Bed of Nails Read online

  The two policemen plunged into the crowd, waving their badges over their heads.

  The firemen, who were probably also victims of misinformation, or of some bad joke, were standing around looking stupid with an inflatable mattress. The man hadn’t jumped yet, true, but when he did it would be into the water.

  Alone, in the middle of the widest bridge in Paris, a man was clinging on to the column of a gilded lamp post. He looked grotesque, ashamed and terrified, and no-one in the crowd around him seemed to be taking his wish to die seriously. A burst of laughter might be enough to make him jump.

  They made their way towards the centre of the police cordon, a group of about ten men: uniformed city police, lacking any sort of coordination. The information had certainly been misleading. Guérin approached a portly constable.

  “Have they contacted the River Brigade?”

  “They’re sending a crew, and they also have to stop the boat traffic. But it seems they’re still dealing with an accident at Joinville. It’ll take them half an hour to get here.”

  “The psychiatric service?”

  “I think they’re trying to get hold of them. But it’s chaos over there, we were called for a road accident and the firemen were told it was someone jumping from a window.”

  Lambert added calmly, “And we were told to come and pick up a corpse.”

  Guérin ignored the policeman’s laughter.

  “Has he said anything?”

  A puzzled look: “Just that he wants to jump.”

  “Who’s the senior officer here?”

  The man pointed to a young man in uniform in the middle of the light-blue tunics. He looked less cheerful than the others and, unlike everyone else, did not seem to be waiting eagerly for the guy to jump. Auburn-haired with a moustache and a square jaw, he gave an impression of wrestling with a tide of entropic stupidity.

  “I’m from H.Q. Lieutenant Guérin. I’ll take over, if you don’t object.”

  The young officer nodded, relieved to have found someone who was keeping calm.

  “You’ll have to get all these people to move back. Can you do that?”

  Guérin was watching the man on the bridge all the time, as he spoke.

  “Yeah, we’ll manage, I’ve radioed for a traffic patrol to come and back us up. But this lot is going to make it even more difficult.”

  The officer frowned as he saw the first T.V. vans start to arrive. He had a voice like a foghorn, booming from his flat muscular stomach.

  “If the River Brigade is late, try the firemen. They have divers too, and they might be able to act quickly. If need be, requisition a pleasure boat and pump up the mattress on it.”

  The young man raised his eyebrows before he realised that Lieutenant Guérin was serious.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gittard, Brigadier-Major, 8th arrondissement.”

  The 8th was well-known for its savoir-vivre – probably because it was in an elegant district, and had a splendid set of offices in a wing of the Grand Palais. The officer looked at Guérin as if he had suddenly made a connection between a face and an idea, and added in a confidential tone:

  “The Kowalski affair, that was you, wasn’t it? Not everybody went for the official version, lieutenant. I worked with Kowalski once, good at his job, but my God, what a pervert. He was completely insane. And I’m not the only one who thinks that.”

  Completely insane. Guérin had a sudden internal vertigo, a rush of different thoughts, and felt a surge of warmth shoot though his body, making the scratches on his head itch under his cap. He gave a grateful smile to the policeman, embarrassed by this show of solidarity. The last thing he wanted was to become the pretext for clan warfare. But Gittard was sincere, so he was not about to reject a little support.

  “Thanks. But let’s get on with this business.”

  Lambert, hands on hips, was looking doubtfully at the candidate for the high jump. The man hadn’t let go of the column, and kept turning his head one way then the other, towards the crowd and towards the choppy waters of the Seine. He was on the downstream side of the parapet, and still clinging to the lamp post which was being lit up by a ray of sunshine.

  “Lambert, go and help Brigadier-Major Gittard and his men to keep the crowd back. And take care of the journalists first. Hey, kid, wake up.”

  Lambert shook himself and approached. He shook Gittard by the hand, gave a big smile and unzipped his jacket (Brazil national colours today). The Beretta, in its ill-fitting holster, looked enormous on his narrow chest.

  “I’m Lambert, I’m the junior at Suicides.”

  Gittard looked anxious, then smiled as if out of bravado at something unaccustomed. Guérin had turned towards the bridge with its sole occupant.

  “I’m going to talk to him. Try and keep the others calm, Gittard. Who’s at the other end?”

  “Leduc, he’s my colleague, a safe pair of hands.”

  Gittard was indeed a clansman.

  “Well, tell him the same thing. And contact the River Brigade, tell them or anyone else who comes up by boat not to make themselves too conspicuous.”

  “Are you really going to talk to him?”

  “Is there any other solution? As long as he doesn’t get too stressed, he shouldn’t jump.”

  Guérin looked at his watch.

  “At this time of day nobody jumps into the Seine. If a boat starts approaching, make a sign like this” – Guérin made a wavy motion with his hand. “And wait till I give a signal before you make any move.” He tapped his cap. “Just a few men in plain clothes. Even better if you’ve got a woman you can use. The softly softly approach. Get it, Gittard? Thanks.”

  Guérin had dictated his orders in the tones of one making his will. Gittard had taken it all in, though he looked puzzled at the reference to the time of day.

