Conversation · René Arnoux

"René, I wanted to ask, what did you actually get these medals for?"

René told you his war story, now impress him with your heroics.

"I understand Jeanne-Marie meant a lot to you?"

"There's nothing for you to understand here," he snaps. "It is not her death you are investigating."

"Where was the photo of you two taken?"

"Revachol Fair of '91 in the Faubourg district." His eyes turn to the sea. "A parade was held to honour Guillaume Le Lion's name-day. And the carabineers marched in the place of honour."

"Okay, thanks."

He nods.

"You looked happy in the picture. Smiling."

"This was the happiest day of my life." This is said in such a matter-of-fact tone, it leaves no room for doubt.

"Alright, let's back up to a less sensitive subject, okay?"

His face is motionless like a marble mask. He doesn't comment.

"Were the circumstances of her death in any sense...unusual?"

"Not this again..." you hear the lieutenant mumble under his breath.

"Absolutely not." His voice is coarse. "She died of pneumonia in her bed at the age of 79. This is highly... usual."

"What happened with you, Gaston, and Jeanne-Marie?"

"I was 22 when I returned from King Guillaume's Ikeira Operation in the south and found my sweetheart in the arms of this wretch..."

'The Ikeira Operation' was a seven-year campaign during which Suzerain Guillaume's army forcefully united the people in the southeastern part of Le Petit Continent, collectively known as the Ikeira tribes, under the Revacholian banner.

He gives Gaston a hateful look. "I won her back, but while I was dealing with some... issues..."

"You were like a dark cloud sucking the joy out of every living thing around you, and you..." He quickly glances at you. "You... hurt her."

Dark cloud? That sounds unpleasantly familiar...

"I... uh... I..." He looks down at his boots, lips moving, but the words are inaudible.

"Those days and memories are gone." He nods and looks René with something resembling compassion.

The old soldier says nothing, but when his glance quickly runs over Gaston's face, there's an odd look in his eyes.

Could it be... guilt?

"I found you guys a new boule." (Hold out the ball.)

The old veteran stares at the shot put ball in silence, then speaks in a reserved voice: "What is this? Are you mocking us? This isn't for pétanque."

"Now-now, no need to get angry again, René. I'm sure the officer tried his best. It's not like there's a boule-kiosk here in Martinaise."

"I'm very sorry. It's the best I could find."

"The best, huh?" he says inspecting the ball. "This isn't even a boule, but... Fine. I guess you did attempt to right your hooliganism... Consider it forgiven."

He mumbles something to himself. It seems to be a variety of curses.

"Exactly. And I really did try."

"Trying is worth as much as is accomplished. In this case -- almost nothing."

"Fine." He takes the boule. "You tried to right a wrong. It's still a gram better than actual nothing."

"There's not gonna be an alternative. I suggest taking it."

"That's how it is, huh?" The man slowly nods, exhales sharply, and takes the ball. "Fine. I guess you did attempt to right your hooliganism... Consider it forgiven."

"René, I found your guard booth."

"Yes, the Débardeurs' Union pays me to stand vigil during the nights." He looks down. "Not out of any political allegiance, mind you."

"I'm an old man, don't sleep more than a few hours every night anyway and... money is tight," he adds with a slight sigh.

He feels like he has to justify himself for some reason.

"Got it, thanks." (Conclude.)

"Yes, yes. Like I said," he brings it up again, "I would be up anyway, so might as well keep an eye out. It keeps my senses sharp."

"You must have seen something on the night of the murder. Your booth looks right into the yard."

"Yes. It does." He nods. "Unfortunately I wasn't working that night. Been on a two-week leave since last Monday."

"Hold on, why are you on a leave?"

"It's a private matter," he says with dignity. "Nothing to do with your investigation."

"You see, officer, René is the kind of man who'd rather die than admit he needs medical assistance or -- god forbid -- seek it. A real man's man. He's just gonna ride it out."

"I'm fine, goddamnit! Mind your own business!" The outburst makes him clutch his chest. "It's nothing, just got to cut back on coffee."

It's his heart.

"So who was working your shift that night?"

"No one. The booth has been unmanned since last Monday." He looks suddenly very old and tired. "There's no other guard. It's just me."

"No one has been guarding the container yard since last Monday?"

"Yes." He nods, before hesitantly continuing. "It's... it's not actually an issue. I mean..."

"Look, officer," his partner jumps in. "The container yard doesn't actually need a guardsman. Never had one before René. Mr. Claire had that booth built specially for him. It's mostly decorative."

"So it doesn't matter, if you're there or not?"

"The possibility of someone being in there is enough to discourage any ill-minded individuals..." he tries to argue.

"Evrart created this job for René, because he knows the Royal Carabineer's pension of honour and PTSD isn't something a man can live off. 'A decorated kingsman collecting tare reflects bad on the whole neighbourhood.' -- his words."

"René should rent out his services, invest the profit, get few more guys, expand and repeat. Wagework is a dead end."

"Yes, yes, yes," the carabineer utters angrily. "Can we conclude the topic of my guard booth now?"

He is not going to become an entrepreneur.