Chapter 1: The trumpets of fame.
July 7, 2006, 15 h 30. This story begins in the newsroom of the Literary Magazine: It's hot, the windows are open the Rue Vieille du Temple, where parade of undocumented migrants and their children who go to city hall. 'Adjustments for everyone! Sarko, be human! "The slogans explode like gunshots, all decorated with exotic accents, punctuated of dinghies and clapping.
Jacques Diaz is exasperated:
- What an uproar! They could not close a little ... But he stops suddenly
; the memory of his father, driven from Spain by the Nationalists, he comes to mind.
- No, I said, close the window! Good God, there is no consensus here.
- Okay, now p'tits coconuts, it will have to think about. What record for the number of re-entry? We were well provided an unpublished account of Bernard-Henri Levy on his holidays with his parents in Mimizan, July 57. But, in my humble opinion, it is not serious, and after the hype of American Graffiti, it would be better to drop the actor. What do you think, Jojo?
Jojo, Georges Margoulin which proposes a semiotic study of Alain Rey on raffarinades compared with villepinades. And a paper by Alain Duhamel on the political book of the week, Bye bye Galouzot, written by a group of UMP deputies
- Ah, no, not policy until next year. I can see readers accuse us of propaganda for one side or the other. Leave it to competitors. And you, Lillian, you should have nothing in reserve?
- My two loves, the sulphurous Cecilia S. .. Or a folder on Gender in Medieval Poetry?
- You think that here we are at Gala? The Drafting
chef Jacques Diaz can do no more:
- We have just three weeks to complete the number back. Afterwards, you will all be scattered on the beaches, without the slightest idea, of course, and I do not want to redo the shot that the nth number on Sartre and Beauvoir ...
After two minutes of hesitation and throat clearing, the librarian suggests Isabelle Vauvert publishing phenomenon of the spring, the countryside thriller Touching Evil, Joel Lenoir, with a circulation of 80,000 copies already approach .
- Good idea. We did nothing in that area since the May 1995 Leo Malet. And if it's a thriller countryman, as you say, it will change us and the Paris suburbs glaucous.
Diaz finally takes back his scoop. Feverishly, he takes the press kit. The brothers have earned the praise.
- Look, I will read this. Le Monde, 23 May: "In a town of Nièvre deep asleep between cattle and gossip, Joel Lenoir blew a wind of bloody madness. The new master of suspense has just appeared. A fluid language, a vivid imagination, a sense of humor almost British language and many discoveries. For a first attempt, Joel Lenoir scored a master stroke. Didier Daeninckx, Fred Vargas and Jean-Bernard Pouy had better behave. The relief comes from the bottom of the Nièvre. "Regis Vigheroso Libération goes there even stronger:" The little black Lenoir. A new thriller that Gammon flower well. " Looks like a commercial for a butcher ...
- But it really is a butcher, Mireille venture Breland, Secretary. I read anything more from bloody steak at La Villette Roger Shiv.
- Me, j'l'ai not read, but j'te trust. Well you'll give us a short summary of the book and some of us wrote the first article. Obviously, no one reading this thriller. Yet the editor has had to send a packet. So, any volunteers? Silence
general. Un ange passe: This is not an angel or a cherub is Seraphin Menard the handyman of the house, coming to find out if the air conditioner was reattached. The editorial briefly fathom the head and throws him:
- Finfin, you who pass without seeing us, then open the window. It's stifling in here.
The Undocumented left. Now, it's a concert of horns and hollering, "there will mark Zidane! Zidane there will mark! "Some fans on a spree, blue shirts, wigs lights, flags and helmets Gauls.
- Lilian, you want to be nice? Closes. We'll never do. Well I will try again. In Le Figaro last week, John O has surpassed the King of the licks, this one: "What a joy to read, with a clear head, warm feet in slippers, a glass of bourbon on hand and the fragrance of a good tan a book as bloody as The Touch of Evil! What a terrific novel! What a title! What frame! What characters! What style! What art of arranging with subtlety and invention, the words of our beautiful French language! If I do not restrain myself, I would kiss the narrator ... But I restrain myself, because I want to stay around, is it not human? ... "Naturally, the Duck is played on the words" will cross Lenoir not that evil "and Inrockuptibles ditto: "A thriller in your well settled, an author who does not hesitate to cut the dead in four." There is even a news article from Polynesia, "A picaresque novel and effective. Hilarious and dripping with hemoglobin. "J'vous spare Télérama, the Latest News from Alsace and Petit Charitois. Hey, what's that rag, Isabella?
- I think it is a journal of the Nièvre. He is the author who sent me most of the cuts.
- So, still no volunteers. Well, we'll have to organize. You have three days to read this book, it should suffice. How many pages, Isabelle?
- 70 is really just a thriller. I am always surprised that races to minimalist stories. When I started, the novels were at least 250 pages. It is truly an age of videos and text messages ... even from the publishers. Afterwards, you wonder that kids do not read!
- It t'fait grace of thy curses ... I reduce the delay. Tomorrow afternoon, we will distribute the roles. And no question of evading. An article on the novel. A stylistic aspects, j'te reserve one, Maurice. A on rural crime fiction, I think it's fashionable for a year or two, as in Burgundy in the Landes is for Jacky Kalman.
- Kalman, it will be difficult, Margoulin response. He is very busy with his seminar at Harvard and his stamp collection.
- In this case, we entrust this to Robert, he knows a few novels in the Auvergne, I think. And we need something about the author. A stay in the Morvan, lakes, forests, "the trout leap in the light flowery reeds, cows and last Mitterrand, anyone?
Before the placidity of his interlocutors, Jacques decides Diaz he will appeal to a freelancer to prepare an article on Lenoir, his biography and his works. It was Jean-Pierre Mourlon who will the task. Jean-Pierre
Mourlon is the ideal partner for this type of investigation. Free as air, single, always on the lookout for small contract that will allow it to repay its debt or pay its final tax bracket, Mourlon made all trades, dealer, an English teacher in North Africa , seller of pirated discs, dealer of Ecstasy in rave parties, illustrator fanzines, donut shop on the beaches, lobbyist for the complete edition works of Lenin, tuner and repairer of violins boiler fuel simultaneously, manager of a nudist camp in Iceland, and even a gardener in a hospice. It is the specialist of all cons-cultures, from two novels and songs as anarchists up manga. He collects beer coasters, discs Luis Mariano, fashion photos of 1920-1940, the labels of sardine cans and comic Nikita Mandryka. Freelance
casual in Literary Magazine, Jean-Pierre Mourlon bravely approaching sixty. His pace forever tired, his plaid shirts, his hair long, thin ponytail gathered by a leather are the last vestiges of its great period beatnick.
Two hours after the editorial meeting, Jacques Diaz Mourlon is on the line:
- The new-wave thrillers, you should appreciate, is not it?
- If you have nothing else to s'mettre teeth into, okay. How you m'proposez?
- 1000 euros for the survey week, 500 per published page - not alarmed now, we leave you six pages max, and I'm here for retouching. And of course, all travel costs reimbursed. Decize you know?
- No idea. It a seaport?
- Not exactly. Side of Nevers, Magny-Cours ...
- Ah, yes. My friend Gaby goes through it to the Bol d'Or.
- So, you're spinning Decize. There's even a train, not direct, but easy from Paris. Looking for everything you can about Joel Lenoir, the wunderkind of the detective novel.
- I had read something c'mec there. This s'rait not the author of a romancicule dripping? Wait, I have the title in memory, The Sisters of the male, but I reckon not much qu'c'est a kind of plagiarism Baudelaire.
- The Touch of Evil.
- And I bring you an interview with the author, with photos, videotape and autograph. And a little wine country, as usual ...