  Guérin went forward on to the bridge, between the newly regilded Pegasus statues on the right bank, representing Commerce and Industry. With his dark overcoat and tartan cap, he looked like a character out of a Le Carré novel, about to cross over from one side to the other, betraying himself and carrying the secrets which would bring about his downfall. His small dark silhouette, with its drooping shoulders, attracted the attention of the crowd.

  As he walked on, the silence spread. The sounds of the city fell away, the rumble of voices stopped and the sound of the rushing current under his feet sounded louder. Now he could see the other two Pegasus statues, Arts and Sciences. Framing the Invalides esplanade like a set of gates.

  The man had seen him approach and was fidgeting nervously. He swayed away from the edge then back to the balustrade, but kept hold of the lamp post. Finally, he let go with one arm and pointed it at the little man in the woollen cap.

  “Stop! Stay where you are! Stop!”

  He was beside himself with loneliness, but refusing to admit it. Guérin, standing twenty metres away, had to call out loudly to be heard.

  “I just want to talk to you. I promise not to touch you.”

  Guérin looked towards the right bank. The security cordon had moved back a dozen metres, further accentuating the impression of solitude on the bridge. Gittard had not yet made the sign like a fish in water.

  “This is the thing, I’ve got a parrot called Churchill, like the avenue over there. Churchill hates all human beings.”

  Guérin could make out the man’s features now. About forty, about 1 metre 80, short thick hair, greying a little at the temples. He was dressed like a mobile phone salesman, in casual business clothes. He had something perhaps of an Armenian about him, or a Kabyle: of mixed race perhaps? His arm was still stretched out towards Guérin, and his lips were moving silently, searching for an impossible reply. Guérin moved about ten paces closer. The man was pale and trembling with fear. He had freckles and Guérin decided he was probably a Kabyle.

  “He’s about your age. And a bachelor. He used to belong to my mother, and I grew up with him. He was the man of
the house. Well, the only one who was there all the time. Churchill was her favourite politician, because after the war he said the time of great men had passed and now it was the age of dwarfs. My mother was a prostitute, and she agreed with him. Churchill was a kind of guard dog. He’s not really dangerous, but he has a lot of character. I was too small. Do you know what my parrot thinks? He’s never said so, but it’s obvious: he thinks the only species on earth you could wipe out without creating problems is the human race. If earthworms became extinct, life would disappear from the face of the earth. But without us, everything would be better. What do you think?”

  The man stuttered, blinking.

  “Why, why you talking about a bird? I’m in trouble, monsieur. I’m going to chuck myself in the water. Can’t you see? I’m in trouble!”

  He was becoming hysterical, but still clutching the column with all his might.

  “It’s not any old bird, it’s a macaw. A big parrot. From Mexico. In the old days, before we had antibiotics, parrots used to live longer than humans. He thinks the same as you just now, that’s why I’m talking about him.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking! I don’t know you! You don’t know anything about me!”

  “Shh. I know everything. No need to shout.”

  The man remained openmouthed. Guérin moved to within five metres, sure now that he wouldn’t jump.

  “Stop there!”

  Unless he had a sudden reflex that was … The man had suddenly let go of the column, and flung himself against the balustrade. Guérin wondered, curiously, whether death might be a reflex.

  But the man’s knees were buckling. He bent almost in half, twining his arms round the steel guard rail.

  “Talk to me, then … What do you know?”

  Guérin put his hands in his pockets and started speaking slowly, using the manner of a lawyer talking to a family about the last will and testament of the deceased.

  “For starters, I know that this bridge is named after Alexander III of Russia, and it was inaugurated in May 1900 for the World’s Fair. The president was there, Loubet his name was, and plenty of ministers. The Third Republic liked this kind of big show. The bridge is a good example of the kind of over-the-top ugly stuff they built then. I wouldn’t have picked this one, in case you’re interested. It was designed at the same time as the Grand and Petit Palais, but they’re much better buildings. Do you know what these three monuments have in common?”

  Guérin stopped. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Alex. Alex Monkachi, What are you on about? Oh God, what are you talking about? I’m not well, I’m going to be sick. What am I up here for? Why are you telling me all this?”

  “My name’s Guérin, Richard Guérin. I work at Police H.Q. and for two years now, I’ve been handling all the suicides in Paris. Before that I was in murder and homicide.”

  At the word “suicide”, Monkachi had given a start, before collapsing even further.

  “Well I’ll tell you. What these three monuments have in common is that they’re built on alluvial soil. In other words, it’s unstable soil, it’s moving all the time and wants to get back into the bed of the Seine. So all three of them are sinking into the ground. They have to be propped up continually: it’s a gigantic task. The bridge is the easiest to deal with. But they had to strengthen the banks when they built it, because it pressed down much too hard on them. See the four statues of horses up there? They’re part of the weight needed to hold it down; they’re utilitarian, although at the same time they’re a bit over the top. The bridge is trying to push the banks apart – rather an interesting reversal of symbols, don’t you think? And the Grand Palais now, they’ve been pouring concrete into the foundations, ever since World War II, millions of cubic metres of concrete. They’re trying to keep it up in the air, but it keeps trying to sink in deeper. It’s permanently on the move. It’s a problem for a lot of these buildings near the river. Can’t you hear them, day after day, gradually sinking? I think it’s in the early morning, at dawn, that you can hear it best. They get older overnight. We keep doing them up; we want them to keep looking young and beautiful. So what do you think, Alex, because you’re looking for an answer too, aren’t you? Don’t you think all that’s a bit artificial?”

