Free Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth Page A

said.
    Determined to outdo the teacher, Verlaque added, “Yes, and the lyrics a smack in the face to all the journalists who were so obsessed with Billie’s private life.”
    But Monnier had one up on the judge. “Look at this book of poetry,” he said. “I swear to God, when the song came on, I was reading this exact poem: ‘The Day Lady Died.’” He passed the slim volume—
Lunch Poems
—to Verlaque, who turned around and asked Serge Canzano for a whiskey.
    Verlaque turned back and looked at the cover. “Frank O’Hara?”
    â€œOne of my colleagues at the high school—an English teacher—recommended him,” Monnier said. “Never a professional poet, this O’Hara. Worked at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in the fifties and sixties.”
    â€œA curator?”
    â€œNot even,” Monnier said. “He took the tickets. Front desk. At lunch he’d walk around New York and then come back and hit the typewriter. Hence the title of this collection. Or that’s what the jacket says about him, anyway. Lunch was his favorite meal.”
    â€œMuch better than breakfast,” Verlaque said.
    â€œI hate breakfast,” Monnier admitted. “Always thought it something to get quickly over with.”
    Verlaque laughed. “No alcohol.”
    â€œExactly. Lunch: I’ve gotten through the dismal morning and am feeling like working. Really working. I treat myself to a nice restaurant lunch and am surrounded by chatting people—workers, students, tourists. The food is salty, not sweet like at breakfast, and I can have a glass of wine to get the creative juices flowing and that perfectly complements my meal. And it’s still bright out, and the world looks happy.”
    Verlaque picked up the book, feeling Monnier’s loneliness. He said, trying to be light, “Not much boozing goes on anymore at my work lunches.” Dinner was Verlaque’s favorite meal, but he kept that to himself: the evening meal he shared with Marine. He began reading the poem, set on a Friday in July in 1959, as Canzano quietly slipped a Lagavulin in front of him. He finished reading and took a slow concentrated sip of the single malt.
    â€œWhat did you think of the poem?” Monnier asked.
    â€œI’m speechless,” Verlaque said. “It’s beautiful,” he went on, “and I’ve never heard of this O’Hara.”
    Monnier nodded, smugly smiling. “Could you help me translate a few lines?” he asked, leaning forward and taking the book. “Especially at the end.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œJohn door?” Monnier asked, pointing to the sentence.
    â€œAh. The door to the toilets,” Verlaque said. “It sounds like the 5 SPOT he writes of is a New York bar.”
    â€œWhispered?”
    â€œ
Chuchoter
,” Verlaque answered.
    â€œThere’s almost no punctuation,” Monnier said. “I’ll have to loosen my poems up a bit. Breathing?”
    â€œ
Respirer
.”
    Verlaque had another sip and asked Monnier for the book. He read aloud:
    â€œ. . . and a NEW YORK POST with
    her face on it
    and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
    leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
    while she whispered a song along the keyboard
    to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing”
    â€œIt gives me goose bumps,” Monnier said. “Very wise that he doesn’t end the sentence with a period.”
    â€œYes,” Verlaque said. “Like there’s still so much to say about her.”
    â€œOr he really did stop breathing . . .”
    Their reflections were cut short by Alain and Emmanuelle Denis, who entered the bar, loudly arguing. Eric Monnier folded his arms across his chest and quietly barked.
    â€œHe’s
your
son,” Alain Denis said, flopping down in a vintage rattan chair. He motioned to Serge Canzano with his pointer finger