Nineteen
Two days after his father’s funeral, Raymond stood at the counter in the kitchen, eating his breakfast. Since the theft of the banknotes, he and Thérèse had ceased to exchange even the most rudimentary pleasantries. Thérèse no longer kept the housekeeping money in the jar on the counter. The silence between them was uncomfortable. Raymond could easily have taken his breakfast elsewhere, but to do so would be an admission of defeat. Instead he deliberately lingered over his bread and jam, while Thérèse made it clear from her movements and the little snorting noises she made through her nose that he was in her way. Perhaps tomorrow, Raymond thought, he would test her resolve by passing some remarks about the weather or some similarly banal topic.
It was not clear, even to Raymond himself, at what point he abandoned the pretence that he was going to attend school. He had checked his timetable for the day and had packed the relevant books in his satchel, piling them on top of the knife without which he could no longer imagine leaving the house. Before he left, he looked in on his mother, who was sitting up against a pile of pillows, her breakfast tray on her lap. He had not explicitly stated that he was going to school, but the act of putting his head around the door at that time in the morning was enough to suggest that he was. She seemed pleased that they were returning to their normal routine. She asked him to sit with her for a moment, which he did, before looking at his watch and saying that he had better be going. She wished him a good day. As he left the room, she suggested that he invite Yvette to join them for an evening meal sometime soon. Raymond assured her that he would.
Raymond kept up his charade as far as the corner of Rue des Trois Rois. He had walked there purposefully, so that no one who observed him would have any doubt about his intentions. Normally when he called on Yvette, she would arrive at the door stuffing books into her bag, or brushing her teeth. She was never ready and sometimes she invited him to wait in the tiny hallway of the house. The Arnaud household was in a perpetual state of good-humoured disorder. Members of the family were constantly demanding where such-and-such an item had got to. Yvette’s father often squeezed past Raymond, stuffing a croissant in his mouth on his way out to work. Her mother would sit on the narrow stairway to fasten her shoes or quickly run a comb through her hair. Raymond had always enjoyed these moments. The contrast with his own home, where everything was in its proper place and no voices were ever raised, could not have been greater.
Raymond wondered whether, now that the formalities of his father’s death were over, Yvette would be expecting him to call for her. Given his recent conduct, however, there was no reason why she should. He loitered at the end of the street. It would be a simple matter to walk the hundred metres or so and press the Arnaud’s doorbell. Raymond was sure that Yvette would forgive his shabby behaviour: it could all be explained away by the shock of his father’s death. Wasn’t it only natural that he had gone off the rails a bit? Raymond was struck by a yearning for everything to be as it had been before; for the two of them to set off together for school, him stepping off the kerb as they passed Mme Beck, the florist, who even at that early hour would be arranging her wares on the pavement outside her shop. He knew that this was impossible, however. The idea that he could return to school and sit meekly at the back of the class while his teachers scratched their lessons on the blackboard was laughable. Such things belonged to a world he had left behind. Still, it took an effort of will not to follow his old routine and call at the Arnaud’s.
After a few minutes, Yvette emerged. She looked as she always did, both slightly harassed and utterly self-possessed. She had her satchel over one shoulder and a linen bag of books in her left hand. Her hair was tousled. Raymond half-hoped that she would look in his direction—he had made no attempt to conceal himself—and he would raise his arm in greeting and trot along the pavement to where she was waiting. But she did not do so. Instead, she set off in the direction of school, giving every appearance of having forgotten that he existed.
Raymond recalled the first time he and Yvette had walked to school together. The previous afternoon he had lingered at the corner of Rue des Trois Rois, before following at a safe distance to see exactly where she lived. He was aware that he could simply have asked her address, but he had already hatched a plan to make his presence outside her house the following day appear to be a matter of chance. It was a plan that protected him both from potential rejection and from the necessity to reveal the longing he felt to spend every possible moment in her company. He was thirteen years old. Thus, the following day, he concealed himself in a doorway a few metres from the Arnaud’s house. When Yvette emerged, he called out to her as if he just happened to be passing. She seemed pleased to see him. Raymond suspected that she had seen through his subterfuge, but she kept her thoughts to herself. From that point, it had been a natural progression to actually calling for her. Was he not in any case passing her house?
So it was with a melancholic feeling that Raymond followed Yvette along Rue des Trois Rois. Mme Beck was setting out her blooms and Yvette paused for a moment to exchange a few words with her. Once she had turned onto Rue de Mulhouse, it was busy enough for Raymond to gain a little ground on her. There was a light drizzle in the air. Yvette was wearing her green plastic mac with the tear in the right shoulder, but she did not bother to put up the hood. Raymond wondered if, even now, he might catch up with her and accompany her to school. Then, as they approached Avenue Général de Gaulle, he saw Stéphane waiting at the corner. Stéphane spotted Yvette and raised his hand in greeting. Raymond stepped into the doorway of a travel agent’s. He watched as they greeted each other before continuing towards school. Stéphane took the linen bag of books from Yvette’s hand and slung it over his shoulder. Raymond and Yvette had often bumped into Stéphane on the way to school, but until now it had never been an arrangement between them. Raymond followed them as far as the corner of Rue des Vosges and watched them recede into the distance.
