Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand (20 page)

‘Sorry?’

‘Treachery. I’m not speaking Algonquin, as Laliberté might say. Months and months of secrecy and silence, not to mention driving six hundred kilometres or more in the last few days, and all because the
capitaine
likes Vivaldi.’

‘Ah!’ murmured Danglard, laying his hands on the table.

‘As you say, ah! Applauding the concert, fetching and carrying, driving the lady home, opening the door. A proper little knight in shining armour.’

‘Well, after all …’

‘You mean
before
all, Danglard. You’ve taken his side. The Other One. The one with two labradors and new shoelaces. Against me, Danglard, against me.’

‘You’ve lost me, I’m sorry,’ said Danglard, getting to his feet.

‘Just a minute,’ said Adamsberg, pulling him back by the sleeve. ‘I’m talking about the choice you’ve made. The child, the handshake for the new father, and do come in, welcome to the happy home. That’s it, isn’t it,
capitaine.’

Danglard rubbed his fingers across his mouth. Then he leaned towards Adamsberg.

‘In my book,
commissaire
, as our colleagues here might say, you’re a stupid bastard.’

Adamsberg sat at the table, in shock, letting Danglard walk away. The unexpected insult was echoing round and round his head. Customers trying to listen to the poetry made it clear to him that he and his friend had already disturbed them enough. He left the cafe, looking for the seediest bar he could find downtown, a men-only sort of bar, where crazy Noëlla would not find him. It was a vain hope, since in the clean and tidy streets there were no rundown old bars, whereas in Paris they grew like weeds in the cracks of the pavements. He ended up in a little place called
L’Ecluse
. Danglard’s words must have hit a nerve, since he could
feel a serious headache coming on, something that happened only about once every ten years.

‘Commissaire
, in my book you’re a stupid bastard.’

Nor had he forgotten the words of Trabelmann, Brézillon, Favre, or the imagined new father. Not to mention the scary conversation with Noëlla. Insults, betrayals and threats.

And since the headache was getting worse, the only thing for it was to treat an exception with an exceptional cure, and get well and truly wasted. Adamsberg did not drink much, as a rule, and could hardly remember the last time he had been seriously drunk: it was as a young man, at some village festival, with everything that went with it. But on the whole, from what he had heard, people thought it worked. Drown your sorrows, they said. OK, that’s exactly what he needed.

He installed himself at the bar between two Québécois who were already well-launched on beer, and for starters drank three whiskies in a row. The walls didn’t seem to be moving around, he felt fine, and the troubled contents of his head were now being transferred to his stomach. Leaning on the counter, he ordered a bottle of wine, having gathered from reliable informants that mixing drinks usually produced fast results. After drinking four glasses, he ordered a cognac to top it all off. Rigour, rigour and yet more rigour, no other way to succeed. Good ol’ Laliberté. What a chum, eh.

The barman was beginning to look at him anxiously. Well, you can go fuck yourself, buddy, I’m heading for sweet oblivion. Vivaldi would understand. Oh yeah.

Prudently, Adamsberg had already laid out enough dollars on the counter, in case he fell off his stool. The cognac seemed to put an interesting final touch to his radical loss of bearings, vague feelings of aggression mingled with bursts of laughter, and a sense of immense strength. Come on, I’ll fight anyone, a bear, a chum, a dead man, or a fish, anything you like. ‘Any nearer and I’ll spear ye,’ his grandmother had said, brandishing a garden fork against a German soldier, who was advancing on her with rape in mind. That was a laugh, it rhymed. It still made him laugh, that. Good ol’
grand’mère!
From very far away, he heard the barman saying something.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you’d better call it quits for tonight, and go take the air. You’re not making sense.’

‘I’m talking to you about my grandma.’

‘Grandma, whatever, I don’t care, all I know is you’ve had way too much, and you’re gonna fall flat on your face.’

‘I’m not goin’ anywhere, I’m sitting at this nice bar, on this nice stool.’

‘Listen to you, Frenchie. You can’t even see straight, you’re so smashed. Did your girl let you down, or what? No reason to fall on your ass. C’mon, out with you, I’m not serving you any more.’

‘Yes, you are,’ said Adamsberg, holding out his glass.

‘Shut up, Frenchie. Get out or I’m calling the pigs.’

Adamsberg spluttered. The pigs, eh? What a laugh.

‘Any nearer an’ I’ll spear ye! An’ that goes for the pigs as well.’

‘Christ Almighty,’ said the barman, furiously, ‘don’t you try any funny business with me, you’re really pissing me off. I told you, eff off out of it!’

The man was built like a lumberjack from a story book, and when he came round the bar, he lifted Adamsberg up under the armpits, carried him to the door and dumped him upright on the sidewalk.

‘And don’t try driving,’ he said, handing him his jacket.

The barman was even kind enough to wedge his cap firmly on his head.

‘Gonna be cold tonight, 12 below they say,’ he explained.

‘What time is it? Can’t see my watches.’

‘Quarter after ten, way past your bedtime. Just walk home. No cars. And don’t worry, man, plenty more girls out there.’

The door of the bar slammed shut in Adamsberg’s face, and he had difficulty picking up his jacket which had fallen on the ground, and then putting it on the right way round. More girls. No thanks, just what he didn’t want.

