This mocking and at the same time formidable warning was painfully emphasized by a brief letter I got from my sister. As I suspected, she had left for Antibes just after our phone conversation:
Max, the police were talking about a psychopath or a thief or even a gangland killing. In fact they don’t know anything. They told me they were looking into Aristide’s business affairs. It was odious. They asked me all kinds of questions about the family: I told them about you, but I don’t know why, I took care not to tell them you were there. I don’t know what I was thinking of but I was afraid of making trouble for you. And what would be the use, anyway? I left immediately after the funeral. I wanted you to be there and at the same time I would have hated you to be there. It was sad and poor and awful. They were buried together at the town cemetery. Aside from me and a policeman who had come to see who would be at the funeral there were just a few old friends of Aristide’s and a priest. I left immediately afterward. I don’t know what else to write you. I’m terribly sad. Take care of yourself.
