Simenon’s Maigret novels, published between 1931 and 1972, are mostly set in the smoky, seedy, cosmopolitan underbelly of 1940s–50s Paris. Reading them alongside Philippe Georget’s more contemporary Crimes of Winter has been an unexpected divertissement — a chance to compare eras, atmospheres, and moral sensibilities.

As you'd expect, there are the standard Noir themes resurfacing again and again:

• Casual misogyny, traditional gender roles. Like, there are women working in criminal forensics, but their professionalism doesn't save them from the sexual harassment of their colleagues.
• Adultery, betrayal — though Georget introduces the possibility of forgiveness
• Secrets, deception, conspiracies; as always, the investigator whose imperative and obligation it is to uncover the truth

And then there are the visual and sensual motifs that make these stories so distinctively and deliciously French (at least, to someone who's been to France... once):

• “Crimes of passion” are French, right? We constantly see the raw, ungovernable emotions behind those crimes — behind every interaction, really — flickering across suspects’ and protagonists' faces alike, betrayed by the faintest reaction, detected by others even when suppressed.
• Food = French. Meals in cafés and restaurants: long, wine-fueled conversations, the clatter of plates, and the small rituals of participating in restaurant culture — that delicate overlap between public sociability and domestic life.
• Fashion = French. In Maigret’s First Case, there’s an interesting note about the expectations on proper evening attire — in the form of young Maigret's professional instructions, very explicit — a small but intriguing detail. I'm waiting to see if Crimes of Winter offers any similar moments of sartorial observation.
• Smoking = French. Obviously, tobacco smoke is forever in the air. Cigarettes are everywhere. In Maigret books (and TV), we have the slow, contemplative ritual of his pipe.

The differences between Simenon and Georget, though, are equally fascinating.

Georget’s detective, Gilles Sebag, works not in Paris but in Catalonia — close to the Mediterranean — in a languid seaside town, though this novel takes place in winter (as one would guess from the title).

• Questions of Catalan identity, language, and climate surface from the start — which begs one to fall down some Wikipedia rabbithole on Catalonian history and politics.
• The region’s popular folklore, we learn, includes a Caganer — a tiny figure of a man in the act of defecation (!!), traditionally hidden in Nativity scenes (??). To this American reader, it came as a bit of a shock, but I also found it deeply hilarious.
• Georget also clarifies something I’d always wondered: the distinction between gendarmes and policiers. The former are more martial, often serving rural areas and overseeing military bases or airports; the latter are civilian officers who serve metropolitan jurisdictions.

I’m enjoying Georget as much as Simenon — perhaps even more. There’s a real vulnerability in Gilles’s processing of his wife’s adultery. It’s especially striking given that Simenon himself was notoriously unfaithful, really disgusting in his excesses, while his Maigret remains so steadfastly good and loyal. I can't imagine how Simenon would handle an affair coming between the commissaire and Madame Maigret, but maybe I just haven't read enough in the series...

Also, while sexual transgression and extramarital affairs are constantly alluded to in Simenon, in Georget, by contrast, there’s a modern frankness and intimacy in the sexual descriptions, as well as occasional shifts in perspective that heighten the dramatic tension. Crimes of Winter also feels heftier than any of the Maigret books — longer, denser, and ultimately a far more substantial read. No completing it in one sitting, here — though the story has proved un-putdownable enough that it won't take long.