- t'le I was going to say. You had made an extra job for seventy years Gotlib. So I count on you. Appointment to the newspaper on July 20.
Chapter 2: The Price VGE
- Hello! Could I have the honor and pleasure to speak to Mr. Diaz? ...
- is himself! Who are you?
- Marcel, at your service, multifunctional literary agent. I have a crucial source of information to share.
- I n'crois not you ... And my time is limited ... So go ahead, but hurry and especially no trouble.
- Here. My cousin is Arsene usher at the French Academy. It's not my cousin, but the brother of Germaine, my cousin by marriage. Here in Britain, we say that we are all cousins. So I corrected myself. Arsene has learned from his colleague Gilbert Picqueur the new Immortal Valery Giscard d'Estaing, the former president what! has created a literary prize awarded to a surprising book, unusual or hilarious, the reward is a diamond from donations from deceased Jean-Bedel Bokassa, emperor of Central Africa, his former friend, before his defeat. I thought it would interest a magazine like yours to have the scoop ...
The Mysterious Mr. Marcel, Jacques Diaz knows or Eve to Adam, has no time to explain. His line has hung up.
However, the information is not lost. She nestled somewhere between the convolutions of the right hemisphere of the brain of editorial chief. The next night, amid an erotic dream, between the huge tits of Lolo Ferrari Bokassa diamonds sparkle all their lights and then they wind river in the hair of a naked goddess face anemone, standing in the crater Vulcania; VGE in person and in full dress green bottle leaves the Elysee, slamming the door diamonds scattered on the hilt of his sword academician, this sword is huge, gold and sharp, is phallic, it hits the volcano and a powerful jet of Volvic water splatters Jacques Diaz ... who wakes up every Wet ...
The next day, some checks are necessary. Fortunately, Jacques Diaz has an address book provided good academicians; though some have written anything interesting to share their wills, some however have been entitled to laudatory articles in Literary Magazine. He tried for half a day. Alain Decaux is not home, according to his secretary, he made a submarine cruise on the Meuse. Jean-Denis Bredin left animate a fair in the village of Bourbonnais St. Menoux. Maurice Druon treats his arteries in Bordeaux, Jacqueline de Romilly treats her tan in Mikonos, Alain Robbe-Grillet is preparing a new novel, Bertrand Poirot-Delpech attends a conference of comedians to laugh (in the Gironde), François Cavanna is still recovering from a night of drinking, Pierre Messmer inspects the aircraft carrier Clemenceau, Jean d'Ormesson painted gates of his castle. Helene Carrere d'Encausse chairs the autumn parade at Jean-Paul Gaultier. And all other immortals show no signs of life. It
Bernard Pivot, which is not immortal but that should be good, which confirms the words of Marcel. Marcel as a former journalist knows, moreover, because it was more than once a victim of this freak sticky, irritating, annoying, obnoxious, obnoxious, irritating, stinging, etc ... (Pivot Everyone knows that likes almost as much as synonyms beaujolpif and football).
- Yes, my dear friend, the former president has once again taken by surprise. After the failed referendum on the European Conchtituchion he chi beautifully written - he talks like heat - it had to do it again talk to him. The Grand Prix VGE addition to the thousand and one literary prize awarded each year. I do not think it threatens or the Goncourt Renaudot, but admit that the lot is attractive: who would not want a real diamond of Bokassa? One way to repay the follies that Giscard and his hunting buddy could do with taxpayer money ... My French friend, if you have a candidate in your stable, push it, make its promotion. I will not deny it has competitors. Professional secrecy, as usual.
"As usual, my eye! "Whispers in petto the editor of the Literary Magazine. It is also well placed as an interlocutor to know how you buy a board, how the bosses of large publishing houses are shared amicably rewards, how literary journals conduct their campaigns, how the authors - even and especially novices - prostitute themselves to gain a semblance of glory ...
Joel Lenoir is no worse than another. What saddens Diaz is the small publisher that novice novelist has chosen.
"The Golden Mask, one more variation on the theme of the mask, but not enough unbranded famous Mask Black Mask and Red. Why not Mask or Death Mask Effort? Not such an editor, and more importantly, stashed in a dark and bled away in the Latin Quarter, will defend his colt!
more reason to pass the number back. A good record of high level studies on the thriller, a photo or two of the lucky writer kissing his wife, driving her kids to school or nursery, although some evidence gratin of readers love, admiration of readers, the mayor, the pastor, neighbors and colleagues of the great man, and voila. If Lenoir does not mean a diamond, it has further increased the circulation of his book and I could charge a small percentage of the publisher ... "The editorial
chief advantage of a small underground movement to browse The Touch of Evil. It was really difficult to get into the story, the story of her body cut into pieces seems a rehash, especially when it looks up after reading page 8: the subway across the Seine, and turned abruptly near the building of the Medico-Legal Institute. A start-Diaz suddenly takes heart, due out his handkerchief and vomiting of mucus. Facing him, the two beautiful young men who burst bécotent from three stations of a booming laugh, "two gay men against a nauseated, the world is like" he muses bitterly.
- You see, Jean-Pierre, he'll have to force the portrait of the author, making the demagogue, the celebrities, because the content of the fleece does not convince me. You have carte blanche. This Once we put the package of soliciting, it is the fashion in the press, we have no choice. The guys from France-Soir has sold well and I give two or three months for Liberation joins them. Our financial masters. So bon voyage in Nièvre, green land of living waters, "it was the pub when I went to the lounge of the authors of Cosne, three years ago ... Not too much white water, catching up on the Pouilly !
Chapter 3: Cabbage white Decize.
Monday, July 10, 11 h 15. Jean-Pierre arrived at the station Mourlon Decize. It is not in great shape. All the previous night was filled with cries of supporters of the team of France, who followed the match on a big screen in the middle of the Place de Stalingrad, near his home. And height of footballing fury, in the car Coral, all passengers who have surrounded the pond for two hours with the headbutt Zidane, provoking the Matadors back or Matazizi, the penalties, cartons red or blue, the video referee and other nonsense beyond his understanding. So it's a
Mourlon more sloppy than usual rushing into the single taxi waiting in front of the station.
- Take me somewhere, he manages to whisper to the driver.
- I Want Bin, but where, exactly?
- First I need a hotel not too expensive, then the mayor, or police, or the tourist office, you know the city better than me, I suppose ...
- Monsieur is a tourist, by chance, or traveling salesman?
- Neither one nor the other. I lead an investigation, mutters under his breath raspy our reporter.
- This s'rait it step over the mysterious drowning? I read it in the newspaper: an unknown corpse discovered in the scale Fish Dam ...
- worry. My suspect is alive. Besides, you must have heard about. Joel Lenoir is the author of bestselling novel.
- Joel, unknown to the battalion. Blacks, frequent 'em not much, it's not racist ... I j'soye, apart from the Journal of the Centre and Paris-Turf, j'lis not much. Sometimes, the boss made me buy Paris-Match, but only when there are large weddings. What do you want him to c'te Black?
- Simply knowing where nursery. You have no idea?
