A Death in Time, page 5
Saturday, March 15th
EIGHT
The Laborde family home was a neat three-bedroomed villa in La Ginistière, a settlement laid out along the western end of one of the higher ridges that formed the backdrop to the city. Lacking the steepling drama of a village perché, La Ginistière attracted few tourists and that was a boon to its residents. But if the village were not a spectacular sight in itself, the views in all directions from it certainly were. On the Laborde villa’s raised patio, a slow pirouette was all that was needed to take in the region’s two topographical wonders in one movement: the Alpes Maritimes massif to the north, and to the south, its eponymous azure coastline.
And there were other pluses. In his often-used phrase, Gilles Laborde considered the village both “close but not too close to everything that mattered.” To him, that was. For her part, Zoë’s IT business would have been marginally easier to run from a more central location.
Inès’s flight had landed a couple of minutes early which she knew her father would have appreciated. He was a busy man, after all. As she merged into the tide of humanity disgorging into the arrivals hall, she was also certain of two other things. Whatever might have held him up, he would have made the receiving line in time; and he would not address her by her preferred name.
‘Jackie!’
He broke ranks the moment he saw her and as they walked away after the rituals of hugging, kissing and entreaties to allow him to take her bags were over, Inès entertained a familiar thought: the pleasure he’d expressed at seeing her had all been on the surface. She had always been prone to making odd connections between entirely disparate things and for a moment, she felt an affinity with Sue’s execrable concept of toast: doorstep-thick doughy white bread scorched on the outsides, untouched by warmth on the inside.
Even as he was hurrying towards her, Inès could sense her father was running a critical eye over her shape and she knew what his conclusion would have been. She also knew he wouldn’t mention directly anything about her failure to lose weight since they were last together. Indeed, she had put on a couple of kilos. But that was nothing to what was coming. Disappointment in her? Wait until the anniversary shenanigans are over, papa. Then you’ll really have something to chew on.
Traffic on the complex of roads around the airport was lighter than usual and they were soon filtering out on to the broader boulevards that ran parallel with the Var river on their way north. But first, Inès had to run the gauntlet of the zone sportif, backdrop to a thousand tedious monologues on the theme of her father’s many coaching triumphs over the years. But today, as its various stadia, courts, tracks and pitches came and went, Gilles confined his comments to just two members of his current squad.
‘Julien Baille and Grace Nahili. Remember those names, Jackie. They’re going to be stars. They were always talented, of course. Julien, especially. But God, they’ve worked hard to maximise that talent. As have I, in my small way.’
Has it never occurred to you that I had to work hard to “maximise” my talent? Inès thought to herself. Why don’t you think that worthy of comment? Inès’s visits back home always began like this. It was one thing thinking about her relationship with her father from afar; quite another to be exposed directly to the microclimate of disdain he created around him, a phenomenon which, appearances notwithstanding, chilled her to the bone. Reflecting that she would become acclimatised to it in a day or two, her thoughts turned to her mother. Was this how things had gone for her in recent years? Being constantly reminded, sometimes in words unspoken, that she had dipped below the standard? The standard others achieved.
As they passed the striated glass and concrete confection that was the new police station at Les Moulins, Boulevard Paul Montel gave way to Avenue Simone Veil and Gilles trotted out the first of the two comments he always made at this point in the journey.
‘Avenue Simone Veil, huh? I still think of it as Avenue Sainte Marguerite.’
Should I? Inès asked herself. Should I say what I always say in response to that? Say it in the hope it might start a proper conversation between them? One last try. ‘It’s a French proclivity, I’ve discovered – renaming streets, squares, parks etc. They don’t do it much at all in England.’
‘They’re extending the tramway to run along here, you know. Going to terminate all the way up in Saint Isidore, eventually. Short jog from home.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Inès said, giving up. ‘Everything in place for tomorrow?’
Gilles began by listing who could and couldn’t make the party, went on to outline the saga of the cut flowers Zoë had ordered “by the bucketful” for the occasion, and finished by declaring that having their daughter with them on the big night would be the best thing about it.
‘That’s sweet,’ she said, only half returning his smile. ‘Alright if I do myself some toast when we get in?’
‘Toast? Uh… I suppose so.’
‘For some reason, I fancy a couple of slices. Because I missed lunch, I guess.’
‘Mistake, there. But you would be far better off…’
With an antioxidant-rich, kind-to-the-gut salad, obviously. But it interested Inès that he had seen fit not to complete the thought.
‘Of course you may have it. Won’t be able to join you, I’m afraid. Work to do. However, unless she’s had an emergency call-out, Maman will be at home.’
‘Excellent.’
‘And just to say, I’m training the squad this evening, too. Back at about 11.’
Whatever else she may have felt about her father; his work ethic was something to be admired. ‘Ever thus,’ she said.
‘Afraid so.’
‘Oh, I’ve brought a little anniversary gift for you both,’ she said, hoping the Moorcroft vase she had bought had survived the journey. ‘A little fragile. Sounds as if it might come in handy.’
