Exorbitant, but sublime.
Hirtmann ordered 200 grams of the most expensive cut, keeping an eye on Margot, who was filling up her bag. She was truly beautiful, the way he liked them. As fresh in her winter coat as the fish lying on ice, as tender as Garcia’s ham, and her cheeks, red and shiny from the heat and the cold, were like the lovely apples on the greengrocer’s stand.
Martin, he thought, I really fancy your daughter. But I suspect you would take a dim view of a son-in-law like me, wouldn’t you? Will you allow me just to take her to the ball?
While Servaz watched the chalet through the window, Kirsten was throwing up in the bathroom. He wondered what the Labarthes had given her. He had questioned her, but her memory of the evening remained very confused.
His phone rang. He checked the screen and swore to himself. Margot! Recent events had completely erased her from his mind. He swiped the green button, dreading that she would tell him off again.
‘Dad,’ said his daughter, her voice contrite. ‘Can I speak to you?’
Behind him he heard Kirsten spewing her guts out, then say something he didn’t understand.
‘Of course you can. I’ll call you back in five minutes, all right?’
Five minutes.
He hung up. Kirsten was talking to him, but all his thoughts were circling around Margot.
‘Martin?’ she called, finally, from the bathroom.
‘Margot just rang,’ he replied, without turning around, and he heard the door open.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll go downstairs to call her back. I could use a bit of fresh air.’
‘Martin …’
He headed towards the door, but was stopped by his colleague’s questioning look from where she stood on the threshold to the bathroom.
‘What?’ he said.
‘The medicine – would you mind getting it for me?’
‘What medicine?’ he asked, feeling a bit stupid.
‘I told you, there’s a pharmacy at the entrance to the village, three hundred metres from here. Could you go and get me something to make this nausea stop,’ she replied patiently.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
He realised Kirsten must have asked him the same thing more than once. But his brain had completely blanked it out. Suddenly he had a terrible thought: could a coma induce this sort of thing? Or was he merely distracted? He tried desperately to remember if this was the first time this had happened to him since he’d regained consciousness.
Troubled, he walked out to the lift, and looked at his phone as he got into it. There were several messages, all from Margot. She had called a number of times during the night, and the last message had been sent a few minutes before she rang. He opened it:
Dad, I wasn’t being serious. And I know you weren’t, either. But please tell me you’re fine. I worry about you.
When he emerged into the lobby he saw the manager walking towards him.
‘How’s your colleague doing?’ he asked. ‘She was pretty far gone last night.’
Servaz stopped.
‘My what?’
‘You’re with the police, aren’t you?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Have you got the chalet under surveillance?’
Servaz remained silent, merely staring at the man.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ said the man reassuringly. ‘When they brought your … colleague back last night, I didn’t mention you. I kept my bloody mouth shut and pretended to believe their crap. I don’t know what they’ve done wrong, but I may as well tell you, I’ve always thought they were a bit off, those two. Good call, if you want my opinion.’
This mania people had nowadays for giving you their opinion, even when you didn’t ask for it, thought Servaz. He watched him walk away.
35
Bile
We spend our lives comparing. We compare houses, televisions, cars; we compare hotels, sunsets, cities, countries. We compare a film and its remake, or two performances of the same role. We compare our life the way it was before to the way it is now, friends the way they were to what they’ve become. As for the police, they compare fingerprints, DNA, witness statements, successive depositions from detainees, and, when it’s called for, weapons and ammunition.
This is called test firing. In Toulouse, it was the ballistics department of the Police Forensics Laboratory, at police headquarters on the third floor, that was in charge. The shooting range and the ballistic baffles on the other hand, were in the basement. The first step was examining the weapon. For example, traces of dust could indicate how much time had gone by since the gun had last been used, particularly if there was more dust near the barrel than near the breech, which would imply that the weapon had not been used for some time. This was not the case with the Sig the engineer had there before him. And yet its owner, Commandant Servaz, maintained that he had not used his gun in months. He said that the last time had been at the shooting range, with the aforementioned pitiful results. This was odd, thought Torossian, grimacing. He liked Servaz. But this weapon seemed to have been used much more recently than that.
He made a note of it, then put the gun away next to the other weapons. When he had finished, he would get started with the test firing.
Calling Margot.
It rang as he went down the steps of the terrace then along the snowy street in the direction of the shops.
‘Dad,’ she said at last. ‘Tell me you’re all right. I’ve been worried.’
Her voice was tight with emotion … She seemed on the verge of tears, and he felt a knot in his stomach.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, tramping clumsily through the snowdrifts on the side of the road. ‘We had a rather … eventful night. I didn’t see your messages. I just got them, I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I was very angry. I didn’t really mean all those things.’
‘It’s not important,’ he said.
But in fact, it was. Because he had just read the messages. They were full of melancholy and complaint. For the first time in her life, his daughter had told him outright that she felt as if she was his lowest priority. Who knew, he thought – there might be more than a grain of truth in that. Perhaps, without realising, he had become a crap father …
‘What do you mean, it’s not important?’ she said at once.
