Come, Barbarians by Todd Babiak Page A

not yet winter but the women dressed differently, replacing their white and off-white linen dresses with jeans and long-sleeved shirts, scarves. Lily’s fourth birthday was in three weeks, so she would have had time to change her mind, but Kruse had already decided she would be a fashion designer when she grew up. For the figures she sketched, Mommy and Daddy and
la maîtresse
and her friends from school, Lily created flamboyant outfits. Often, in her drawings, Kruse wore a jacket that was also a live falcon.
    The retired soldiers of the Roman empire had settled in Vaison and here in Orange. He walked from the station to the old city centre, with a hill in the middle of it and an enormous theatre turned black by two thousand years of weather. Retired couples holding hands, out for a stroll, were a minority. Tough boys in soccer suits stared at him.
    Kruse paid the entry fee for the theatre and walked its dark corridors, waiting for his appointment at the train station. It was cold where the sun did not reach. In the auditorium there were hundreds of seats and, on stage, pillars and a statue. The lights above were modern; Elton John was set to play here in a week. There were only a few other tourists in the theatre. One of them, a handsome man in a navy suit, leaned back and appeared to watch Kruse. There was something familiar about him, so Kruse climbed the stairs for a better look. He was a friend of Jean-François’s maybe, from the party in Villedieu. The man stood up and walked the length of the row and down and away without another glance in Kruse’s direction. It was the slow and confident walk of an athlete.
    At nine o’clock Kruse arrived at the main door of Gare d’Orange. It opened before he could touch it and Madame Aubanel rushed him inside, nervously chattering. The video cameras were off but eyes wereeverywhere. She led him down a hallway, her big feet pointed out like a cartoon ballerina’s, and into a small room that smelled of sausage with three television sets attached to a video machine. It was already several years out of date so Kruse could not hope for much.
    Madame Aubanel pulled nine tapes from the shelf, marked with the date and times. The recordings for November 1 started at 5:45 in the morning, roughly twenty minutes before the departure of the first train. There were only two possible directions: north to Paris or south to Marseille. There were several stops along the way but not for all trains. Madame Aubanel synced the three tapes at 05:45. Kruse helped press play on all three at the same time.
    They watched at double speed. Madame Aubanel held one of Evelyn’s passport photographs in her hand as she scanned.
    “You had an argument?”
    “Something like that, Madame, yes.”
    “Do you fear she has left you for good?”
    To finish the conversation, Kruse nodded.
    He was not successful. Madame Aubanel fixed her glasses. “You have children?”
    “One.”
    “Boy or girl?”
    “Girl. She’s gone now, Madame.”
    “Gone where, with your wife? How old?”
    “Nearly four.”
    “A baby. This is a crime, in France, to take a child from her father.”
    “She’s dead.”
    “Oh. Excuse me. What was her name?”
    “Lily.”
    “You’re not … how did she die?”
    Kruse told her.
    “I read about her. About you.” The French put the emphasis on the
y
at the end of her name. Madame Aubanel looked away from the television screen for a moment. “Lily.”
    No one who looked remotely like Evelyn had departed on the first four trains. They were now past five in the afternoon on the video, and the crowds in the station had thickened. The cafés were open for early dinner and passengers carried soda and snacks with their luggage. Trains arrived and Madame Aubanel slowed the tape. Watching in fast-forward was dizzying, so they took short breaks.
    Evelyn appeared at the front of the station at 18:12 with a black bag. It was difficult to see her on the outdoor camera, as the mistral had blown up