The Chalk Circle Man

XIX

CHARLES REYER WAS ON HIS WAY HOME. HE WAS FEELING RELAXED and enjoying it while it lasted. His conversations with Adamsberg had brought him some tranquillity, though he didn’t know why. All he knew was that for the last two days he had not tried to help anyone else to cross the road.

He had even managed, without having to make much of an effort, to speak sincerely to the commissaire about Clémence, about Mathilde, and about a multitude of other things, taking his time. Adamsberg had told him things too. Things about himself. Not always very clear. Some were trivial, some were serious, but he wasn’t sure that the trivial ones weren’t in fact the more serious ones. It was hard to tell with Adamsberg. The wisdom of a child, the philosophy of an old man. As he had said to Mathilde in the restaurant. He had not been wrong about what was conveyed by the commissaire‘s gentle voice. And then the commissaire had asked him what was going on behind his dark eyes. He had told him, and Adamsberg had listened. All the sounds a blind man hears, all his painful perceptions in the dark, all the visibility that the blackness brings him. When he stopped, Adamsberg would say: ‘Go on, Reyer, I’m listening.’ Charles imagined that if he had been a woman he could have fallen in love with Adamsberg, while feeling despair that he was so elusive. But he was the kind of man it was probably best not to get too close to. Or else you had to be prepared not to be in despair at his elusiveness. Or something like that.

But Charles was a man, and he liked being a man. What was more, Adamsberg had confirmed the view that he was good-looking. Being a man, therefore, Charles thought he would have liked to be in love with Mathilde.

Since he was after all a man.

But was Mathilde trying to lose herself, under the sea? Was she trying not to have to hear anything of earthly battles? What had happened to Mathilde? Nobody knew. Why was she so keen on the bloody water? Could anyone catch hold of Mathilde? Charles was afraid she would slip away like a mermaid.

He didn’t stop at his landing, but went straight up to the Flying Gurnard. He felt for the bell push and rang twice.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Mathilde, opening the door. ‘Or is there any news about the shrew-mouse?’

‘Would I know if there was?’

‘You’ve been to see Adamsberg a few times, haven’t you? I called him just now. Seems there’ll be some news about Clémence tomorrow.’

‘Why are you so interested in Clémence?’

‘Because I found her. She’s my shrew-mouse.’

‘No, she found you. Why’ve you been crying, Mathilde?’

‘Crying? Yes, I have a bit. How do you know?’

‘Your voice sounds a bit damp still. I can hear it perfectly.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s just that someone I love very much is leaving tomorrow. That makes me cry just now.’

‘Can I find out what your face looks like?’ asked Charles, stretching out his hands.

‘How?’

‘Like this. You’ll see.’

Charles stretched his fingers out to Mathilde’s face, and ran them across it like a pianist on a keyboard. He was concentrating hard. In fact, he knew perfectly well what Mathilde looked like. She probably hadn’t changed much from the seminars when he had seen her. But he wanted to touch her. It was the first time they had called each other ‘tu’.