Free Solea by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis Page A

drained.
    The faces of my friends flashed in front of my eyes. Ending with Fonfon and Honorine.
No
, my heart was weeping.
No
.
    â€œO.K.,” I repeated, in a low voice.
    â€œWe’ll call again tonight.” He hung up.
    â€œI’m going to kill you, you bastard!” I screamed. “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill you!”
    I turned, and saw Honorine. She’d put on the dressing gown I’d given her for Christmas. Her hands were folded over her stomach, and she was looking at me in terror.
    â€œI thought you were having a nightmare. You were screaming.”
    â€œThe only nightmares are when you’re awake,” I said.
    My hate had returned. And with it, that stench of death.
    I knew I’d have to kill the guy.

6. I N WHICH THE LOVE WE SHARE WITH
A CITY IS OFTEN A SECRET LOVE
    T he phone was ringing. Nine-ten. Shit! The phone had never before rung so much in my house. I lifted the receiver, expecting the worst. Just doing that made me break out in a sweat. It was getting hotter and hotter. Even with the windows open, there wasn’t the slightest breath of air.
    â€œYeah?” I said grouchily.
    â€œCaptain Pessayre. Good morning. Are you always in such a bad mood in the mornings?”
    I loved that low, slightly drawling voice.
    â€œIn case someone’s trying to sell me a fitted kitchen!”
    She laughed. There was something gravelly about her laugh. I guessed she was from the Southwest, that neck of the woods.
    â€œCan I see you this morning?”
    It was the same warm voice. But it was clear she wouldn’t take no for an answer. We’d definitely be meeting this morning.
    â€œSomething wrong?”
    â€œOh, no . . . We looked into your statement. Your movements check out. Don’t worry, you’re not a suspect.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œI’ve . . . Let’s just say I’d like to talk to you about a few things.”
    â€œAh!” I said, falsely cheerful. “If it’s an invitation, there’s no problem.”
    This time she didn’t laugh. And I found it reassuring that she wasn’t taken in by me. This was a woman with a strong character and, as I didn’t know how things were going to turn out, it was better to know who I could count on. Among the cops, obviously.
    â€œEleven o’clock.”
    â€œIn your office?”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’re too crazy about that idea.”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œHow about the Fort Saint-Jean? We can go for a little walk, if you like.”
    â€œI like it over there.”
    â€œMe too.”
    Â 
    I’d driven in along the Corniche. I didn’t want to lose sight of the sea. There are days like that. When I can’t enter downtown Marseilles any other way. When I need the city to come to me. I’m the one moving, but it’s the city that comes closer. If I could, I’d always come to Marseilles by sea. Once past the Malmousque cove, the harbor entrance always moved me deeply. I was Edouard Peisson’s sailor, Hans. Or Blaise Cendrars, coming back from Panama. Or Rimbaud, “a fresh angel who landed in the port yesterday morning.” It was a constant replay of the moment when Protis, the Phocean, entered the harbor, his eyes wide with wonder.
    The city was transparent this morning. Pink and blue in the still air. Hot already, but not yet sticky. Marseilles was inhaling its own light. As carefree as the customers on the terrace of La Samaritaine, drinking it down to the last drop of coffee in their cups. The roofs were blue, the sea pink. Or vice versa. Until noon. After that, for a few hours, the sun would crush everything. The shade as well as the light. The city would turn opaque. White. And the whole of Marseilles would smell of anise.
    In fact, I was starting to feel thirsty. I’d have liked a nice cool
pastis
, on a shady terrace. At Ange’s, for example, on Place des Treize-Coins, in