So Gorski had instructed a young gendarme named Roland to collect Mme Barthelme. Roland was still working his probationary period and had not appeared to notice the chilly relations between Gorski and the rest of his colleagues. He was an eager-to-please type and had agreed to the mundane task with an enthusiasm suggesting he felt he had been entrusted with a mission of great importance.
The drizzle had not abated overnight and the road surface felt treacherous under the tyres of Gorski’s ungainly 504. When he passed the scene of the accident, the inside lane of the carriageway remained cordoned off. A recovery truck was parked on the verge and two men were attaching a hydraulic cable to the underside of the crumpled Mercedes. Gorski congratulated himself on his decision not to collect Mme Barthelme. He arrived at the mortuary in Mulhouse a few minutes after eleven o’clock. The widow and her son were already in the waiting area. Roland was loitering awkwardly by his car. When Gorski appeared, he stood to attention in a comic fashion.
In its furnishings and decor, the mortuary’s foyer was not dissimilar to that of the police station. It was distinguished, however, by the pungent smell of formaldehyde or some other chemical, and the torn posters reminding staff of the importance of good hygiene. Mme Barthelme was dressed in a light blue summer dress and a beige raincoat, belted at the waist. Her attire seemed as inappropriate to the season as to the circumstances. She seemed less pale than on the evening before, and Gorski suspected that she had applied a little rouge to her cheeks. Her dress reached to just below the knee and Gorski briefly noted her shapely calves, which were unadorned by stockings. The son stood at his mother’s side. He was dressed in a flannel shirt, brown corduroy trousers and a suede jacket. Gorski had taken an instant dislike to the boy. People often acted queerly when informed of the death of a relative, but there had been something inauthentic in the young man’s reactions. And now he looked at Gorski with something approaching disdain, as if it was his fault that they were gathered there.
Gorski shook hands with them both and apologised for being late. He requested that they wait a few more moments and went through the door to the cold room. A technician whose name Gorski could not remember was adjusting the blue plastic sheet that covered the body on the slab. He looked up when Gorski entered and the two men shook hands. The chemical smell was stronger here.
‘Due to the damage to the left side of the cranium, I’ve arranged the body so that we only need to display the intact portion of the face,’ he said.
He then demonstrated how he would lower the sheet and Gorski nodded his approval. He went back outside and explained the procedure to Mme Barthelme. He added that there was no need for both of them to view the body, but the son did not appear reluctant to accompany his mother. Boys were morbid at that age. He would no doubt think this fine material with which to impress his schoolmates.
They arranged themselves solemnly around the slab, Gorski standing by the head, the widow and her son to the side of the body. Gorski nodded to the technician, who then discreetly lowered the sheet. Gorski put the question to Mme Barthelme. She affirmed that it was indeed her husband. And that was it. Gorski ushered them from the room. The whole charade had taken barely thirty seconds. There might be those who would question the point of such an exercise. The possibility that the body on the slab was not Bertrand Barthelme was so slim as to be negligible. For it not to be, it would be necessary to believe that a person unknown had stolen his clothes, wallet and car and crashed while making his escape. Either that or Barthelme himself had somehow staged the accident to fake his own death. Both ideas were almost too ludicrous to merit consideration, and in such circumstances it might be thought that compelling a widow to identify her husband’s remains was a pointless—even callous—exercise. But Gorski did not share this view. The procedures to administer deaths, accidental or otherwise, were not arbitrary. They had to be followed without prejudice in all circumstances. There was no place in such a system for the intrusion of personal opinion or even common sense. The state required that the causes of deaths of its citizens be properly recorded, and the correct conclusion could only be reached by establishing the firmest foundations. In any case, in Gorski’s experience, no one had ever objected to taking part in a formal identification. In such situations, individuals accepted that there were certain obligations which had to be fulfilled—they perhaps even found it reassuring—and Gorski never felt guilty about putting people through the experience. He was simply following the procedure.
Gorski led Mme Barthelme back to the foyer and asked if she would like a glass of water. She gave a weak smile and shook her head, but her hands were shaking a little. The boy was gazing around the room as if he was on a school trip. Gorski went outside. Roland’s car was gone and Gorski realised that he had not instructed him to wait.