‘If it’s champagne,’ Gilles said, failing to make the connection to Zoë’s fight with the florist. ‘It will certainly not go amiss. Though we’ve laid in decent stocks, I think.’
‘And what will you be giving Maman on the day?’
‘Ah, ah, ah.’ He smiled. That’s a secret. No spoiler here!’
Go on, thought Inès. Say you know how we women talk.
‘I know how you women talk!’
‘Uh-huh.’
They had reached the stretch of Avenue Simone Veil lined on both sides by car dealerships. With one very notable exception. On every other trip home in recent years, Inès had studiously avoided commenting on the building they were about to pass on their left-hand side. Had it been possible to avoid the task of coming out to her parents on this trip, and, into the bargain, giving them the added shock that she and Sue planned to marry under the UK’s newly passed law, she would certainly have done so. But it wasn’t possible and who knew where the three of them would stand at the end of it? Perhaps it was the sure and certain knowledge that, whatever the consequences, the truth was going to be told at last that emboldened Inès to raise a topic about which she knew her father held precisely the opposite view.
‘Back in Cambridge, I watch TF1 news online sometimes.’
‘Keeping in touch with home?’ He smiled. ‘That’s good.’
‘Last week, they did a piece on our new mosque here. Well, not so new these days.’
No smiles now. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Despite the Council of State ordering the mayor to open the mosque for worship, he still hasn’t, has he?’
‘He knows the score.’
‘It was 12 years ago that permission was given to build the place…’
‘I know how long ago it was, Jackie.’
Was this the time to insist he called her Inès from now on? No. One step at a time. ‘The building was completely finished two years ago yet the mayor and his corporation are still fighting it.’
‘We have a strong tradition of defying Paris in the regions. Have since 1789. Thought you would have approved.’
‘But that’s not the argument, is it? And think of the injustice. The new mosque can accommodate 900 worshippers but they’re not allowed to use it. Yet people complain about Muslims from that tiny little prayer room on rue Genève having to pray on the street when it’s full inside. How would that make you feel if you were a Muslim?’
‘Listen, our powers that be here know things we don’t know, Jackie. Alright? These mosques are hotbeds of radical thought. And when that lot are allowed to congregate, the next thing is that places go up in smoke. We’re talking terrorists here.’
‘I think this would be a perfect time to build bridges between the communities, not destroy them. That, is what will lead to terrorism here.’
‘I disagree.’
Convincing Gilles of her argument was clearly a hopeless task but at least, Inès reflected, they were stating their positions without rancour. ‘Actions have consequences, as we know, and so do attitudes.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Take this new tram line they’re constructing along here. Assume for a moment that they put in a stop close to the mosque which, by the way, will open fully one day, however much the mayor and his cronies hate the idea. What do you think are the chances of them naming that tram stop Mosquée?’
‘Why should they name it that?’
‘Tradition demands it, doesn’t it? Think of the Cathédrale - Vieille Ville stop on Tramline 1. Or the countless bus stops named after nearby churches.’
‘May I remind you that this is France? Jackie - the Muslim problem is of their own making, OK? It has nothing to do with… attitudes.’
‘May I remind you of one particular Muslim? Your distance athlete from a few years back, Muhammad Al…’ She could picture the smiling young medical student but the remainder of his name evaded her.
‘Muhammad Al Zeriya. I loved the man. Still do. And if your point is that Muslims can be nice people who use their talents both to advance themselves and the society to which they’ve been extremely fortunate to become part, I of course know that. But he, and those like him from any background are the exceptions to the rule.’
‘That background was as a refugee from bloody conflict abroad, wasn’t it?’
‘I repeat. Maz is an exceptional human being.’ He made a chopping movement with his hand. ‘And that’s all I have to say on the matter.’
As their progress north continued, a less than companionable silence turned into an exchange of banalities and pleasantries on familiar themes and by the time they turned off the Chemin de la Ginistière on to the gravel-laid driveway of Inès’s first and only home in her native country, a degree of cordiality had been restored.
‘I’ll bring your luggage.’
No point in trying to gainsay him. ‘Be careful with the pull case. The fragile gift I mentioned?’
‘Oh yes. I’ll carry it.’
As Gilles moved briskly to the rear of the car, Inès reflected that while one part of today’s airport pick-up conversation had been a first, everything else had stuck to the usual script. She had wondered if obtaining her Cambridge doctorate might have changed the balance of their relationship. In her undergraduate days, she had tried on a number of occasions to interest Gilles in her studies – there were overlaps between the natural sciences and sports science, after all. But it hadn’t taken then and it still hadn’t. The conclusion seemed clear. When it came to pedagogy, however far she went in her subject, her role was to listen to her father, not to try to teach him anything.
‘Maman!’
The women embraced, kissed, embraced once again and still holding hands, stood moist-eyed and smiling facing one another.
‘Happy anniversary!’
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘Jackie missed lunch,’ Gilles said, sweeping past. ‘She would like some toast.’
‘No, no,’ Inès said. ‘I just went off the idea.’
