.

“Faced with the rapid growth of the meat and refrigeration industries at the beginning of the twentieth century, the question of modernizing the abattoirs was raised, and finally, in 1958, Paris’s municipal council voted to rebuild them. It was a catastrophe. The project went over budget and ended up costing several billion francs. It was considered the greatest financial scandal of the Fifth Republic.”

“If memory serves me, 1974 was when the last cow was slaughtered here, and they finally closed the abattoirs,” Nico said.

“That’s right. The area became a wasteland—a hundred and thirty-six acres in the heart of a working-class area. Converting the acreage to leisure, cultural, and recreational use with a museum of science, technology, and industry was first proposed during Giscard d’Estaing’s presidency. The Cité de la Musique was added to the plan later. Then, during Francois Miterrand’s presidency, an international competition to find an architect for the park was held. Mitterrand was the one who finally brought the capital’s first urban park to fruition. La Villette becoming one of the city’s cultural highlights was really a kind of accident: it began as just a way to recycle an abandoned piece of land.”

Nico was intrigued. “André Breton had this saying that I love. ‘The accidents of work are far more beautiful than marriages of convenience.’”

“Indeed, Chief, it is a fitting quote,” Clavel said. She continued without missing a beat. “La Villette is a perfect example of a beautiful accident. Several projects have garnered acclaim: the Zénith, the Cité des Sciences, the Cité de la Musique, and the Poney Club—a private initiative. By some kind of magic, Bernard Tschumi, the park’s architect, was able to pull together this collection of eclectic creations.”

“How did he do it?” Nico asked.

“By laying out the park in a system of points and lines. The architectural follies—those red structures—give rhythm to the park and offer visitors places where they can relax and take in the view. As for the lines, they allow you to cross the park from east to west and from north to south. The promenade takes you around the whole park, twisting like a strip of film tossed on the ground. By following the promenade, you can see the twelve gardens. The park also has two tree-lined prairies, as well as beehives, grapevines, and a French church garden.”

“And the ‘marriages of convenience’?” Nico asked, despite himself.

“The conservatory and the museum, for example, combine to make the Cité de la Musique. And there’s the Philharmonie de Paris with its fantastic concert hall.”

“So it was in this park that Samuel Cassian decided to bury his life-sized tableau-piège?” Nico said.

“Yes, Cassian was an exceptionally famous artist. And when he decided to bury his final ‘banquet-performance’—which is the appropriate term—thirty years ago, the government saw a unique opportunity to raise the park’s profile even higher, both culturally and scientifically.”

“Why the Prairie du Cercle?” Nico asked.

“The story goes that Samuel Cassian met with Tschumi and Jacques Langier, the minister of culture. Two sites were suggested. To the south were the buildings paying homage to the former market where animals were fawned over and auctioned off, and to the north, near the Géode and the Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie, next to the abattoirs, was where animals were slaughtered. This was the dangerous world of the butchers, who were nicknamed the murderers of La Villette.”

The room went quiet. Nico was thinking about Cassian’s decision. He imagined him putting a decisive finger on the map.

Nico turned to Gazani, who was also a university professor and director of an archaeological lab at the National Center for Scientific Research.

“Is that when the National Institute of Rescue Archaeology came in?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” the man replied quietly. “Our organization didn’t exist before 2002.”

“What’s rescue archaeology?” Kriven asked.

“Some archaeologists focus on preserving and protecting sites crucial to our heritage. In France, this area of archaeology took hold in 1997, in Rodez, when a developer caused a scandal by destroying some Roman ruins. These days, when a developer happens upon a significant site during planning or construction, rescue archaeologists are called in to make sure the site and its artifacts are protected. You probably don’t know this, but there’s something of interest along any highway in France, and every couple of acres, there’s a one in four chance of discovering something.”

“Are you saying the institute wasn’t involved in Cassian’s project from the start?” Nico asked.

“No, it was the archaeological department of the City of Paris. They immediately understood that this would be the first excavation of modern art. It was an unprecedented opportunity. And when disinterment came around, I wanted the institute involved at all costs.”

“Why was it so important for you?”

“We wanted to find out what remained of this banquet after three decades. Then we could measure the discrepancy between memory and reality. Of the 120 attendees, several claimed that the pit was parallel to the Canal de l’Ourcq, while others insisted that it was perpendicular. Several recalled wooden tables; others, plastic. There wasn’t even a consensus on who attended. This just goes to show you how fallible memories can be. But you probably know that all too well, considering your line of work.”

