After they had eaten their picnic, Stéphane declared that he was going to take a turn around the lake. He had a surfeit of energy and was incapable of remaining inactive for any length of time. Raymond took off his shirt and lay back on the rug with his hands behind his head. He was happy where he was. Yvette, as Raymond knew she would, said that she would stay too. She tried to persuade Stéphane to remain, but her protests were half-hearted. Stéphane shook his head at their lethargy and set off at a brisk pace through the trees.
Raymond took out his copy of Zola’s La Curée, which they would be studying the following term. He had resolved to get ahead with his reading, but he had been unable to get past the first chapter. He complained to Yvette, who had finished the book in a few days, that the opening description of the carriages circling the Bois de Boulogne was interminable.
‘It’s five pages,’ she replied earnestly. ‘He’s introducing us to the milieu of the novel.’
‘It’s so tedious,’ Raymond groaned.
He started to read to her in an exaggeratedly monotonous tone:
‘The lake, seen from the front, in the pale light that still hovered over the water, became rounder, like a huge tin fish; on either side, the plantations of evergreens, whose slim, straight stems seemed to rise up from its still surface, looked at this hour like purple colonnades—’
Yvette lay next to him and placed her hand on his chest. She brushed her lips against his ear. Raymond continued to read aloud:
‘—delineating with their even shapes the studied curves of the shore; and shrubs rose in the background, confused masses of foliage forming large black masses that closed off the horizon.’
Yvette kissed his neck and traced circles on his chest with her fingers. Raymond laid aside the book and turned to kiss her. There was a new seriousness in the way they went about their business. Raymond placed his palm on the bare skin of Yvette’s stomach and pushed his hand inside the waistband of her denim shorts. Yvette made no objection and even undid the metal button to facilitate his progress. The tips of Raymond’s fingers reached her pubic hair, which until then he had not even seen. His middle finger came to rest on a slick nub of gristle. Yvette inhaled sharply. Raymond did not know what to do, so he merely left his hand where it was. Yvette gripped his wrist and pressed his hand against her sex. She slowly rotated her hips. Her breathing quickened. Her face was buried in the crook of Raymond’s neck. Sunlight flickered through the yellowing leaves on the branches above them. Raymond’s wrist was at an awkward angle and was becoming quite painful. Yvette gripped it more tightly and pushed it further between her legs. Her breath arrived in short gasps that reminded Raymond of a steam train picking up speed. Just then, they were distracted by a couple on the opposite side of the lake. It was not possible to hear what they were saying, but it was clear that they were arguing. Raymond raised himself onto one elbow to watch the scene through the trees. The woman slapped her companion across the face and stormed off into the woods. The man was left holding his face and looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the incident. Raymond removed his hand from Yvette’s shorts and massaged his numb wrist. He made a silly comment about what the man must have said to deserve such a slap. Yvette turned her back to him. When Raymond put his hand on her shoulder, she shrugged it away. He put his fingers to his mouth and tasted the salty residue that had been left there. Then he picked up his book and pretended to read. They did not speak until Stéphane returned, excited by the incident with the couple, which he had witnessed close at hand. Neither Raymond nor Yvette were interested, however, and they quietly packed up their things and returned to where they had left their bicycles.
Raymond took a sip of his tea. The harelipped waitress was watching him from behind the counter. Perhaps she also knew about the accident and was curious about his behaviour. There might even have been a photograph of his father in L’Alsace. Such articles often ended with a line such as: The deceased is survived by his wife and son.
Yvette started packing her things into her satchel. She stood up to go.
‘I don’t know why you have to act like that all the time,’ she said.
Raymond adopted an innocent expression. ‘Like what?’ he said.
‘Like you don’t care about anything. Or anyone.’ She put her bag over her shoulder.
If Stéphane had not been there, Raymond might have said something conciliatory. Indeed, if he had been alone with Yvette, he would not have acted as he had in the first place. His display of indifference had been entirely for Stéphane’s benefit. But he could hardly change course now, so he shrugged and said: ‘Maybe I don’t care about anything.’
Yvette shook her head dismissively.
Stéphane intervened: ‘He’s just upset.’
Raymond had no wish for Stéphane to speak up for him, but he regretted his behaviour. He did not want Yvette to leave.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Maman and I had to identify the body this morning.’
He had played his trump card. Yvette could hardly walk out after such a revelation.
‘Oh,’ she said. She sat down and placed her satchel on the floor.
‘That can’t have been much fun,’ said Stéphane.
Raymond described how he and his mother had passed his father’s car on the road to Mulhouse. There was, in truth, little to say about the process itself. He did not tell them how, as they had entered the mortuary, an image from Frankenstein had flashed through his mind and he had half-expected the body under the sheets to slowly rise from the slab.
‘It was all over in a few seconds. They tried to hide it but I could tell he was pretty smashed up. Maman didn’t faint or anything. The whole thing was pretty weird.’
Yvette nodded earnestly. ‘It must have been horrible.’
