The Main

by Trevanian

  LaPointe smiles at her tough little shrug, a smile of recognition. While he is in the kitchen putting the kettle on, she moves over to the mantel, pretending to be interested in the photographs arranged in standing frames. In this way she can soak up warmth from the gas fire without appearing to need or want it. As soon as he returns, she steps away as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Who’s that?” she asks, indicating the photographs.

  “My wife.”

  Her swollen eye almost closes as she squints at him in disbelief. The woman in the photos must be twenty-five or thirty years younger than this guy. And you only have to look around this dump to know no woman lives here. But if he wants to pretend he has a wife, it’s no skin off her ass.

  He realizes the room is still cold, and he feels awkward to be wearing a big warm overcoat while she has nothing but that oversized cardigan. He tugs off the coat and drops it over a chair. It occurs to him to give her his bathrobe, so he goes into the bedroom to find it, then he steps into the bathroom and starts running hot water in the deep tub with its claw feet. He notices how messy the bathroom is. He is swishing dried whiskers out of the basin when he realizes that the coffee water must have dripped through by now, so he starts back, forgetting the robe and having to go back for it.

  Christ, it’s complicated having a guest in your house! Who needs it?

  “Here,” he says grumpily. “Put this on.” She regards the old wool robe with caution, then she shrugs and slips it on. Enveloped in it, she looks even smaller and thinner than before, and clownlike, with that frizzy dustmop of a hairstyle that the kids wear these days. A clown with a black eye. A child-whore with a street vocabulary in which foutre and fourrer do most of the work of faire, and with everything she owns in a shopping bag.

  LaPointe is in the kitchen, pouring out the coffee and adding a little water from the kettle because it is strong and she is only a kid, when he hears her laugh. It’s a vigorous laugh, lasting only six or eight notes, then stopping abruptly, still on the ascent, like the cry of a gamebird hit on the rise.

  When he steps into the living room, carrying her cup, she is standing before the mirror that hangs on the back of the door; her face is neutral and bland; there is no trace of the laugh in her eyes. He asks, “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it the robe?”

  “No.” She accepts the coffee. “It’s my eye. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

  “You find it funny, your eye?”

  “Why not?” She brings her cup over to the sofa and sits, her short leg tucked up under her buttock. She has a habit of sitting that way. She finds it comfortable. It has nothing to do with her limp. Not really.

  He sits in his overstuffed chair opposite as she sips the hot coffee, looking into the cup as a child does. That laugh of hers, so total and so brief, has made him feel more comfortable with her. Most girls would have expressed horror or self-pity to see their faces marred. “Who hit you?” he asks.

  She shrugs and blows a puff of air in a typically Canadian gesture of indifference. “A man.”

  “Why?”

  “He promised me I could spend the night, but afterward he changed his mind.”

  “And you raised hell?”

  “Sure. Wouldn’t you?”

  He leans his head back and smiles. “It’s a little hard to imagine being in the situation.”

  She stops in mid-sip and sets the cup down, looking at him levelly. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why’d you say it then?”

  “Forget it. You’re from out of town, aren’t you?”

  She is suddenly wary. “How’d you know that?”

  “You have a downriver accent. I was born in Trois Rivieres myself.”

  “So?” She picks up her cup again and sips, watching him closely, wondering if he’s trying to get something for nothing with all this friendly talk.

  He makes a sudden movement forward, remembering the bath he is running.

  Her cup rattles as she jerks back and lifts an arm to protect herself.

  Then he realizes the tub won’t be half full yet. Water runs slowly through the old pipes. He sits back in his chair. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You didn’t startle me! I’m not afraid of you!” She is angry to have cowered so automatically after her swaggering talk.

  Is this the same kid who just now was laughing at herself in the mirror? Pauvre gamine. Tough; sassy; vulnerable; scared. “I thought the tub might be overflowing. That’s why I jumped up. I’m drawing a bath for you.”

  “I don’t want any goddamned bath!”

  “It will warm you up.”

  “I’m not even sure I want to stay here.”

  “Then finish your coffee and go.”

  “I don’t even want your fucking coffee!” She stares at him, her narrow chin jutting out in defiance. Nobody bosses her around.

  He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “Go on. Take your bath,” he says quietly.

  In fact, the thought of a deep hot bath… All right. She would take a bath. To spite him.

  Steam billows out when she opens the bathroom door. The water is so hot that she has to get in bit by bit, dipping her butt tentatively before daring to lower herself down. Her arms seem to float in the water above her small breasts. The heat makes her sleepy.

  When she comes back into the living room, dressed only in his robe, he is sitting in the armchair, his chin down and his eyes closed. Heat from the gas burner has built up in the room, and she feels heavy and very drowsy. Might as well get it over with and get some sleep.

  “Are you ready?” she asks. “If you’re not, I can help you.” She lets the front of the robe hang open. That ought to get him started.

