Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

by Fred Vargas

  And since the headache was getting worse, the only thing for it was to treat an exception with an exceptional cure, and get well and truly wasted. Adamsberg did not drink much, as a rule, and could hardly remember the last time he had been seriously drunk: it was as a young man, at some village festival, with everything that went with it. But on the whole, from what he had heard, people thought it worked. Drown your sorrows, they said. OK, that’s exactly what he needed.

  He installed himself at the bar between two Québécois who were already well-launched on beer, and for starters drank three whiskies in a row. The walls didn’t seem to be moving around, he felt fine, and the troubled contents of his head were now being transferred to his stomach. Leaning on the counter, he ordered a bottle of wine, having gathered from reliable informants that mixing drinks usually produced fast results. After drinking four glasses, he ordered a cognac to top it all off. Rigour, rigour and yet more rigour, no other way to succeed. Good ol’ Laliberté. What a chum, eh.

  The barman was beginning to look at him anxiously. Well, you can go fuck yourself, buddy, I’m heading for sweet oblivion. Vivaldi would understand. Oh yeah.

  Prudently, Adamsberg had already laid out enough dollars on the counter, in case he fell off his stool. The cognac seemed to put an interesting final touch to his radical loss of bearings, vague feelings of aggression mingled with bursts of laughter, and a sense of immense strength. Come on, I’ll fight anyone, a bear, a chum, a dead man, or a fish, anything you like. ‘Any nearer and I’ll spear ye,’ his grandmother had said, brandishing a garden fork against a German soldier, who was advancing on her with rape in mind. That was a laugh, it rhymed. It still made him laugh, that. Good ol’ grand’mère! From very far away, he heard the barman saying something.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you’d better call it quits for tonight, and go take the air. You’re not making sense.’

  ‘I’m talking to you about my grandma.’

  ‘Grandma, whatever, I don’t care, all I know is you’ve had way too much, and you’re gonna fall flat on your face.’

  ‘I’m not goin’ anywhere, I’m sitting at this nice bar, on this nice stool.’

  ‘Listen to you, Frenchie. You can’t even see straight, you’re so smashed. Did your girl let you down, or what? No reason to fall on your ass. C’mon, out with you, I’m not serving you any more.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said Adamsberg, holding out his glass.

  ‘Shut up, Frenchie. Get out or I’m calling the pigs.’

  Adamsberg spluttered. The pigs, eh? What a laugh.

  ‘Any nearer an’ I’ll spear ye! An’ that goes for the pigs as well.’

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ said the barman, furiously, ‘don’t you try any funny business with me, you’re really pissing me off. I told you, eff off out of it!’

  The man was built like a lumberjack from a story book, and when he came round the bar, he lifted Adamsberg up under the armpits, carried him to the door and dumped him upright on the sidewalk.

  ‘And don’t try driving,’ he said, handing him his jacket.

  The barman was even kind enough to wedge his cap firmly on his head.

  ‘Gonna be cold tonight, 12 below they say,’ he explained.

  ‘What time is it? Can’t see my watches.’

  ‘Quarter after ten, way past your bedtime. Just walk home. No cars. And don’t worry, man, plenty more girls out there.’

  The door of the bar slammed shut in Adamsberg’s face, and he had difficulty picking up his jacket which had fallen on the ground, and then putting it on the right way round. More girls. No thanks, just what he didn’t want.

  ‘Got one girl too many!’ he shouted out in the deserted street for the barman’s benefit.

  His uncertain steps took him automatically towards the portage trail. He had the vague feeling Noëlla might be there waiting for him, in the shadows like a wolf. He found his flashlight and switched it on, sweeping it vaguely in front of him.

  ‘Don’t want any more, got enough!’ he shouted.

  Guy who can beat up a bear, or the cops, he can handle one girl, can’t he?

  Adamsberg embarked determinedly along the trail. Despite his staggering progress, the memory of the path was implanted in his feet, which carried him along valiantly, even if from time to time he bumped into a tree trunk. He was about half-way home already, he reckoned. You can handle it, my boy, you’ve sure got what it takes.