It was when he turned back towards Rue de Mulhouse that he saw the young man with the long face for the first time. Or rather, it was not for the first time, because he recognised him from somewhere. In a town like Saint-Louis, there was nothing unusual in this. In all likelihood, the young man was simply on his way to work, and Raymond would have seen him as he made his way to school. This did not, however, explain why he appeared startled and immediately became absorbed in the advertisements in the travel agency that Raymond had passed a few moments before. As Raymond retraced his steps, the young man kept his gaze fixed on the window. He had a distinctive profile and large, protruding eyes. After he passed, Raymond glanced over his shoulder several times. Eventually, the young man moved off in the opposite direction.
There was no question of returning home and explaining to his mother that he had, after all, decided not to go to school. So Raymond spent the day wandering the streets of his home town. This was not as straightforward an activity as it might be in a larger town or city. Raymond had never been to Paris, but he imagined that one could, if one so desired, stroll endlessly through the city without ever passing down the same street twice, and without ever attracting a curious glance. In a town like Saint-Louis, one could not simply roam the streets without drawing suspicious looks from residents and shopkeepers. How, Raymond wondered, would he reply if someone were to stop him and demand to know where he was going? In a town devoid of points of interest, to say that one is merely drifting is entirely implausible and likely to attract the attention of the police.
So Raymond kept up a good pace. He glanced regularly at his watch to suggest to anyone observing him that he was late for an appointment. As he did not wish to run into the little cop, he took a detour to avoid passing the gendarmerie. He re-joined Rue de Mulhouse and walked as far as the roundabout before turning into Rue de Village-Neuf. Unless one was a postman or a resident, there could be no possible reason for walking along such a street, but he could hardly abruptly turn back without engaging in an elaborate pantomime for the be
nefit of those he imagined were observing him from behind the shutters of the fake-beamed houses that lined the street. He would continue as far as the canal and then take the route he had so often walked with Yvette.
He felt less conspicuous on the canal path. It was a common route for dog walkers or those simply out for a leisurely stroll. There was a bench a short distance ahead. He would pause there for a while. He enjoyed staring at the still green water of the canal. As he neared the bench, however, a man of about forty approached from the opposite direction. He did not appear to be walking a dog and Raymond wondered what reason he could have for being there. The canal was rumoured locally to be the haunt of homosexuals. Raymond never imagined that any such activities actually took place there—certainly he had never seen anything of that nature—but he and Yvette had often passed remarks about single men they had seen frequenting the path.
On account of his feminine features, boys at school often taunted Raymond with certain epithets. He never responded to their insults. They could think what they liked. And he had, in case, learned from experience that engaging in such arguments quickly escalated into fisticuffs. He decided against stopping at the bench. The man might take it as an invitation to engage him in conversation. The drizzle was in any case turning to rain. When they were about thirty metres apart, the man turned his back on Raymond and gave a short whistle. A spaniel emerged from the undergrowth, its undercarriage wet with mud. As he passed, the man bid Raymond good day.
By the time Raymond completed his circuit of the town, it was only a little after eleven o’clock. He found himself back at the junction where Yvette had met Stéphane. Inasmuch as Saint-Louis could be said to have a centre, this was it. The young man he had seen earlier was sheltering under the awning of a shop. He was smoking a cigarette, holding it between his thumb and middle finger in a way that suggested he had only recently acquired the habit.
Raymond could not go on aimlessly pacing the streets. Nor did he want to face the recriminating looks of the waitress in Café des Vosges. He continued walking. Not wishing to loiter at the junction advertising his indecision, he turned into a side street, and for the second time that day walked in the direction of the railway station. There was a little bar in the street. It had no windows and held the promise of anonymity. Raymond passed it on the opposite pavement. It was not even clear if it was open, and he did not have the courage to try the door. Instead, he remembered the café on Rue de la Gare. He walked directly there and entered with a purposeful air. It was a place where travellers killed a little time before catching their trains. It was larger than it appeared from the outside. An old woman sat near the door, a glass of brandy or rum on the table in front of her. Her head sat low on her shoulders, as if she had fallen asleep or died. Raymond imagined that she had chosen that table because she did not have the strength to venture any further into the café. There were no other customers. The proprietor was leaning on the counter, reading a newspaper. Raymond took a seat in the corner furthest from the door. He was glad to sit down. And he was pleased with his choice of establishment. No one knew him here. After some moments, the proprietor approached. He appeared wholly uninterested in his new customer. When Raymond ordered a tea, he gave the briefest nod and retreated to the counter. The lace of his left shoe was loose and he scuffed his feet on the linoleum, as though he was aware of the fact, but was too lazy to bend down and tie it. When the man returned, carrying a tray with a smoked glass cup and a pot of boiling water, Raymond was sure he was going to trip up and scald them both. The untied lace was shorter than the distance the man covered with each step, so it was unlikely that in the normal course of things he would step on it. Even so, Raymond felt that he would find such a discrepancy in the tightness of his shoes vexatious. His own shoes had become quite soggy during the walk along the canal. The cuffs of his trousers were spattered with mud. Later, when the café had become a little busier, he thought that one of the regular customers might draw the proprietor’s attention to the offending lace, but no one did. He tried to divert his attention elsewhere, but Raymond became increasingly agitated by the scuffing of the man’s shoes on the floor. It caused a tightening in his throat, so that it became impossible to enjoy his tea. Each time the man brought a drink to a customer’s table, Raymond felt a tension build in his chest. He had planned to linger in the café for as long as possible, but in the end he could not stand it any longer. He placed some coins on the table and left.
