Doctor Death

by Lene Kaaberbøl

  Rodolphe Descartier looked at me with a certain lack of enthusiasm.

  “I understand that you wish to discuss a deposit?” he said.

  “Not really.”

  “No?” He frowned. “Did Monsieur Lavalle misunderstand something?”

  “No.” I cleared my throat. I was not used to this kind of deception and forward behavior. “I am afraid I misled Monsieur Lavalle. You see, I am here because you were engaged to Cecile Montaine.”

  His reaction to this simple statement was extraordinary. A scarlet tide surged across his otherwise pale skin, and he got up clumsily from his stool behind the counter.

  “How dare you!” He gasped. “Leave. Now. At once!”

  His outburst provoked curious glances in the bank, which neither he nor I cared for.

  “Unfortunately, I cannot help you,” he said in a more normal tone of voice.

  “I think you misunderstand me,” I said quietly. “The Commissioner was of the opinion that it was better if you and I were to discuss a banking matter quietly. But if you would prefer a more official inquiry, then I am sure . . .”

  “No,” he said. “You are right. If you would come this way?” He lifted a part of the counter and indicated that I should follow him.

  It was hardly likely that all apprentice clerks in Varonne Commerce could just walk into the assistant director’s office and say, “Excuse me, Maurice . . . I need to discuss something with this young lady . . .”

  But though Rodolphe Descartier might officially still be a lowly clerk, the assistant bank director knew very well that it was only a matter of time before this gangly and still somewhat pimply-faced twenty-year-old would be sitting in the director’s office next door. He got up and bowed politely in my direction.

  “Of course. Mademoiselle, will you have a seat? Would you like tea or coffee? Or perhaps a glass of sherry?”

  “Thank you very much. A cup of tea if it is not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all. I will see to it.”

  After which he managed to turn over his office to the bank apprentice and his “young lady” without it in any way seeming awkward. Clearly a man with a well-developed sense of diplomacy.

  Rodolphe Descartier was not nearly as well versed in this area. He stared at me with poorly disguised affront.

  “What is it you want, then?” he asked.

  “We are attempting to track Cecile’s movements in the weeks before her death.”

  “Why?” Again the lurid flush as if the sound of her name alone initiated processes he could not control.

  “It is of critical importance for the public health,” I said with all the authority I could muster. “We need to trace the infection Cecile died from. I will also need to take a specimen from your nostrils.” It was probably best not to mention the mites.

  “Nostrils?”

  “Yes.”

  Did I imagine it, or did he look relieved?

  “I am not sick,” he said.

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “Oh, very well. If it is only my nose you are concerned about . . .”

  “The Commissioner appreciates your cooperation.” The Commissioner had no idea I was there. But if he had known, he would definitely have appreciated it, I assured myself.

  We had found no traces of mites anywhere in Cecile’s circle of acquaintances either in Varbourg or at the Bernardine School, and Cecile had not displayed any sign of illness before her disappearance. I needed to study both Koch’s and Fehleisen’s work with micrococci more closely, but I seemed to remember that they reproduced quite quickly when they became pathogens. Therefore, it was most likely that the mite invasion had occurred after Cecile’s disappearance, perhaps as a result of long and close contact with Emile Oblonski. But he had not yet been found in spite of Marot’s search, neither “healthy, sick, dead, or alive” as the Commissioner had expressed it, and we could therefore not be sure.

  In other words, I did not expect to find much in Rodolphe Descartier’s nose apart from thoroughly normal nasal discharge. But if I did find mites . . . then it would suggest that he had been in contact with Cecile after she had disappeared. And that would be an extremely interesting piece of news for both the Commissioner and Police Inspector Marot.

  I got out my loupe, my mirror, and a fresh pipette. Descartier looked, if possible, even less enthusiastic. His Adam’s apple, already fairly prominent, moved uneasily under the skin of his throat.

  “What do I need to do?” he asked.

  “Lean your head back and relax.”

  I directed the lamp at his face and bent over him. He smelled strongly of cologne and shaving cream, and once again I noticed how the blood rushed into the tiny capillaries of his facial epidermis. His breathing became quicker and more shallow, and that was probably what suddenly made me perceive this simple examination, which I had performed literally hundreds of times before, as something far more invasive and private.

  “I am sorry,” I said. “But it really is necessary.”

  He went along with having his nostrils and throat illuminated, but when I directed the pipette at his second nostril, he suddenly jerked his head aside and batted at my arm.

  “No,” he said. “That will have to do.”

  His flailing blow had been uncommonly hard, enough so that I had dropped the pipette. I picked it up. The glass tube was full of clear, only slightly white fluid, and I could not immediately see any sign of mites.

  At that moment there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” said Descartier, thankful for the interruption, I think, and slightly out of breath.

  It was the tea, arranged on a small trolley, which was being pushed across the threshold by a middle-aged woman the size of a sparrow.

  “Milk or lemon?” she asked as she poured a strong orange-colored liquid into the cups.

  “Lemon,” I said. “One sugar.”

  Apparently she did not need to ask Descartier. His cup received a generous helping of milk before she retreated with a small curtsy.

