Part 15 (1/2)

'What's wrong is that you might get launched and drink ten beers, and today that won't do.'

'I didn't think that was any of your business. My body, my responsibility, my belly and my beer.'

'Of course. But it's your investigation and you're my inspector. And tomorrow we're going to the country. We have a rendezvous with someone we know, I hope. So I need you, and I need you with a clear head. And a strong stomach, too. Very important, the stomach. I don't know if a settled stomach helps one to think clearly. But I do know that a poor stomach will stop you thinking at all.'

Danglard observed Adamsberg's tense face. It was impossible to guess whether it was because his thread had just knotted, or because of the projected trip to the country.

'Oh d.a.m.n and blast!' said Adamsberg. 'My thread's got a knot. I really hate that. Apparently the golden rule is that you should sew in the same direction as it comes off the reel, otherwise you get a knot. See what I mean? I must have been working the other way without thinking. And now there's a knot.'

'I think you had too long a thread in the first place,' Danglard ventured.

Yes, sewing was a restful kind of occupation.

'No, Danglard, I had the right length, from my hand to my elbow. Tomorrow, at eight o'clock, I'll need eight men, a van and some dogs. And we'd better take the doctor along too.'

He poked the needle into the knot to undo it, broke off the thread, and smoothed down his trousers. Then he went out, without discovering whether Danglard would have a clear head and a strong stomach the next day. Danglard didn't know, either.

XIX.

CHARLES REYER WAS ON HIS WAY HOME. HE WAS FEELING RELAXED and enjoying it while it lasted. His conversations with Adamsberg had brought him some tranquillity, though he didn't know why. All he knew was that for the last two days he had not tried to help anyone else to cross the road.

He had even managed, without having to make much of an effort, to speak sincerely to the commissaire about Clemence, about Mathilde, and about a mult.i.tude of other things, taking his time. Adamsberg had told him things too. Things about himself. Not always very clear. Some were trivial, some were serious, but he wasn't sure that the trivial ones weren't in fact the more serious ones. It was hard to tell with Adamsberg. The wisdom of a child, the philosophy of an old man. As he had said to Mathilde in the restaurant. He had not been wrong about what was conveyed by the commissaire's gentle voice. And then the commissaire had asked him what was going on behind his dark eyes. He had told him, and Adamsberg had listened. All the sounds a blind man hears, all his painful perceptions in the dark, all the visibility that the blackness brings him. When he stopped, Adamsberg would say: 'Go on, Reyer, I'm listening.' Charles imagined that if he had been a woman he could have fallen in love with Adamsberg, while feeling despair that he was so elusive. But he was the kind of man it was probably best not to get too close to. Or else you had to be prepared not to be in despair at his elusiveness. Or something like that.

But Charles was a man, and he liked being a man. What was more, Adamsberg had confirmed the view that he was good-looking. Being a man, therefore, Charles thought he would have liked to be in love with Mathilde.

Since he was after all a man.

But was Mathilde trying to lose herself, under the sea? Was she trying not to have to hear anything of earthly battles? What had happened to Mathilde? n.o.body knew. Why was she so keen on the b.l.o.o.d.y water? Could anyone catch hold of Mathilde? Charles was afraid she would slip away like a mermaid.

He didn't stop at his landing, but went straight up to the Flying Gurnard. He felt for the bell push and rang twice.

'Something wrong?' asked Mathilde, opening the door. 'Or is there any news about the shrew-mouse?'

'Would I know if there was?'

'You've been to see Adamsberg a few times, haven't you? I called him just now. Seems there'll be some news about Clemence tomorrow.'

'Why are you so interested in Clemence?'

'Because I found her. She's my shrew-mouse.'

'No, she found you. Why've you been crying, Mathilde?'

'Crying? Yes, I have a bit. How do you know?'

'Your voice sounds a bit damp still. I can hear it perfectly.'

'Don't worry. It's just that someone I love very much is leaving tomorrow. That makes me cry just now.'

'Can I find out what your face looks like?' asked Charles, stretching out his hands.

'How?'

'Like this. You'll see.'

Charles stretched his fingers out to Mathilde's face, and ran them across it like a pianist on a keyboard. He was concentrating hard. In fact, he knew perfectly well what Mathilde looked like. She probably hadn't changed much from the seminars when he had seen her. But he wanted to touch her. It was the first time they had called each other 'tu'.

XX.

NEXT DAY, ADAMSBERG TOOK THE WHEEL OF THE POLICE CAR AS they headed for Montargis. Danglard sat beside him, Castreau and Deville in the back. The van was following them. Adamsberg bit his lip as he drove. Now and then he glanced across at Danglard, or sometimes, after changing gear, put his hand briefly on the inspector's arm. As if to rea.s.sure himself that Danglard was there, alive, alongside him and that he must stay there, alive.