  Not enough of it, however, to miss a low branch he should have avoided. It hit him full in the forehead, and he felt himself drop to the ground, knees first, then face, without his hands being able to break his fall.

  XXVII

  WHEN ADAMSBERG REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, IT WAS WITH A WAVE OF nausea. His forehead was throbbing so much that he could hardly open his eyes. When he did manage to focus, he could see nothing. The world had gone black.

  The black was the night sky, he eventually realised, his teeth chattering. He was no longer on the trail, but on a metalled road, and the air was freezing cold. He raised himself on to one arm, propping up his head. Then he stayed sitting for a while, unable to move further, since the ground seemed to be swaying all over the place. What in heaven’s name had he been doing? He recognised the sound of the Ottawa River, not far away. That at least helped him to get his bearings. He was at the edge of the trail, only about fifty metres from the residence block. He must have passed out after hitting his head on the branch, then tottered along for a while, and fallen over again, on reaching the road. Putting his hands on the ground, he pushed himself up, holding on to a tree trunk to counter the dizziness. Just another fifty metres, that was all, and he would be in his room. He moved forward clumsily through the biting cold air, stopping every few steps to regain his balance, then setting off once more. The muscles in his legs seemed to have turned to jelly.

  The sight of the well-lit entrance guided him the last few steps. He pushed, and shook the glass door. The key, oh God, where was the damn key? Leaning his elbow on a door-panel, sweat freezing on his face, he managed to locate it in a pocket and pushed it into the lock under the eyes of the night janitor who was looking at him in consternation.

  ‘Jeez, what’s happened to you, commissaire?’

  ‘I’m not too good,’ Adamsberg managed to say.

  ‘Need any help?’

  Adamsberg shook his head, accentuating the pain under his skull. He had only one desire, to lie down and not to have to talk.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said feebly. ‘Just a bust-up. A gang.’

  ‘Goddamn hoodlums. Going round in gangs looking for trouble. Ought to be locked up.’

  Adamsberg nodded agreement and called the lift. Once in his room, he rushed into the bathroom, and expelled a great deal of alcohol. Good grief, what vile concoctions had they served him?

  His legs trembling, his arms shaking, he flung himself on the bed, keeping his eyes open, to stop the room from spinning round.

  When he woke up, his head felt almost as heavy as before, but he had a sense that the worst was over. He got up and took a few steps. His legs felt a little more solid, but were still inclined to give way under him. He fell back on the bed, then gave a start, when he caught sight of his hands, which were caked with dried blood, even under the nails. He hauled himself to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. The blow on the forehead had made a gash and a large purple bruise. It must have bled a lot, then he must have rubbed his face and got it on his hands. Great, he thought, as he started to sponge his face carefully, a brilliant Sunday night out. Then he froze, and turned off the tap. It was Monday morning. At nine o’clock, he was due at the RCMP building.

  His alarm clock was showing a quarter to eleven. Oh Lord, he must have slept more than twelve hours. He took the precaution of sitting down before he called Laliberté.

  ‘What kind of a joke is this?’ said the superintendent with a smile in his voice. ‘Clock stopped?’

  ‘Forgive me, Aurèle, bu
t I’m not in good shape.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Laliberté with concern, his voice changing register. ‘You sound terrible.’

  ‘Yeah, I feel terrible. I knocked myself out and took a fall on the trail last night. Blood everywhere, I was sick as a dog and this morning my legs feel weak.’

  ‘Wait a minute, man, you fell over, or you had a skinful? Sounds like those things don’t fit together.’

  ‘Both, Aurèle.’

  ‘OK, tell me about it from the beginning. You’d had too much to drink, right?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t do that as a rule, so it went straight to my head.’

  ‘You were bingeing with your pals?’

  ‘No, I was on my own in the rue Laval.’

  ‘Why were you drinking on your own? You had the blues?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Homesick? Don’t you like it here?’

  ‘I like it fine here, Aurèle, everything’s been great. I just had a sudden attack of the blues. Not worth talking about.’