At precisely half past three, Raymond found himself outside the school gates. The rain had stopped. Raymond’s shoes had almost dried. He stood among the trees on the opposite side of the road. He did not want any of his teachers to see him. He only wanted to see Yvette. He had not formulated any kind of plan, but when he saw her everything would fall into place. Even if she was with Stéphane, he was sure that she would understand that he wanted to be alone with her. Perhaps they would go to the Café des Vosges together. Or perhaps they would proceed directly to her home. Yvette’s parents rarely disturbed them and never entered Yvette’s tiny bedroom without first knocking.
Twenty minutes passed, then thirty. The schoolyard was empty before Yvette emerged from the direction of the school library. She was with Stéphane. She no longer had the linen bag of books she had been carrying earlier. Stéphane was circling his hands in the way that he did when he was telling a story or had embarked on one of his speeches. Although they were still a good hundred metres away, Raymond could see that Yvette was listening intently. Then, when Stéphane finished speaking, Yvette reached her left hand across her body and grasped Stéphane’s hand. Her right hand gripped the crook of his elbow. Stéphane inclined his head so that his cheek nestled in Yvette’s hair. They proceeded across the schoolyard in this manner for several paces. Raymond stepped back behind the trunk of the tree he had been leaning on. Then Stéphane released his arm from Yvette’s grip and put it round her shoulders. They exited the schoolyard and crossed the road, passing only metres from where Raymond had concealed himself. Yvette had slipped her right hand into the back pocket of Stéphane’s jeans. Raymond suppressed a convulsion in his stomach.
He waited a few moments before following them as they walked towards Avenue Général de Gaulle. They were sure to go into the Café des Vosges and, after allowing a suitable amount of time to elapse, Raymond could join them. But to say what? To do what? He and Yvette had never walked along the street in such a manner. Their relationship had been a private affair; it was not something to be paraded for the entertainment of all and sundry. Or perhaps there had been nothing to parade. Perhaps the special understanding he had with Yvette—an understanding he had never felt the need to articulate—existed only in his own head.
Yvette and Stéphane did not enter the Café des Vosges. Nor did they part, as Raymond expected them to, at the corner of Avenue Général de Gaulle and Rue de Mulhouse. Instead they continued, still locked in their ridiculous embrace, to the corner of Rue des Trois Rois. They turned into Yvette’s street. Raymond was no more than twenty or thirty metres behind. Then, just beyond Mme Beck’s shop, Yvette halted and gently pushed Stéphane against the wall of the house next door to her own. She pushed herself onto tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth. Raymond could see that her legs were parted slightly. With her left hand she gripped Stéphane’s buttock, drawing his groin towards hers.
Neither of them had so much as glanced in his direction, but Raymond was sure that they knew he was there, and that their lewd performance was entirely for his benefit. He thought briefly of the knife that still nestled beneath the books in his satchel. He saw himself pacing towards the couple and silently pushing the blade into Stéphane’s midriff. But he did no such thing. Instead, he turned and ran in the opposite direction, almost colliding with the long-faced young man as he did so.
Twenty
It had come as something of a surprise to Gorski that Céline had suggested meeting in the Restaurant de la Cloche. As far as he knew, she had never set foot in the place. The
restaurant did the greater part of its trade during the day, so in the evenings it was frequented mostly by widowers, bachelors and the itinerant salesmen for whom it was more economical to spend the night in Saint-Louis than across the border in Switzerland. Members of this latter group generally bolted their meals before creeping off to find a more dimly lit refuge in which to get sozzled. A few brought paperback Westerns or detective novels, which they propped against their carafes of house wine. Gorski envied these men. They could eat and drink what they wanted. They were not obliged to inform anyone of their whereabouts. They were answerable to no one. Yet Gorski knew he would not survive a month of such an existence. He was wedded to Saint-Louis; to the little patch of unremarkable streets where his position as chief of police accorded him a status he barely merited.
Marie greeted him warmly.
‘Will you be dining with us tonight, Inspector?’ she asked.
She showed him to the table in the corner: Ribéry’s table. Gorski did not object. It placed him furthest from the other patrons and was thus best suited to a private conversation. Pasteur was engaged in a game of cards with Lemerre and his cronies at the table by the door. He acknowledged Gorski’s arrival with an upward motion of his head.
The Accident on the A35 Page 21