‘There was something I wanted to ask you, Inspector,’ Mme Barthelme said when he went back inside.
Assuming that she wished to know when the body would be released, Gorski explained that a post-mortem would first have to be carried out and the accident investigation concluded.
Mme Barthelme shook her head. ‘It wasn’t that,’ she said.
The smell of chemicals was beginning to make Gorski feel nauseous. He suggested that they talk on the journey back to Saint-Louis. Mme Barthelme waited until Gorski had pulled out of the car park before she spoke, glancing at her son before she did so.
‘Something’s been troubling me,’ she began. ‘My husband dined out in town last night.’
Gorski glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. She was leaning forward slightly in her seat, an expectant expression on her face.
‘Uh-huh?’ he said.
‘He had dinner with some colleagues, his club he called it, every Tuesday evening. So, you see, there was no reason for him to be on the A35.’
‘Where did they dine?
‘They always ate at the Auberge du Rhin.’ This was a restaurant on Avenue de Bâle, the least shabby Saint-Louis had to offer.
‘Maybe they ate elsewhere. In Mulhouse, perhaps?’ said Gorski. This would readily account for why Barthelme had been travelling south at the time of the accident.
‘Why would they do that?’ she said.
Gorski did not say anything. How could he possibly know the answer to such a question? It was, in any event, a matter of no consequence.
‘So you can see why I’m puzzled,’ Mme Barthelme persisted. ‘I didn’t sleep last night for thinking about it.’
‘I understand,’ said Gorski, ‘but I’m not sure there is much I can do. If no crime has been committed, the investigation will be limited to the causes of the accident. It is a matter for the coroner rather than the police.’
Mme Barthelme slumped back in her seat and cast her eyes downwards. Gorski wondered if she was aware that he was watching her in the rear-view mirror. He had disappointed her. Her son was staring fixedly out of the window, as if he had heard nothing of the conversation, or, at least, as if it was of no interest to him. They approached the scene of the accident. The Mercedes was being lowered onto the back of the recovery truck. Gorski subtly increased the pressure on the accelerator. Mme Barthelme averted her gaze, then dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief. She had very delicate features. Gorski felt compelled to say something.
‘I suppose that until the cause of the accident is determined, it would not be inappropriate to make some discreet enquiries about your husband’s movements,’ he said.
Mme Barthelme’s face brightened considerably. She leaned forward and touched the shoulder of Gorski’s raincoat. ‘I’d be very grateful,’ she said.
He creased his face into a smile. She was very pretty and he did not, in any case, have any more pressing business to attend to.
Four
Yvette and Stéphane were in the booth at the back of the Café des Vosges. Raymond had been sure he would find them there. The three of them went to the café almost every day after school. It was a humdrum place with metal tables and chairs
that scraped on the grey tiled floor whenever anyone got up. The uninspiring view onto Avenue Général de Gaulle was obscured by voile curtains. Chipped gold lettering on the window announced the establishment as a Salon de thé. Inside, an air of gentility was cultivated by the bland watercolours adorning the walls. A large glass cabinet by the counter displayed an array of tarts and cakes. It was patronised in the main by elderly women. If the three friends frequented the place, it was for no other reason than it was on their route home from school, and perhaps also because the banality of the surroundings made them feel more unconventional than they actually were.
Stéphane broke off his conversation with Yvette when he saw Raymond approach the table.
‘Well, my friends, what news?’ said Raymond as he slid onto the banquette next to Yvette. ‘Did I miss anything at school?’
Yvette and Stéphane exchanged a glance and Raymond was pleased with the effect his entrance had had on them. Neither of them knew what to say. The waitress with the harelip appeared at the table and took his order.
‘Sorry about your old man,’ said Stéphane when the waitress had retreated to the counter. He had never referred to Maître Barthelme in this way before. The forced joviality of the phrase struck Raymond as phoney.
‘So you heard?’ he said.
Yvette was looking at him with a troubled expression.
