‘The police. They issue authorisation if you fit the criteria.’
‘What’s the criteria?’
‘Go to the police. They’ll check you out.’
‘Can’t you help me? Just a little bit.’
He shrugged and returned to his paperwork.
‘In that case could you tell me where to find the registry office? Births, deaths and marriages.’
‘First door on the left.’
Well, she thought, pleased it was so near, I hadn’t expected that. But her enthusiasm soon dimmed when, after a lengthy wait on an uncomfortable wooden chair, the heavily set and very slow-moving registrar returned, unable to confirm any record of a Rosalie Delacroix.
‘Anything registered during the war was lost in a fire,’ he said. ‘The office was housed temporarily in Rabat. We weren’t expecting bombs there but we got one all the same.’
‘What about after the war?’
‘I’ve checked the name you gave me. Nothing, I’m afraid.’
Florence sighed but she wasn’t daunted and decided that instead of the police she would first call at the address the café owner had given her. She prayed the buildingwould still be intact and when she arrived was relieved to see that it was. She entered the old place, a warren of corridors and rooms, stairwells and lecture halls smelling of cinnamon and beeswax. She eventually found the room she wanted on the first floor and knocked. Silence. She knocked again and now feeling a bit unsure of herself, she heard someone moving around. The door flew open, and as a dishevelled man stood glaring at her, she backed off.
‘Sorry. Have I disturbed your sleep?’ she asked, aiming for a light-hearted tone as she stared at the chunky, tousle-haired fellow.
He studied her face indignantly and then burst out laughing. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said, dark eyes glittering. ‘Who are you?’
She told him who she was and why she was there.
‘I’m Fleming Camilleri. But call me Cam. Everyone does. So, looking for your aunt you say?’
‘Yes. Rosalie Delacroix. French.’
‘You’ve tried the police?’
‘Not yet. I need to get authorisation to look at the records in the town hall.’
‘That’s easy, I can give you an authorisation slip.’
‘Really? The clerk said the police issued them.’
‘Yes, and so can I, and in fact any professor here. Just wait a minute and I’ll find the paperwork.’
He rummaged around in the desk drawers and eventually pulled out a pad and tore off the top slip. ‘Here we are. Your surname again, Florence?’
‘Baudin,’ she said without thinking and then wonderedif she should have said Jackson, if they were to maintain the pretence of being married.
He filled in the form, signed it, passed it to her and studied her face. ‘I don’t know but … would you like me to accompany you?’
‘Would you? That would be a tremendous help. Do you have time?’
‘Free this week. No students you see. Anything to get out of collating all this.’ He waved a hand at his paper-strewn desk and the countless files piled up on the floor.
She laughed. ‘What do you teach?’
‘Wish I knew.’
‘Seriously.’