- You'll have the information at the tourist office. That's their job, and now with the Internet, know everything about everything, even about me, I'm pisque on their portal, as has
say ... Meanwhile, the taxi went through three bridges, lined two caravans, a group of cyclists and a delivery truck, turned around two roundabouts and braked sharply with a row of trees. It was under the canopy of one of these giants that niche-Tourist Office tourist office. A small hut with windows covered with posters on the walls of storied indecipherable tags. The two employees are very busy. One fills in broken English family of Batavia on "Fishing Opportunities Along uh uh o beautiful river ..." In a whining tone, the second tells the phone to the head of a group of Third Age that the boat trip will not take tourists this afternoon because it has silted up and need to wait for the firefighters pull this bad happening with their truck ... but until the grandpas and grandma brought on board the Nivernaise an authentic lighter Loire eighteenth century. "You see, it's fascinating. You will move with the mainsail ... No, there is no seal around here ... You're talking about veil, then that's a jib? Oh, I knew not me. And then you'll see, the sailors are nice people, they drink a little, but overall, they know how to behave. So, yes? ... For 27 people! But this is impossible, they are entitled to six per trip, but we can fix it ... No ... Well, well, goodbye madame ... And you, sir, at your service. "
- I have the The address of Mr. Joel Lenoir. I am a journalist in a major magazine in Paris. It was for an interview ...
- Joel Lenoir, is impossible. We strongly forbidden to reveal his address. You know, with the success he has, it's become a VIP, he travels with three bodyguards and an armored car. But if you want information on Decize, I advise you to go from me to Agnan Fumerol. It is the specialist of the city, as a scholar there is no elsewhere. With my colleague, when we are asked a question a little bit complicated, he gives the answer, right Emily?
- Could I call the Town Hall, please?
- Nothing could be easier. Wait a minute ... this is it.
-Mairied 'decizebonjour!
The smooth voice of the hostess refers to the ears of Jean-Pierre Mourlon that of a dinner theater actress whom he was madly in love in the '70s. Following the conversation is rather disappointing. No, the hostess does not know where is Mr. Lenoir. And then, she has been instructed not to respond to the curious, because Mr. Lenoir - the new local glory - must be protected. He reportedly received threats. Finally, it is an order of the mayor and we do not discuss the orders of Mr. Tavel - is the name of the mayor. For
protests backed by Jean-Pierre Mourlon, the voice is more metallic. However, the hostess agrees to call Deputy Mayor for Culture, Mr Lesemeur. Coincidentally, he is telephone conversation with an architect of historic monuments, but he will receive the journalist in the late afternoon.
- Meanwhile, the employee enters a town hall, go and see Mr. Agnan! He alone may help you ...
Rediscovering the driver, which indicates the taximeter already 98 euros and 25 cents, and the thermometer 37 degrees in the shade, Mourlon begs to be transported to the Hotel des Capucines . He had seen fit to bring in his bag a Michelin dating from 1972, lent by his cousin, Lucette, and he checked this hotel the second order, because of its proximity to the station. The taxi driver, mocking, having explained that that hotel has been transformed into a supermarket, it remains the hotel of Agriculture, or just one room is still free, with stunning views of the road to Moulins, incessant noise truck that change speed and exhaust gas bonus. Fortunately, the cook has to prepare an omelet with morels and a rabbit-hunter.
By mid afternoon, after a short nap - two bottles of Coteaux du Giennois help dispel rumors of trucks - the reporter went to the hotel city, a remarkable construction, whatever would have thought Joel Lenoir in his thriller. Raymond Lesemeur receives in a luxurious office, Louis XVI furniture, thick carpet of Goblins. On the walls hang six pictures representing the Loire upstream of the city downstream, raw, dry, covered with ice and overflowing with yellow algae. In one corner stands a statue of authentic Gallo-Roman goddess in Decetia Medio Ligers sedative, the eponymous founder of the city. The
aedile is all smiles behind a white beard trimmed to hedge trimmers.
- No, Mr. Lenoir is not visible yet. He had to leave take refuge in a friendly country. Not really into exile, or rather on holidays or convalescence. But no, he is not sick ... It's because of paparazzi harassment of his notoriety might make him ... I can not give you his address or holiday, or even his address here, much less its numbers phone. Of course, I know, but mum's the word ... You know, when it was a star, we protect their privacy. Finally, if you want to know our city, please contact Mr. Agnan Fumerol. You will not be disappointed. This man is a wealth of knowledge. And if you need more information, call me.
Bistro in the town hall, the armory is repeated. The server, the boss, the policeman (secret mission), the jeweler's Wharf (Come recharge his batteries), all refuse to talk about Joel Lenoir. One would think that the sudden fame of the writer inconvenience his fellow citizens. And all with one voice, insisting that the reporter goes to visit the local scholar, Agnan Fumerol. On the way
Stade Nautique, where he intends to take his meal Vesper, Jean-Pierre Mourlon bizarre encounter two individuals, dressed in navy blue raincoat and hat with flaps, and brandishing telescopic umbrellas, an inappropriate place to the heat wave that has raged for three days.
The evening at the Stade Nautique is a new disappointment. The journalist would willingly take a dip but, as he learns by reading the regulations, "bathing is prohibited due to unsafe water." The meal is pretty frugal, wine crusty, stale bread, the waitress cantankerous, background music and shrill note of proportion. Returning to his hotel, thinking Mourlon nicer investigation, conducted during the year 2000: it was in the pubs of Dublin, he had gone to Research and Celtic bards he had met a great-nephew of James Joyce, an avid Guinness and red beer ... If only ...
Lenoir was contacted the next morning, the investigation stalled again. At the library, the books of Joel Lenoir are arranged on a stall, between Agatha Christie Vasquez Montalban and Chester Himes. Because the Warden has seen fit to spend the summer thrillers worldwide. Praise the young prodigy, the three librarians are not misers. But not a word about the man, his craft, its current home.
- Privacy, is sacred to us. No way to turn Mr. Lenoir pipeûle. The mayor said that and you're in journalism, you know how it ends: the scandals, suicides, ransom demands. None of that in Decize. But since you did not come to Paris for nothing, go and make a visit to an endearing character ...
- Agnan Fumerol? It has already talked to me ...
- Oh, you already know? No, well you should ...
- Where did Joel Lenoir? asks Jean-Pierre Mourlon perplexed. Canary Islands? Maldives? The Aleutians? In Timbuktu ? In Ushuaia? A Pétaouchnock? It has been, there are twenty or thirty years, the riddle of the winner of the Prix Goncourt, Emile Ajar, since there was not found, since it was represented by a lawyer, since his books were written by Romain Gary. Joel Lenoir would it be a new avatar Romain Gary? Impossible since Gary is dead and buried ... Or ...? Like everyone I meet wants Agnan Fumerol this, I must have it to the bottom. Maybe this will help me Agnan.
The address of the scholar is well known. The clerk Bookseller Wharf Mourlon Loire gives the necessary :
- You cross the bridge you see there before you. Then you turn right. It's not far. The second street, a house with an ordinary garden. I live right next door. In fact, you read The Touch of Evil? He is a young back home who wrote this thriller. Not Fumerol, Lenoir. Detective novels, it's a bit special ... But if you are looking for works Agnan Fumerol, I have in store. You will certainly return. Goodbye, sir.
reached the number 12 Garrison Street, Jean-Pierre Mourlon rings and re-ringing, typing and re-typing and re-toque toque. Person. All shutters are closed. Alerted by noise, a kind neighbor leans on her balcony, the mother Prudence Trottemenu (the name is written on the mailbox and smile journalist) explains qu'Agnan Fumerol just left the day before, very early, on holiday in Corsica.
Mourlon more sloppy than usual rushing into the single taxi waiting in front of the station.
- Take me somewhere, he manages to whisper to the driver.
- I Want Bin, but where, exactly?
- First I need a hotel not too expensive, then the mayor, or police, or the tourist office, you know the city better than me, I suppose ...
- Monsieur is a tourist, by chance, or traveling salesman?
- Neither one nor the other. I lead an investigation, mutters under his breath raspy our reporter.
- This s'rait it step over the mysterious drowning? I read it in the newspaper: an unknown corpse discovered in the scale Fish Dam ...
