“Yeah, the heats for the Formula E Grand Prix. The biggest electric-car race in the world.” He picked up his bag and gave me a wave. “Talk later.”

I ordered a coffee. My mind was in a whirl, and I dimly felt that I had not played my hand well. At the end of the day, I had given Stéphane ammunition and had learned nothing in exchange.

I signaled for the check, and while I waited, I picked up my phone to look at the photographs Stéphane had sent me. I had asked for them just for the heck of it. I didn’t expect that they would reveal much.

I was wrong. Within seconds, my hand was trembling so fiercely that I had to put down the phone. I recognized the leather sports bag that had been stuffed with cash—I’d often seen it lying around my house.

8

The Summer of
The Big Blue

1.

In front of the curtain wall, the Pré-des-Pêcheurs esplanade was teeming with people. In a carnivalesque atmosphere, multicolored floats revved to life for the traditional battle of the flowers. A joyful throng was gathered behind the steel barriers: toddlers with their parents, teenagers in costumes, old men who had left their games of pétanque.

When I was a child, the battle of the flowers moved through the whole city. These days, security measures meant that there was a cop every ten meters and the floats went around in circles on the avenue de Verdun. The air was charged with excitement and apprehension. The crowd longed to have fun, to let themselves go, but the memory of the July 14 terrorist attack in Nice was on everyone’s mind. As I watched the children brandishing bouquets of carnations behind the barricades, I felt a surge of pain and anger. The threat of terrorist attacks had destroyed our impulsiveness, our spontaneity. Though we pretended otherwise, the fear was with us constantly, a dark shadow looming over every joy.

I pushed my way through and walked back to the parking lot at Port Vauban. The Mini Cooper was exactly where I had left it, but someone had stuffed a thick brown envelope under one of the windshield wipers. No name, no address. I waited until I was in the driver’s seat before examining it. My stomach was in knots as I tore open the envelope. Good news rarely comes via anonymous letters.

Inside the envelope were a dozen photographs, yellowing and faded by time. Staring at the first snapshot, I felt an abyss open up inside me—it showed my father kissing Vinca full on the lips. I felt a buzzing in my temples; my heart lurched into my throat. I opened the door of the car and spewed bile.