  A short pause ensued while we sipped the tea.

  “I apologize for my behavior,” said Descartier at last. “Cecile is a painful memory.”

  “I understand that, of course,” I said. “Was that why you did not attend the funeral?”

  He looked up sharply. “Yes. I . . . did not feel up to it.”

  He was lying. I couldn’t say exactly how I knew he was lying, but he was. It was not just the blush that raced across his face again. After all, it seemed to appear almost constantly. Perhaps it was something about his voice.

  “Have they determined precisely what kind of infection it was . . . ?” he asked, his eyes rigidly focused on his teacup. And then it dawned on me. I suddenly understood why he had been so relieved when he realized that it was “only his nose” that I wanted to examine.

  “Not yet,” I lied. “But we know that it is primarily transmitted by certain forms of intimate contact.”

  He choked on his tea. Orange droplets sprayed the assistant director’s desk.

  “Mademoiselle . . .”

  “Did you know that Cecile Montaine kept a diary?” I asked innocently.

  He set the teacup aside with such force that a thin crack appeared in the porcelain glaze.

  “What has she said?” he asked. “What has she written? It is not true. She was the one who—the one who—”

  “Perhaps it is best if you tell your side of the story,” I said. “In the interest of thoroughness.”

  What emerged under many protests and angry comments was the following:

  Cecile had attended Sunday lunch at her future in-laws’ home by the Place de Triomphe. After lunch the two young people had been permitted to stroll together in the nearby park. Cecile had been happy and lively and had started a snowball fight.

  “She was always happier outside,” said Descartier. “Like a child out of school. And when she was happy, she was . . . incredibly attractive.”

  It was a co
ld day, hazy with frost, and the park was nearly deserted. Descartier had suggested that they sit for a bit in the empty closed-up tea pavilion. And there, in the cold room, behind closed shutters, he had kissed her. It was not the first time, but it was the first time they were alone for an indefinite time without interruptions and invasive looks. And he had been completely taken aback by the reception he received.

  If one was to believe Rodolphe Descartier, his fiancée had transformed herself into a fury. She had unbuttoned his pants and taken his member into her mouth. And as soon as he was ready, she had offered her sex to him, from behind, like an animal, and insisted until he performed.

  He told the story with his back to me, standing not by the window but facing into a corner of the office.

  “It was revolting. Shocking. I have never experienced anything like it. No man . . . I say, no man could have . . .”

  He stopped. But while he had related the story, I could tell that he was reliving it, too, and it was not exactly distaste that made his voice hoarse and his shoulders tremble.

  And suddenly he turned around. The buttoned-up scion of the bank, the polite apprentice, hurled his words at me in an almost unrecognizable voice.

  “I gave her what she had coming. You had better believe it. Until she was steaming. Until she bled. Until she screamed in pleasure. Is that what you want to hear? Are you enjoying this? Are you jealous? Her ass was baboon red by the end. She was so wet that she was dripping. Is that what you want to hear? I hammered her, and she just wanted more. She lay across the bench with her cunt straight up in the air, and then she suddenly started to bawl. But you had better believe she was asking for it. What about you? Are you like that, too?”

  I sat with my mouth open and did not know what to say or do. I had never actually heard the word “cunt” before. He grabbed both my upper arms, so that the teacup fell out of my hands and tinkled quietly against the carpet. In one powerful motion he pulled me to my feet and pushed me up against the mahogany panels.

  “Are you like that, too?” he repeated. “You come here and insist . . . You make me tell you . . . things . . . use words . . . that no lady would . . .”

  “Would you be kind enough to let me go,” I said, and tried to sound calm and controlled. “Monsieur, you forget yourself!”

  He did let me go. His young face was completely naked, his gaze dark with barely restrained horror.

  “Leave,” he said. “You got what you came for.” The last was said with a contempt so searing that I could not help blushing myself.

  “Was that the day you broke off the engagement?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said, suddenly much more collected. “I wanted a wife, not a whore.”

  I went directly from Varonne Commerce to Boulevard Saint-Cyr and the Montaine family home. Odette, the parlor maid, let me in without first announcing me to Madame, a definite sign that in her eyes I had crossed an invisible line and was no longer a guest of the master’s. Not quite one of the help, either, perhaps, but a sort of service provider on a par with tutors and craftsmen.

  Monsieur Montaine had stopped moaning. But I sensed that it was not because he was feeling better but because his family had given him such a dangerously large dose of laudanum that he could barely breathe. There was hardly any reaction when I removed the thin layer of gauze that protected the wound from impurities, and even though his eyes were open, his gaze was veiled and unclear. Only once during the treatment did he look directly at me and say, almost clearly, “Like ahn ahimal. Ahn ahimal.”

  Then he closed his eyes, shutting out both me and the rest of the world. Who or what was he speaking of? Like an animal. It was the same expression that Rodolphe Descartier had used about Cecile, and it occurred to me that the last conversation the tormented man in the bed had had with his daughter presumably concerned the broken engagement and its cause.