- worry. My suspect is alive. Besides, you must have heard about. Joel Lenoir is the author of bestselling novel.
- Joel, unknown to the battalion. Blacks, frequent 'em not much, it's not racist ... I j'soye, apart from the Journal of the Centre and Paris-Turf, j'lis not much. Sometimes, the boss made me buy Paris-Match, but only when there are large weddings. What do you want him to c'te Black?
- Simply knowing where nursery. You have no idea?
- You'll have the information at the tourist office. That's their job, and now with the Internet, know everything about everything, even about me, I'm pisque on their portal, as has
say ... Meanwhile, the taxi went through three bridges, lined two caravans, a group of cyclists and a delivery truck, turned around two roundabouts and braked sharply with a row of trees. It was under the canopy of one of these giants that niche-Tourist Office tourist office. A small hut with windows covered with posters on the walls of storied indecipherable tags. The two employees are very busy. One fills in broken English family of Batavia on "Fishing Opportunities Along uh uh o beautiful river ..." In a whining tone, the second tells the phone to the head of a group of Third Age that the boat trip will not take tourists this afternoon because it has silted up and need to wait for the firefighters pull this bad happening with their truck ... but until the grandpas and grandma brought on board the Nivernaise an authentic lighter Loire eighteenth century. "You see, it's fascinating. You will move with the mainsail ... No, there is no seal around here ... You're talking about veil, then that's a jib? Oh, I knew not me. And then you'll see, the sailors are nice people, they drink a little, but overall, they know how to behave. So, yes? ... For 27 people! But this is impossible, they are entitled to six per trip, but we can fix it ... No ... Well, well, goodbye madame ... And you, sir, at your service. "
- I have the The address of Mr. Joel Lenoir. I am a journalist in a major magazine in Paris. It was for an interview ...
- Joel Lenoir, is impossible. We strongly forbidden to reveal his address. You know, with the success he has, it's become a VIP, he travels with three bodyguards and an armored car. But if you want information on Decize, I advise you to go from me to Agnan Fumerol. It is the specialist of the city, as a scholar there is no elsewhere. With my colleague, when we are asked a question a little bit complicated, he gives the answer, right Emily?
- Could I call the Town Hall, please?
- Nothing could be easier. Wait a minute ... this is it.
-Mairied 'decizebonjour!
The smooth voice of the hostess refers to the ears of Jean-Pierre Mourlon that of a dinner theater actress whom he was madly in love in the '70s. Following the conversation is rather disappointing. No, the hostess does not know where is Mr. Lenoir. And then, she has been instructed not to respond to the curious, because Mr. Lenoir - the new local glory - must be protected. He reportedly received threats. Finally, it is an order of the mayor and we do not discuss the orders of Mr. Tavel - is the name of the mayor. For
protests backed by Jean-Pierre Mourlon, the voice is more metallic. However, the hostess agrees to call Deputy Mayor for Culture, Mr Lesemeur. Coincidentally, he is telephone conversation with an architect of historic monuments, but he will receive the journalist in the late afternoon.
- Meanwhile, the employee enters a town hall, go and see Mr. Agnan! He alone may help you ...
Rediscovering the driver, which indicates the taximeter already 98 euros and 25 cents, and the thermometer 37 degrees in the shade, Mourlon begs to be transported to the Hotel des Capucines . He had seen fit to bring in his bag a Michelin dating from 1972, lent by his cousin, Lucette, and he checked this hotel the second order, because of its proximity to the station. The taxi driver, mocking, having explained that that hotel has been transformed into a supermarket, it remains the hotel of Agriculture, or just one room is still free, with stunning views of the road to Moulins, incessant noise truck that change speed and exhaust gas bonus. Fortunately, the cook has to prepare an omelet with morels and a rabbit-hunter.
By mid afternoon, after a short nap - two bottles of Coteaux du Giennois help dispel rumors of trucks - the reporter went to the hotel city, a remarkable construction, whatever would have thought Joel Lenoir in his thriller. Raymond Lesemeur receives in a luxurious office, Louis XVI furniture, thick carpet of Goblins. On the walls hang six pictures representing the Loire upstream of the city downstream, raw, dry, covered with ice and overflowing with yellow algae. In one corner stands a statue of authentic Gallo-Roman goddess in Decetia Medio Ligers sedative, the eponymous founder of the city. The
aedile is all smiles behind a white beard trimmed to hedge trimmers.
- No, Mr. Lenoir is not visible yet. He had to leave take refuge in a friendly country. Not really into exile, or rather on holidays or convalescence. But no, he is not sick ... It's because of paparazzi harassment of his notoriety might make him ... I can not give you his address or holiday, or even his address here, much less its numbers phone. Of course, I know, but mum's the word ... You know, when it was a star, we protect their privacy. Finally, if you want to know our city, please contact Mr. Agnan Fumerol. You will not be disappointed. This man is a wealth of knowledge. And if you need more information, call me.
Bistro in the town hall, the armory is repeated. The server, the boss, the policeman (secret mission), the jeweler's Wharf (Come recharge his batteries), all refuse to talk about Joel Lenoir. One would think that the sudden fame of the writer inconvenience his fellow citizens. And all with one voice, insisting that the reporter goes to visit the local scholar, Agnan Fumerol. On the way
Stade Nautique, where he intends to take his meal Vesper, Jean-Pierre Mourlon bizarre encounter two individuals, dressed in navy blue raincoat and hat with flaps, and brandishing telescopic umbrellas, an inappropriate place to the heat wave that has raged for three days.
The evening at the Stade Nautique is a new disappointment. The journalist would willingly take a dip but, as he learns by reading the regulations, "bathing is prohibited due to unsafe water." The meal is pretty frugal, wine crusty, stale bread, the waitress cantankerous, background music and shrill note of proportion. Returning to his hotel, thinking Mourlon nicer investigation, conducted during the year 2000: it was in the pubs of Dublin, he had gone to Research and Celtic bards he had met a great-nephew of James Joyce, an avid Guinness and red beer ... If only ...
Lenoir was contacted the next morning, the investigation stalled again. At the library, the books of Joel Lenoir are arranged on a stall, between Agatha Christie Vasquez Montalban and Chester Himes. Because the Warden has seen fit to spend the summer thrillers worldwide. Praise the young prodigy, the three librarians are not misers. But not a word about the man, his craft, its current home.
- Privacy, is sacred to us. No way to turn Mr. Lenoir pipeûle. The mayor said that and you're in journalism, you know how it ends: the scandals, suicides, ransom demands. None of that in Decize. But since you did not come to Paris for nothing, go and make a visit to an endearing character ...
- Agnan Fumerol? It has already talked to me ...
- Oh, you already know? No, well you should ...
- Where did Joel Lenoir? asks Jean-Pierre Mourlon perplexed. Canary Islands? Maldives? The Aleutians? In Timbuktu ? In Ushuaia? A Pétaouchnock? It has been, there are twenty or thirty years, the riddle of the winner of the Prix Goncourt, Emile Ajar, since there was not found, since it was represented by a lawyer, since his books were written by Romain Gary. Joel Lenoir would it be a new avatar Romain Gary? Impossible since Gary is dead and buried ... Or ...? Like everyone I meet wants Agnan Fumerol this, I must have it to the bottom. Maybe this will help me Agnan.