‘It’s in the paper,’ said Stéphane. ‘Everyone knows about it.’
Raymond raised his eyebrows. His father would have hated that. He hated any sort of attention. He always refused to attend weddings or dinner parties and no one was ever invited to the Barthelme’s home.
‘What can I say?’ he said with a shrug.
Yvette leaned in towards him. Raymond thought she was about to place a comforting hand on his arm, but she did not do so. The waitress arrived with Raymond’s tea. The three of them sat in uncomfortable silence as she placed the smoked glass cup and saucer and the stainless steel pot of tea on the table.
‘And may I have some water?’ Raymond said, for no other reason than to continue his pretence that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He poured hot water over the teabag in the glass and watched the tea infuse. Nobody said anything until the waitress had returned with his water.
‘So how was old Peletière this morning?’ he said. ‘The usual cloud of dandruff and body odour?’ Peletière was their history master.
‘Raymond!’ said Yvette. ‘Why are you acting like this?’ It was the first thing she had said since his arrival.
He looked at her and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘You know I couldn’t stand the old bastard,’ he said. ‘It’d be a bit two-faced to play the grief-stricken son, wouldn’t it?’
Yvette looked away. Raymond had the impression that she had tears in her eyes, as if it were she he had said he couldn’t stand. He felt bad.
Raymond and Yvette had met when they were eleven years old. Yvette’s family moved to Saint-Louis from a village in Bas-Rhin when her father got a job as a chargehand in a concrete factory on the outskirts of the town. From the beginning, the two of them were like an elderly couple, content to sit for hours watching the pigeons peck at the dirt in the little park by the Protestant temple. Raymond always assumed they would get married. After school, he would walk her home to the end of her street, before wandering slowly back to Rue des Bois. In their early teens, however, on Saturdays when school finished at midday, they would take the long way round by the canal and sit in silence on the bank, staring silently at the motionless green water. Sometimes they kissed, or rather, they pressed their lips together. At first, this was carried out in the spirit of a game, as if they were playing mothers and fathers, but later Raymond found it arousing. It never occurred to him that it might have a similar effect on Yvette, and he kept his hand strategically positioned to conceal his erection.
Once, on a hot afternoon during the summer holidays when they were fourteen or fifteen, Yvette placed her hand on the front of Raymond’s canvas shorts. She lightly clasped his penis through the coarse material, and he ejaculated immediately with a stifled groan. Yvette looked at him with a mischievous expression and gave a little giggle, but Raymond felt dreadfully ashamed, as if he had been caught committing an unsavoury act. He could not bring himself to speak. Yvette did not notice—or pretended not to notice—the dark stain that had formed on his shorts. In order to disguise it, Raymond suddenly threw off his shirt and leapt into the canal. He submerged himself in the opaque water and then bobbed up, his hair plastered to his forehead. The shock of the cold water on his body dissipated his embarrassment.
‘Why don’t you come in and cool off?’ he called. He had a sudden desire to see Yvette pull her dress over her head and dive in. She merely smiled indulgently, the way a mother might, watching her child totter round a play park. Raymond swam to the opposite bank in a few easy strokes, dived again and came up in the rushes at Yvette’s feet. He grabbed her by the ankles and playfully attempted to pull her in, but she drew up her legs and sat with her arms clasped around them. Raymond floated on his back for a while, feeling the sun dry his chest, then scrambled out.
After that, their amorous activities ceased for a while. When they did kiss, it was Raymond who broke it off. He did not want Yvette to think that her previous act was now expected of her. More worryingly she might expect him to reciprocate in some way. It was not that he was not curious about what lay between Yvette’s legs, but it would have seemed indecent to touch her there. More recently, however, things had moved on. Yvette’s body had matured and one evening in her bedroom, she had detached herself from their embrace and wordlessly unfastened the second and third buttons of her blouse. It was hardly the most wanton act, but Raymond could not fail to interpret it as anything other than an invitation to slip his hand under the fabric. This he duly did. He was not rebuffed, but he did not dare go so far as to push aside the material of her brassiere. Nevertheless, the presence of his hand elicited a moan of pleasure from Yvette. This sound was enough to cause Raymond to spend himself. He then said in a childish voice: ‘I think I’ve had an accident,’ and Yvette replied in a maternal tone that he was a very naughty boy. It became a regular occurrence for Raymond to fondle Yvette’s breasts while she pushed the heel of her hand in to his crotch. He began to feel guilty that their lovemaking—as he thought of it—was not reciprocal, but he had only the vaguest idea of the mechanics of pleasuring a woman. Yvette, for her part, betrayed no dissatisfaction with the arrangement, and afterwards would silently hand Raymond a handkerchief to mop up his emission.