  ‘OK, I won’t pry. So then what?’

  ‘I took the portage trail to get home, and God help me, I hit my head on a branch.’

  ‘Christ, where’d it hit you?’

  ‘Bang in the middle of my forehead.’

  ‘You saw stars, right?’

  ‘I just keeled over, knocked right out. After that, I managed to drag myself home to the residence. I’m just waking up now.’

  ‘Did you go to sleep in your clothes? That bad?’

  ‘That bad, yes. This morning, my head’s aching and my legs won’t carry me. That’s why I’m phoning you. I shouldn’t drive yet, so I won’t be in till two o’clock.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy. I’m not a slave driver. Just stay where you are, Jean-Baptiste, relax and take something. Got any pills for the headache?’

  ‘No.’

  Laliberté put the phone down and called Ginette. Adamsberg heard his voice echoing through the office. ‘Ginette, take some medicine round to the commissaire, he’s got the mother of all hangovers, can’t move.’

  ‘Saint-Preux will bring you some stuff,’ the superintendent said into the telephone. ‘Don’t budge, stay put, OK? See you tomorrow when you feel a bit better.’

  Adamsberg took a shower so that Ginette would not see his face and hands covered in dried blood. He brushed underneath his fingernails and, once he was dressed, he looked almost presentable, except for the large purple lump on his forehead.

  Ginette gave him various medicaments, for his head, his stomach, his legs. She washed and disinfected the cut on his forehead and applied some ointment. With expert gestures, she looked at his pupils, and checked his reflexes. Adamsberg allowed himself to be dealt with as if he were a stuffed dummy. She was reassured by the examination, and gave him advice for the rest of the day. Take the pills every four hours. Drink a lot, just water of course. Keep the wound clean, and pass plenty of water. Adamsberg agreed, meekly.

  Without chatting this time, she left him a few magazines to distract him, if he felt able to read, and some food for the evening. His Canadian colleagues were really very considerate, that had better go into the report.

  He left the magazines on the table, and lay down, just as he was. He slept, dreamed, lay looking at the ventilator in the ceiling, got up every four hours to take his pills, had a drink of water, went to the lavatory, and lay down again. By eight in the evening, he was feeling better. The headache had seeped away into the pillow and his legs felt more solid.

  Laliberté chose that moment to call and ask how he was, and he was able to get up almost normally to answer the telephone.

  ‘No worse?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘Much better thanks, Aurèle.’

  ‘Not dizzy any more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Take your time tomorrow, Jean-Baptiste, someone will drive you to the airport. Do you need any help with your luggage?’

  ‘No, no, I’m feeling almost back to normal.’

  ‘Sleep well then, and I hope you’ll be OK for our session tomorrow.’

  Adamsberg felt obliged to try and swallow some of the food Ginette had brought him, then decided to risk a short walk as far as the river to see it for the last time. The outside temperature was 10 below.

  The janitor stopped him at the door.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he asked. ‘You were in a helluva state last night. Goddamn gangs. Did you manage to run ’em in?’

  ‘Yeah, the lot. Sorry to have roused you.’

  ‘No harm done, I wasn’t asleep. It was nearly two in the morning, but I’m not sleeping well.’

  ‘Nearly two in the morning?’ asked Adamsberg turning back. ‘Late as that?’

  ‘Yeah, ten to two, to be precise. I didn’t get to sleep at all last night.’

  Feeling rattled, Adamsberg pushed his fists deep into his pockets as he headed down to the river and turned right. He was certainly not going to sit down in the cold, let alone risk meeting the dreaded Noëlla.

  Ten to two in the morning. The commissaire paced up and down on the little sandy stretch lining the bank. The geese were there, their commander-in-chief still at it, marshalling his troops for the night, whipping in the stragglers and latecomers. He could hear his imperious cackling behind his back. Well, that was one customer who didn’t get depressed and try to drown his sorrows in a bar in the rue Laval, for sure. It made him hate the well-organised bird even more. A Canada gander, who probably checked every morning to see his feathers were in tiptop condition and his shoelaces properly tied. Adamsberg turned up his collar. Never mind the geese, just put your thinking cap on, as Clémentine would say. It isn’t rocket science. Follow the advice she and Sanscartier had given him. For the moment they were his only guardian angels: an eccentric old woman and an innocent unpromoted sergeant. Well, everyone has his own guardian angels. Just put your thinking cap on.