  He blinks away the deep daydream about his daughters and the Laval house, and turns his head to look at her. She’s so thin that there are hollows in her pelvis. The black tangle of hair at the ecu has a wiry look. One knee is slightly bent to keep the weight on both feet. The breasts are so small that there is a flat of chestbone between them.

  “Cover yourself up,” he says. “You’ll catch cold.”

  “Now just a minute,” she says warily. “I told you in the park that I don’t do anything special—”

  “I know!”

  She takes his anger as proof that he had hoped for some kind of old man’s perversion.

  He stands up. “Look, I’m tired. I’m going to bed. You sleep here.” While she was in the bath, he had made up the sofa, taking one of the pillows from his bed and pulling down two Hudson Bay blankets from the shelf in the closet. They smelled a little of dust, but there is nothing as warm as a Hudson Bay. There is no sheet. He owns only four, and he hasn’t picked up his laundry yet this week. He thought of giving her his, but they are not clean. Nothing in the apartment is prepared for visitors. Since Lucille’s death, there have never been any.

  She slowly closes the robe. So he really hadn’t meant for them to sleep together at all. Maybe it’s the leg. Maybe he doesn’t like the thought of screwing a cripple. She’s met others like that. Well, to hell with him. She doesn’t care.

  While he is rinsing out the cup and emptying the coffee-maker in the kitchen, she makes herself comfortable on the sofa and pulls the heavy blankets over her. Only when the delicious weight is pressing on her does she realize how tired she is. It almost hurts her bones to relax.

  On his way to the bedroom, he turns off the gas. “You don’t need it while you’re sleeping. It’s bad for the lungs.”

  Who the hell does he think he is? Her father?

  When he turns off the overhead light, the windows that seemed black become gray with the first damp light of dawn. He pauses at the bedroom door. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  Sleepiness already rising in the dry wick of her fatigue, she mutters, “Marie-Louise.”

  “Well… good night then, Marie-Louise.”

  She hums, half annoyed by the fact that he keeps talk
ing. It doesn’t occur to her to ask his name.

  4

  Even before he opens his eyes, he knows it is late. Something in the quality of the sounds out in the street is wrong for getting-up time. He sits on the edge of his bed and groggily reaches for his bathrobe. It is not there. Only then does he remember the girl sleeping in his robe out in the living room.

  He tiptoes through on his way to the kitchen, fully dressed, although he usually takes his coffee before dressing. He doesn’t want her to see him padding around in his underwear.

  She lies on her side, curled up, the blankets so high that only her mop of frizzed hair is visible. From the line of her body beneath the blankets, he can tell that her hands are between her legs, the palms touching the sides of her thighs. He remembers sleeping like that when he was a kid.

  His cup is on the drainboard, where it always is, but he has to rummage about in the cupboard to find another. He puts too little water in the kettle, underestimating the amount needed for two cups, but he decides not to boil more because the coffee already made will get cold. Pouring from one cup to another to make equal shares doesn’t work out well, and he loses about a quarter of a cup. He grumbles “Merde” with each accident or miscalculation. It’s really a nuisance having someone living with you. Staying with you, that is.

  Because the cups are only half full, he has no difficulty balancing them as he carries them into the living room.

  She is still asleep as he places the cups carefully on the table by the window. The worn springs of his chair clack; he grimaces and settles down more slowly. Maybe he shouldn’t wake her; she is sleeping so peacefully. But what’s the point of making coffee for two if you don’t give it to her? But, no. It’s best to let the poor kid sleep.

  “Coffee?” he asks, his voice husky.

  She doesn’t move.

  All right. Let her sleep, then.

  “Coffee?” he asks louder.

  She half hums, half groans, and her head turns under the blankets.

  Poor kid’s worn out. Let her sleep.

  “Marie-Louise?”

  A hand slips out and tugs the blanket from her cheek. Her eyelids flutter, then open. She blinks twice and frowns as she tries to remember the room. How did she get here?

  “Your coffee will get cold,” he explains.

  She looks at him Wearily, not recognizing him at first. “What?” she asks, her voice squeaky. “Oh… you.” She presses her eyes shut before opening them again. The puffiness of her black eye has gone down, and the purplish stain has faded toward green.

  “Your coffee’s ready. But if you’d rather sleep, go ahead.”

  “What?”

  “I said… you can go back to sleep, if you want.”

  She frowns dazedly. She can’t believe he woke her up to tell her that. She puts her hand over her eyes to shade them from the cold light as she recollects, then turns and looks at him, wondering what he is up to. He didn’t want it last night, so he’s probably after a little now.

  But he’s just sitting there, sipping his coffee.

  When she sits up, she notices that her robe is open to the nipples; she tugs it back around her. She accepts the cup he hands her and looks into it bleakly. “Do you have any milk?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  She sips the thick dark brew. “How about sugar?”

  “No. I don’t keep sugar in the house. I don’t use it, and it attracts ants.”

  She shrugs and drinks it anyway. At least it’s hot.