Shit. I don’t believe it, here we go again. He would have liked to tell her right away that he loved her, that he was going to find the time, that she had to give him a chance. Instead, for the remaining 300 metres, he listened to Margot lecturing him and twice nearly went flying on a mound of snow, replying monosyllabically, unable to stem the flow of filial reproach. With her words still pouring inexorably into his ear, he stood outside the pharmacy for at least five minutes before he made up his mind to go in. He hid the telephone with one hand and asked for some Primperan.
‘Was there a party in the village last night?’ asked the pharmacist with a smile.
Servaz raised his eyebrows, failing to understand.
‘You’re the second person in five minutes who’s come in asking for some.’
He went back out, saw a pavement café and sat outside despite the cold. On his phone, Margot was still easing her conscience with everything she had on her mind.
‘Good morning,’ said the waiter.
‘A coffee, please.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ asked his daughter suddenly, interrupting her monologue.
‘The waiter,’ he replied, with a hint of annoyance.
‘Fine. I’ll let you go. Please, don’t ever tell me again that I behave like a mother hen. The truth is, it’s you who behaves like a little boy. And you don’t make things easy, Dad.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in spite of himself.
‘Don’t be. Change. Kisses.’
He looked at his mobile, incredulous. She had hung up! After at least fifteen minutes of lecturing him a
nd not letting him get a word in edgeways, she had hung up.
Kirsten’s stomach continued to contract, but not as harshly: the nausea was receding. What the hell was Martin doing? He’d left at least twenty minutes earlier for the pharmacy. Now she had a headache, and her mouth felt as if it were filled with sand. She had a sharp pain between her shoulder blades, probably the result of emptying her guts so violently all night long. She went into the bathroom. She must stink.
She brushed her teeth, tossed the towel on the floor, got undressed and stepped into the shower.
Four minutes later she came back out with a towel wrapped around herself. She thought the room must smell stuffy, so she went to the window and opened it wide.
The cold air was like a balm, the sun like a caress, the wind stirring the snow into little clouds. A dog barked. A bell rang in the distance. One voice called to another. It feels good to be alive, she thought.
She glimpsed a car to her left, heading in her direction, and immediately turned her attention to the chalet. The Volvo had vanished. Shit. Kirsten went to fetch the binoculars from Martin’s unmade bed.
It was indeed the Volvo. But from this angle she could not tell who was inside. She turned the binoculars towards the chalet. One of the windows was wide open, the wind lifting the curtains and causing them to flutter outside.
For several seconds Kirsten gazed hypnotised at the silent dance, the white, luminous flight.
Until suddenly Aurore Labarthe appeared and broke the spell. Kirsten saw her lean out to pull the curtains back, then close the window.
It had lasted no more than ten seconds, but she’d obtained some of the information she wanted. There were only two possible options regarding the car’s occupants:
That bastard Labarthe.
That bastard + Gustav.
Aurore Labarthe shut the window after glancing out at the Volvo on its way back from the pharmacy. What the fuck had he been doing? The pharmacy was not even one kilometre from the chalet. Drive more slowly while you’re at it! That spineless husband of hers … He exasperated her but for once she had to admit he was right: they had screwed up. And what made her even angrier was that it was her fault. She had underestimated the side effects of the sedative on Gustav. And yet she was perfectly well acquainted with the child’s illness, the extreme fragility of his liver. Hirtmann had cautioned them about it at length.
‘Biliary atresia’, it was called. An illness whose cause was unknown, affecting roughly one child out of ten or twenty thousand, characterised by an obstruction which prevented bile from evacuating the liver. Left untreated, it could cause death through liver failure.
If Hirtmann found out that they had drugged the boy on two occasions, so he wouldn’t bother them during their little parties, Aurore had no doubt that they would be dead meat. He would be ruthless. Hirtmann cared more about that kid than his own life. Who was this child, anyway? She had often wondered. Was he really Hirtmann’s son? And if so, where was the mother?
She went down the corridor and into Gustav’s room. Pinched her nostrils at the smell of vomit. She took the duvet and the soiled sheets and yanked them from the bed, dropping them on the floor.
She heard a gurgling sound from the adjacent bathroom.
She walked around the bed and into the bathroom. Gustav was kneeling by the toilet in his blue pyjamas, throwing up.
The poor boy was gasping, wheezing, his blond hair clumping in tufts from the sweat, revealing his pink scalp. On hearing her he straightened and shot her a sad, pained look. Dear Lord, this boy never complained, except to ask for his father, she thought. A wave of shame almost stifled her.
She went closer and put her hand on his little brow. It was burning.
She heard the front door.
Then Roland’s step on the stairs.
She helped Gustav get undressed, checked the temperature of the shower with the back of her hand, and pushed him gently inside the cubicle.
‘It will do you good, treasure.’
Gustav nodded silently, then slipped under the showerhead. He jumped.
‘It’s hot!’ he said.
‘It will do you good,’ she said again, adjusting the temperature.