  Ten to two in the morning. Up to when he had crashed into the branch, he could remember everything. He had asked the barman the time. Quarter after ten, way past your bedtime, man. However much he was swaying about, he could hardly have taken more than forty minutes to reach the place on the path where he had hit the branch. Let’s allow three-quarters of an hour maximum, to cover not walking straight. It couldn’t have been more, because his legs were working perfectly well then. So he must have hit the tree at about eleven o’clock. Then allow for waking up on the road, and another twenty minutes to make it to the building. He must have regained consciousness at about one-thirty in the morning. Therefore two and a half hours must have passed between hitting the branch and coming to, feeling sick, at the end of the trail. Two and a half hours, for a journey that usually took him little more than half an hour!

  What the hell had he been doing in those two and a half hours? His mind was a complete blank. Had he been unconscious all that time? But the temperature was minus 12 degrees. He would surely have frozen to the spot. He must have been walking, moving about. Perhaps he had dragged himself slowly along the trail, falling then getting up again, making erratic progress, interspersed with fainting fits.

  Alcohol and mixed drinks. He knew people who could shout all night without having any memory of it next day. Guys in the cells, who had to be told in the morning what they had been up to: beating the wife, chucking the dog out of the window. Black holes of two or three hours, before falling into a deep sleep. In that time, they’d been responsible for actions, words and gestures, plenty of them, but all lost to conscious memory, since their minds were befuddled with drink. It was as if the alcohol diluted any attempt to record a memory, like the ink from a pen writing on sodden paper.

  What had he drunk?

  Three whiskies, four glasses of wine and one of cognac. And if the barman, who seemed to know his job, judged the time had come to chuck him out, he no doubt had good reason. Barmen can estimate exactly how many degrees of alcohol you have in your blood, as certainly as the Mounties’ DNA laboratory. The man had seen his customer g
o over the line, and refused to serve him another glass, even if it would have meant a few more bucks. They’re like that, barmen. They may look like shopkeepers, but they’re really chemists, vigilant philanthropists, lifesavers. And indeed he remembered the barman had even taken care to pull his cap firmly on to his head.

  Well, that was all there was to it, Adamsberg concluded, turning homewards. He had got monumentally drunk, and then he had hit his head. Pissed out of his mind and knocked unconscious. After that, he had spent two and a half hours crawling along the path, tripping and falling every few steps. So drunk that his sodden memory couldn’t register anything. He had gone into the bar in search of forgetfulness, the famous oblivion that lies at the bottom of a glass. Well, he had certainly got more than he’d bargained for.

  On his return, he felt well enough to do his packing and clear up the room. A tidy room was what he would have liked to find back home in Paris. He felt overburdened by turbulent clouds, great dark cumulus clouds crashing into each other like swollen toads, not forgetting the thunderbolts as well. What he ought to do was cut up those clouds into little samples, and put them all on collection cards and paper discs. Not mix them all up in a great heavy sack. He would treat obstacles in future as he had learnt to handle them here, methodically taking cloud samples, one by one, in ascending order of length. If he was capable of that. He thought of the next obstacle looming up; the presence of Noëlla tomorrow at the airport, ready for the 20.10 flight to Paris.

  XXVIII

  HIS HEADACHE HAD LIFTED BY THE MORNING, AND ADAMSBERG ARRIVED punctually at the RCMP base, parking his car under the same maple tree and greeting the usual squirrel, finding a kind of penitential comfort in reconnecting with his briefly-established Quebec routine. All his colleagues asked how he was, but no one made any ironic references to drink. Warmth and discretion. Ginette said approvingly that the swelling on his forehead had gone down and gave him some more of the sticky ointment.