The address of the scholar is well known. The clerk Bookseller Wharf Mourlon Loire gives the necessary :
- You cross the bridge you see there before you. Then you turn right. It's not far. The second street, a house with an ordinary garden. I live right next door. In fact, you read The Touch of Evil? He is a young back home who wrote this thriller. Not Fumerol, Lenoir. Detective novels, it's a bit special ... But if you are looking for works Agnan Fumerol, I have in store. You will certainly return. Goodbye, sir.
reached the number 12 Garrison Street, Jean-Pierre Mourlon rings and re-ringing, typing and re-typing and re-toque toque. Person. All shutters are closed. Alerted by noise, a kind neighbor leans on her balcony, the mother Prudence Trottemenu (the name is written on the mailbox and smile journalist) explains qu'Agnan Fumerol just left the day before, very early, on holiday in Corsica.
Chapter 4: The Hunt for Fumerol.
- Hello! Mr. Diaz is you? ... Well, I return Decize. Not the slightest clue Lenoir. They are a peep in this village ... Yes, of course, I do not give up. I even have a runway, but we need to review strategy ... No, I tell you that Lenoir has disappeared, nobody knows where he is. Whatever I find is a Agnan Fumerol ... Yes, like the character of Touch of Evil. This is certainly a friend of Lenoir. He is currently in Corsica near Bastia. You think I can ... And the expense? ... Well, I'm off to Orly. See you soon! I'll bring a case of Patrimonio ... Two cases if the investigation continues, okay.
Wednesday, July 12, 9 h 15. Bastia-Poretta airport. Jean-Pierre Mourlon arrives just when the terminal is invaded by two groups of demonstrators. The wives of political prisoners FLNC noisily demanding the repatriation of Fleury-Merogis Borgo; producers and striking canistrelli Haute-Corse vehemently require government assistance and Brussels Export.
He was taken by taxi to Marana-Plage. The address that he gave to Decize only mentions the name of the subdivision by the sea A subdivision no plan, no street names, not numbers, in other words a maze. The taxi driver did not know too much about the so-called Fumerol and has already met two or three times at the bar''A''Marina Paticchja pinzutu a strange, talkative, that regulars call Fumaroli; he believes that research is that his client and therefore it is filed before a quirky building, walls striped with nationalist slogans, "Liberta per i patriotic!, Turist forums, Pulizia culunista basta, Armata Corsa ! "
Inside the bar is plunged into darkness. Only the hum of a fan that breaks the silence. Behind the counter, the server wipes the glass with a cloth drenched, his t-shirt, also wet the cloth, is a ribellu, a hooded militant nationalist shining his gun on anyone he faces. Around a table, serious as popes, five disoccupati tap the box, without uttering a single word. At another table sits an elderly client, the sailor's cap screwed on the skull before him, he set a large glass of white wine and three empty glasses were pushed to the side. Basically, a ball of black hair playing mats, which is probably the watchdog of the bistro.
- Hello, gentlemen! This would be for any information ...
The impressive silence is the only answer. The bartender glared shines to the intruder that prevents wiping alone. One player clicks his tongue.
- Please, I want to know the address of a ...
fan hums a little faster, like a warning.
On the third try, Jean-Pierre Mourlon said he had better leave before the situation escalates. He is conscious of having committed a blunder. Can we disturb the game away with five types of cards? Then the solitary cap rises.
- Come out. We talk without disturbing these gentlemen. You see, the game is consistent today: Dongucci son plays the family house in poker. You noticed the man with dark glasses, sitting across the counter. It Frimbolacci Tony, a veteran of the French Connection, it is not tender, believe me. So no question of disturbing. It is in honor ...
The brave sailor, who is not one despite his hat, appears briefly. Philippe Tamburini, former deputy head of agency at Credit Lyonnais, the subdivision known as his pocket. Obviously, he knows where the villa Agnan Fumerol.
- Here it is called bisque Fumaroli to do. Everyone knows he is pinzutu, but he comes over ten years, one or two months per year. A cousin married a Corsican, Devote Canelloni and they inherited many lands. Your Fumerol è che i piu Corsu Corsi connosce tuttu in Corsica. Excuse me, I translate. It is more than Corsica Corsicans, he knows everything in Corsica. This is also a good friend. When he comes, he does not go three nights without you go do a tour of all owls ... This year we see less, you will understand ...
With these words, Tamburini Mourlon guide to a remote corner of the subdivision where they discover the ruins of three houses: one that had belonged to a German tourist, was blown up by the hysterical FLNC channel, the second that had belonged to one of the leaders of the FLNC tear duct was blown up by dissidents and the third , that of Agnan Fumerol was destroyed last May by a barbecue concentrated hydrogen as the great inventor had tinkered.
- Yes, his house is temporarily unusable. I think it repaired. He said he was preparing something big. But I know no more, and then these moves, we do not talk too much, is not it?
Upon his arrival in the island Agnan Fumerol is mounted to the village of his cousin Devote at Fumarola-soprano, in the mountains of Castagniccia. Philippe Tamburini explains the route in great detail and posturing:
- Take the road towards Ajaccio. Barchetta arrived at about 20 km from here, turn left, then head Campile, two intersections farther right, after the pass St. Demetrius is any left. Warning: there are no more signs. Young people have loosened for peace in the village. So do not lose it, or buy a map at the airport, but do not rely on names that are written, all signs were corsisés recently.
In thanks, Jean-Pierre Mourlon offers a tour of his cicerone Serena beer, they drink in silence as the game continues; the atmosphere is more tense and it even happens that a player escapes a "Cristacciu! Resounding and throws his two ace of clubs behind him. The reporter's hand briefly greenhouse Tamburini and disappears. No sooner has he found the taxi driver, blissfully asleep under a eucalyptus tree, he heard two shots, no doubt from the bar''A''Paticchja Marina.
- They had to kill a fly, says the taxi driver stretching. In the Twingo
he rented from Hertz at the airport, Jean-Pierre Mourlon is very proud; turn after turn, he finds himself negotiating powerslides like a real rally driver. The first cow that grazes him mooing recalls that the Tour de Corse is finished for over a month. A little later, a pickup truck rolling down a baker in opposite directions and forced to ride in the ditch: the rocker split, ripped a hubcap, a flat tire, he is left to allow its security to the rental agency .
Finally, the first houses of a hamlet appear. Jean-Paul Mourlon brakes in front of a shack topped multi signs:
"AT Saveria
Grocery. Newspapers. Bread.
Delicatessen traditional. Articles
fishing and mountain.
Payphone. Wood and charcoal.
Casanis. Corsica Cola. Cap Corse Mattei, IFF "
- I am come to Fumarola Soprana, he asks from behind an old lady who filled her basket with food.
- Fumarola Soprana is highest. Here is Fumarola Sottana. To mount Fumarola Soprana, you'll go down to the neck of St. Demetrius and you will take the first left from the ruins of the old convent. You arrive first at Fumarola Mezza, where the town hall, and the hamlet of Santa Fiordispina. Then, behind the old school next to Ange-François, he is the bridle path that climbs to Fumarola Soprana. But I believe there's a fire upstairs. See, a Canadair
happens ... Before the town hall park a fire truck and a van to the police. They block passage. Jean-Pierre Mourlon activates its alarm, which earned him a brief note of the firefighter on duty: "You can not pass! "The area is prohibited, the Canadair dump tons of water on the opposite hill, which was ravaged by a fire underground. The inhabitants of the hamlet, undaunted, they play with balls and watching the firefighters slyly; everyone knows that the fire was lit by the old Petrorsu Codamozza, the goat farmer. And
Agnan Fumerol - or rather Ananiu Fumaroli, as it is called here? Where is he? Might he not be surrounded by flames? To see again his house destroyed? Jean-Pierre Mourlon alerts bowls players, spectators, the three old men sitting in the shade of a fig tree, the same two looked at their balconies, kids, sleeping, donkeys and goats.
