IN WHICH THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS AN INNOCENT LIE 9. IN WHICH THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS AN INNOCENT LIE In the middle of Rue Sainte-Françoise, outside the Treize-Coins, a man named José was washing his car, a Renault 21 painted in the Olympique Marseilles colors. Blue at the bottom, white on top. With a matching pennant, attached to the rear view mirror, and a supporters’ scarf on the back shelf. Music in the background. The best of the Gypsy Kings. Bamboleo, Djobi Djoba, Amor, Amor . . . Sicard the roadmender had opened the gutter water point for him. José had as much water as he wanted, all to himself. From time to time, he’d walk over to Sicard’s table, sit down and have a pastis, without taking his eyes off his car. As if it was a collector’s item. But maybe he was dreaming about the bimbo he was planning to take for a spin to Cassis. It was clear, at any rate, from his contented smile, that he wasn’t thinking about the tax man. And he was taking his time.
