Dog Will Have His Day (Three Evangelist 2)

by Vargas, Fred

  Marc looked in the file. Just peaceful people, doing peaceful things. He had Kehlweiler’s notes, his own, and Mathias’s. He hadn’t yet sorted them all out properly.

  ‘Look through them slowly, take your time.’

  ‘Don’t you want to take a look yourself?’

  ‘I’m sleepy. I got up at dawn, ten o’clock, to see Lanquetot. I’m good for nothing when I’m sleepy.’

  ‘Drink your coffee,’ said Marthe.

  ‘Here’s someone,’ said Marc, ‘a guy the hunter-gatherer noticed.’

  ‘Hunter-gatherer?’

  ‘Mathias,’ Marc said. ‘You told me he could take a turn.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Louis. ‘So what did he hunt, your gatherer?’

  ‘As a rule it’s the aurochs, but in this case, he’s caught a man.’

  Marc looked again at the notes.

  ‘There’s a man who teaches one day a week at the Arts et Métiers technical school, on Fridays. He comes to Paris on Thursday night, and he leaves again on Saturday morning at dawn. When Mathias says dawn, he means dawn.’

  ‘And where does he go?’

  ‘To the far end of Brittany, place called Port-Nicolas, near Quimper. He lives there.’

  Kehlweiler pulled a face, and leaned over to take the note written by Mathias. He read it and reread it, concentrating hard.

  ‘He’s making his German face,’ Marthe whispered to Marc. ‘Watch out for fireworks!’

  ‘Marthe,’ said Louis without looking up, ‘you’ll never manage to whisper in a discreet way.’

  He stood up and took from the bookshelf a large card-index box labelled O–P.

  ‘You’ve got a record for Port-Nicolas?’ asked Marc.

  ‘Yes. Tell me, Marc, how did your hunter-gatherer find all this out? Is he a specialist?’

  Marc shrugged.

  ‘Mathias is a special person. He hardly says a word. But he says “talk to me”, and people talk. I’ve seen him at work, I’m not kidding. And he doesn’t have some kind of trick. I asked.’

  ‘So you think,’ remarked Marthe.

  ‘Whatever, it works. But not the other way round, unfortunately. If he says “shut up” to Lucien, for instance, that doesn’t work. I suppose he got chatting to this guy while the dog was going about its doggy business.’

  ‘No one else that travels?’

  ‘Yes – another guy spends two days a week in Rouen, second family, I gather.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ said Marc, ‘if we look through the last two weeks in the local papers, Ouest-France and Le Courrier de l’Eure, what do we find?’

  Ludwig smiled and helped himself to more coffee. Now he just had to let Marc think out loud.

  ‘Now, what do we find?’ Marc repeated.

  He took out his files again and looked quickly through the news cuttings for southern Finistère in Brittany, and the area of Normandy around Rouen.

  ‘In the Eure département, a lorry driver drove into a wall one night, eleven days ago, Wednesday, high alcohol level in the blood. In Finistère, an old woman fell over and hit her head on rocks on a beach. No mention of a toe in either case.’

  ‘Pass me the cuttings.’

  Marc passed them over and crossed his legs on the table, feeling satisfied. He looked confidently at Marthe. This dog thing was over, they could get on with something else. It was depressing to spend a lot of time talking about a dog’s excrement, there are other things in life.

  Louis put the cuttings back, and washed out the coffee cups in the little sink. Then he found a clean tea towel to wipe them, and put them back on a shelf between two files. Marthe put away the coffee tin, picked up her book and settled herself on the narrow bed. Louis sat down beside her.

  ‘Well, now, we’re getting somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘If you like, I can look after Bufo.’

  ‘No, that’s kind of you, but I’d prefer to take him with me.’

  Marc unfolded his legs quickly and put his booted feet back on the floor. What had Louis said? Take the toad with him? He didn’t turn round, he must have been mistaken, he hadn’t heard anything.

  ‘Has he ever been to the seaside?’ asked Marthe. ‘It doesn’t agree with everyone.’

  ‘Bufo can adapt to anywhere, don’t you worry about him. And what makes you think it’s going to be Finistère?’

