so much dust. White T-shirt, imitation leather pants, sneakers. She spent nine minutes in the lineup and bought a ticket.
“What is she carrying?”
He didn’t tell Madame Aubanel: a fairy wand.
“Did she kill the politician and his wife? Is she guilty?”
“No, Madame.”
Evelyn walked away from the ticket office and looked up at one of the screens showing departure times. She went straight out to the platform. The images were not perfectly clear but she was fidgeting with her ticket. She looked around constantly, not one of her habits.
“North.”
“She went to Paris?”
“The 18:28 is a night express. There are only two possible stops, Monsieur: Lyon and Paris.”
They continued watching until the express departed. The bridge was empty afterwards, but for a man in blue overalls pushing a broom.
Kruse pulled out his wallet.
“Just give me three thousand. You lost a child and, it seems, a wife. I cannot take five thousand francs from you.”
“How about you take the extra two thousand for the videotapes? I’ll buy them from you. You can say there was a technical error.”
“I hope you find your wife. If she wants to be found.” The woman ejected the tapes and gave them to him. She stuffed the money into her purse. “I wonder why the gendarmes haven’t come, with the same questions.”
The trains from Orange were finished for the day but he could drive to Avignon or Marseille. Even if he did, Kruse would arrive at four or five in the morning in a city of ten million people without a single clue. He wanted to take the train as she had taken the train, to see what she had seen: his best and only hope was some sort of psychological fusion, to enter her thoughts.
Madame Aubanel sold him a ticket for the first express of the day, departing before dawn. Would he like to pay with cash or with credit?
Kruse looked in his wallet and saw more than money. He came dangerously close to kissing the nearsighted supervisor for asking the question. “What, Monsieur? What?” She laughed along with him, missing the sarcasm.
“Do you have a telephone
cabine
in here?”
There were several, but Madame Aubanel had to lock up and leave. She was exhausted and a little nauseated, from watching the videos in fast-forward. Kruse drove around Orange, looking for a telephone, and couldn’t find one in the dark. He drove twenty minutes to Vaison-la-Romaine and parked in front of the horse stable; it was the first time in weeks that he had found a spot on Rue Trogue-Pompée. Lily had been with him the last time. Evelyn had said she wanted to spend a few hours at the library, so Kruse had driven with his daughter to the top of Mont Ventoux. It was a sunny day, warm in town but cold and windy on top. They could see the Alps in one direction and the Mediterranean in the other. On the way back down they had stopped for a picnic. And there, just like in the Astérix books, a wild boar trundled out of the bushes, looked up at them, and ran away.
When he found Evelyn he would ask her: Were you really at the library that afternoon? Madame Boutet, the gendarme, had nearly spitout a mouthful of goat cheese when he told her that Evelyn is not the sort of woman who has an affair. Not with Jean-François de Musset or anyone else. Evelyn didn’t believe in affairs, in that sort of weakness. She wasn’t capable.
“But you said you had come to France to save your marriage.”
“Our problems weren’t like that.”
“What were they like, Monsieur Kruse?”
He told her.
“So she couldn’t be attracted to another man?” Madame Boutet looked at her partner for a moment and back to Kruse. “Your wife is really so different from every other woman in the world?”
There was a bank of two public phones at the bar-tabac that doubled as a bus station, at the limit of the terrace. He had bought a twenty-five-credit France Télécom card, but he didn’t need it for the toll-free Visa number, which was fortunate. It took twenty
“What is she carrying?”
He didn’t tell Madame Aubanel: a fairy wand.
“Did she kill the politician and his wife? Is she guilty?”
“No, Madame.”
Evelyn walked away from the ticket office and looked up at one of the screens showing departure times. She went straight out to the platform. The images were not perfectly clear but she was fidgeting with her ticket. She looked around constantly, not one of her habits.
“North.”
“She went to Paris?”
“The 18:28 is a night express. There are only two possible stops, Monsieur: Lyon and Paris.”
They continued watching until the express departed. The bridge was empty afterwards, but for a man in blue overalls pushing a broom.
Kruse pulled out his wallet.
“Just give me three thousand. You lost a child and, it seems, a wife. I cannot take five thousand francs from you.”
“How about you take the extra two thousand for the videotapes? I’ll buy them from you. You can say there was a technical error.”
“I hope you find your wife. If she wants to be found.” The woman ejected the tapes and gave them to him. She stuffed the money into her purse. “I wonder why the gendarmes haven’t come, with the same questions.”
The trains from Orange were finished for the day but he could drive to Avignon or Marseille. Even if he did, Kruse would arrive at four or five in the morning in a city of ten million people without a single clue. He wanted to take the train as she had taken the train, to see what she had seen: his best and only hope was some sort of psychological fusion, to enter her thoughts.
Madame Aubanel sold him a ticket for the first express of the day, departing before dawn. Would he like to pay with cash or with credit?
Kruse looked in his wallet and saw more than money. He came dangerously close to kissing the nearsighted supervisor for asking the question. “What, Monsieur? What?” She laughed along with him, missing the sarcasm.
“Do you have a telephone
cabine
in here?”
There were several, but Madame Aubanel had to lock up and leave. She was exhausted and a little nauseated, from watching the videos in fast-forward. Kruse drove around Orange, looking for a telephone, and couldn’t find one in the dark. He drove twenty minutes to Vaison-la-Romaine and parked in front of the horse stable; it was the first time in weeks that he had found a spot on Rue Trogue-Pompée. Lily had been with him the last time. Evelyn had said she wanted to spend a few hours at the library, so Kruse had driven with his daughter to the top of Mont Ventoux. It was a sunny day, warm in town but cold and windy on top. They could see the Alps in one direction and the Mediterranean in the other. On the way back down they had stopped for a picnic. And there, just like in the Astérix books, a wild boar trundled out of the bushes, looked up at them, and ran away.
When he found Evelyn he would ask her: Were you really at the library that afternoon? Madame Boutet, the gendarme, had nearly spitout a mouthful of goat cheese when he told her that Evelyn is not the sort of woman who has an affair. Not with Jean-François de Musset or anyone else. Evelyn didn’t believe in affairs, in that sort of weakness. She wasn’t capable.
“But you said you had come to France to save your marriage.”
“Our problems weren’t like that.”
“What were they like, Monsieur Kruse?”
He told her.
“So she couldn’t be attracted to another man?” Madame Boutet looked at her partner for a moment and back to Kruse. “Your wife is really so different from every other woman in the world?”
There was a bank of two public phones at the bar-tabac that doubled as a bus station, at the limit of the terrace. He had bought a twenty-five-credit France Télécom card, but he didn’t need it for the toll-free Visa number, which was fortunate. It took twenty
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