This Night’s Foul Work

XXXIV

THE DISCUSSION HAD LASTED SO LONG THAT ADAMSBERG WAS RUNNING LATE and had to take his car to go to Camille’s studio. He certainly wouldn’t tell Tom the story about the nurse and the ghastly mixture. Eternal life, he thought, as he parked in the rain. Omnipotence. The recipe in the De reliquis seemed ridiculous, a real hoax. But a hoax that had haunted humans since their first steps in the cosmic wilderness which so worried Danglard. A murderous hoax, in search of which which men had elaborated religions and killed each other since time immemorial. This was essentially what the nurse had been looking for, throughout her life. To have the power of life or death over others, to be able to dispose of other people’s existences, was already to be some kind of goddess, weaving the web of their destinies. And now she was taking care of her own. Having reigned over other lives, she couldn’t allow death to catch up with her like any normal old woman. She would use her immense power of life and death for herself, gaining the power of the Immortals and reaching her true throne, from where she would continue her lethal work. She had reached the age of seventy-five and it was time, now that the cycle of youth had passed five times. This was the moment and she had always known it. Her victims had been singled out far in advance, the times and methods of killing had been worked out in minute detail. This woman was meticulous, the plan had been worked out step by step, without leaving anything to chance. She didn’t have a few months’ advance over the police, but ten or fifteen years. The third virgin had been doomed in advance. And he couldn’t see how he, Adamsberg, with his twenty-seven officers, or even with a hundred, could block the implacable advance of the Shade.

No, he would tell Tom the rest of the story of the two ibex instead.

Adamsberg climbed the seven flights of stairs and rang the bell, ten minutes late.

‘If you remember, can you give him his nose drops?’ asked Camille, giving him a small bottle.

‘Of course I’ll remember,’ said Adamsberg, putting the bottle in his pocket. ‘Off you go. Play beautifully.’

‘Yes.’

Just a basic exchange of words between friends. Adamsberg lay on the bed, with Tom lying on his stomach.

‘Remember where we’d got to? Remember the nice brown ibex, who loved birds, but didn’t want the other ginger one to come and annoy him on his bit of the mountain? Well, he did come along, just the same. He came along with his big horns flashing around. And he said: “You were nasty to me when I was a kid, and now you’re going to be sorry.” “It was just kids’ games,” the brown ibex said, “Nothing serious. Go home and stop bothering me.” But the ginger one wouldn’t listen. Because he’d come a long, long way to get his revenge on the brown one.’

Here Adamsberg stopped and the child signified by moving his foot that he wasn’t asleep.

‘So the one who’d come a long, long way said, “You poor sap, I’m going to take your territory, and I’m going to take your job.” Just then a very wise chamois, who was passing, and who had read all the books there are, said to the brown one: “Watch out, this ibex has already killed two other ibex and he’s out to get you as well.” “No, I don’t believe you,” said the brown one to the wise old chamois. “You’re just exaggerating because you’re jealous.” But he was left feeling uneasy. Because this ginger ibex was very clever and what’s more he was very good-looking. The brown one decided to fence the ginger one in with a fireguard, while he had a serious think. No sooner said than done. The fireguard was perfect. But the brown ibex had one failing: he wasn’t very good at having a serious think.’

By the child’s weight, Adamsberg felt that Tom had gone to sleep. He put his hand on the baby’s head and closed his eyes, breathing in his smell of soap, milk and sweat. And something else.

‘Surely your mother doesn’t spray perfume on you,’ he whispered. ‘That’s silly, babies shouldn’t wear perfume.’

No, the delicate smell didn’t come from Tom, it was coming from the bed. Adamsberg sniffed in the dark, like the brown ibex, suddenly alerted. It was a scent he knew from somewhere. But it wasn’t Camille’s.

He got up gently, and laid Tom in his cot. He walked around the room, sniffing the air. The scent was localised, it was on the sheets. A man, for God’s sake, a man had been sleeping there, leaving his smell.

Well, so what? he thought, switching on the light. How many women’s beds did you jump into, before it turned Camille into a friend? He lifted the covers in a swift movement, looking at them as if finding out more about the intruder would soothe his anger. Then he sat on the disturbed bed and breathed in deeply. It wasn’t important. One lover more or less, what difference would that make? Nothing serious. Not a reason to be angry. Feelings of revenge like those of Veyrenc were not in his nature. Adamsberg knew the sensation would pass, and waited for it to subside, while he withdrew to the protection of his own private shore, where nothing and no one could reach him.

Calmly, he folded the covers back, tucked them in properly on both sides, and smoothed the pillows with the palm of his hand, not quite knowing whether with this gesture he was wiping out the unknown man or his own anger, which had already passed. He found under his hand a few hairs, which he examined under the lamp. Short hairs, mascu-line hairs. Two black and one ginger. He clenched his fingers round them abruptly.

Breathing fast, he paced from wall to wall, images of Veyrenc tumbling into his head. A torrent of mud, in which he saw the lieutenant’s face from every angle, sitting in the blasted broom cupboard: the silent face, the provocative face, the verse-spouting face, the obstinate face, just like a Béarnais. Fucking bastard of a Béarnais. Danglard was right, this mountain dweller was dangerous, he had seduced Camille on to his wavelength. He had come to exact vengeance, and had started right here. In this bed.

Thomas made a sound in his sleep, and Adamsberg laid his hand on his head.

‘It’s that ginger ibex, little one,’ he whispered. ‘He’s on the attack, and he’s taken the other one’s wife. And that means war, Tom.’

Adamsberg sat motionless for the next two hours, alongside his son’s cot, waiting for Camille to return. He departed quickly, hardly speaking to her, his attitude bordering on discourtesy, and went out into the rain. Behind the wheel, he reviewed his strategy. It looked good: it would be silent and efficient. If one can play at bastards, so can two. He looked at his watches by the overhead light and nodded. By five o’clock tomorrow, the system would be in place.