Free Chourmo by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis

Merlan.
    I was thinking about my conversation with Anselme. The fact that he’d thought it was worth coming to me and talking about Serge meant there must be something more to find out. I wanted to know what it was. To understand, as always. A real sickness. I must have the mind of a cop. To leap into things at a moment’s notice. Unless I was
chourmo
too! It didn’t matter. A little truth, I told myself, never hurt anyone. Not the dead anyway. And Serge wasn’t just anyone. He was a good man, someone I’d respected.
    I had a head start, a whole night to nose around in Serge’s affairs. Pertin was arrogant, and driven by hatred. But he wasn’t a good cop. I couldn’t imagine him being prepared to waste a single hour turning over a dead man’s apartment. He’d rather leave that to the “pencil pushers,” as he called his colleagues at the station house. He had something more interesting to do. Like playing cowboys and Indians in North Marseilles. Especially at night. There was every chance I’d be left in peace.
    The truth was, I wanted to gain time. How could I go home, with my hands in my pockets, and look Gélou in the eyes? What could I say to her? That Guitou and Naïma might be spending another night together. That it wasn’t harming anyone. Something like that. Lies. It would hurt only her pride as a mother. But she’d been hurt worse than that in her life. And sometimes I chicken out. Especially with women. And especially the ones I love.
    At Le Merlan-Village, I spotted an empty phone booth. There was no answer at my place. I tried Honorine.
    â€œWe didn’t wait for you. We sat down to eat. I made some spaghetti with basil and garlic. Have you seen the boy?”
    â€œNot yet, Honorine.”
    â€œShe’s getting worried. By the way, before I pass her to you, you remember the mullet you caught this morning? There’s enough eggs to make a nice
poutargue
. What do you say?”
    Poutargue
was a specialty from the Martigues, similar to caviar. It was years since I’d last eaten it.
    â€œDon’t put yourself out, Honorine. That’s a lot of work.”
    What you had to do was extract the two clusters of eggs, without tearing the membrane that protects them, salt them, crush them, then leave them to dry. Making it could take a week.
    â€œIt’s nothing. Besides, it’s a good opportunity. You’ll be able to invite poor Fonfon to dinner. I have the feeling he isn’t himself in the fall.”
    I smiled. It was true that I hadn’t invited Fonfon in a long time. And if I didn’t invite him, those two didn’t invite each other either. As if there was something indecent about a man and a woman in their seventies, both widowed, wanting to see each other.
    â€œOK, I’ll pass you Gélou, she’s dying to speak to you.”
    I was ready.
    â€œHello?”
    Claudia Cardinale speaking. Gélou’s voice sounded even more sensual on the phone. It went down as smoothly as a glass of Lagavulin. Soft and warm.
    â€œHello?” she repeated.
    I had to chase away the memories. Gélou’s memories too. I took a deep breath and gave her the speech I’d prepared.
    â€œListen, it’s more complicated than we thought. They’re not at her parents’. Or her grandfather’s. Are you sure he hasn’t come home?”
    â€œNo, I left your phone number on his bed. And Patrice knows what’s going on. He knows I’m here.”
    â€œWhat about . . . Alex?”
    â€œHe never calls when he’s on a trip. There’s still a chance. It’s . . . It’s always been like that, ever since we met. He has his business. I don’t ask questions.” There was a silence, then she went on, “Guitou, he’s . . . They may be staying with a friend of hers. Mathias. He was one of the friends she went camping with. This Mathias was with her when she came to say