  ‘A drunk lorry driver in the Eure can’t be hiding much. But the old lady on the rocks, that might raise a few questions, and anyway it’s a woman. What have you done to your nose?’

  ‘I bumped into something when I got up this morning, didn’t see the door, it was early.’

  ‘Lucky you’ve got a nose, it protects the eyes.’

  Good God, were they going to carry on like this for ever? Marc was on edge, saying nothing. Resting his hands on his thighs, hunched over, the reflexes of a man who would like to be forgotten about. Kehlweiler was going off to Brittany, what the fuck was that about? And Marthe seemed to find it completely natural. Had he been doing nothing else all his life? Running off to take a look? At the drop of a hat? Because of a piece of shit?

  Marc looked at his watch. Almost midday, it was time. He could leave now, casually, before Kehlweiler signed him up as a runner on this wild goose chase. With someone like him, haunted by futility ever since the Second World War had brought him into the world, and the Ministry had made him redundant, you could spend for ever running all over France in search of some phantom. In the department of lost illusions, Marc considered he had fully paid his dues, and he had no intention of making further contributions on Kehlweiler’s behalf.

  Louis was examining his nose in the little pocket mirror handed to him by Marthe. Right. Marc discreetly closed the folders, buttoned up his jacket and waved goodbye to everyone. Kehlweiler replied with a smile, and Marc left. Once in the street, he decided he would go and work somewhere else, not back home in the shared house. He preferred to have some time to prepare his negative arguments, before Kehlweiler came calling to recruit him to go running around the far reaches of Brittany. All week, Marc had discovered by experience that it was best to disappear and think up ways of saying no to this guy. So he dropped in briefly to his room at home, to pick up enough work to keep him going in a cafe until the evening. He stuffed an old satchel full of Saint-Amand accounts, and rushed downstairs, just as his uncle was coming quietly up.

  ‘Hello there,’ said the elder Vandoosler. ‘Anyone would think the cops were after you.’

  Was it so obvious? Sometime he must practise not getting so agitated, or if that didn’t work, which was predictable, to get agitated without it showing.

  ‘I’m going off to do some work outside. If Kehlweiler gets in touch, you don’t know where I am.’

  ‘Reason?’

  ‘The guy’s crazy. I’ve got nothing against him, he has his own reasons, but I’d prefer if he goes chasing rainbows without me. To each his own, I’m not up for pointless expeditions to the ends of the earth.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ Vandoosler said simply, and went on climbing to the attic, where he lodged.

  Marc found a pleasant cafe quite a distance from the house, and got busy balancing his thirteenth-century books.

  Kehlweiler, standing still, tapped on the little cardboard index card he had extracted from his file.

  ‘Bad timing,’ he said to Marthe. ‘I know too much, I travel too much, I meet too many people. Small world, this country. Much too small.’

  ‘You know someone in this place in Brittany? Tell me.’

  ‘Who do you think? Guess.’

  ‘How many letters?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘Woman.’

  ‘Ah. Someone you were in love with, or so-so, or not at all?’

  ‘That I was in love with.’

  ‘That makes it easy then. The second girl? No, she’s in Canada. The third? Pauline?’

  ‘Spot on. Funny, eh?’

  ‘Funny? That d
epends what you’re going to do.’

  Louis stroked his cheek with the index card.

  ‘No revenge expeditions, Ludwig! People are free agents, they can do what they want. I liked her fine, your little Pauline, except she was a bit too keen on money and that’s where you lost out. And as I’m always telling you, I know about women. But how do you know she’s there? I thought you’d never heard from her again.’

  ‘Just the once,’ said Louis, taking out another card index, ‘and it was to tell me about some toxic case. In her village about four years ago. She sent me a press cutting about the guy, with some comments of her own. But no personal message, nothing, not even “take care” or “love from Pauline”. Just the information, because she thought this guy was nasty enough for me to keep some record of him. Not even “love”, nothing. I replied the same way to acknowledge it, and I filed the man’s name away in the big box.’

  ‘Pauline used to provide you with some good tips. Who’s the man?’

  ‘Someone called René Blanchet,’ said Louis, taking out a card. ‘Don’t know him.’

