Chapter Text
You hate funerals. Drab, morbid affairs with everyone crumbling together and weeping into delicate handkerchiefs in the rain - and it’s always raining, even in the middle of June. You forgot an umbrella, but it’s too fine to soak through your coat and your cigarette hasn’t extinguished yet, thank God; the Father has been staring at you for the better part of twenty minutes, though whether it’s because you’re the only person here or because of the smoking, you cannot be sure. He asks if you would like to say anything. About a woman you hardly knew, hadn’t spoken to in years? Shake your head no. You both cross yourselves as he nods to the diggers, the slow slug of their shovels made worse by the sodding rain.
Delphine Cormier. La voie des justes homme est assaillie de toutes parts par les inéquités de l'égoïste et la tyrannie des hommes mauvais. 1984-2015.
It’s a sad, small granite headstone with no endearments to cheapen it; the stone is smooth and the plot was expensive, set under a cherry tree you think is particularly tasteful. You brought flowers but they are wilting under the building downpour and keep catching on the odd shovel of dirt.
How long had you expected this call? Vaguely, you remember pulling her out of a bathtub a thousand years ago, how blood had stained your pristine uniform in wide snowflake patterns, the way ink used to when you still wrote on the back of your hand. The picture had been clearer back then. She called it the science of survival and stopped going to Mass and confession, started smoking (and of course, you started with her, because you were friends and you were afraid), threw herself into the academia of things rather than the blind faith of the nuns and the father. You know from an old photograph her parents are buried not too far from here, on the west bank of the Mourning Path, and wonder if perhaps you should take a jaunt over and say hello, in lieu of their daughter who cannot. Decide against it right as your phone blares off in your pocket.
Have they no respect? Your cigarette is burning down low, so with a final puff, you flick it into the grave and sniff at the harsh, twin looks from the gravediggers. Fuck off.
‘Bonjour?’ is the only word you say down the phone, listening carefully. Delphine was an idiot. Should have stayed in France, though there’s something to be said for them allowing her the dignity of returning to Paris, of letting you be the one to make the arrangements; how you wound up being named as her next of kin, you don’t know, but you’re happy to do it. Happy to call the victors of the spoils named in her will - Cosima Niehaus, congratulations, you’ve just inherited a rather sizeable chunk of change and a flashy downtown apartment - and do what needs to be done. Happy to if only because there is no one else and maybe you owe Delphine this much.
You leave slowly, let the cold Parisian rain trickle down your collar, down your spine, chilling to the bone. This should be cathartic, but it’s not. It’s just sad.
The car is warm. You left it running, hadn’t expecting such a lengthy service. Lighting another cigarette, you inhale deeply and tilt your head to look at the woman in the backseat. She said her name was Marion, on the phone, Delphine’s lawyer and a friend, but you know that’s not true. You’ve worked for Interpol too long to believe this kind of bullshit.
‘Well?’ she asks, in a cool tone that sends a deep shiver down your insides.
‘C’est fait.’ You attempt to make your answer somewhat icier, but it just comes out defeated and interrupted. You never expected to be on this end of the deal. Never expected it to be Delphine on the hill. ‘We are - even, now?’ Your English is sloppy and foreign in your mouth, ugly in a way your native language is not. The woman, Marion, laughs and it’s too high and too loud in the small car. She opens the door and rain spatters back on your face and down your neck.
‘Not even close, chérie. I’ll be in touch.’
And just like that she’s gone. She’s gone and you’ve got phone calls to make.