The archaeologist seemed to enjoy having a captive audience and went on. “There was also the sociological angle. Did you know that there’s an archaeology of banquets? Gallic banquets, for example, are my specialty. This project would allow us to consider the customs and table manners of the eighties’ artistic elite. Every guest at this banquet had to bring his own silverware and other personal items, understanding that they would traverse several decades. In the end, most of them came with camping utensils and items from flea markets. We even found a used toothbrush.”

“Along with a body,” Kriven interjected.

Everyone turned and looked at him.

“Yes, well, there was that, wasn’t there?” the archaeologist said, clearing his throat. “A quite unexpected find.”

Seeing that Kriven had put the man on the defensive, Nico intervened. “Go on, professor. Anything about the banquet could be a lead or help us identify the body found in the pit.”

“Despite their crude utensils, these guests were well-mannered. They arranged their forks and knives correctly on the plate when they were done eating. And the scraps help us understand human society. We call it garbage archaeology. The new realists stole the idea. They focused on everyday objects and their future. Samuel Cassian was one of these artists. He was intensely aware of ecology and the massive waste of our consumerist society. César Baldaccini, with his crushed cars, also comes to mind. Ultimately, the whole experience raises another question: Can an artist’s approach and technique survive beyond their time?”

“I understand that he wanted to end that artistic chapter in his life. Do you know if he had a personal reason for burying this final banquet?” Nico asked.

“Some sociologists have claimed that it was about burying the illusions of the once-trendy Left. Relations between François Mitterrand and the artistic milieu, which he supported in the very early eighties, had turned chilly. His campaign promises were wiped out by austerity measures. The franc kept on being devalued, and the Socialist party was declining in the polls. As for me, I haven’t made up my mind. Cassian has talked about his father’s slaying. He was a Romanian Jew who was gunned down by the Nazis when Cassian was a child and tossed into a long pit similar to the one he dug in the Prairie du Cercle. But can we ever really know an artist’s motivations?”

“He might not be fully aware of them himself,” Nico said. “Who’s in charge of the dig?”

“The Society for the Disinterment of the Tableau-Piège, created by Samuel Cassian,” said Clavel. “It’s an interdisciplinary group of archaeologists, ethnologists, anthropologists, artists, writers, filmmakers, and journalists. The University of Paris, the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, the National Center for Scientific Research, and”—she gestured toward Gazani—“the institute are all involved.”

“The tables were buried in a trench five feet deep and 130 feet long,” the archaeologist said. “Thirty feet or so have been exhumed so far.”

“How did you pick that portion?” Nico asked.

“The Society for the Disinterment of the Tableau-Piège stipulated in writing that the work should begin on the side where Samuel Cassian and fellow artist Niki de Saint Phalle were seated.”

“I imagine you have a seating chart.”

“No, we have only the menu: an appetizer buffet followed by giblets and exotic dishes such as tripe sausage and pig’s breast, ears, tails, and feet; python ragout; and elephant-trunk steak.”

“And everybody could stomach that?” Kriven asked.

“It suited some people’s taste more than others,” Gazani said with a smile that looked half amused and half blasé. “The seating chart was reconstructed, based on testimony. Of course, it’s not definitively accurate. But we have pictures.”

“We’ll need to see them,” Nico said.

“The park archivist has a complete set,” said Clavel.

“Please have that person come to headquarters tomorrow morning with printouts for Commander Kriven.”

“This… this incident is a terrible blow for the park.”

“I’m sure it will attract even more visitors to La Villette,” Kriven replied.

The woman glared at him.

“Okay, I think we’re done for today,” Nico said, trying to nip any confrontation before it could escalate. “I have no doubt that we’ll be meeting again soon.”

He got up, as did Kriven and everyone else. Clavel escorted them back to the front of the Pavillon Janvier. Outside, multicolored lights gave the grounds and buildings a festive look. It was almost like being on an immense futuristic vessel—perhaps the USS Enterprise—about to embark on an intergalactic voyage.

Nico’s cell phone rang, interrupting his Star Trek fantasy. It was Deputy Chief Claire Le Marec, his right hand. “You’re on the eight o’clock news.”

“Wonderful. I can’t wait to hear what they’re saying now.”

“They’re all over the City of Blood. Is that what they really called those old slaughterhouses?” Le Marec asked.

“Indeed, that’s what they were called,” Nico said.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that Samuel Cassian had decided to bury his banquet north of the Canal de l’Ourcq. Homage, no doubt, to the animals sacrificed and then consumed and to the butchers who had slit the animals’ throats with their razor-sharp knives before stripping them of their hides. Homage to hell.

Cassian had played with fire and awakened the devil.