Her mother leaned in to her. ‘Just as well I made a pissaladière, then.’
‘You had time? I was so hoping you would.’ Her eyebrows rose enquiringly. ‘And might there by any chance..?’
‘Be meringue kisses to follow?’ Zoë smiled. ‘I know my eater-ship.’
Linking arms, the pair strolled in Gilles’s slipstream to the door.
‘So how is your teaching going? And your research? And your friend Susan – how is she? Oh, we’ll have time to discuss everything.’
For one mad moment, Inès wanted to say that Susan was just fine, sends her best and that when a suitable date could be found, a wedding invite would be in the post.
‘We will, definitely. And how are you, Maman?’
‘Oh, fine.’
But Inès sensed a different truth behind the smile. ‘Don’t believe you. What is it – the work-life balance thing we talked about in Cambridge?’
‘Now and then I still have to run just to stand still but on the whole, that side of things has improved, I think.’
‘So what is it?’
Gilles was already returning.
‘Nothing.’ Zoë squeezed Inès’s forearm against her own. ‘I’m fine but definitely all the better for seeing you.’
That, Inès did believe.
‘So sorry, ladies, but I have to run.’
And not just to stand still, Inès reflected. Forwards as fast as possible was the only kind of running Gilles recognised.
Kisses of parting were exchanged and as mother and daughter walked on into the house, Inès wondered if they both had things they would rather not discuss.
NINE
Samira had asked Julien Baille to meet her at Haricots, Baies et Jus, a scrubbed-wood wholefood café she didn’t much care for but she knew he did. The likelihood that there would be fellow students around would make things easier for her but just in case, she had asked her flatmate Carole along as insurance, instructing her to appear at a specific time. An ardent feminist studying for a Masters in International Human Rights Law, Carole was a self-determined young woman not given to being told what to do but, as with so many others, where Samira was concerned, she was biddable.
Samira couldn’t remember which character from her secondary school Shakespeare course was possessed of a “lean and hungry look” but whoever it was, Julien appeared to be his natural heir. Talented and ambitious, he was a young man who was clearly going places. But it was equally clear to everyone around him that he would get there quicker if he were able to blunt the hair trigger mechanisms that controlled his emotions. Despite Coach Gilles Laborde’s best efforts, Julien was gaining a reputation on the circuit as a touchy, even explosive competitor. At a recent training session, heptathlete Grace Nahili had remarked to Samira that if Julien were to keep winning, his explosive temperament would make him box office gold. If it began to trip him up, he would become a pariah. Who knew where that may lead?
Knowing all this wasn’t making breaking up with him any easier.
‘I’ve told you the position I am in, Julien. It can’t go on.’
He grasped her hand. ‘You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I love you. You know I do.’
She withdrew her hand. ‘I know that if you love someone, you don’t wish them dead.’
He bristled with all the energy of a trapped animal set to fight its way out of a corner. ‘I’m going to see Dilip.’
‘You’re not thinking. It will only make matters worse. Don’t you see?’
‘I don’t lose, Sam. Understand? Not without giving it…’
‘No!’
Samira’s look held him for some moments and then, anger vying with despair, Julien jumped to his feet and hurried away.
Samira’s eyes stayed on him as Carole flickered into view through the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway behind him, a pointilliste image come to life. Julien shouldered her aside without a word.
‘Arsehole!’ Carole called after him but he was already out of sight.
In the café, a few heads turned but no one seemed unduly concerned at what had just happened, or at the disagreement which had presumably preceded it. Looking entirely serene, Samira waved Carole over to her corner table for two.
‘What was that about?’
‘Are you alright? He really barged you.’
‘My shoulder? Stronger than his, I should think. But enough of that. How did it go? As if I didn’t know.’
Samira produced a classic head waggle. ‘He took it well, considering.’
‘Considering?’
As if to say “all in good time”, Samira smiled and then, looking into Carole’s eyes, held the look as she took a slow sip of cranberry juice. ‘Would you like something?’
‘Ideally, a double espresso.’
‘Let’s get out of here, then. Café Suarez is just around the corner.’
Once outside, Samira hooked her arm in Carole’s and said, ‘I went to see my brother this morning.’ Horrifying her flatmate with every new development, she gave a full account of her meeting with Dilip. ‘That’s what passes for brotherly love in my old circle.’
‘Alright, Sam, we’re calling the police. Apart from all the other misogynistic shit he came out with, the bastard practically threatened your life! Honour killing? Fuck! If ever there were a misnomer.’
‘Carole, you are sweet, but you don’t understand. Yes, all the stuff before that was misogynistic, coercive, hypocritical caca. But have me killed? No. Nothing like that will happen to me. I can assure you.’
‘You can?’
‘I can. One hundred percent.’
Carole seemed relieved but she was still spitting angry. ‘We should definitely call the police and other bodies, too. There are organisations I’m in touch with who…’
‘No!’ Samira released Carole’s arm. ‘Leave this to me. Promise?’
They had reached Café Suarez but for the moment, they went no further.
