just as Gabriel passed the prow of the barge, on which you could still read the name
Carmela
. He pushed open the makeshift door to Pedro’s vegetable garden. The Seine instantly turned the same shade of grey as the department-store warehouses that lined the horizon. The raindrops, like those he’d wiped away on his return from Bonvix, burst on the hard earth, and flashes of lightning split the dark sky into pieces above the Île-Saint-Denis. Gabriel pulled his jacket up over his head and ran all the way to the Peugeot, which was parked in front of the closed shutters of the Guinguette des Chantiers. In the notebook that sat on top of the glove box, he’d written down the addresses, telephone and fax numbers of all the publishers in André Sloga’s inventory. He noticed that one of the most cited papers,
Continental Furor
, had long shared a Gennevilliers address with the offices of Éditions Gaston Lémoine. He crossed both branches of the river and followed its meanderings to the square surrounding the city hall, which had been afflicted with a polychromatic fountain by one of the numerous lumpish students of Fernand Léger.
Éditions Lémoine’s headquarters were tucked away inan industrial zone occupying the wastelands that bordered the A86. Pallets of printed matter cinched with plastic bands waited in the parking lot to be loaded into a semi. Gabriel leaned over the freshly inked sheets. A four-color cover of
The History of the Militia
, printed eight to the sheet, awaited transportation to the bindery. The illustration referenced the poster from the young fascist movement’s first congress: a fist holding a sword, raised up against a background of fields and factories and a red and black sky. He was astonished to notice that the group’s logo was virtually identical to the red ribbon of the anti-AIDS campaigns. He had begun to read the text on the back cover when a voice made him jump.
—Are you looking for something?
He turned to face a paunchy skinhead of about thirty, decked out in cargo pants, camo shirt, and khaki Doc Martens. His hands were stained with ink. Gabriel pointed to the warehouse.
—Is the office in there?
—No, these are the studios … You have to go around …
Before moving away, the detective put his hand on the pile of book covers.
—Can’t wait for this to be out in the stores! They fill our heads with so much junk, we’re in danger of forgetting to learn from their example …
A toothy smile spread across the skinhead’s pudgy face.
At first sight, the lobby of the Éditions Gaston Lémoine resembled the lobby of any business: impersonal decoration, all-purpose furnishings, insufficient lighting, the scent of photocopies. If, while reclining in one of the faux-leather armchairs, you felt the urge to read one of the magazinespiled up on a Chinoiserie side table, you’d look in vain for the usual fare:
Paris-Match, Marie-Claire
, or the day’s
Le Figaro
. On the other hand, if you were a lover of the exploits of various army corps—German, Japanese, Croatian, or Romanian, between 1939 and 1944—you’d be in heaven. It was clear to Gabriel that the clients of this establishment all belonged to the latter category. He flipped through a copy of
New Solidarity
, the main media outlet of the European Workers’ Party, in which one of the directors of Éditions Gaston Lémoine—a certain Victor Brignard—made clear in a long interview that he was a member of that small, anti-Semitic group. He looked up. The receptionist had been trying for some time to replace the paper roll in the fax machine by putting it in backwards. Gabriel went behind the desk to assist her. The machine blinked in satisfaction.
—Thank you, I thought I’d never manage. Do you have an appointment?
—No, but I would like to see Monsieur Gaston Lémoine …
—I’m afraid that will be difficult to arrange: he’s been dead for half a century … If you tell me what brings you here, I may be
Carmela
. He pushed open the makeshift door to Pedro’s vegetable garden. The Seine instantly turned the same shade of grey as the department-store warehouses that lined the horizon. The raindrops, like those he’d wiped away on his return from Bonvix, burst on the hard earth, and flashes of lightning split the dark sky into pieces above the Île-Saint-Denis. Gabriel pulled his jacket up over his head and ran all the way to the Peugeot, which was parked in front of the closed shutters of the Guinguette des Chantiers. In the notebook that sat on top of the glove box, he’d written down the addresses, telephone and fax numbers of all the publishers in André Sloga’s inventory. He noticed that one of the most cited papers,
Continental Furor
, had long shared a Gennevilliers address with the offices of Éditions Gaston Lémoine. He crossed both branches of the river and followed its meanderings to the square surrounding the city hall, which had been afflicted with a polychromatic fountain by one of the numerous lumpish students of Fernand Léger.
Éditions Lémoine’s headquarters were tucked away inan industrial zone occupying the wastelands that bordered the A86. Pallets of printed matter cinched with plastic bands waited in the parking lot to be loaded into a semi. Gabriel leaned over the freshly inked sheets. A four-color cover of
The History of the Militia
, printed eight to the sheet, awaited transportation to the bindery. The illustration referenced the poster from the young fascist movement’s first congress: a fist holding a sword, raised up against a background of fields and factories and a red and black sky. He was astonished to notice that the group’s logo was virtually identical to the red ribbon of the anti-AIDS campaigns. He had begun to read the text on the back cover when a voice made him jump.
—Are you looking for something?
He turned to face a paunchy skinhead of about thirty, decked out in cargo pants, camo shirt, and khaki Doc Martens. His hands were stained with ink. Gabriel pointed to the warehouse.
—Is the office in there?
—No, these are the studios … You have to go around …
Before moving away, the detective put his hand on the pile of book covers.
—Can’t wait for this to be out in the stores! They fill our heads with so much junk, we’re in danger of forgetting to learn from their example …
A toothy smile spread across the skinhead’s pudgy face.
At first sight, the lobby of the Éditions Gaston Lémoine resembled the lobby of any business: impersonal decoration, all-purpose furnishings, insufficient lighting, the scent of photocopies. If, while reclining in one of the faux-leather armchairs, you felt the urge to read one of the magazinespiled up on a Chinoiserie side table, you’d look in vain for the usual fare:
Paris-Match, Marie-Claire
, or the day’s
Le Figaro
. On the other hand, if you were a lover of the exploits of various army corps—German, Japanese, Croatian, or Romanian, between 1939 and 1944—you’d be in heaven. It was clear to Gabriel that the clients of this establishment all belonged to the latter category. He flipped through a copy of
New Solidarity
, the main media outlet of the European Workers’ Party, in which one of the directors of Éditions Gaston Lémoine—a certain Victor Brignard—made clear in a long interview that he was a member of that small, anti-Semitic group. He looked up. The receptionist had been trying for some time to replace the paper roll in the fax machine by putting it in backwards. Gabriel went behind the desk to assist her. The machine blinked in satisfaction.
—Thank you, I thought I’d never manage. Do you have an appointment?
—No, but I would like to see Monsieur Gaston Lémoine …
—I’m afraid that will be difficult to arrange: he’s been dead for half a century … If you tell me what brings you here, I may be
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