- My dear sir, "replied a small wholesale sporting a bob Casanis, your friend, he is not here, he had to leave on the continent. It was urgently recalled the Nièvre. I do not know if it has to do with the Grand Prix of France, or the July 14 parade, but he went like an arrow. Note that with its Titin is the old 203 he calls Titin, it is never certain to happen. It must take Napoleon Bonaparte himself tonight ... at Bastia.
- But I come from, exactly.
- And you do not cross Titin, a 203 black and white? It is an old car magpie, a police car of the 50s.
Indeed, Mourlon remembers having seen a few kilometers its point of departure, an ancient 203 arrested in a corner, lifted the hood, escaping a cloud of smoke gray.
- And what do you want him to Ananiu?
- I am a journalist. It is a literary investigation ...
- Oh, you came for a story. Are you aware, sir, here we do not like talking about yourself. Ananiu is not the same, it is a continental. But the real inhabitants of the village, they are discreet. Yet, celebrities, there are a few to Fumarola. I have a small relative who touches the guitar, he accompanied two-year tour of Muvrini until Bercy concert, you must know if you're in show business: Ghjuvan-Bernardu Angelini. We also learned clergyman, Father Mandolini, a collector of firearms and Baroque brushes. And most importantly, there is little Bellacoscia Letizia, who was shortlisted last year for Star Academy, it was not retained in the final because she was too cute and the people of the cast, as they say, they were afraid of the new sex bomb ...
Corsican - Excuse me, is one I am looking Fumerol
... "Then, good road ... Oh, wait. If you the encounter, not a word about me, you can remember, my name is Charlie Barattini.
Wednesday, July 12, 9 h 15. Bastia-Poretta airport. Jean-Pierre Mourlon arrives just when the terminal is invaded by two groups of demonstrators. The wives of political prisoners FLNC noisily demanding the repatriation of Fleury-Merogis Borgo; producers and striking canistrelli Haute-Corse vehemently require government assistance and Brussels Export.
He was taken by taxi to Marana-Plage. The address that he gave to Decize only mentions the name of the subdivision by the sea A subdivision no plan, no street names, not numbers, in other words a maze. The taxi driver did not know too much about the so-called Fumerol and has already met two or three times at the bar''A''Marina Paticchja pinzutu a strange, talkative, that regulars call Fumaroli; he believes that research is that his client and therefore it is filed before a quirky building, walls striped with nationalist slogans, "Liberta per i patriotic!, Turist forums, Pulizia culunista basta, Armata Corsa ! "
Inside the bar is plunged into darkness. Only the hum of a fan that breaks the silence. Behind the counter, the server wipes the glass with a cloth drenched, his t-shirt, also wet the cloth, is a ribellu, a hooded militant nationalist shining his gun on anyone he faces. Around a table, serious as popes, five disoccupati tap the box, without uttering a single word. At another table sits an elderly client, the sailor's cap screwed on the skull before him, he set a large glass of white wine and three empty glasses were pushed to the side. Basically, a ball of black hair playing mats, which is probably the watchdog of the bistro.
- Hello, gentlemen! This would be for any information ...
The impressive silence is the only answer. The bartender glared shines to the intruder that prevents wiping alone. One player clicks his tongue.
- Please, I want to know the address of a ...
fan hums a little faster, like a warning.
On the third try, Jean-Pierre Mourlon said he had better leave before the situation escalates. He is conscious of having committed a blunder. Can we disturb the game away with five types of cards? Then the solitary cap rises.
- Come out. We talk without disturbing these gentlemen. You see, the game is consistent today: Dongucci son plays the family house in poker. You noticed the man with dark glasses, sitting across the counter. It Frimbolacci Tony, a veteran of the French Connection, it is not tender, believe me. So no question of disturbing. It is in honor ...
The brave sailor, who is not one despite his hat, appears briefly. Philippe Tamburini, former deputy head of agency at Credit Lyonnais, the subdivision known as his pocket. Obviously, he knows where the villa Agnan Fumerol.
- Here it is called bisque Fumaroli to do. Everyone knows he is pinzutu, but he comes over ten years, one or two months per year. A cousin married a Corsican, Devote Canelloni and they inherited many lands. Your Fumerol è che i piu Corsu Corsi connosce tuttu in Corsica. Excuse me, I translate. It is more than Corsica Corsicans, he knows everything in Corsica. This is also a good friend. When he comes, he does not go three nights without you go do a tour of all owls ... This year we see less, you will understand ...
With these words, Tamburini Mourlon guide to a remote corner of the subdivision where they discover the ruins of three houses: one that had belonged to a German tourist, was blown up by the hysterical FLNC channel, the second that had belonged to one of the leaders of the FLNC tear duct was blown up by dissidents and the third , that of Agnan Fumerol was destroyed last May by a barbecue concentrated hydrogen as the great inventor had tinkered.
- Yes, his house is temporarily unusable. I think it repaired. He said he was preparing something big. But I know no more, and then these moves, we do not talk too much, is not it?
Upon his arrival in the island Agnan Fumerol is mounted to the village of his cousin Devote at Fumarola-soprano, in the mountains of Castagniccia. Philippe Tamburini explains the route in great detail and posturing:
- Take the road towards Ajaccio. Barchetta arrived at about 20 km from here, turn left, then head Campile, two intersections farther right, after the pass St. Demetrius is any left. Warning: there are no more signs. Young people have loosened for peace in the village. So do not lose it, or buy a map at the airport, but do not rely on names that are written, all signs were corsisés recently.
In thanks, Jean-Pierre Mourlon offers a tour of his cicerone Serena beer, they drink in silence as the game continues; the atmosphere is more tense and it even happens that a player escapes a "Cristacciu! Resounding and throws his two ace of clubs behind him. The reporter's hand briefly greenhouse Tamburini and disappears. No sooner has he found the taxi driver, blissfully asleep under a eucalyptus tree, he heard two shots, no doubt from the bar''A''Paticchja Marina.
- They had to kill a fly, says the taxi driver stretching. In the Twingo
he rented from Hertz at the airport, Jean-Pierre Mourlon is very proud; turn after turn, he finds himself negotiating powerslides like a real rally driver. The first cow that grazes him mooing recalls that the Tour de Corse is finished for over a month. A little later, a pickup truck rolling down a baker in opposite directions and forced to ride in the ditch: the rocker split, ripped a hubcap, a flat tire, he is left to allow its security to the rental agency .
Finally, the first houses of a hamlet appear. Jean-Paul Mourlon brakes in front of a shack topped multi signs:
"AT Saveria
Grocery. Newspapers. Bread.
Delicatessen traditional. Articles
fishing and mountain.
Payphone. Wood and charcoal.
Casanis. Corsica Cola. Cap Corse Mattei, IFF "
- I am come to Fumarola Soprana, he asks from behind an old lady who filled her basket with food.
- Fumarola Soprana is highest. Here is Fumarola Sottana. To mount Fumarola Soprana, you'll go down to the neck of St. Demetrius and you will take the first left from the ruins of the old convent. You arrive first at Fumarola Mezza, where the town hall, and the hamlet of Santa Fiordispina. Then, behind the old school next to Ange-François, he is the bridle path that climbs to Fumarola Soprana. But I believe there's a fire upstairs. See, a Canadair
happens ... Before the town hall park a fire truck and a van to the police. They block passage. Jean-Pierre Mourlon activates its alarm, which earned him a brief note of the firefighter on duty: "You can not pass! "The area is prohibited, the Canadair dump tons of water on the opposite hill, which was ravaged by a fire underground. The inhabitants of the hamlet, undaunted, they play with balls and watching the firefighters slyly; everyone knows that the fire was lit by the old Petrorsu Codamozza, the goat farmer. And
Agnan Fumerol - or rather Ananiu Fumaroli, as it is called here? Where is he? Might he not be surrounded by flames? To see again his house destroyed? Jean-Pierre Mourlon alerts bowls players, spectators, the three old men sitting in the shade of a fig tree, the same two looked at their balconies, kids, sleeping, donkeys and goats.
