The Hand

by Georges Simenon

  I had an insane, irrational, animal desire to touch her. Did Mona realize this? She didn’t talk about Ray; two or three times, if that. I wonder if she, too, was not looking for some sort of physical release.

  And there was Isabel’s gaze, following both of us, without anxiety, with only a touch of astonishment. She was so used to the man I had been for so many years that she had almost lost the need to look at me.

  Now, she sensed the change. She could not help sensing it. And she could not understand it all immediately, either.

  I can still see the immense snow-removal machine appearing a few yards from the house, coming at us as if it were going to plough right through the living room. The beast stopped in time. I opened the door.

  ‘Come in and have a drink.’

  There were three of them. Two others were in a machine behind them. All five of them came in, stiff in their sheepskin jackets, their huge boots, and one of them had a frozen moustache. Simply their presence chilled the room. Isabel had gone to fetch the glasses and some whisky. They looked around, surprised by the intimate calm of the house. Then they looked at Mona. Not Isabel, but Mona. Did they, too, fresh from their silent battle with the snow, sense the warmth of a female?

  ‘Cheers . . . And thank you for coming to our rescue.’

  ‘The lieutenant will be along . . . He’s been told that the road is open.’

  They were the kind of people who pop up only on rare occasions, like chimney sweeps, and who live God knows where the rest of the time. There was only one face I knew, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it.

  ‘Well, thank you, too. This warms us up . . .’

  ‘A refill?’

  ‘We wouldn’t say no, but we’ve still work to do . . .’

  The monsters lumbered out, surrounded by white powder, and soon, as night began to fall, we saw the pale headlights of a car at the far end of the trench.

  Two men in uniform got out, Lieutenant Olsen and a policeman I did not know. I was the one who opened the door, while the two women remained seated in their armchairs.

  ‘Good evening, lieutenant. I’m sorry to have caused you this trouble . . .’

  ‘You’ve had no news of your friend?’

  He went over to bow slightly to Isabel, whom he had met several times. I introduced him to Mona.

  ‘The wife of my friend Ray Sanders.’

  He accepted the chair brought forward for him. His companion, a very young man, sat down as well.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Mrs Sanders?’

  He pulled a pen and notebook from his pocket.

  ‘Ray Sanders, you say . . . What address?’

  ‘We live in Sutton Place, in Manhattan.’

  ‘What is your husband’s profession?’

  ‘He’s the managing director of an advertising agency on Madison Avenue: Miller, Miller and Sanders.’

  ‘Been there a long time?’

  ‘At first he was the Millers’ attorney and for the past three years he has been their associate partner . . .’

  ‘Attorney . . .’ repeated Olsen, as if to himself.

  ‘Ray and I, we studied at Yale together,’ I added. ‘He was my oldest friend.’

  There was no point to all this.

  ‘You were just passing through?’ he asked Mona.

  I was the one who answered.

  ‘Ray and his wife came to visit us on their way back from Canada. They were to have stayed here this weekend.’

  ‘Do they come often?’

  The question threw me off balance, because I couldn’t see the point of it. Mona replied instead.

  ‘Two or three times a year . . .’

  He looked at her attentively, as if her appearance were important.

  ‘When did you and your husband arrive?’

  ‘Saturday, at around two in the afternoon.’

  ‘On your way here, did you have any trouble with the snow?’

  ‘A little. We drove slowly.’

  ‘You told me, Mr Dodd, that you took your friends along to the Ashbridges’?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Do they know one another?’

  ‘No. As you must know, when old Ashbridge gives a party, he doesn’t mind if there are one or two extra faces . . .’

  A slight smile appeared on the lips of the lieutenant, who seemed to know a great deal about the Ashbridge parties.

  ‘Did your husband have a lot to drink?’ he asked Mona.

  ‘I wasn’t with him the whole time . . . I think he was drinking hard, yes . . .’

  I had the feeling that Olsen had already made inquiries, doubtless through a few phone calls.

  ‘And you, Mr Dodd?’

  ‘I was drinking, yes . . .’

  Isabel was watching me, her hands crossed in her lap.

  ‘More than usual?’

  ‘Much more than usual, I confess . . .’

  ‘Were you drunk?’

  ‘Not completely, but I was beyond my usual state.’

  Why did I feel compelled to add: ‘That has only happened to me twice in my life.’

  A need for sincerity? Defiance?

  ‘Twice!’ exclaimed Olsen. ‘That’s really not a lot.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you have a reason to drink that much?’

  ‘No . . . I began with two or three whiskies, to put me in the mood, then I began emptying all the glasses I could get my hands on . . . You know how it goes . . .’

  Very much the lawyer, I was furnishing precise details.

  ‘Was your friend Ray drinking with you?’

  ‘We ran into each other a few times . . . We’d exchange a few words, happen to be in the same group, then be separated again. The Ashbridge house is big, and there were guests everywhere . . .’

  ‘And you, Mrs Sanders?’

  She looked at me as if for advice, then at Isabel.

  ‘I was drinking, too . . .’ she admitted.

