A Twist of Orchids by Michelle Wan

wasn’t ’e? Then ’e took off. Not seen ’im since.”
    “When was that?”
    “Week ago, something like that.”
    “That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?”
    Peter scratched his left ear. Then he said, “Used to ’ang round the cathedral, didn’t ’e?”
    “Are you saying that’s where I’ll find him?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You don’t sound very sure.”
    “No, swear to God. You’ll find ’im there. I wouldn’t lie to you. C’mon, man, gi’us twenty.”
    Julian gave him ten. Peter grabbed it.
    “There’s more if you can produce him for me. You have my card.”
    He saw himself out. This time he was prepared for the
minuterie
and managed to activate the light for the lower stairs before the top one gave out. In the vestibule, he noticed something on the dirty tiled floor that he had not seen on his way in. He hunkered down for a better look: wavy deposits of mud in broken patches roughly 12 centimeters wide. Tire marks. Something had been parked there, not recently, for the mud was dry and much trodden on. A Honda Bol d’Or? Despite the fact that he had just parted with fifty euros—sixty if he counted the kid in the supermarket—he left feeling quite pleased with himself. He was getting the hang of this detecting business.
    •
    The cathedral was also undergoing renovation. Scaffolding braced its western face. Kids were skateboarding in the adjoining square. A group of older boys—fifteen-and sixteen-year-olds, Julian reckoned—were doing ollies off the steps leading down to the walkway along the cathedral cloister. They came off the top step at breakneck speed, crouching low on the decks of their boards, and landed in noisy, grating pirouettes at the bottom. A youth, sitting off to one side, was intent on wrapping one end of his skateboard with string. He wore jeans blown outat the knees and a black sweatshirt with a hood pulled up over his head. His trainers were torn, and his socks had collapsed in loose folds around his ankles. His face looked gray with cold. Julian approached him.
    “I’m looking for someone named Kazim Ismet. Rides a red Honda Bol d’Or. You seen him around?”
    “
Négatif.
”
    “But you know him?”
    “
Négatif.
”
    “You know anyone who does?”
    “
Négatif.
” Without ever looking up, the youth continued to bind the front end of his skateboard, the laminations of which were coming apart, with the string.
    “Can’t you say anything but
négatif?
And anyway, shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet?”
    “Get lost.”
    Julian strolled around the cathedral. There was a little garden with leafless trees, grotesquely pollarded, on the south side. It was empty except for an old man and a dog. A cold wind whipped the man’s coat and flattened his trousers against bony shanks as he waited for his dog to do its business. The dog, a terrier of some kind, sniffed around the base of a bronze cannon that pointed over the garden parapet in the direction of the river. Then it lifted its leg against the cement mount.
    There were a number of cafés and bars in the streets surrounding the cathedral. One, on the corner of Rue Salinière, advertised parimutuel betting and snacks. Its windows were opaque with condensation and plastered with notices of snooker competitions. Julian found the place full of men who sat or stood staring up at a television showing a rugby match in progress. Toulouse against Biarritz. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke, but the warmth from the radiators and the closepress of people was welcoming. As Julian made his way to the counter, the room erupted in groans. Toulouse had missed a try. Julian ordered a coffee. He asked the woman serving if she knew Kazim Ismet.
    “What’s he look like?”
    Julian described him as best he could, extrapolating from the school photo and Betul’s information. “Rides a red Honda.”
    The woman shook her head and called the question down to a man drying glasses at the other end of the counter, who also shook his