Conversation · Joyce Messier

"And that seems to corroborate the ethnicity we gave." The lieutenant is pedantically happy about it.

Like a crossword puzzle solver. Or a master at the guessing game Peng.

The lieutenant jots something down in his notebook, muttering to himself: "Had him down as Mondial... should change it to Occidental."

"In a way it was humanizing. He had to learn to speak through it -- through the injury." She nods. "That's all I know, I guess. I only met him once."

Must be hard to force your face to move in a new fashion. If you continue like this, you'll have an aneurysm. Then you'll have to, too.

"What else? Nationality? Accent?"

"What else? Nationality? Accent?"

"Tell me about the others first."

"One is a man, Korty they call him. A nickname as well. The other a woman, Phillis de Paule. Korty is... the gunner, I believe. De Paule is a radio operator."

The lieutenant cuts in: "What would you say was his eye colour -- the deceased's?"

She closes her eyes, trying to picture the man's face... then shakes her head...

"I can't remember." There's a pang of regret to her voice.

The lieutenant was testing her -- asking a small detail first to see if she knew him better than she let on. She passed.

"That's alright, ma'am. Anything else -- nationality? What would you say was his age?"

"How much time do we have?"

"Until the executions start? Truthfully -- I don't know. It depends on their progress identifying the members of the lynch mob. And their impatience."

"They don't report their progress to you?"

"Not on this matter. I'm afraid they consider this a personal initiative." There is a brief silence. Seagulls squawk over the bay...

Five days. Not more. Maybe sooner.

"It's a matter of days, not weeks."

"That's less than reassuring."

"I'm not trying to reassure you, officer. Quite the opposite, in fact." There is a brief silence. Seagulls squawk over the bay...

"What? You mean you don't know what's going on?"

"You said the deceased assaulted a woman?"

"Or he didn't." She tilts her head. "This is information passed on to me from some teenagers loitering around the canal. I cannot testify by it. "

"Who did the passing on then?"

"The remaining contractors. Their tribunal. It's what they believe."

"What did these teenagers by the canal say?"

"That the man was killed because he assaulted a local woman. I've asked around a bit -- this seems to be the accepted story around Martinaise."

"This does not come as news to us, but still..." He exchanges a glance with you. "To your knowledge, where did this assault take place? If you know."

"Last Sunday night, at the Whirling-in-Rags -- the hostel by the gates. Supposedly the colonel was drunk, maybe on narcotics too."

"Either way, he's alleged to have sexually assaulted a woman. Sometime later a group of dockworkers got their hands on him..."

"I know the woman you're talking about. We have it under control."

"Good. Then you've made progress. It's imperative that you move fast. The tribunal will not be patient."

"And who was this woman?"

"That's a good question, officer. I don't have the slightest idea. As I said, it's a rumour -- about a rumour. In any case, it's what the colonel's remaining... colleagues... believe."

You'll meet her soon enough, you feel.

The lieutenant consults his notebook, his eyebrows knitted in concentration...

"Odd... we haven't heard any reports about an assault in connection with the lynching. Where did it take place? And when?"

"It's not the first I've heard of this. Where did this assault take place? And when?"

"It's the first time I've heard of this. Where did this assault take place? And when?"

"Does this mean I don't have to look into that drug stuff?"

"That is exactly what it means. What I am about to tell you is more pressing, I assure you."