In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner Page B
Authors: Claude Izner
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women filed back in.
He remembered his vow to Tasha and felt suddenly annoyed; he’d promised to keep his word, yet he felt painfully like a bird which had had its wings clipped. Why couldn’t she accept his need for freedom? He was mortified to think that he behaved the same way with her, but the difference was that he was motivated not by jealousy but by fear for her safety.
He glanced up. This time there was no mistaking it: Kenji looked positively bewitched at the sight of Djina.
If he fell in love with her, the family portrait would be complete.
Chapter Five
Thursday 13 July
T HE steel structure framed patches of night sky, and hundreds of flickering lights pierced the darkness. In the middle of Les Halles, to the right of Église Saint-Eustache, the flower market was in full swing. Josette Fatou greeted Marinette, a porter with a pockmarked face. Marinette was over sixty but still able to carry her enormous baskets of berries. The daughter of a tightrope walker, she had started out as an acrobat and a bearded lady.
‘Hurry, my little bird of the islands, the flower auction’s starting,’ she called out to Josette. ‘What a face! Is anything the matter?’
‘No, everything’s fine,’ Josette replied, forcing a smile.
‘Hmm, not so sure about that,’ muttered Marinette, as she watched the girl weave her way between a pile of white lilacs and a mound of violets.
‘Sunshine in a bouquet, Mesdames, brought to you direct from the Côte d’Azur!’
One side was known as Nice and the other Paris, the latter stocked by gardeners coming from Ménilmontant, Montreuil, Vaugirard, Vanves and Charonne with their carefully packaged boxes.
Josette relaxed. Her inner turmoil subsided. At least there she was on home ground. Since the previous day, she had had the impression that some hidden force had sapped all her strength. Despite her exhaustion, she could not give up because no work meant no food. Once she had paid the weekly five-franc fee for the pushcart she used to wheel around her perfumed crop, and the four centimes for her street-trader’s licence, there was not much left in her purse. Every day, she looked for the best spot at the best time of day, watching out for and trying to attract customers. Selling at La Madeleine, where customers came to buy the more exotic blooms, was not the same as selling at La Nation, where workers hurrying to the factories had far too many cares to take an interest in such trifles.
The best bargains were to be found in Paris: roses, camellias, gardenias and snowballs sold like hotcakes. The thick southern accent mingled with the coarse language of the working classes from the faubourgs . Amid gesticulations and guttural cries, they haggled over bunches of mimosa or daffodils, jasmine or carnations. Josette Fatou made her purchases as if in a trance. The murder that had taken place before her very eyes three weeks ago had made her feel very isolated from the world, and nothing could erase that scene from her mind.
Grey dawn rose above the still-sleeping city. Gaunt-looking women searched among the slimy remains for rotten vegetables to make into soup. A haulier with a red belt swigged a bottle of wine. Next to a coach entrance, Mother Bidoche stirred her beef and bean stew, and ladled out helpings to fill the hungry bellies gathered around her brazier.
‘Get that down your throats – it’ll warm your insides – I can’t abide seeing famished folk.’
Josette returned to her cart. She stepped over a porter asleep on a sack and began arranging her flowers. The constant bustle and deafening row did not succeed in distracting her from her fears: she felt haunted by the man who had followed her the previous day. Of course, she had not realised at the time that he was watching her – he was just another early-morning passer-by, whose cap pulled down over his face had caught her eye for a split second.
Was he hiding somewhere in this crowd?
She trudged through the
He remembered his vow to Tasha and felt suddenly annoyed; he’d promised to keep his word, yet he felt painfully like a bird which had had its wings clipped. Why couldn’t she accept his need for freedom? He was mortified to think that he behaved the same way with her, but the difference was that he was motivated not by jealousy but by fear for her safety.
He glanced up. This time there was no mistaking it: Kenji looked positively bewitched at the sight of Djina.
If he fell in love with her, the family portrait would be complete.
Chapter Five
Thursday 13 July
T HE steel structure framed patches of night sky, and hundreds of flickering lights pierced the darkness. In the middle of Les Halles, to the right of Église Saint-Eustache, the flower market was in full swing. Josette Fatou greeted Marinette, a porter with a pockmarked face. Marinette was over sixty but still able to carry her enormous baskets of berries. The daughter of a tightrope walker, she had started out as an acrobat and a bearded lady.
‘Hurry, my little bird of the islands, the flower auction’s starting,’ she called out to Josette. ‘What a face! Is anything the matter?’
‘No, everything’s fine,’ Josette replied, forcing a smile.
‘Hmm, not so sure about that,’ muttered Marinette, as she watched the girl weave her way between a pile of white lilacs and a mound of violets.
‘Sunshine in a bouquet, Mesdames, brought to you direct from the Côte d’Azur!’
One side was known as Nice and the other Paris, the latter stocked by gardeners coming from Ménilmontant, Montreuil, Vaugirard, Vanves and Charonne with their carefully packaged boxes.
Josette relaxed. Her inner turmoil subsided. At least there she was on home ground. Since the previous day, she had had the impression that some hidden force had sapped all her strength. Despite her exhaustion, she could not give up because no work meant no food. Once she had paid the weekly five-franc fee for the pushcart she used to wheel around her perfumed crop, and the four centimes for her street-trader’s licence, there was not much left in her purse. Every day, she looked for the best spot at the best time of day, watching out for and trying to attract customers. Selling at La Madeleine, where customers came to buy the more exotic blooms, was not the same as selling at La Nation, where workers hurrying to the factories had far too many cares to take an interest in such trifles.
The best bargains were to be found in Paris: roses, camellias, gardenias and snowballs sold like hotcakes. The thick southern accent mingled with the coarse language of the working classes from the faubourgs . Amid gesticulations and guttural cries, they haggled over bunches of mimosa or daffodils, jasmine or carnations. Josette Fatou made her purchases as if in a trance. The murder that had taken place before her very eyes three weeks ago had made her feel very isolated from the world, and nothing could erase that scene from her mind.
Grey dawn rose above the still-sleeping city. Gaunt-looking women searched among the slimy remains for rotten vegetables to make into soup. A haulier with a red belt swigged a bottle of wine. Next to a coach entrance, Mother Bidoche stirred her beef and bean stew, and ladled out helpings to fill the hungry bellies gathered around her brazier.
‘Get that down your throats – it’ll warm your insides – I can’t abide seeing famished folk.’
Josette returned to her cart. She stepped over a porter asleep on a sack and began arranging her flowers. The constant bustle and deafening row did not succeed in distracting her from her fears: she felt haunted by the man who had followed her the previous day. Of course, she had not realised at the time that he was watching her – he was just another early-morning passer-by, whose cap pulled down over his face had caught her eye for a split second.
Was he hiding somewhere in this crowd?
She trudged through the
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