short, permanent waves, without any attempt to hide the greying streaks.
“You did know him, didn’t you?”
“Knowing someone doesn’t make me his mistress.” She breathed on the cigarette. “Where do you get your information?”
“Monsieur Dugain didn’t kill himself just because he’d been embezzling. I want to know why he died during a visit from the
police judiciaire
.” Anne Marie sneezed.
“Take some vitamin C if you’ve got a cold coming on.” There were small wrinkles at the corner of her mouth. Late forties, early fifties; her skin was not soft. Too much sun, perhaps, or too many cigarettes and too much work.
“I was hoping you could help me.” Anne Marie sneezed again. “Yours, his or anybody’s private life is of little interest to me personally.”
“You surprise me.” Madame Théodore leaned against the desk withher arms folded in front of her. A few flakes of ash had fallen onto the blue serge of her slacks.
“I’m not very curious.”
“First time I’ve heard of an investigating judge not being curious.”
“You talk to many judges?”
A mocking curve at the corner of her lips. “What on earth makes you think Dugain and I were lovers?”
“I have a certain idea of justice.”
“Of course.”
(Once, Anne Marie had seen a young Arab—fourteen or fifteen years old—in the middle of Boulevard Foch. The boy had unfurled a French flag that he had smeared with excrement. Then, relying on the protection of his young age, he had set fire to the cloth of the flag, which, imbibed with petrol, was soon burning like a torch.
On a nearby balcony, a Frenchman had taken a rifle and had shot the boy through the head. Anne Marie could recall the sound of the man’s laughter. She could remember the headless child lying on the surface of the road.)
“I grew up in Algeria—my family left Oran in 1958, when I was still an adolescent. What I saw there made me decide on a career in law.”
“Noble feelings.” The blush had disappeared and a cloud of smoke masked the eyes. “That’s why you ask me who I go to bed with? I fail to see the connection.”
“I wish to save you any embarrassment.” A smile. “You must know there’s a rumor about Dugain’s death.”
“I gave up paying attention to rumors a long, long time ago.”
“A rumor the
police judiciaire
were responsible.”
Madame Théodore shrugged. “The papers say Rodolphe committed suicide.”
“You knew Rodolphe?”
“Not in the way that you think.”
Again Anne Marie sneezed.
“Who didn’t know Rodolphe Dugain,
madame le juge
?”
Despite the air conditioning, Anne Marie now felt hot. She ran a hand across her forehead. There was a tickling in her nose.
“Some coffee?” Madame Théodore’s features were still taut but the corner of her mouth softened, turned upwards in a smile. “You need a towel for those wet feet of yours.” She moved away from the desk andwent to the door. She put up the closed sign. “I might just have some vitamin tablets. And …”
“Yes.”
“Never buy cheap shoes, not even in South America. It’s a false economy.”
18
Divorce
“I have children. Two very lovely little boys. And I left them.” She held the coffee mug between her hands. “No doubt I should’ve felt guilty. Everybody wanted me to feel guilty yet I didn’t feel anything. Not at the time.” She took a sip. “I had no choice.”
“After how many years, Madame Théodore?”
“The comedy had being going on far too long.”
“You still see them?”
“I swear that at the time I didn’t feel any guilt.” Madame Théodore paused, glanced at her hands, at the steaming coffee. “What’s done is done. There’s no new deal—not for a mother.”
Anne Marie repeated the question, “You see your boys?”
“The little one’s suffered and Jérôme is still not ready to forgive me.”
“One morning you walked out?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Madame Théodore laughed to herself. “If
“You did know him, didn’t you?”
“Knowing someone doesn’t make me his mistress.” She breathed on the cigarette. “Where do you get your information?”
“Monsieur Dugain didn’t kill himself just because he’d been embezzling. I want to know why he died during a visit from the
police judiciaire
.” Anne Marie sneezed.
“Take some vitamin C if you’ve got a cold coming on.” There were small wrinkles at the corner of her mouth. Late forties, early fifties; her skin was not soft. Too much sun, perhaps, or too many cigarettes and too much work.
“I was hoping you could help me.” Anne Marie sneezed again. “Yours, his or anybody’s private life is of little interest to me personally.”
“You surprise me.” Madame Théodore leaned against the desk withher arms folded in front of her. A few flakes of ash had fallen onto the blue serge of her slacks.
“I’m not very curious.”
“First time I’ve heard of an investigating judge not being curious.”
“You talk to many judges?”
A mocking curve at the corner of her lips. “What on earth makes you think Dugain and I were lovers?”
“I have a certain idea of justice.”
“Of course.”
(Once, Anne Marie had seen a young Arab—fourteen or fifteen years old—in the middle of Boulevard Foch. The boy had unfurled a French flag that he had smeared with excrement. Then, relying on the protection of his young age, he had set fire to the cloth of the flag, which, imbibed with petrol, was soon burning like a torch.
On a nearby balcony, a Frenchman had taken a rifle and had shot the boy through the head. Anne Marie could recall the sound of the man’s laughter. She could remember the headless child lying on the surface of the road.)
“I grew up in Algeria—my family left Oran in 1958, when I was still an adolescent. What I saw there made me decide on a career in law.”
“Noble feelings.” The blush had disappeared and a cloud of smoke masked the eyes. “That’s why you ask me who I go to bed with? I fail to see the connection.”
“I wish to save you any embarrassment.” A smile. “You must know there’s a rumor about Dugain’s death.”
“I gave up paying attention to rumors a long, long time ago.”
“A rumor the
police judiciaire
were responsible.”
Madame Théodore shrugged. “The papers say Rodolphe committed suicide.”
“You knew Rodolphe?”
“Not in the way that you think.”
Again Anne Marie sneezed.
“Who didn’t know Rodolphe Dugain,
madame le juge
?”
Despite the air conditioning, Anne Marie now felt hot. She ran a hand across her forehead. There was a tickling in her nose.
“Some coffee?” Madame Théodore’s features were still taut but the corner of her mouth softened, turned upwards in a smile. “You need a towel for those wet feet of yours.” She moved away from the desk andwent to the door. She put up the closed sign. “I might just have some vitamin tablets. And …”
“Yes.”
“Never buy cheap shoes, not even in South America. It’s a false economy.”
18
Divorce
“I have children. Two very lovely little boys. And I left them.” She held the coffee mug between her hands. “No doubt I should’ve felt guilty. Everybody wanted me to feel guilty yet I didn’t feel anything. Not at the time.” She took a sip. “I had no choice.”
“After how many years, Madame Théodore?”
“The comedy had being going on far too long.”
“You still see them?”
“I swear that at the time I didn’t feel any guilt.” Madame Théodore paused, glanced at her hands, at the steaming coffee. “What’s done is done. There’s no new deal—not for a mother.”
Anne Marie repeated the question, “You see your boys?”
“The little one’s suffered and Jérôme is still not ready to forgive me.”
“One morning you walked out?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Madame Théodore laughed to herself. “If
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