La Pute

7

Every night since she arrived in Marseille, Fontaine had dreamt of her. The same woman that she had abandoned in Sicily and thought about every waking moment since then. She dreamt of the woman and of a dying pulse, a pulse so weak that one could barely say it was there.

It was in March of 1969 that Fontaine first heard about Bonneville's death. She never found out the real cause or an exact time, but supposedly her death was not a sudden one. She perished slowly over time, from starvation, from cold, from violence, and maybe from faith.

Bonneville put her faith in the wrong god.

After a good while of trying to fall asleep with no success, Fontaine got out of bed and walked over to the open window across the room that overlooked the roofs of neighboring buildings, behind which a strip of the ocean could be seen. At that time it was pitch black, but the sky was silky and grey. In Paris Fontaine would never have thought to recklessly keep a window open through the night, regardless of how safe the neighborhood was. But on her second meeting with Sergeant Roche, his words gave her food for thought.

"What lives here in Marseille is quite different from what you folk are used to there in the capital. It's not that Marseille is any less dangerous - it is dangerous, perhaps to a point where we can't even phantom - but what Marseille has is a sense of peace. The people do not fear sleeping with an open window or even with an open door. What comes, is bound to come."

Nothing came through the window, at least not that night.

The next day Fontaine made up her mind; she would erase Bonneville from her mind. She was gone, and aside from their encounter at the cafe, they had no relationship. She opened her eyes and heart to Marseille, inhaling its essence. Marseille was nothing like Sicily or Paris after all, although at times the air smelled the same. She walked along the side of the canal towards the ocean that was at its bluest that time of the day. A radiant blue, yet solemn at the same time. It was the same in Sicily, no matter how bright the Sun shone, it didn't change a thing.

Fontaine soon found herself at a cafe hidden in a narrow alleyway not far from the harbor. The cafe was small and dirty, not at all like the popular and more expensive ones that were easy to find. But Fontaine had enough reason to look beneath the surface, everyone that wandered into a place like that did. But on that day Fontaine's reason was nothing more than a subtle feeling of disappointment that had been bothering her ever since she last spoke with Sergeant Roche. She was disappointed in him and in Marseille.

"There is no tea at this time, only coffee", the young boy that seemed to work both as the waiter and cashier told her, not even lifting his gaze to look at her. Fontaine shook her hand and passed him a few coins, eyeing the bulletin behind him. There were various leaflets taped to the wall, most of which contained numbers, names, lists and addresses, but there were also pictures of people and their names. And under their name was a value.

Fontaine sat down at the far back, closest to an elderly man reading a newspaper and tapping his foot on the ground. The rhythm of it was oddly calming and passed a moment of peace to Fontaine. She looked at her watch; "9.10". The tapping stopped.

A short man in shabby clothes entered the cafe and was immediately greeted by the cashier who rushed to prepare him a cup of coffee. The man looked to be in his early 30s, but his appearance was unexceptionally unpleasant, aging him by at least a decade. Yet he wore a sincere smile and spoke in a voice as gentle as a mother's yet firm as a teacher's.

"Maxence", the old man called out to him from the back of the room and folded his newspaper on the table. Fontaine observed the two carefully as Maxence sat down with the man and began to stir his coffee. At first their conversation was quiet, barely audible, but after a few minutes Maxence stopped whispering and began to speak louder. From his tone alone Fontaine could feel that he had no intention to hide anything - his thoughts or his feelings - it was all an expression of his sincerity. "We need resistance. This country needs resistance", he placed his palms on the table and looked the man dead in the eye. "Let them spread rumors if that's what their hearts desire."

Rumors?

Fontaine knew a fair deal about Maxence, especially considering how open he was about his background and role as a mob leader. Despite the notorious reputation of Le Coeur, Maxence's hands always remained unstained. He was but an ordinary citizen that anyone could approach, yet nobody wished to harm. His influence of the French public was unmatched and with a single word he could change the minds of the working class. But when Fontaine saw him in person only a few feet from her, all the months of research suddenly felt misleading. This man did not resemble a leader in the slightest, but a hero.

Fontaine left the cafe without looking back. Her curiosity had been left much too unsatisfied, but she could tell at a glance that Maxence couldn't provide her any answers.