  They don’t talk, and instead of looking at one another, they both look out the window at the park across the street. A woman is pushing a pram along the path while a spoiled child dangles from her free hand, twisting and whining. She gives it a good shake and a splat on the bottom that seems to improve its humor.

  Marie-Louise can see the bench where he found her. It’s going to be cold and damp again today, and she won’t be able to make a score until dark, if then. Maybe he would let her stay. No, probably not. He’d be afraid she might steal something. Still, it’s worth a try.

  “You feel better this morning?” she asks.

  “Better?”

  “If you don’t have to rush off, we could…” Palm up, her hand saws the air between them horizontally in an eloquent Joual gesture.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

  “It won’t cost you. Just let me stay until dark.” She produces a childish imitation of a sexy leer that is something between the comic and the grotesque, with that black eye of hers. “I would be good to you.” When he does not respond, another thought occurs to her. “I’m all right,” she promises. “I mean… I’m healthy.”

  He looks at her calmly for several seconds. Then he rises. “I have to go to work. Would you like more coffee?”

  “No. No, thank you.”

  “Don’t you like coffee?”

  “Not really. Not without milk and sugar.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She lifts her shoulders. “It’s not your fault.”

  He pulls out his wallet. “Look…” He doesn’t know exactly how to say this. After all, it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other if she stays or goes. “Look, there’s a store around the corner. You can buy things for your breakfast. The… the stove works.” What a stupid thing to say. Of course the stove works.

  She reaches up and takes the offered ten-dollar bill. This must mean she can stay until night.

  He takes up his overcoat. “Okay. Good, then.” He goes to the door. “Oh, yes. You’ll need a key to get back in after your shopping. There’s one on the mantel.” It occurs to him that it must seem stupid to leave the extra key on the mantel, because you would have to be in the apartment to get it. And if you’re already in the apartment… But Lucille had always left it there, and he never misplaced his own key, so…

  As he is leaving, she asks, “May I use your things?”

  “My things?”

  “Towel. Deodorant. Razor.”

  Razor? Oh, of course. He has forgotten that women shave under their arms. “Certainly. No, wait a minute. I use a straight razor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know… just a… straight razor.”

  “And you don’t want me using it?”

  “I don’t think you can. Why don’t you buy yourself a razor? There’s enough money there.” He closes the door behind him and gets halfway down the stairs before something occurs to him.

  “Marie-Louise?” He has opened the door again.

  She looks up. She has been pawing through her shopping bag of clothes, planning to take this chance to wash out a few things and dry them in front of the gas heater before he comes back. She acts as though she’s been caught at something. “Yes?”

  “The stove. The pilot light doesn’t work. You have to use a match.”

  “Okay.”

  He nods. “Good.”

  When he arrives at the Quartier General, the workday is in full swing. The halls outside the magistrate’s courts are crowded with people standing around or waiting on benches of dark wood, worn light in places by the legs and buttocks of the bored, or the nervous. One harassed woman has three children with her, separated in age by only the minimal gestation period. She hasn’t made up that day; perhaps she has given up making up. The youngest of her kids clings to her skirt and whimpers. Her tension suddenly cracking, she screams at it to shut up. For an instant the child freezes, its eyes round. Then its face crumples and it howls. The mother hugs and rocks it, sorry for both of them. Two young men lounge against a window frame, their slouching postures meant to convey that they are not impressed by this building, these courts, this law. But each time the door to the courtroom opens, they glance over with expectation and fear. There are a few whores, victims of a street sweep somewhere. One is telling a story animatedly; another is scratching under her bra with her thumb. A girl in her late teens, advanced pregnancy dominating her skinny body, chews nervously on a strand of hair. An old man rocks back an
d forth in misery, rubbing his palms against the tops of his legs. It’s his last son; his last boy. Youngish lawyers in flowing, dusty black robes and starched collars crossed at the throat, their smooth foreheads puckered into self-important frowns, stalk through the crowd with long strides calculated to give the impression that they are on important business and have no time to waste.

  LaPointe scans automatically for faces he might recognize, then steps into one of the big, rickety elevators. Two young detectives mumble greetings; he nods and grunts. He gets out on the second floor and goes down the gray corridor, past old radiators that thud and hiss with steam, past identical doors with ripple-glass windows. His key doesn’t seem to work in his lock. He mutters angrily, then the door opens in his hand. It wasn’t locked in the first place.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Oh, shit, yes. Gaspard’s Joan. LaPointe has forgotten all about him. What was his name? Guttmann? LaPointe notices that Guttmann has already moved in and made himself at home at a little table and a straight-backed chair in the corner. He hums a kind of greeting as he hangs his overcoat on the wooden coat tree. He sits heavily in his swivel chair and begins to paw around through his in-box.

  “Sir?”

  “Hm-m.”

  “Sergeant Gaspard’s report is on your desk, along with the report he forwarded from the forensic lab.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No, sir. It’s addressed to you.”

  LaPointe is following his habit of scanning the Morning Report first thing in his office. “Read it,” he says without looking up.