  He read for a few seconds in silence.

  ‘Quick outline?’ said Marthe.

  ‘Real old bastard, is what it looks like. Pauline knew the kind of thing I wanted.’

  ‘And in the four years you’ve had her address, you haven’t been tempted to go and take a look?’

  ‘Yes, Marthe, I have, many times. Go and take a look, examine this Blanchet character, and try to get Pauline back while I’m there. I’ve been imagining her all alone in a big house by the sea, with the rain beating on the windows.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d be very surprised. I know about women. Well, anyway, why didn’t you give it a try?’

  ‘Because, anyway, as you put it, you’ve seen what I look like, you can see my leg. I know about women too, Marthe. It’s not important, don’t worry, I’d have run into Pauline again sometime or another. If you spend your life going around a small country like France, you meet the people you deserve, the ones you try to meet, the ones you want to meet, don’t you fret.’

  ‘Still and all,’ murmured Marthe, ‘no revenge trips, eh, Louis?

  ‘Don’t keep repeating yourself. Want a beer?’

  XI

  Port-Nicolas, Brittany, November 1995

  LOUIS LEFT NEXT morning at about eleven, taking his time. The dog walker really did live at the furthest tip of Brittany, some twenty kilometres from the nearest large town, which was Quimper. That meant seven hours on the road, with a stop for a beer. Louis didn’t like rushing when he was driving, and he couldn’t go seven hours without a beer. His father was the same way about the beer.

  Mathias’s notes ran through his head. The dog: ‘Medium-sized, beige, short hair, big teeth, could be a pit bull, nasty-looking anyway.’ That didn’t attract you to its owner. The man: ‘Fortyish, light brown hair, brown eyes, receding chinline but otherwise quite nice-looking, bit of a paunch, name . . .’ What was the name? Sevran. Lionel Sevran. So the man with the dog had gone back yesterday morning to Brittany, with his dog, and he’d stay there till next Thursday. All he had to do was follow him. Louis drove at a moderate speed, holding the car back a bit. He had thought about taking someone with him so that the quixotic venture would be less lonely and his leg less stiff, but who? The people who sent him news from the four Breton départements were all resident there, rooted in their port, their business, their newspapers, they wouldn’t budge. Sonia? No, Sonia had left, he wasn’t going to mope over her all day. Next time he’d try to be a better lover. Louis pulled a face. He didn’t fall in love easily. Of all the women he’d had – because when you’re driving along on your own, you’re allowed to say ‘had’ – how many had he really loved? Three, three and a half. No, it wasn’t his strong point. Or perhaps he wasn’t keen to sign up for it any more. He tried to be moderately in love, not to exaggerate, keeping away from wild passions. Because he was the kind of man who would stay upset for two years after a love affair had gone wrong, and brood at length over his regrets before deciding to move on. And since he didn’t rush into half-hearted affairs either, he was doomed to long stretches of solitude, which Marthe called his ice ages. She wasn’t in favour. When you’re freezing cold, she would say, where will that get you?

  Louis smiled. With his right hand, he felt for a cigarette and lit it. Look for someone new to love. Look for someone, look for someone, always the same old story. Right, that would do, the world was full of horrors and bloodshed, he’d think about that later, he was entering one of the ice ages.

  He stopped in a service area and closed his eyes. Ten minutes’ rest. Anyway, he was grateful to all the women who had passed through his life, whether he’d loved them or not, simply for passing through. In the end, he loved all women, because when you’re on your own in the car you have the right to generalise, all of them, and especially the three and a half. In the end, he felt an indistinct kind of gratitude to them, he admired their ability to love men, something that seemed pretty damn difficult to him, even worse someone with an ugly mug like himself. With his rough-hewn and discouraging features, which he spent as little time as possible looking at in the morning, he should by rights have been alone all his life. And no, he hadn’t been. You couldn’t make it up, women are the only creatures who could find an ugly man handsome. Frankly, yes, he was grateful. It seemed to him that Marc, too, had a problem with his love life. That nervy character, Vandoosler junior. He could have brought him along for the ride, he’d thought of it, they could both have gone searching for women together at the far tip of Finistère. But he had been well aware of how Marc had tensed up at the table when he’d started talking about the trip. For him, this business with the bone had no head nor tail to it – and he was mistaken, because they did have the tail, and were looking precisely for the head. But Marc couldn’t see that yet, or was afraid of making a fool of himself, or perhaps the idea of doing something off the wall didn’t appeal to Marc Vandoosler – unless he’d thought of it first. That’s why he hadn’t asked him. And anyway young Vandoosler was better off staying in Paris for now, since there was no need at present for someone who could run. He’d therefore thought it best to leave him in peace. Marc was at once very likely to crumple and very strong – like linen. If we started talking fabric, what was he like himself? Have to ask Marthe.

