Maxim Jakubowski - Paris Noir: Capital Crime Fiction

ParisNoir

EditedBy Maxim Jakubowski

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CONTENTS

MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI

JOHN HARVEY

JASON STARR

MARC VILLARD

JOHN WILLIAMS

CARA BLACK

JEAN-HUGUES OPPEL

MICHAEL MOORCOCK

BARRY GIFFORD

DOMINIQUE MANOTTI

MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI

SCOTT PHILLIPS

SPARKLE HAYTER

DOMINIQUE SYLVAIN

JAKE LAMAR

JIM NISBET

JEROME CHARYN

ROMAIN SLOCOMBE

STELLA DUFFY

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INTRODUCTION

MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI

By a twistof fate, my parents moved to France when I was only three years old and myfirst encounter with the dark side of Paris was when, a year or so later, I wasparachuted into the ecole maternelle and, little British boy that Ihappened to be (albeit with a Polish name of sorts), was quickly bullied andmildly beaten up by all the other kids because, a long-lasting grievance inFrance, the British had once burned Joan of Arc!

Needless tosay, becoming fluent in French became a personal priority, and I promptly madecertain my true nationality was soon forgotten as well as finding out that Joanof Arc's fiery demise was actually at the hands of her French compatriots...

To cut along story short, I went on to live in Paris until my mid-twenties and havesince cultivated a curious relationship with France and the French. But my loveof Paris has never changed, a city of delights and contradictions which stillmanages to fascinate, surprise and unsettle me onevery visit to old and new haunts. Much better commentators than me have waxedrhapsodic over the centuries about this city of light, its culture, itsgeography, its soul, its uniqueness, but being a foreigner in Paris, a spybeneath my bilingual cloak, has also allowed me different insights into thecharacter of the city, its rainbow assortment of people and quirks. Indeed, Parishas proven a magnet for decades to generations of foreign writers, artists,more than just tourists, and this head-on clash of visions has generated sometruly wonderful books, films and art.

When Idecided to follow up my London Noir volume of crime and dark stories ofover ten years ago, it became quickly obvious to me that I should tackle Paris,if only to compare my own vision of the city with that of others with differentbackgrounds, tastes and idiosyncrasies. I knew that many crime and mysterywriters of my acquaintance had also spent time there or, in some cases, stillmade regular visits, and it made sense to invite a rather prestigiousassortment of authors each to interpret the theme of Paris Noir in their owninimitable way. I think the results speak for themselves and offer a rich andvaried panorama of Paris today, a psycho-history through the lens of noirfiction.

The writersand friends who climbed on board hail from the UK, the USA, Canada and also France, and all confess to an ambiguous relationship with the Frenchcapital. Some stories embrace history and politics, others examine crime andsocial ills, yet others even skirt fantasy, but all display a strong sense ofplace and take the reader on a thrilling ride through familiar and unfamiliarstreets and quartiers, which even the literary tourist knows littleabout.

Tightenyour seat belts, Mesdames et Messieurs.

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MINOR KEY

JOHN HARVEY

I t used to be there under Birthdays, some yearsat least. The daily listing in the paper, the Guardian, occasionally The Times. 18 September. Valentine Collins, jazzmusician. And then his age: 27, 35, . Not 40. Valnever reached 40.

He'd alwayslook, Val, after the first time he was mentioned, made a point of it, checkingto see if his name was there. 'Never know,' he'd say, with that soft smile ofhis - 'Never know if I'm meant to be alive or dead.'

There weretimes when we all wondered; wondered what it was going to be. Times when heseemed to be chasing death so hard, he had to catch up. Timeswhen he didn't care.

Jimmy rangme this morning, not long after I'd got back from the shops. Bread, milk, eggs- the paper - gives me something to do, a little walk, reason to stretch mylegs.

'You allright?' he says.

'Of courseI'm all right.'

'You knowwhat day it is?'

I hold mybreath; there's no point in shouting, losing my temper. 'Yes, Jimmy, I knowwhat day it is.'

There's asilence and I can sense him reaching for the words, the thing to say - 'Youdon't fancy meeting up later? A drink, maybe? Nice to have a chat. It's been a while.'

'OK, then,Anna,' he says instead, and then he hangs up.

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There was atime when we were inseparable, Jimmy, Val, Patrick and myself. Studio 51, the Downbeat Club, all-nighters at the Flamingo, coffeeat the Bar Italia, spaghetti at the Amalfi. That place on Wardour Streetwhere Patrick swore the cheese omelettes were the best he'd ever tasted and Valwould always punch the same two buttons on the jukebox, B19 and 20, both sidesof Ella Fitzgerald's single, 'Manhattan' and 'Every Time We Say Goodbye'.

Val lovedthat song, especially.

He knewabout goodbyes, Val.

Later, anyway.

Back thenit was just another sad song, something to still the laughter. Which is what I remember most from those years, the laughter. The four of us marching arm in arm through the middle of Soho, carefree,laughing.

What dothey call them? The fifties? Theyears of austerity? That's not how I remember them, '56, '57, '58 . Dancing, music and fun, that's what they were to me . But then, maybe I was too young, too unobservant, too -God! it seems impossible to believe or say - but, yes,too innocent to know what was already there, beneath the surface. Too stupid to read the signs.

Patrick,for instance , turning away from the rest of us to havequick, intense conversations in corners with strangers, men in sharp suits andsharp haircuts, Crombie overcoats. The time Patrick himself suddenly arrivedone evening in a spanking new three-piece suit from Cecil Gee, white shirt witha rolled Mr B collar, soft Italian shoes, and when we asked him where the cashcame from for all that, only winking and tapping the side of his nose with hisindex finger - mind yours.

Val, thosemoments when he'd go quiet and stare off into nowhere and you knew, withoutanyone saying, that you couldn't speak to him, couldn't touch him, just had toleave him be until he'd turn, almost shyly, and smile with his eyes.

And Jimmy,the way he'd look at me when he thought no one else was noticing; how hecouldn't bring himself to say the right words to me, even then.

And if Ihad seen them, the signs of our future, would it have made any difference, Iwonder? Or would it all have turned out the same? Sometimes you only see whatyou want to until something presses your face so fast up against it there'snothing else you can do.

But in thebeginning it was the boys and myself and none of uswith a care in the world. Patrick and Jimmy had known one another since theywere little kids at primary school, altar boys together at St Pat's; Val hadmet up with them later, the second year of the grammar school - and me, I'dbeen lucky enough to live in the same street, catch the same bus in themorning, lucky enough that Jimmy's mother and mine should be friends. The boyswere into jazz, jazz and football - though for Patrick it was the Arsenal andfor Jimmy, Spurs, and the rows they had about that down the years. Val now, intruth I don't think Val ever cared too much about the football, just wentalong, White Hart Lane or Highbury, he didn't mind.

When itcame to jazz, though, it was Val who took the lead, and where the others wouldhave been happy enough to listen to anything as long as it had rhythm,excitement, as long as it had swing, Val was the one who sat them down and madethem listen to Gerry Mulligan with Chet Baker, Desmond with Brubeck, CharlieParker, Lester Young.