Labarthe came into the room.
‘That cop,’ he said right away, ‘he was at the pharmacy!’
She turned around and shot him a look as sharp as a razor. Still soaping Gustav’s back, with her free hand she pointed to the bag Labarthe was holding.
‘Give me that.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’ he said, handing her the Primperan.
‘Gustav, look at me,’ she said gently, ignoring her husband.
She unscrewed the plastic bottle and raised it towards the boy’s lips. He made a face.
‘It tastes bad.’
‘I know, my love. But it will make you better.’
‘Steady!’ exclaimed Labarthe, watching her. ‘You’re giving him too much!’
Aurore took the bottle from Gustav’s lips, looking daggers at her husband.
‘I got the bed dirty,’ said the boy guiltily.
She kissed his forehead and caressed his damp blond hair.
‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll change the sheets right away.’
She turned to her husband. ‘Can you help me, please? And tidy the room?’
Her tone was hostile. He nodded, clenching his jaw, and went back out. Aurore dried Gustav off, rubbed him down, then handed him some clean pyjamas.
‘There, is that better?’
‘A little bit, yes.’
‘Where does it hurt, exactly?’
He put one hand on his tummy, and she felt it: it was hard, and swollen.
‘You’re a very brave little boy, you know that?’
She saw him give a weak smile. It was true, she thought, that the boy was brave. No doubt he got it from his father. He confronted his illness like a valiant little soldier. But had he ever known anything else in his short life? Crouched down next to him, she looked at him for a moment, smiling. Then she stood up.
‘Off we go,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you back into bed, all right? No school today.’
When they came back out of the bathroom the bed was made but the window was wide open.
‘Hop into bed,’ said Aurore, hurrying to close it. ‘I’ll be right back. Is it true that you feel a bit better?’
Gustav nodded, very seriously, from his bed.
‘Good. When you’re hungry, let me know.’
She went out and headed towards the stairs.
‘The guy last night—’ Labarthe began, the moment she came into the kitchen.
‘Yes. I heard you. It’s very windy. Why did you leave the boy’s window open?’
‘Because it stank.’
‘Perhaps you’d like it if in addition to vomiting he caught his death?’
‘When I came out I waited to see where he was going,’ he continued, as if he had not heard her. ‘The cop. He didn’t see me. He had his phone to his ear and seemed very annoyed. I wanted to see if he was going back to the hotel.’
‘And was he?’
She placed a black capsule in the coffee machine and switched it on.
‘He sat outdoors to drink a coffee. I left him there and came home, as … as the situation here was more urgent.’
His tone was almost apologetic, something he instantly regretted: if you acted weak around Aurore, it made her want to sink her fangs into you.
‘Yes, I even began to wonder if they were making the bloody medication themselves,’ she said. ‘The kid is going to cause us a ton of problems. He hasn’t stopped vomiting.’
She pressed a button and the coffee machine began groaning and belching, spitting out its brown liquid. Labarthe had heard the reproach in her voice. He wondered why she was blaming him. True, he was the one who had first suggested to the Master that they look after the boy, when the headmistress of the previous school had begun asking the ‘grandfather’ too many questions, but Aurore had been
enthusiastic. They had never been able to have children. And he saw how Aurore looked after Gustav, spending time with him, enjoying his company. The fact remained that it had been her idea to sedate him. Although he had tried to dissuade her.
But he knew it was pointless to try and reason with Aurore.
‘Perhaps we should let Him know,’ was all he said.
The silence that followed seemed like a bad sign. Her answer came like the crack of a whip.
‘Let him know? Are you stupid, or have you gone mad?’
Kirsten saw him coming back to the hotel. She crushed her cigarette, closed the window, and took off the coat she had thrown over her shoulders. She hurried to the bathroom and checked herself in the mirror.
It was impossible not to see the yellow-brown shadows under her eyes. Or her corpse-like complexion. She checked her breath.
When Martin came into the room he was puffing from the exertion. He handed her the little bag from the pharmacy. She took out the Primperan and drank it from the bottle as if it were water, then caught his gaze.
‘I saw someone leave the chalet then go back in,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Labarthe. He had a bag in his hand. Like this one.’
‘A bag from the pharmacy – are you sure?’
‘Sure? No. He was too far away. But it did look like this. In any case, he seemed to be in a hurry.’
Servaz went to the window and looked at the chalet. He realised he was worried – worried about Gustav.
On the desk, the telephone rang. Not the everyday telephone. The other telephone. Labarthe shuddered. Shit, could Hirtmann, somehow or other, already have got wind of what was happening? He was becoming paranoid. He looked at his screen.
[Are you there?]
Labarthe typed his response with his middle finger.
[Yes]
[Good. There has been a change]
[What sort?]
[I want to see Gustav. Tonight. At the usual place]
Good Lord. Labarthe let out a breath. He suddenly felt as if something enormous was lodged in his throat, preventing him from breathing.
[What’s up?]
[Nothing. I want to see Gustav. That’s all. Tonight]
Night Page 27