‘I’ll have to apply for witness protection,’ said Max.
‘Maybe my publisher sent them?’ fretted Max.
‘You really should go and clean the windows or practise a few knots,’ muttered Perdu.
A dashing policeman in a pair of aviator sunglasses jumped on board and clambered swiftly up to the wheelhouse.
‘Bonjour, Messieurs. Seine River Office, Champagne district. I’m Brigadier Levec,’ he reeled off. It was clear from his voice that he loved his title.
Perdu was almost counting on this Brigadier Levec reporting him for having dropped out of his own life without permission.
‘Unfortunately, you haven’t affixed your French Waterways Authority disc in a visible position. And please show me the mandatory life jackets. Thank you.’
‘I’ll go and clean the windows,’ said Jordan.
A quarter of an hour, a warning and a notification of a fine later, Monsieur Perdu had emptied out the cash register money and the change from his pocket onto the table for a disc to be allowed to navigate on French inland waters, a set of fluorescent life jackets, which were compulsory when passing through the locks on the Rh?ne, and a certified copy of the FWA guidelines. There wasn’t enough.
‘So,’ said Brigadier Levec. ‘What are we going to do now?’
Was that a satisfied glint in his eye?
‘Would you … um … do you by any chance like reading?’ asked Perdu, noticing that he was mumbling with embarrassment.
‘Of course. I don’t approve of the silly habit of lumping men who read together with weaklings and effeminate men,’ the river policeman answered, as he made to tickle Kafka, who trotted away, tail in the air.
‘Then may I offer you a book … or several to make up the balance?’
‘Hmm. I’d take them for the life jackets. But what do we do about the fine? And how do you mean to pay the mooring fees? I’m not sure that marina owners are … bookworms.’ Brigadier Levec had a think. ‘Follow the Dutch. They have a nose for a free lunch and will know where you can moor without charge.’
As they walked through Lulu’s belly and along the bookshelves so that Levec could choose his balance of payment, the brigadier turned to Max, who was polishing the window by the reading chair and avoiding looking directly at the policeman: ‘Hey, aren’t you that famous writer?’
‘Me? No. Definitely not. I’m … er,’ Jordan cast a quick glance at Perdu, ‘his son and a completely normal sports sock salesman.’
Perdu stared at him. Had Jordan just gone and got himself adopted?
Levec picked up Night from a pile. The policeman scrutinised Max’s picture on the cover.
‘Sure?’
‘Okay, maybe I am.’
Levec raised his shoulders in understanding.
‘Course you are. You must have lots of female fans.’
Max fiddled with his earmuffs, which he was wearing around his neck. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, my ex-fiancée loved your book. She was always going on about it. Sorry – I mean of course the book by that guy you look like. Perhaps you could write his name in here for me?’
Max nodded.
‘For Frédéric,’ Levec dictated, ‘with great affection.’
Max gritted his teeth and wrote what he’d been asked to.
‘Wonderful,’ said Levec and beamed at Perdu. ‘Is your son going to pay the fine too?’
Jean Perdu nodded. ‘Of course. He’s a good boy.’
After Max had pulled out his pockets to reveal a few notes of small denomination and some coins, they were both broke. With a sigh Levec took some recent publications – ‘For my colleagues’ – and a recipe book, Cooking for the Single Man.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Perdu, then, after a quick search, handed him Romain Gary’s autobiography from the Love for Dummies section.
‘What’s this for?’
‘You mean what’s it against, dear Brigadier,’ Perdu corrected him gently. ‘It’s against the disappointment of knowing that no woman will ever love us as much as the one who gave birth to us.’
Levec blushed and quickly ducked out of the book barge.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Max.
As the policemen cast off, Perdu was more convinced than ever that novels about dropouts and river adventurers left out such minor inconveniences as tax discs and life jacket fines.
‘Do you think he’ll keep it a secret that I’m here?’ asked Jordan as the police boat headed off.
‘Please, Jordan. What is so terrible about talking to a few fans or the press?’
‘They might ask what I’m working on.’
‘So what? Tell them the truth. Tell them that you’re thinking it over, you’re taking your time, you’re digging for a story and that you’ll let them know when you’ve found one.’