by Vargas, Fred
‘Lanquetot? Hello, it’s the German speaking . . . Murder, murder and blue murder, case closed, we’ll try to put Paquelin on the spot. I need to contact a few people in the Ministry and I’ll be over to see you the day after tomorrow with my sandwich . . . No, not before eleven.’
Louis looked round as he hung up. Jean, wan, red-eyed, and his body more shapeless than ever in his would-be clerical clothes, was hesitating in the doorway of the cafe. Struck by a sudden fear, Louis went to the door and caught his arm.
‘What is it? Is it Gaël?’ he asked, shaking him.
Jean looked at him without a word, and Louis dragged him over to the counter.
‘Come on, say something, for fuck’s sake!’
‘Gaël is better, he’s eaten something,’ said Jean with a shaky smile. ‘It was the Virgin Mary who spoke to me this morning, that’s what made me cry, she says she forgives me.’
Louis gave a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realised how much he had wanted Sevran’s last victim to survive the massacre. That they let the kid live was all he would ask of Port-Nicolas now.
‘The Virgin Mary –’ Jean began.
‘Yes,’ said Louis, ‘the Virgin Mary is quite happy, she says you’ve a perfect right to see Gaël again, that’s OK with her, she’s a kind woman at heart. Have a drink.’
‘No,’ said Jean anxiously, ‘she didn’t say that, she –’
‘No, no, no, Jean, you heard wrong. What she told you is what I just said. You trust me, don’t you? You’re not under arrest, you’re not going to spend the rest of your life in the church, are you? You’re going to live a bit outside as well. Trust me?’
Jean smiled a bit more.
‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘Of course. Cut off my leg if I’m not. Right, have a drink.’
Jean nodded. It was at that moment that Louis realised by the silence reigning in the cafe, apart from the noise of the table football, that if he hadn’t gone to fetch Jean from the doorway it wasn’t evident that the wall of glances would have let him come in.
‘Antoinette,’ he said, ‘Jean could do with a drink.’
Antoinette poured out a glass of Muscadet and put it in Jean’s hand.
Louis went over to see Lina; her children had arrived home that morning, things would settle down. Then he found himself once more on the empty road to the health spa. He had to go and say hello. He hadn’t dared ask Marc to push him there on the bike, but the icy bath in the miraculous spring had done his knee no good whatsoever. He’d just go and say hello. And perhaps ask if it was because of the leg that she’d left. Perhaps ask for more, and too bad for Darnas. Too bad for Darnas if she said yes. If she said no, of course, that would be different. Or perhaps just say goodbye and leave. Louis stopped halfway down the wet road. Or perhaps just leave a note, something mean like ‘my toad is misbehaving in the bathroom, got to go’. Like plenty of other people would do, and just move on. Because if Pauline really had left him because of the knee, or, worse, if she didn’t love him, and she really preferred Darnas, best not to know. Or perhaps it was. Or not. Or just say hello. Louis looked at the large spa building in its vast grounds, turned back and went as far as Sevran’s machine. It was surrounded by police – they were going to excavate Diego’s grave. He pushed aside a cop standing in front of the handle, without taking any notice of the dirty looks he received. He worked the mechanism, and picked up his strip of paper. ‘Why hesitate? Souvenir from Port-Nicolas.’ ‘Bloody fool,’ said Louis between gritted teeth.
He went slowly back to the cafe, sat at the counter and asked Antoinette for some paper. He wrote half a page, folded it and taped it down.
‘Antoinette,’ he said, ‘could you give this to Pauline Darnas when you see her?’
Antoinette put the paper inside the cash register. Marc came over from the football.
‘So you’re not going to say hello and off we go?’
‘I don’t want to hear hello, well, well, now, and bon voyage. I’m packing my doubts in my case and we’re leaving.’
‘That’s funny,’ said Marc, ‘that’s my system too. Do you want me to explain it again?’
‘No. Look out, your medieval lord is getting soaked.’
Marc turned round and ran to the table where he had left his papers: a glass had been knocked over, and liquid was running gently over them.
‘It does it on purpose,’ cried Marc, as he wiped the damp papers with the edge of his jacket. ‘History gets wet, and crumpled, and wiped out, so it panics, it starts crying like a child, and you go rushing to help it, and you don’t even know why. That’s the way I always fall for it.’
Mathias nodded. Louis watched as Marc desperately tried to rescue the wrinkled papers. He was unsticking and unfolding the accounts of Hugues de Puisaye. Antoinette and Jean helped him, bringing cloths and blowing on the pages. Mathias put the saved sheets over the backs of cafe chairs. Louis would tell his old man about that, over in Lörrach. He’d like that. And then the old man would tell the Rhine, you could bet on that.
‘I could do with a beer,’ he said.
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Epub ISBN: 9781448190188
Version 1.0
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Published by Harvill Secker 2014
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Copyright © Éditions Viviane Hamy, Paris, 1996
English translation copyright © Siân Reynolds 2014
Fred Vargas has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published with the title Un peu plus loin sur la droite in 1996
by Éditions Viviane Hamy, Paris
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
HARVILL SECKER
Random House
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781846558191
This book is supported by the Institut Français (Royaume-Uni) as part of the Burgess programme (www.frenchbooknews.com)