  Guérin was now about three metres away from Monkachi. He calmly sat down on the pavement and breathed out, feeling tired. At the same time, he shot a glance across at Gittard. The policeman was making a sign of a fish swimming in water.

  “Suicide, Alex, is a very delicate moment. It’s a difficult truth to swallow for the people left behind, even if they don’t know you. Because it makes them doubt their own foundations. They can feel the ground shifting under their feet. It’s an important move, Alex, because of what it reveals. The hypocrisy of people who just accept it as your personal fate, instead of asking questions about the building they live in with you, that’s not worth dying for.”

  Alex Monkachi slipped to the ground, his mouth, now dribbling saliva, against the paintwork.

  “Who the hell are you? Who are you? You’re supposed to be cheering me up, telling me a lot of stupid stuff, making me feel better.”

  “Can’t do that, Alex, sorry. Do you know what the connection is between you, my parrot Churchill and the Grand Palais?”

  The unhappy candidate fluffed his answer. Guérin could hear a few muffled words. Work. My life. Need someone to listen to me.

  “Give in? I’ll tell you. Probably nothing at all. Except the kind you might make up. You’re all of you alone, perched on some high rail, or on some shifting sands. And all of them, the parrot, the steel girders of that building, and a man, in spite of a few different features, I grant you that, are incapable of expressing what they think about their state. And so they let themselves die, because they think they’re less significant than an earthworm. I’m your friend, Alex, please believe that, I mean it. Stay with us.”

  Guérin took off his cap and waved it at the police cordon. He turned his back on Monkachi, who stared at the dressings on the policeman’s head. “Tell me, Alex, have you recently met people who seemed full of good intentions, on the surface at least, and who might have persuaded you to kill yourself? People who, now you come to think of it, seemed to be friendly towards you, but really they just wanted you to die? Insidious friendships, you might say.”

  Guérin looked at the banks, scrutinising the crowd at either end of the bridge. From the avenue Churchill, a group of three people, one of them a woman, was moving discreetly towards the parapet. Lambert was with them.

  “Tell me, Alex. Think back for me. Did you meet anyone who encouraged you to come here today?”

  Alex wiped his nose with his fingers. He had let go of the balustrade and was leaning his back against it now.

  “Every day, just about. Everyone, just about. Is it true the city’s sinking into the ground?”

  “I reckon so, Alex. I’m glad to have met you before you died.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “That’s fair comment.”

  *

  Lambert dropped him off at his flat. The boss, now exhausted, had retrieved his box file, and stood on the pavement with the car door open.

  “Lambert, my boy, I’m sorry about yesterday. It won’t happen again. Thanks for your help … and for calling Ménard. Have a rest this afternoon. They’ll find someone else if they have to.”

  He was about to shut the door, when Lambert leaned across.

  “Boss, don’t thank me, I mean, I’m just doing like normal. Boss? About …”

  “Savane used to be my second-in-command. He worked with me until …”

  “… Kowalski!” Lambert was swift to add: “Boss, you did a really good job out there today.” He blushed. “Boss, I won’t let you down.”

  This was too much for both of them. Lambert straightened up inside the car, and Guérin slammed the door shut. He watched the car disappear, thinking again of Monkachi, of the nurse who had smiled at him, an
d how in the end he had been able to throw up into the gutter.

  He put the box down in the hall, and was greeted by Churchill in the voice of his mother.

  “Late back agaaaain! Late back agaaaain!”

  “It’s only one o’clock, Churchill, I’m early today.”

  The parrot raised its feathers into a red crest and adopted a new voice.

  “Just a quickie, my angel. A quickie!”

  Twenty years on a perch overlooking a bed as busy as a railway station.

  “You’re being rude? Maman didn’t like you to be rude.”

  Mention of his former mistress threw the bird into a frenzy. It spat out a string of insults, interspersed by tongue clicks and squawks. Guérin smiled briefly, enjoying the old bird’s rage.

  He opened the washing machine, took out the yellow raincoat and put it on a hanger. The bloodstains had gone. Crossing the room, he hung it from a clothes-line on the balcony. The raincoat, like a yellow quarantine flag, began to sway gently in the breeze. Churchill had stopped squawking and was hiding his head under his wing. Guérin shut the French window and pulled the box file to the middle of the room.

  Churchill jumped down from the perch and walking carefully crabwise came to peer over the files, pecking at the edges of the box. Guérin put the tape in the machine and sat down on an armchair. The parrot went round in circles, making a scratching sound on the parquet floor, in a ritual submission. He went round the room three times.