Raymond shrugged, but not maliciously. He gave her a little smile. He was glad Stéphane was there. He had no wish to go into more detail, to explain how, despite everything, he had had to choke back a sob when the sheet had been drawn back from his father’s face.
‘The funniest thing was the cop. I think he’s got his eye on Maman already.’ He patted Yvette’s arm in imitation of Gorski. ‘There, there, Madame Barthelme. I must apologise for putting you through this, Madame Barthelme.’ Then he wrung his hands in an obsequious manner and made a smacking noise with his lips.
Yvette and Stéphane laughed drily, but it was clear that neither of them found his comments amusing. Raymond noticed the glance that passed between his two friends. A silence fell over the table. Stéphane looked at his watch and said that he had to pick up a book from the library. Raymond expected Yvette to say that she would stay for a while, but she too said she had to leave. They calculated their share of the bill, as they always did, and placed the coins on the pewter salver.
They parted with Stéphane on the pavement outside. His statement was clearly untrue. If he had needed to visit the library, he would have done so before leaving school. Nevertheless, Raymond was pleased to be alone with Yvette. He was sorry he had acted as he had. He was about to say as much, but something prevented him. He felt a sudden resentment towards Stéphane, as though it was his friend who was responsible for his behaviour.
Raymond and Yvette walked slowly along Rue de Mulhouse. The longer they remained in silence, the more intractable it became. Now that he had missed his chance to apologise, he could only think of silly, flippant remarks to make, and that would only compound the callous impression he had made in the café. He thought of asking Yvette what she was thinking about, but it always annoyed him when she asked him that, usually in the moments after they had engaged in some sort of sexual activity.
A fat man with a rolling gait approached. He was wearing a Tyrolean hat with a little feather in the band. His face was florid and they had to step aside to allow him to pass. Normally Raymond would have passed some comment about his cauliflower nose. But things had changed. It was no longer appropriate to make fun of passers-by. Raymond wondered how much time would
have to pass before it would once more be acceptable to do so. Or if, perhaps, they had entered a new phase of their lives in which they would have to behave at all times in a solemn adult manner.
Ah, yes, Raymond imagined people commenting of him, he never smiles. He’s never been the same since his father passed away.
He stole a glance at Yvette. He liked her profile. She had a small nose and long eyelashes. He mouth was naturally downturned, but her general expression was calm, rather than sad, as if she found the world around her vaguely amusing. He felt a surge of emotion towards her.
They reached the corner of Rue des Trois Rois, where they usually parted. Yvette offered him a sympathetic smile. She held out her hand and lightly touched his wrist. Raymond grasped the opportunity afforded by her gesture. ‘I’m sorry about before,’ he said. ‘I was an ass.’
Yvette shrugged in a resigned fashion. She expected little else.
Five
The offices of Barthelme & Corbeil did not re-open until two o’clock. Gorski decided to lunch at the Restaurant de la Cloche. He was not hungry, but he had no wish to pass the intervening time at the police station. Even alone in his office he felt ill at ease there. It was possible to enter the station from the car park behind the building—avoiding any interaction with Schmitt or whoever else happened to be manning the desk—but this always made Gorski feel furtive. Furthermore, if he used the rear entrance, no one knew he was in his office and any calls would not be put through. In order to avoid this, it was necessary for Gorski to proceed along the corridor and put his head around the door of the communal area. No matter how breezily Gorski greeted his colleagues, he always suspected that they thought he was trying to eavesdrop on their conversations or catch them slacking. In order to dispel this notion he was obliged to stand in the doorway and engage in some strained small talk, before announcing: ‘Well, I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.’
So even when he parked behind the station, he entered from the front, the curt nod to Schmitt being a small price to pay to avoid these other difficulties. Once in his office, he kept his door ajar so as not to appear aloof from his staff. He would have liked to discontinue this practice—it added to his feeling of self-consciousness—but were he to start closing his door after so many years, his colleagues would surely wonder what clandestine activities had prompted this alteration in his habits. Whenever possible, Gorski avoided the station altogether.
It was 12:45 when he entered the Restaurant de la Cloche. The lunchtime service was in full swing. Despite having an armful of dishes, Marie bustled over to him and showed him to a table by the window overlooking the car park in Place de l’Europe. Since Céline’s departure, Gorski had promised that he would not visit la Cloche more than two or three times a week. Even after he retired, Ribéry had lunched there every day. His old mentor had been dead fifteen years, but Gorski still resisted Marie’s attempts to sit him at his regular corner table. In a similar way, he even avoided sitting at the same table on consecutive visits. Naturally, Gorski was not unaware that this petty assertion of freedom did in itself constitute a routine of a kind. Today, however, he was happy with his place. He had his back to the corpulent hairdresser who occupied the table by the door. Lemerre was as objectionable in character as he was in appearance, and he never failed to try to draw Gorski into tittle-tattle about the goings-on of Saint-Louis. The sullen waitress, who had recently been the focus of the town’s attention, was working the tables on the opposite side of the restaurant. Gorski was relieved. Despite the fact that she never so much as acknowledged him, her presence made him uncomfortable. He had to consciously prevent himself from following her movements around the room.