Raymond had contemplated asking Stéphane for some advice. On account of the fact that his friend was nine months older and had lived elsewhere, Raymond assumed that he was a great deal more worldly. But no mention was ever made of he and Yvette’s activities. When they were in Stéphane’s company, they kept their hands to themselves. Similarly, at school, they behaved as if they were no more than friends. Raymond occasionally wondered if Yvette might share similar intimacies with Stéphane. He even found it arousing to think of his two friends together, but he was sure that nothing of that sort had ever occurred. In any case, the two of them were never alone together. As it was, the clandestine nature of Raymond’s activities with Yvette only gave them a greater frisson.
One afternoon, towards the end of the summer, the threesome cycled to the Petite Camargue for a picnic. They laid out a rug by the edge of the lake and sat eating the pâté and cheese they had brought with them. Stéphane was discoursing volubly on the absurdity of choosing to continue to exist in a Godless universe, but Raymond was not listening. He could not imagine anyone less likely to commit suicide than Stéphane. The trees around the edge of the water were already changing colour and he had a melancholic sense that something was coming to an end. Somewhere, a wood pigeon cooed in the trees. They would soon enter their final year at school and after that the threesome would be broken up. Yvette and Stéphane’s most frequent topic of conversation had becom
e the relative virtues of the colleges they were considering. Yvette favoured Strasbourg, while Stéphane had set his sights on Paris. ‘Why would you choose to go anywhere else?’ he declared frequently. It was a conversation in which Raymond felt unable to participate, and he would continually disrupt his friends’ discussion with irrelevant remarks. He was a mediocre student. The recurrent allegation of his school reports was of an intelligent pupil who refused to push himself. Once a year Raymond’s father would invite him into his study for a discussion of his progress.
‘I am baffled by these reports,’ he told his son when he was eleven or twelve years old. ‘I myself see no evidence of this intelligence your teachers speak of. Certainly your grades do not support this assertion. Perhaps you could enlighten me?’
When Raymond failed to respond, Maître Barthelme shook his head and said: ‘I suppose it is a lesser crime to be stupid than to fail to make use of one’s talents.’
It was true that Raymond had made little effort with his schoolwork. It was a kind of listless defiance of his father. As he passed through his teenage years, the assumption that the firm of Barthelme & Corbeil would one day become Barthelme, Corbeil & Sons had receded. If Raymond buckled down enough to improve his grades, his father would insist on him studying law. Nevertheless, by indulging in this self-sabotaging behaviour, Raymond was wrecking his prospects of ever escaping Saint-Louis. He had no desire to end up working in a bank on Rue de Mulhouse and throwing himself under a train before he was forty. He had thus resolved to improve his performance. The process was not, however, as straightforward as he imagined. He had long since accepted the comfortable designation of underperforming student. But what if it transpired that he was not as intelligent as his teachers—and he—believed? What if his grades were an accurate reflection of his abilities? It was more humiliating to fail when one had made an effort. If one did not lift a finger, it was possible to preserve the illusion that one was lazy rather than dim-witted. Nevertheless, the prospect of being trapped in the stagnant backwater of Saint-Louis spurred him on. At first, he struggled. He had not acquired the habits of concentration and self-discipline expected of students his age. But his grades slowly began to pick up. He was careful to maintain his outwardly diffident attitude, but his teachers took notice of his improvement and encouraged him. Still, his prospects of passing the baccalaureate remained in the balance.
The Accident on the A35 Page 4