- My dear sir, "replied a small wholesale sporting a bob Casanis, your friend, he is not here, he had to leave on the continent. It was urgently recalled the Nièvre. I do not know if it has to do with the Grand Prix of France, or the July 14 parade, but he went like an arrow. Note that with its Titin is the old 203 he calls Titin, it is never certain to happen. It must take Napoleon Bonaparte himself tonight ... at Bastia.
- But I come from, exactly.
- And you do not cross Titin, a 203 black and white? It is an old car magpie, a police car of the 50s.
Indeed, Mourlon remembers having seen a few kilometers its point of departure, an ancient 203 arrested in a corner, lifted the hood, escaping a cloud of smoke gray.
- And what do you want him to Ananiu?
- I am a journalist. It is a literary investigation ...
- Oh, you came for a story. Are you aware, sir, here we do not like talking about yourself. Ananiu is not the same, it is a continental. But the real inhabitants of the village, they are discreet. Yet, celebrities, there are a few to Fumarola. I have a small relative who touches the guitar, he accompanied two-year tour of Muvrini until Bercy concert, you must know if you're in show business: Ghjuvan-Bernardu Angelini. We also learned clergyman, Father Mandolini, a collector of firearms and Baroque brushes. And most importantly, there is little Bellacoscia Letizia, who was shortlisted last year for Star Academy, it was not retained in the final because she was too cute and the people of the cast, as they say, they were afraid of the new sex bomb ...
Corsican - Excuse me, is one I am looking Fumerol
... "Then, good road ... Oh, wait. If you the encounter, not a word about me, you can remember, my name is Charlie Barattini.
Chapter 5: His poor heart dribbles at the stern.
- O Manu, you're spineless, the bar is closed!
Encore them! But they never sleep, these idiots. Already last night, they made a devil's whorehouse in the boat, it took the intervention of the purser, and two legionnaires for calm ... "
'They are teenagers Marseille bushels of neighborhoods north without doubt, returning from a mountain camp in Corsica. Jean-Pierre Mourlon, back crossed aches, would have liked to rest. At six minus five, the Napoleon Bonaparte is still far from Marseilles. Then they go howling on deck if it sings to them!
journalist remembers the previous evening. The raid took place in Bastia Fumarola without too many hitches: just hustled a cow in a ditch, two pigs put to flight, a barrage of mobile policemen on the national radar and a flash on the seafront at Hertz office in the port it was successful, somehow, to be reimbursed half of the bond, lying shamelessly to the employee, claiming that a tractor had hung. He even gave a fake number and signed a joint report of convenience.
The problem had begun at the ferry terminal. More than any car on the free-Napoleon Bonaparte to get a seat in a wheelchair, he stood in line nearly three hours and during that time, the boat should sail. What had saved Mourlon is delayed, unpredictable in the direction of SNCM: a group of dockers Sindicatu Travagliadori Corsi di i blocked the doors to hire the dock attendant stall one twelfth of the moorings.
In the boat, the crowd was great migrations Summer : Families with screaming babies, groups of pimply teenagers pursuing nymphets in beachwear, legionnaires who felt more slop than the hot sand, pot-bellied truckers gathered around zinc in the cafeteria, the Germans fired and annealed by the sun, Dutch floured Nivea cream, tomato sellers Croats, Moroccans pickers melons, Nice merchants salads, Senegalese street vendors offering African amulets, Jehovah's witnesses, witnesses of road accidents , clad hikers with ice axes and backpacks, clergymen playing scrabble, English is taking for Nelson, Italian mammas for distributing units of pizza and brats to their floats, and even Jean-Pierre Mourlon has not had time to see everything ...
He went through alleyways, climbing stairs, open and closed doors, covered bridges, since the sun-deck to the No. 2 hold, expressly prohibited to the public! He asked more than 50 sailors, petty officers, NCOs and officers if the so-called Agnan Fumerol was on board, if a 203 white and black was on the list of vehicles on board. Indeed, this car registered 605 BB 58 was parked in the garage before the portside deck 5. It a server in the restaurant that has this confidence.
He had to find the owner of this 203. A message has been launched by the internal radio the boat, "Mr. Agnan Fumerol, owner of the vehicle registered 605 BB 58, is asked to come urgently to the reception. No reaction. Perhaps the so-called Fumerol was already asleep, or too busy ...
So Jean-Pierre Mourlon had won his seat in a spacious lounge buzzing conversations and crying kids. Unable to close the eye: young Marseille came in, shouted at, ran in aisles ... It was hell, so that the journalist had taken refuge, from 23 am to midnight at the bar of the bridge 10. He had an acquaintance, around a dozen beers Pietra, with two additional drivers to destinations though grotesque: one carrying milk Corsican Roquefort, to produce the famous cheese than the other reported in Corsica, so that the the island population to swallow.
Then the bar was closed.
"What a sleepless night. We have to find my Fumerol before he go up in smoke! What will I be able to tell the father Diaz? No Lenoir Decize I go on the track Fumerol. Barely a day in Corsica, we must return and I have nothing. I'm absolutely stuck before exiting the boat. "
" Ladies and gentlemen passengers traveling with their vehicles are requested to be garages. Make sure you have not forgotten anything in the cabins. The commander Sainsémy wish you a good day. In Marseille the outside temperature is 19 degrees, the sky is blue and sardines mouth still the Old Port. No, it is the bluefin tuna that blocks ... Wow! Stop your tall stories, Christine! "Jean-Pierre
Mourlon has posted two before the 203-meter walk. He brandishes a large cardboard on which he wrote: "Agnan Fumerol? And he waits. The first
motorists turned on their lights and some engines purr, releasing foul-smelling gas that bothers all passengers, in this overheated wedge. Mourlon scrutinize all passengers vomited as the elevator door: the grandpas in shorts, young couples in suits, all shades of tan, the costumes the most unexpected, a VRP in tie, punk red crest, a starlet mini-skirt transparent, a mamma all draped in black, sturdy beaters in several suits of the France team football, with not less than three Zidane, the beautiful, ugly, large, the slender, clowns, the gallows, and of course a lot of rednecks and boastful gesticuleurs. But that may well be what Fumerol?
At this time the narrator is experiencing anxiety. If Agnan Fumerol is too trivial, how Jean-Pierre Mourlon deems there? He expects, according to the information it was given its many stakeholders, to find a phenomenon, an exceptional human being. But if Agnan Fumerol is too exuberant, too picturesque, too cartoonish, what interest he may arouse an aesthetic of the caliber of Mourlon?
The reader forgives us. Agnan Fumerol has an almost physical insignificant. This is not James Bond, or San Antonio or Bérurier or Hercule Poirot or Jules Maigret, or Pepe Carvalho. Medium height, slightly overweight, graying hair, early baldness, sandals, jeans and shirt, a backpack and a briefcase in hand, sunglasses. Mourlon might not identify it in the crowd, then he might have met two or three times during the crossing. The originality of
Fumerol, his eccentricity, his aura is not immediately discernible, we must practice it to appreciate it for its value ..
The man opens the door of his Titine it settles behind the wheel, start the engine, draws three or four times on the starter, adjusts the rearview mirror and fix the vehicle in front: a gray Megane registered in the Vosges and driven by a pretty blonde. The look of Fumerol tries to discover the face of it in his own mirror. So begins an amusement grimaces and smiles ... just for time pass. While waving his sign ... Mourlon
- Hey Rashid! You've reached, your girl?
