This Night’s Foul Work

XXXI

ADAMSBERG ALLOWED HIMSELF TO WANDER DOWN TO THE SEINE, FOLLOWING the seagulls wheeling in the distance. Paris’s river, although polluted and evil-smelling on certain days, was his watery refuge, the place where he could allow his thoughts to float free. It released them like a flock of birds, and they scattered into the sky, enjoying themselves, allowing the wind to blow them here and there, disorganised and unconscious. Paradoxical though it might sound, producing disorganised thoughts was Adamsberg’s most important activity. It became particularly necessary when too many elements were blocking his mind, piling up in compact bundles and petrifying his actions. The only thing to do then was to open his head and let everything spill out. This happened effortlessly as he walked down the steps to the waterside.

In this general release, there was always one idea more tenacious than the others, like the seagull that marshals the rest of the group. A sort of head prefect, or gendarme, spending all its energy supervising the others and stopping them flying outside the boundaries of the real. The commissaire looked up into the sky to identify which gull was currently acting as this single-minded gendarme. He quickly found one, harrying a giddy juvenile that was playing at confronting the wind instead of its responsibilities. Then the gendarme swooped down on another thoughtless bird that was skimming over the dirty waters. The gendarme-gull was screaming without intermission. Just now his own gendarme-thought, equally monomaniac, was flying to and fro inside his head, squawking, ‘There’s a bone in the snout of a pig, and there’s a bone in the penis of a cat.’

These new pieces of knowledge were preoccupying Adamsberg greatly as he strolled along beside the river, which today was dark green, its surface ruffled with waves. There couldn’t be that many people who knew about the bone in a cat’s penis. What was it called? No idea. What shape was it? Again, no idea. Perhaps it was odd, like the one in the pig’s snout. So people who found one must have wondered where to place it in the great jigsaw puzzle of nature. On the animal’s head, perhaps. Or they thought it was sacred, like the narwhal’s tusk that people used to think grew on the head of the unicorn. Whoever had taken it from Narcissus must obviously be a specialist, possibly a collector, like some people collect shells. But what for? And why do people collect shells, for that matter? For their beauty? Their rarity value? To bring good luck? Adamsberg decided to take the advice he had given his son, and pulled out his mobile to call Danglard.

‘Capitaine, can you tell me what it looks like, this bone from a cat’s penis? Does it have some special beautiful shape?’

‘No, not particularly. It’s just odd, like all penile bones.’

‘All penile bones?’ said Adamsberg to himself, disconcerted by the thought that some element of human anatomy might also have eluded him. He could hear Danglard tapping on his keyboard, probably writing up the trip to Opportune. It wasn’t a good moment to disturb him.

‘Good grief,’ Danglard was saying. ‘We’re not going to have to deal with this wretched cat for ever, are we? Even if his name was Narcissus.’

‘Just a few minutes. This thing is worrying me.’

‘Well, it doesn’t worry cats. In fact, it makes life easier for them.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant. Why did you say “all penile bones”?’

Resignedly, Danglard tore himself away from the computer screen. He could hear the cries of seagulls at the other end of the phone and knew perfectly well where the commissaire was, and in what state of mind, his thoughts blowing about over the river.

‘Like all penile bones, that is to say the penile bones of all carnivorous animals,’ he said, enunciating clearly as if talking to a dull schoolboy. ‘All carnivores have one,’ he went on, underlining the point. ‘Pinnipeds, felids, viverids, mustelids…’

‘Stop, Danglard, you’ve lost me.’

‘All carnivores, then: walrus family, weasel family, badgers, polecats, bears, lions, what have you.’

‘So why isn’t this generally known?’ Adamsberg asked, for once feeling shocked at his own ignorance. ‘And why is it just carnivores?’

‘That’s just how it is – it’s nature’s way. And nature knows what it’s doing: it’s giving a bit of help to the carnivores. They’re rare, so they have to spend a lot of energy reproducing and surviving.’

‘And why is this bone so special?’

‘Because it’s unique, it doesn’t have any symmetry, bilateral or axial. It’s twisted, a bit curved, has no articulation at top or bottom, and it has a swelling at its distal extremity.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘At the end.’

‘Would you say it was as bizarre as the one in the pig’s snout?’

‘Yes, if you like. Because there isn’t an equivalent in humans, so when medieval people found the penile bone of a walrus or a bear, they were puzzled by it. Just like you are.’

‘Why a bear or a walrus?’

‘Because they’re big animals it’s a bigger bone, and turns up more easily. In a forest, on a beach. But they weren’t any better at identifying the penile bone of a cat. Since cats aren’t eaten for food, their skeleton is less well known.’

‘But people eat pork. Why don’t they know about the one in the snout of the pig?’

‘Because it’s enclosed inside cartilage.’

‘Capitaine, do you think the person who stole Narcissus’s penis was a collector of some kind?’

‘No idea.’

‘Let me put it another way: do you think this bone might be thought valuable by certain people?’

Danglard made a sound that might have indicated doubt, or weariness.

‘Well, like anything that’s rare, or puzzling, it might have some value. There are some people who pick up pebbles out of streams. Or cut antlers off stags. We’re never very far away from superstition. Which is the glory and the tragedy of the human race.’

‘You don’t like your pebble, then, capitaine?’

‘What bothers me is that you picked one with a black stripe down the middle.’

‘It’s because of the line on your forehead when you’re worried.’

‘Are you coming back for the conference?’

‘See, you’re worried now. Of course I am.’

Adamsberg climbed back up the stone steps, hands in pockets. Danglard wasn’t mistaken. What had he been doing when he’d picked up the pebbles? And what value had he attached to them, being himself a freethinker, who had never been tempted by superstition? The only times when he thought of a god was when he felt godlike himself. It happened on very rare occasions, when he found himself out alone during a violent thunderstorm, preferably at night. Then he liked to rule the sky, directing thunderbolts, summoning up torrential rain, conducting the music of the cloudburst. These were passing crises, exhilarating, and perhaps convenient outlets for the masculine libido. Adamsberg stopped suddenly in the street. Masculine libido. The male principle. The cat. the pig. The reliquary. His thoughts once more shot up into the air like a flock of birds.