Marie arrived to take his order. Just as he refused to sit at the same table, Gorski never repeated his order. Ribéry had eaten the same lunch of salade de viande, pot-au-feu and tarte aux pommes every day for thirty years, the only exception being made on Thursdays—market day—when he had the baeckeoffe. It must have seemed odd that Gorski could not settle on a regular order. So now when Marie asked: ‘What’ll it be today?’ it was with a particular emphasis on the final word, as if she was addressing a capricious child. Did he not know what he liked? So it was with studied consideration—he tapped his forefinger against his lips—that he scanned the blackboards on which the menu was displayed. What he ate was, in any case, of little importance. Gorski could not deceive himself about his real motive for visiting la Cloche. Just as Marie was moving away from his table, he said, as if as an afterthought: ‘Oh, and I’ll have a pichet of wine.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’ If she disapproved, she did not show it. His wine secured, Gorski relaxed a little. He would, in truth, have been more comfortable in Le Pot, where he could order as many beers as he liked without Yves raising an eyebrow, and where he was not obliged to sit at the window in plain sight of passers-by. He preferred to drink beer. White wine did not agree with his stomach, and he had taken to carrying a tube of antacids in the pocket of his raincoat.
Gorski’s first course arrived without his wine. He ate his soup dutifully, like a child that has been promised a reward for eating its greens, but with growing anxiety. He hoped that he would not have to demean himself by prompting Marie. But she was merely waiting for her husband, Pasteur, to decant his wine into the little jug. When it was placed on the table, Gorski started slightly, as if he had forgotten he had ordered it, then smiled his thanks to the patronne.
Behind him, Lemerre was turning the pages of L’Alsace and providing a commentary on the day’s news to a local pharmacist, Cloutier, who had joined him at his table. Cloutier liked to talk behind his hand about the medications he supplied to his customers, these nuggets of gossip routinely followed by a remark such as: ‘I wouldn’t rule out a dose of the clap,’ accompanied by a complicit wink. Gorski stared fixedly out of the window. Marie brought his schnitzel. He cut the breaded meat into thin slices and chewed them slowly. After each mouthful, he allowed himself a sip of wine. He was thinking about Lucette Barthelme and the grateful expression that had flashed across her eyes when he had agreed to make enquiries on her behalf. He had no legitimate reason for doing so. Still, there could be no harm in it, and he had, in any case, little else to do.
His thoughts were interrupted by Lemerre. Gorski reluctantly turned round, leaning his elbow on the back of the chair. The hairdresser was pointing to a headline in the inner pages of his newspaper.
‘A juicy case here,’ he said with relish.
A woman had been strangled in her Strasbourg apartment.
‘Seems she was quite a girl,’ Lemerre continued. ‘Was known to entertain frequent gentleman visitors,’ he read, before repeating the final phrase with relish. ‘A real crime passionnel, it seems.’
Gorski nodded curtly. The crime of passion was a myth—an idea cherished more by novelists and spinsters than investigators—but he knew from long experience that it was a mistake to be drawn into debate with Lemerre. ‘No doubt,’ he replied. He began to turn back to his lunch, but Lemerre had not finished.
‘Not many of those round here.’ He gestured in the general direction of the town.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Gorski.
‘Crimes of passion,’ he said. ‘Not much of that sort of thing in Saint-Louis.’
‘No,’ said Gorski.
‘Makes me wonder what a chief of police has to do with himself all day.’
Gorski smiled thinly at him. Lemerre then apologised for interrupting his lunch. ‘I can see how busy you are, Inspector.’ Cloutier joined in his laughter. Gorski drained his glass then filled it to the brim with no regard for who was watching. He forced himself to finish his veal, but did not eat the mound of potato salad that accompanied it.
The offices of Barthelme & Corbeil were unremarkable. The solicitors’ names were inscribed on a discreet brass plaque at the entrance of what otherwise appeared to be a residential building. The plaque spoke of a firm that did not have to flaunt its presence or tout for busine
ss. Gorski pressed the buzzer and was granted access. The offices were on the first floor. It was only on the frosted glass of the door that the nature of Barthelme & Corbeil’s business was indicated: Solicitors and Notaries.
Gorski entered without knocking and was greeted by a secretary seated behind an impressive oak desk. She was a petite woman of around forty. Her hair was loosely arranged around her face. She was dressed in a green, paisley-patterned blouse and wore a pendant with an Eastern symbol around her neck. Her eyes were red-rimmed and the tip of her nose was a little florid. She must have been informed of Barthelme’s death only on her arrival at work. It was revealing that she had not been sent home and, indeed, that the business had remained open at all. The outer office was unprepossessing. Aside from the oak desk, the furnishings were tatty. The carpet was threadbare in the areas that saw most traffic. Yet the impression was not of a firm that was down at heel, rather of one that was sheltered from the external world. It was a place where delicate conversations could be held in hushed tones. Barthelme & Corbeil was the intermediary between the families who shielded themselves behind the rows of sycamores on Rue des Bois and the grubby world beyond.
The Accident on the A35 Page 5