  There was no sign of infection, thank God, but if his loving family did not reduce his laudanum doses, they risked killing him. I therefore asked to speak to Madame.

  She received me in the orangery, where she was tending to a collection of orchids worthy of a botanical museum.

  “How do you judge his condition?” she asked.

  There was no doubt that her concern and care were deep-felt and genuine. I could see the signs of weeping and sleepless nights in the pale violet shadows around her swollen eyes, and I think she had lost weight as well. But her dark hair was carefully arranged, and though the dress was black, the elegant cut and the neat lace were a far cry from sackcloth and ashes.

  “The wound is healing well. But, madame, you must adhere to my father’s instructions regarding the laudanum.”

  “Are you suggesting that we are not?”

  “Perhaps there is an uncertainty about who administers it and when?” I suggested diplomatically. “I can see that he is affected to a degree that is a threat to his health, madame. Laudanum inhibits respiration. If your husband receives too much, he may simply stop breathing.”

  “I see. Thank you for your warning.”

  Had she understood it? I could not tell. Her gaze was cool, her politeness so distancing that it almost felt like rudeness instead.

  “Madame, he seems very troubled,” I ventured. “Not just from the physical injuries, but in his mind.”

  “Of course he does. He has lost a daughter.”

  “Yes, I understand that. But forgive me if I say that it seems to me to be something more than just sorrow.”

  If she had been a bird, she would have hackled her feathers at me. Her gaze grew narrow and sharp.

  “What are you suggesting?” she said.

  “Perhaps a kind of guilt?” I said. “It often happens that bereaved parents will blame themselves unreasonably. I am in no way suggesting that your husband has reason to feel guilty, just that he may do so anyway. Could there have been some occurrence that would normally have been trivial, an argument or a reprimand, that now has taken on terrible proportions for him, because it was the last communication he had with Cecile?”

  But I made no impression on her armor.

  “Mademoiselle Karno, I think this conversation is over.” She turned her back on me and picked up a delicate brush that she proceeded to guide into the flower of an opulent, pale red orchid until she made contact with the stamen. A judicious prod released a copious amount of sticky pale yellow pollen.

  I had the choice between leaving or being terribly rude. I chose the latter—not without misgivings from the sense of propriety my upbringing had instilled in me.

  “I have spoken with Rodolphe Descartier,” I said.

  She stood as if turned to stone for several seconds. A blush not unlike his washed across the slightly sunken cheeks and the thin neck, and the pollination brush shook slightly.

  “I see,” she said at last. “And what does he have to say in his own defense?”

  A quick unwelcome image flashed through my mind. His face, so close to mine that tiny bubbles of spit exploded against my chin and upper lip, the pressure from his body against my corseted abdomen. You had better believe she was asking for it. What about you? Are you like that, too?

  “You already know that, madame.”

  Now it was not just the brush that shook. Her entire slender, black-clad figure was rattled by a force she could barely contain.

  “Leave,” she hissed. “Doctor Berger will be in charge of my husband’s care from now on.”

  “What I’m wondering . . . ,” I began. “What I am wondering is this. Did your husband and Cecile part in anger? Did he scold her? Is that why he is so tormented right now?”

  Then the dam burst. She turned toward me and screamed like a fishwife.

  “Go away! Get lost. What the hell does one have to do to get rid of you?” She hurled the brush at me, so that the yellow pollen left a smear down the front of my gray blouse. Then she began to cry, with the same unrestrained, jagged sobs as at the funeral. She had to support her hands on the plant table’s zinc top
and lean forward to get enough air. If I had wanted to pierce her armor, I had certainly succeeded. But all that emerged was pain. No words. She was beyond words now, and the only sound that came from her was more like a howl than a sob.

  “Why were you gone so long?” asked my father when I returned home. “Has his condition worsened?”

  I had not told him that I was also planning to visit Rodolphe Descartier. And I couldn’t tell him what had happened in the assistant director’s office.

  “No, the wound is healing well, in fact,” I said. “But they are giving him too much laudanum.”

  “You must get them to stop that!”

  “I tried. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Madame Montaine was offended.”

  “Why? What did you say?”

  My cheeks burned and I knew that they—again—were bright red. My pale complexion was one of the few features I possessed that Madame Aubrey had considered a feminine advantage, but occasionally I wished that I had a less revealing skin type.

  “Nothing special,” I lied.

  “I will go over there myself!” He got up from the chaise longue, with somewhat less difficulty than before, I noticed.

  “No,” I said quickly. “She . . . She got so upset that she no longer wants our help. Doctor Berger is to see to her husband’s care from now on.”

  He observed me carefully. His narrow face was damp from the heat, and his gaze clear as water. I had the sense that he himself had completely given up on the laudanum drops even though the bottle still stood on the tobacco table next to the chaise longue.

  “Madeleine, what is going on? It is unlike you to be rude to our clients.”

  “Should I have let her kill her husband with an overdose out of sheer politeness?” I protested, more sharply than I had intended.

  A surprised and somewhat affronted expression crossed his face.

  “Maddie!”

  “Sorry, Papa. But . . . you were not there.”

  He looked down at his broken leg with a grim expression.