Читать книгу The Supreme Orchestra - David Turgeon - Страница 10

Fabrice Mansaré took advantage of his layover in Port Merveille to send his big sister a birthday card. With a little luck, his missive would reach its destination that very day. Fabrice Mansaré couldn’t speculate. For all he knew, his sister might not live in Neudorf anymore. Give Eugénie a kiss for me, he wrote in postscript, dreaming of the niece he’d never met in the flesh and knew only through a yellowed drawing, as he entrusted his envelope to the good graces of the international post.

He then boarded his plane, with a brand-new sports bag slung over his shoulder from which, once seated, he extracted a spy novel he proceeded to read not without amusement until they landed. Upon arrival he strode unchecked through customs and walked purposefully to the multimodal station where he waited for the train downtown. He didn’t think he was being followed.

Once home, he laid his bag down on his bed and sorted his things: clothing was placed back in the closet, the book rejoined its brethren on the shelf, the drawing of his niece who was no longer four years old enlivened the fridge door. An envelope stamped CONFIDENTIAL went back into an unremarkable briefcase.

Though somewhat exhausted, Fabrice Mansaré remained determined to complete his mission. He picked up his briefcase, changed his clothes, and went back outside. It was almost noon. As he pushed open the lobby door, a black sedan pulled up in front of the building. Two gruff men in black suits stepped out. The driver took up his post and stood, unmoving, at the vehicle’s side, keeping Fabrice Mansaré in the sights of his dark glasses. The other man opened the back door without a word.

‘Get in, please,’ said a phlegmatic voice from the back seat.

Fabrice Mansaré complied, without betraying any particular emotion. Three doors closed, the two last in perfect synchrony. The car started.

‘I was on my way to the bank,’ noted Fabrice Mansaré.

‘We’ll drop you off,’ said the small man who’d enjoined him to get in the car. ‘You were able to meet with Sorgue.’

‘Yes,’ said Fabrice Mansaré, elaborating only with a tap on his briefcase.

‘You should lie low for a few weeks,’ said the young phlegmatic man. ‘People have been talking since you left. Let’s not make it any worse. And since you’re going to the bank anyway,’ he added, handing Fabrice Mansaré a small black case.

‘There it is. Of course,’ said Fabrice Mansaré when he saw the contents. ‘How’d you get it? Wait. It’s the next left,’ he informed the goons. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said quietly to the short phlegmatic man. ‘I’ll take care of it. Could you drop me off at the next light?’

There was a safety deposit box in Charles Rose’s name at the Federal Bank of Commerce, where Fabrice Mansaré was welcomed warmly. After depositing the briefcase and small case, he left empty-handed. The sun was very bright, provided you stuck to the side of the street that followed the axis of its rays, and that was what Fabrice Mansaré did, until he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since morning.

He made his way into a nearly deserted restaurant in Chinatown. Fabrice Mansaré asked to be seated at the back.

The menu was bounteous in French, even more so in the original. He ordered in Cantonese, steamed hairy crab though it was out of season, and ate it down without a word.

But his mind was racing. A dormant few weeks, he thought to himself, and he was unsure what they had cooked up for him. He thought about Alice’s birthday eight days from now, a date supposed to remind him of something, but what?