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘I think so . . . I stayed with Isabel for a while . . .’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘I only saw him, at a distance, two or three times.’

  ‘Whom was he with?’

  ‘With different people whom I don’t know . . . He had a somewhat long discussion with Mr Ashbridge, I remember, and the two of them went off into a corner to talk . . .’

  ‘In short, your husband behaved as he usually did on such occasions?’

  ‘Yes . . . Why?’

  She looked at me again, amazed.

  ‘I am obliged to ask you these questions because they are routine when someone goes missing.’

  ‘But it’s an accident . . .’

  ‘I don’t doubt that, madam. Your husband had no reason to kill himself, correct?’

  ‘None.’

  Her eyes grew wide.

  ‘Or to disappear without a trace?’

  ‘Why would he have wanted to disappear?’

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you been married a long time?’

  ‘Twelve years . . .’

  ‘Your husband, at the Ashbridges’, did he run into any old acquaintances?’

  I was beginning to feel uneasy.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘I saw him with several women . . . He’s always quite popular . . .’

  ‘No arguments? Nothing eventful that springs to mind?’

  Mona blushed slightly, and I’m convinced that she knows what happened between Ray and Patricia. Did she, as I did, start to open the bathroom door? Did she see them leave that room?

  ‘You were among the last to go?’

  Now it was obvious that the lieutenant had made inquiries.

  ‘After us, there were only half a dozen people . . .’

  ‘Who was at the wheel?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘I have to admit that, given the weather, you managed very well. Four hundred yards mor
e and you would have made it home.’

  ‘After the little bridge, there are always drifts . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  For a few minutes I had been hearing a new rumbling outside. Turning towards the windows, I caught sight of a bulldozer in the now complete darkness, working in the beam of a floodlight.

  Olsen understood my unspoken question.

  ‘Just in case, I ordered the search to begin despite the darkness . . . You never know . . .’

  Know what? If Ray was still alive?

  ‘Once out of the car, you walked in the dark . . .’

  ‘The flashlight was almost dead. I preferred to have the two women walking up ahead.’

  ‘That was prudent.’

  Sitting still on her chair, Isabel looked from one to the other of us, following the answers on each person’s lips, almost as if she were knitting with her eyes. She was knitting the images that, one day, would perhaps form a perfectly organized whole.

  ‘We two were holding tightly to each other,’ she said.

  ‘Were the men far behind you?’

  ‘Quite close . . . The wind was so loud that we could hardly hear them when they called to us . . .’

  ‘You didn’t have any trouble finding the house?’

  ‘Frankly, I wasn’t exactly sure where I was . . . I believe I made it here on instinct.’

  ‘When you turned around, could you see the light?’

  ‘At the beginning, a little . . . It quickly faded, then vanished.’

  ‘How long after you got home did your husband arrive?’

  She looked at me as if questioningly. She wasn’t uneasy, and she did not seem to find these questions rather bizarre, either, under the circumstances.

  ‘Perhaps a minute? I tried to turn on the lights and found that the electricity was off. I asked Mona if she had any matches. I went towards the dining room to light a candle in one of the candelabras, and Donald came in . . .’

  What notes could the lieutenant be taking and what purpose could they serve for him? He was addressing me, now.

  ‘Did you find the house easily?’

  ‘I literally bumped into it when I still thought myself a certain distance away. I was wondering if I mightn’t have got lost . . .’

  ‘And your friend?’

  ‘I assumed he was next to me . . . Meaning a few yards away . . . Now and then I would call: “Hey! Hey!” . . .’

  ‘He would answer?’

  ‘Several times, I thought I heard him, but the storm was so loud . . .’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘When I saw that Ray wasn’t coming . . .’

  ‘How long did you wait?’

  ‘About five minutes?’

  ‘Did you have another flashlight in the house?’

  ‘In our bedroom, yes. Since we hardly ever use it, we don’t check the batteries, and they were dead.’

  ‘Did you go out alone?’

  ‘My wife and Mona were exhausted.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was too.’

  ‘How did you find your way?’

  ‘As best I could. My idea was to go around, making bigger and bigger circles . . .’

  ‘You weren’t afraid of slipping down to the bottom of the cliff?’

  ‘I felt I could avoid it. When you live someplace for fifteen years . . . Several times, I fell to my knees.’

  ‘Did you get as far as your car?’

  I looked at the two women. I no longer remembered what I had told them about that. I had a sort of blank. I took a big chance.

  ‘I reached it by accident.’

  ‘It was empty, of course . . .’

  ‘Yes. I rested there for a moment, out of the wind.’

  ‘And the barn? Did you check to see that he wasn’t in the barn?’

  For the first time since this unexpected interrogation had begun, I was afraid. It was as if Olsen knew something, something I myself did not know, as if he were setting traps for me, looking innocent and scribbling in his notebook.

  ‘I found it because the door was banging . . . I called Ray’s name and heard nothing.’

  ‘You went inside?’

  ‘I must have taken two or three steps . . .’

  ‘I see . . .’

  He finally closed his notebook and stood up, like a soldier.

  ‘My thanks to all three of you, and I’m sorry to have disturbed you. The work will continue through the night, weather permitting.’