- Do not fuck, she was with her boyfriend. Of Rital, I reckon. She said "vafanculo! "What does that mean?
The bushels Marseille arrive in turn. The attention and that of Fumerol Mourlon are diverted to the band Zigomars.
is when the 203 advance Fumerol jolting that decrypts his name on the sign. His foot slips off the accelerator pedal and hold Titine by escaping one last asphyxiant. Jean-Pierre Mourlon approaches the door Fumerol which lowers the glass and a brief conversation ensued between the two men. Unfortunately, the engine noise, the rattling of chains as the sailors left behind, shouting and slamming of doors cover their votes. Nevertheless, the reporter slips in place of front passenger - known place of death, which is not meant to reassure us - and the 203 hits the catwalks. His entry on the Quai de la Joliette has not gone unnoticed. A plethora of pets and a thick black smoke out the tailpipe, dockers push "cheers! "Foot passengers take pictures, and a policeman on duty fattening his whistle.
Encore them! But they never sleep, these idiots. Already last night, they made a devil's whorehouse in the boat, it took the intervention of the purser, and two legionnaires for calm ... "
'They are teenagers Marseille bushels of neighborhoods north without doubt, returning from a mountain camp in Corsica. Jean-Pierre Mourlon, back crossed aches, would have liked to rest. At six minus five, the Napoleon Bonaparte is still far from Marseilles. Then they go howling on deck if it sings to them!
journalist remembers the previous evening. The raid took place in Bastia Fumarola without too many hitches: just hustled a cow in a ditch, two pigs put to flight, a barrage of mobile policemen on the national radar and a flash on the seafront at Hertz office in the port it was successful, somehow, to be reimbursed half of the bond, lying shamelessly to the employee, claiming that a tractor had hung. He even gave a fake number and signed a joint report of convenience.
The problem had begun at the ferry terminal. More than any car on the free-Napoleon Bonaparte to get a seat in a wheelchair, he stood in line nearly three hours and during that time, the boat should sail. What had saved Mourlon is delayed, unpredictable in the direction of SNCM: a group of dockers Sindicatu Travagliadori Corsi di i blocked the doors to hire the dock attendant stall one twelfth of the moorings.
In the boat, the crowd was great migrations Summer : Families with screaming babies, groups of pimply teenagers pursuing nymphets in beachwear, legionnaires who felt more slop than the hot sand, pot-bellied truckers gathered around zinc in the cafeteria, the Germans fired and annealed by the sun, Dutch floured Nivea cream, tomato sellers Croats, Moroccans pickers melons, Nice merchants salads, Senegalese street vendors offering African amulets, Jehovah's witnesses, witnesses of road accidents , clad hikers with ice axes and backpacks, clergymen playing scrabble, English is taking for Nelson, Italian mammas for distributing units of pizza and brats to their floats, and even Jean-Pierre Mourlon has not had time to see everything ...
He went through alleyways, climbing stairs, open and closed doors, covered bridges, since the sun-deck to the No. 2 hold, expressly prohibited to the public! He asked more than 50 sailors, petty officers, NCOs and officers if the so-called Agnan Fumerol was on board, if a 203 white and black was on the list of vehicles on board. Indeed, this car registered 605 BB 58 was parked in the garage before the portside deck 5. It a server in the restaurant that has this confidence.
He had to find the owner of this 203. A message has been launched by the internal radio the boat, "Mr. Agnan Fumerol, owner of the vehicle registered 605 BB 58, is asked to come urgently to the reception. No reaction. Perhaps the so-called Fumerol was already asleep, or too busy ...
So Jean-Pierre Mourlon had won his seat in a spacious lounge buzzing conversations and crying kids. Unable to close the eye: young Marseille came in, shouted at, ran in aisles ... It was hell, so that the journalist had taken refuge, from 23 am to midnight at the bar of the bridge 10. He had an acquaintance, around a dozen beers Pietra, with two additional drivers to destinations though grotesque: one carrying milk Corsican Roquefort, to produce the famous cheese than the other reported in Corsica, so that the the island population to swallow.
Then the bar was closed.
"What a sleepless night. We have to find my Fumerol before he go up in smoke! What will I be able to tell the father Diaz? No Lenoir Decize I go on the track Fumerol. Barely a day in Corsica, we must return and I have nothing. I'm absolutely stuck before exiting the boat. "
" Ladies and gentlemen passengers traveling with their vehicles are requested to be garages. Make sure you have not forgotten anything in the cabins. The commander Sainsémy wish you a good day. In Marseille the outside temperature is 19 degrees, the sky is blue and sardines mouth still the Old Port. No, it is the bluefin tuna that blocks ... Wow! Stop your tall stories, Christine! "Jean-Pierre
Mourlon has posted two before the 203-meter walk. He brandishes a large cardboard on which he wrote: "Agnan Fumerol? And he waits. The first
motorists turned on their lights and some engines purr, releasing foul-smelling gas that bothers all passengers, in this overheated wedge. Mourlon scrutinize all passengers vomited as the elevator door: the grandpas in shorts, young couples in suits, all shades of tan, the costumes the most unexpected, a VRP in tie, punk red crest, a starlet mini-skirt transparent, a mamma all draped in black, sturdy beaters in several suits of the France team football, with not less than three Zidane, the beautiful, ugly, large, the slender, clowns, the gallows, and of course a lot of rednecks and boastful gesticuleurs. But that may well be what Fumerol?
At this time the narrator is experiencing anxiety. If Agnan Fumerol is too trivial, how Jean-Pierre Mourlon deems there? He expects, according to the information it was given its many stakeholders, to find a phenomenon, an exceptional human being. But if Agnan Fumerol is too exuberant, too picturesque, too cartoonish, what interest he may arouse an aesthetic of the caliber of Mourlon?
The reader forgives us. Agnan Fumerol has an almost physical insignificant. This is not James Bond, or San Antonio or Bérurier or Hercule Poirot or Jules Maigret, or Pepe Carvalho. Medium height, slightly overweight, graying hair, early baldness, sandals, jeans and shirt, a backpack and a briefcase in hand, sunglasses. Mourlon might not identify it in the crowd, then he might have met two or three times during the crossing. The originality of
Fumerol, his eccentricity, his aura is not immediately discernible, we must practice it to appreciate it for its value ..
The man opens the door of his Titine it settles behind the wheel, start the engine, draws three or four times on the starter, adjusts the rearview mirror and fix the vehicle in front: a gray Megane registered in the Vosges and driven by a pretty blonde. The look of Fumerol tries to discover the face of it in his own mirror. So begins an amusement grimaces and smiles ... just for time pass. While waving his sign ... Mourlon
- Hey Rashid! You've reached, your girl?
- Do not fuck, she was with her boyfriend. Of Rital, I reckon. She said "vafanculo! "What does that mean?
The bushels Marseille arrive in turn. The attention and that of Fumerol Mourlon are diverted to the band Zigomars.
is when the 203 advance Fumerol jolting that decrypts his name on the sign. His foot slips off the accelerator pedal and hold Titine by escaping one last asphyxiant. Jean-Pierre Mourlon approaches the door Fumerol which lowers the glass and a brief conversation ensued between the two men. Unfortunately, the engine noise, the rattling of chains as the sailors left behind, shouting and slamming of doors cover their votes. Nevertheless, the reporter slips in place of front passenger - known place of death, which is not meant to reassure us - and the 203 hits the catwalks. His entry on the Quai de la Joliette has not gone unnoticed. A plethora of pets and a thick black smoke out the tailpipe, dockers push "cheers! "Foot passengers take pictures, and a policeman on duty fattening his whistle.
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