Mathilde had woken early and hadn't had the heart to follow anyone that morning. The previous day, however, she had been quite entertained by a clandestine couple at the Bra.s.serie Barnkrug. They had obviously not known each other long. But when the man got up in the middle of the meal to make a phone call, the woman had watched him go, with a frown, and then she had s.n.a.t.c.hed some of his chips on to her own plate. Delighted with her booty, she had devoured it, licking her lips after every mouthful. The man had returned and Mathilde had told herself that she knew something essential about the woman that her companion would never find out. Yes, it had been entertaining. A first section.

But this morning she had no interest in anything. Towards the end of a first section, one shouldn't expect too much. She thought that this was the day when Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg was going to catch the shrew-mouse, that she would struggle and make a squeaking noise, and that it was going to be the devil of a day for old Clemence, who had been so good at sorting out the slides with her gloves on, just as she had sorted out her murders. Mathilde wondered for a moment if she ought to feel responsible. If she hadn't been showing off at the Dodin Bouffant, boasting that she knew about the chalk circle man, Clemence wouldn't have come to lodge with her, and wouldn't have been able to seize the opportunity to murder people. Then she told herself, no, wait a minute, the whole idea was just too far-fetched. For a woman to cut the throat of an elderly doctor just because he had once been her fiance, and for pent-up bitterness to have done the rest.

Too far-fetched by half. She should have told Adamsberg that. Mathilde was muttering her sentences to herself as she leaned on her aquarium-table. 'Adamsberg, this murder is just too far-fetched.' A crime of pa.s.sion doesn't take place in cold blood fifty years later, especially with a plan as complicated as that worked out by Clemence. How could Adamsberg be so wrong about the old woman's motive? You'd have to be stupid to believe in a motive as far-fetched as that. And what bothered Mathilde was precisely that she considered Adamsberg to be one of the subtlest people she had ever met. Yet there was obviously something wrong about the motive they were a.s.signing to Clemence. A woman with a blank face. Mathilde had tried to convince herself that Clemence was likeable, in order to try and like her and help her, but in fact everything about the shrew-mouse had set her teeth on edge. Everything or rather nothing: it was as if there was no body inside her body, no expression on her face, no sound in her voice. Just nothingness.

Last night, Charles had felt her face with his fingers. It had been rather nice, she had to admit, those long hands scrupulously exploring all the contours of her face, as if she were printed out in Braille. She had sensed that he might have liked to go further, but she had not given him any encouragement. On the contrary, she had made some coffee. Very good coffee, in fact. That was no subst.i.tute for a caress, of course. But in a way a caress is no subst.i.tute for a good cup of coffee, either. Mathilde shook herself: the comparison was silly, caresses and good cups of coffee were not interchangeable.

'Right,' she sighed out loud. With her finger she was following a two-spot Lepadogaster swimming under the gla.s.s lid. Time to feed the fish. What was she to do with Charles and his caresses? Was it time perhaps for her to go back to the sea, since she didn't feel like following anybody this morning? What had she collected in three months? A policeman who should have been a prost.i.tute, a malicious blind man who caressed her, a Byzantine scholar who drew chalk circles, and an old murderess. Not a bad haul, after all. She shouldn't complain. Rather, she should write it all down. That would be more fun than writing about pectoral fins.

'Yes, but what?' she said out loud, standing up abruptly. 'What could I write? What's the point of writing?'

' To tell the story of your life,' she answered herself.

Stuff and nonsense! At least when you're dealing with pectoral fins you've got something to say that other people don't know. But as for anything else, why bother? Why do anything or write anything? To attract others? Is that it? To seduce people you've never met, as if the ones you have met aren't enough for you? Because you think you can capture the quintessence of the world in a few pages? What quintessence is there, anyway? What emotions are there in the world? What can you say? Even the story of the old shrew-mouse isn't interesting enough to tell anyone. Writing is an admission of failure.

Mathilde sat down again in a dark mood. She decided that her thinking had become muddled. Pectoral fins are absolutely fine, nothing wrong with them.

But it's depressing if all you write about is pectoral fins, because in the end you couldn't give a d.a.m.n about them, any more than you do about Clemence.

Mathilde sat up and pushed her dark hair back with both hands. Right, she thought, I'm just having a little attack of metaphysics and it will pa.s.s. 'Stuff and nonsense,' she muttered again. I wouldn't be so sad if Camille wasn't leaving again tonight. Off again. If only she hadn't met that slippery policeman, she wouldn't be obliged to travel the world. And is it worth writing that down?

No.

Perhaps it really was time to go back to the depths of the ocean. And above all, it was forbidden to ask herself what the point of it all was.

'What is the point of it all?' Mathilde immediately asked herself.

To do you good. To get your feet wet. Yes, that was it. To get your feet wet.