  Louis went to sleep, leaning on the steering wheel, in the service area car park.

  He reached Port-Nicolas at seven in the evening. He drove slowly through the streets of the little fishing village to get some idea of it, asking his way once or twice, the place wasn’t either very big or very picturesque, and he parked right outside Lionel Sevran’s house. That dog must travel hundreds of kilometres to take a piss. Perhaps he only liked pissing in Paris, a snob among dogs.

  He rang the bell at the closed front door. A friend had told him that the great difference to ponder between animals and humans was that an animal opened doors, and never closed them after it, while a human did. A great behavioural gulf. Louis smiled as he stood waiting.

  A woman opened the door. Instinctively, Louis appraised her carefully, judging, weighing up, wondering yes, no, maybe, just in his head. He did the same to all women, unthinkingly. At the same time, he knew it was a bad habit, but the analysis went on despite himself. In his defence, Louis might have said he always checked out the face before the figure.

  This face was good, but looked very reserved, largish mouth, nice figure, nothing excessive. She replied to his questions politely, made no fuss about letting him in, but didn’t put the boat out in the way of hospitality either. Perhaps she was just used to visitors. If he wanted to wait for her husband, yes, all right, he could just sit down in the main room, but it might be a little while.

  She was doing a big jigsaw puzzle on a large tray, and went back to work, after having installed him in an armchair and put a glass and some aperitif bottles beside him.

  Louis poured himself a drink a
nd watched her do the puzzle. Seen from upside down, it seemed to be of the Tower of London at night. She was working on the sky. He put her age at about forty.

  ‘He’s not home yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but he’s in the cellar with a new one. Could be half an hour or more, we can’t disturb him.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You picked a bad day,’ she said with a sigh. ‘New ones, always the way, big attraction. Then he gets tired of them and goes off looking for another.’

  ‘OK, yes,’ said Louis.

  ‘But this one, she might keep him busy an hour or more. He’s been looking out for one like this for ages, looks like he struck lucky. But don’t take offence.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Good, you’re taking it well.’

  Louis helped himself to a second glass. She was the one who seemed to be taking it well. Rather reserved, but you could see why. He felt like helping her, keeping her company until her husband was through. Frankly, he couldn’t understand this scenario. Waiting, he’d found a piece of the jigsaw that seemed to fit into the left-hand part of the sky. He leaned forward and pushed it with his finger. She nodded and smiled, yes, that was right.

  ‘You can help me if you like. The sky’s always the worst bit in a puzzle, but you’ve got to do it.’

  Louis moved his chair and worked alongside her. He had nothing against jigsaw puzzles from time to time, though you didn’t want to overdo it.

  ‘You have to separate the midnight blue from the lighter blue,’ he said. ‘But why the cellar?’

  ‘That was at my insistence. The cellar or nothing. I don’t want all that going on inside the house, there are limits. I made conditions, because if he had his way, he’d have them upstairs. After all, the house is mine as well.’

  ‘Of course. Does this happen often?’

  ‘Fairly. Just depends.’

  ‘Where does he find them?’

  ‘Oh, look, that piece goes on your side. Where does he find them? Ah, yes, of course that would interest you. He just picks them up here and there, he has his regular haunts. He goes prospecting, and when he first brings them home, believe me, they don’t look like anything special. Nobody else would give them a second glance, but he’s got an eye for them. That’s it, and I don’t have the right to tell you any more. And then, after the cellar, well, they’re real princesses. Alongside them, me? Well, I might as well not exist.’