  And, to Mona:

  ‘I suppose, madam, that you are staying here?’

  ‘But . . . Of course . . .’

  Where would she have gone, while they were searching for her husband’s body in mountains of snow?

  We had dinner. I remember that Isabel heated up some canned spaghetti with meatballs.

  What day was it? Monday. I had done nothing all day but drag around. I had not gone to the office, which would have been impossible, but I felt guilty anyway.

  In the morning, I am usually the one who goes to pick up the mail at the post office. My days followed a well-defined routine I had grown attached to. There was a time for each thing, almost for each action.

  I still felt Mona’s presence and wondered if it would happen. Not here, probably . . .

  And why not? She had just lost her husband, whose body the dark forms and their machines were searching for outside.

  ‘Ray was a great guy . . .’

  Ever since Saturday night the three of us had been living on our nerves, Mona most of all. Isn’t that the moment when you feel the need to throw yourself into someone’s arms?

  At war, men get rid of their fears through explosions of sexuality.

  If we were to find ourselves alone in a room for long enough, safe in the knowledge that Isabel would not show up to disturb us . . .

  Nothing happened. We went to the window to watch the bulldozer, and I barely found a way to brush against Mona’s elbow.

  We went to bed, Mona by herself, Isabel and I in our bedroom.

  ‘What do you think of Olsen?’

  The question startled me, because it showed which way my wife was thinking. And I happened to be thinking of Olsen as well.

  ‘He’s quite a good sort. People say he knows his job.’

  I thought the conversation would continue, but Isabel left things there, without revealing whatever else was on her mind.

  It was only later, when we were about to turn the lights off, that she murmured, ‘I don’t think Mona is suffering much . . .’

  ‘There’s no way to tell,’ I replied evasively.

  ‘They seemed much attached to each other . . .’

  That word struck me. Attached! It’s a common expression, I know, but I suppose people who use it have wound up forgetting its meaning. Human beings, two of them ‘attached to each other’.

  Why not ‘chained’?

  ‘Good night, Isabel.’

  ‘Good night, Donald.’

  She heaved a sigh, as on every evening, to mark the end of her day and the beginning of a night’s rest. She was asleep almost immediately, whereas I would often try for more than an hour to drift off.

  Mona was alone in the guest room. What was she thinking about? How was she lying in bed? I could hear the clanking sounds of the machines and I imagined the men somehow passing the snow through a gravel screen.

  I woke up with a start in the middle of the night and, hearing nothing any more, I thought perhaps they’d found Ray. Why, in that case, had they not come to tell us?

  I didn’t move. I wonder if, in her sleep, perhaps sensing that I was awake, Isabel might have begun to listen as well. She did not stir, but her breathing became quieter. Everything was quiet, except an engine running, far away, over by the post office.

  I was anxious, for no reason. This sudden peacefulness seemed like a threat to me, and I was relieved when I heard the machine abruptly start up again.

  Had it broken down? Had they adjusted or greased it? Or had the men simply
needed to take a swig of something?

  I fell back asleep, and when I opened my eyes it was day. There was no aroma yet of bacon and eggs, but the smell of coffee already filled the house.

  I got up. I put on my bathrobe, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and went down in my slippers to an empty kitchen. There was no one in the dining room either, or in the living room.

  Assuming that Isabel was with Mona, I watched the machine at work; it had gone around the cliff and was now at the base of it.

  A figure appeared at the side of the barn, and I was stunned to recognize my wife. She had put on my sheepskin jacket and her boots and was managing to make her way through the deep snow.

  Did she catch sight of me in the window? The living room was in half-light, and I had not turned on the lamps. I don’t know why I preferred not to be there when she came back inside. That visit to the barn had something secretive about it and was evidently linked to either the questions the lieutenant had asked me or my replies.

  I retreated, went back to our room and ran my bath water.

  I was hoping, without expecting much, that Isabel would come and join me, because I was eager to see if anything in her eyes had changed.

  She had heard the water running. She had probably also heard Mona getting up, for when I walked into the kitchen, bacon and eggs for the three of us were on the stove, and the table was set in the dining room.

  ‘Good morning, Mona.’

  Today she was wearing a very clinging little black dress and, perhaps because her face looked tired, she was wearing more make-up than she had before, especially around the eyes, which gave her a different look.

  ‘Good morning, Donald.’

  I kissed my wife’s cheek.

  ‘Good morning, Isabel.’

  She did not kiss me back. That was a tradition. I don’t know when or how it started. It reminded me of my mother, who never kissed me and would automatically offer me her cheek or forehead.

  I realized right away that Isabel had understood. I had also known, since Lieutenant Olsen’s interrogation the previous day, what mistake I had made.

  During the entire time I had been in the barn, on my red-painted bench, I had smoked cigarette after cigarette, lighting them one after another, simply dropping the butts to the dirt floor and rubbing them out with my boot toes. I’d smoked at least ten.

  That’s what Isabel had gone to get in the barn, while I was still asleep: the proof of my stay, of my sheltering there so long while I was supposed to be looking for Ray.