Page 23 of A Death in Cornwall

“I assume you picked it up as you were leaving.”

The African hesitated, then nodded. “Forgive me, Monsieur. Those phones are worth a lot of money.”

“Where is it now?”

“Are you sure you’re not a cop?”

“When was the last time a cop paid you five hundred euros for two fake handbags?”

“I gave the phone to Papa.”

“Great,” said Gabriel. “Who’s Papa?”

***

While loading his inventory into plastic rubbish bags, the street vendor introduced himself as Amadou Kamara and explained that he was from Senegal, the unstable former French colony on Africa’s west coast where joblessness and public corruption were endemic. A father of four, he concluded that he had no choice but to go to Europe if his family was to survive. He attempted the typical Senegalese route north, an overcrowded fishing boat bound for Spain’s Canary Islands, and nearly drowned when the vessel capsized in the treacherous waters off Western Sahara. After washing ashore, he walked to Morocco’s Mediterranean coast, a journey of more than a thousand miles, and managed to reach Spain in an inflatable raft with twelve other men. He did backbreaking agricultural work for a couple of years in the blistering Spanish sun—for which he was paid as little as five euros a day—then moved to Catalonia to peddle counterfeit goods on the streets of Barcelona. After a scrape with the Spanish police, he made his way to Paris and went to work for Papa Diallo.

“The local distributor for Prada and Louis Vuitton?”

“And a lot of other luxury brands as well,” replied Amadou Kamara. “The bags are manufactured in China and then smuggled into Europe aboard container ships. Papa is the biggest player in the Paris market. He’s from Senegal, too.”

“What else is Papa into?”

“The usual.”

“Stolen iPhones?”

“Mais bien sûr.”

They were walking along the rue Muller, a dark and uninviting street rarely traversed by foreign visitors to the Eighteenth Arrondissement. Their destination was an immigrant quarter known as Goutte d’Or. Gabriel was carrying one of the contraband-stuffed plastic bags, an accessory after the fact. Not for the first time he wondered how his life had come to this.

“And what’s your story?” asked Amadou Kamara.

“It is so insignificant compared to yours that I won’t bore you with the details.”

“At least tell me your name.”

“Francesco.”

“You’re not French.”

“Italian.”

“Why do you speak French so well?”

“I watch a lot of French movies.”

“What kind of work do you do, Monsieur Francesco?”

“I clean old paintings.”

“Is there money in that sort of thing?”

“Depends on the painting.”

“My daughter likes to draw. Her name is Alima. I haven’t seen her in four years.”

“Don’t tell Papa about the five hundred euros I gave you. Send it to your family instead.”

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