‘Got one girl too many!’ he shouted out in the deserted street for the barman’s benefit.

His uncertain steps took him automatically towards the portage trail. He had the vague feeling Noëlla might be there waiting for him, in the
shadows like a wolf. He found his flashlight and switched it on, sweeping it vaguely in front of him.

‘Don’t want any more, got enough!’ he shouted.

Guy who can beat up a bear, or the cops, he can handle one girl, can’t he?

Adamsberg embarked determinedly along the trail. Despite his staggering progress, the memory of the path was implanted in his feet, which carried him along valiantly, even if from time to time he bumped into a tree trunk. He was about half-way home already, he reckoned. You can handle it, my boy, you’ve sure got what it takes.

Not enough of it, however, to miss a low branch he should have avoided. It hit him full in the forehead, and he felt himself drop to the ground, knees first, then face, without his hands being able to break his fall.

XXVII

WHEN ADAMSBERG REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, IT WAS WITH A WAVE OF
nausea. His forehead was throbbing so much that he could hardly open his eyes. When he did manage to focus, he could see nothing. The world had gone black.

The black was the night sky, he eventually realised, his teeth chattering. He was no longer on the trail, but on a metalled road, and the air was freezing cold. He raised himself on to one arm, propping up his head. Then he stayed sitting for a while, unable to move further, since the ground seemed to be swaying all over the place. What in heaven’s name had he been doing? He recognised the sound of the Ottawa River, not far away. That at least helped him to get his bearings. He was at the edge of the trail, only about fifty metres from the residence block. He must have passed out after hitting his head on the branch, then tottered along for a while, and fallen over again, on reaching the road. Putting his hands on the ground, he pushed himself up, holding on to a tree trunk to counter the dizziness. Just another fifty metres, that was all, and he would be in his room. He moved forward clumsily through the biting cold air, stopping every few steps to regain his balance, then setting off once more. The muscles in his legs seemed to have turned to jelly.

The sight of the well-lit entrance guided him the last few steps. He pushed, and shook the glass door. The key, oh God, where was the damn key? Leaning his elbow on a door-panel, sweat freezing on his face, he
managed to locate it in a pocket and pushed it into the lock under the eyes of the night janitor who was looking at him in consternation.

‘Jeez, what’s happened to you,
commissaire?’

‘I’m not too good,’ Adamsberg managed to say.

‘Need any help?’

Adamsberg shook his head, accentuating the pain under his skull. He had only one desire, to lie down and not to have to talk.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said feebly. ‘Just a bust-up. A gang.’

‘Goddamn hoodlums. Going round in gangs looking for trouble. Ought to be locked up.’

Adamsberg nodded agreement and called the lift. Once in his room, he rushed into the bathroom, and expelled a great deal of alcohol. Good grief, what vile concoctions had they served him?

His legs trembling, his arms shaking, he flung himself on the bed, keeping his eyes open, to stop the room from spinning round.

When he woke up, his head felt almost as heavy as before, but he had a sense that the worst was over. He got up and took a few steps. His legs felt a little more solid, but were still inclined to give way under him. He fell back on the bed, then gave a start, when he caught sight of his hands, which were caked with dried blood, even under the nails. He hauled himself to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. The blow on the forehead had made a gash and a large purple bruise. It must have bled a lot, then he must have rubbed his face and got it on his hands. Great, he thought, as he started to sponge his face carefully, a brilliant Sunday night out. Then he froze, and turned off the tap. It was Monday morning. At nine o’clock, he was due at the RCMP building.

His alarm clock was showing a quarter to eleven. Oh Lord, he must have slept more than twelve hours. He took the precaution of sitting down before he called Laliberté.

‘What kind of a joke is this?’ said the superintendent with a smile in his voice. ‘Clock stopped?’

‘Forgive me, Aurèle, but I’m not in good shape.’

‘What is it?’ said Laliberté with concern, his voice changing register. ‘You sound terrible.’

‘Yeah, I feel terrible. I knocked myself out and took a fall on the trail last night. Blood everywhere, I was sick as a dog and this morning my legs feel weak.’

‘Wait a minute, man, you fell over, or you had a skinful? Sounds like those things don’t fit together.’

‘Both, Aurèle.’

‘OK, tell me about it from the beginning. You’d had too much to drink, right?’

‘Yes. I don’t do that as a rule, so it went straight to my head.’

‘You were bingeing with your pals?’

‘No, I was on my own in the rue Laval.’

‘Why were you drinking on your own? You had the blues?’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Homesick? Don’t you like it here?’

‘I like it fine here, Aurèle, everything’s been great. I just had a sudden attack of the blues. Not worth talking about.’

‘OK, I won’t pry. So then what?’

‘I took the portage trail to get home, and God help me, I hit my head on a branch.’

‘Christ, where’d it hit you?’

‘Bang in the middle of my forehead.’

‘You saw stars, right?’

‘I just keeled over, knocked right out. After that, I managed to drag myself home to the residence. I’m just waking up now.’

‘Did you go to sleep in your clothes? That bad?’

‘That bad, yes. This morning, my head’s aching and my legs won’t carry me. That’s why I’m phoning you. I shouldn’t drive yet, so I won’t be in till two o’clock.’

‘Don’t be crazy. I’m not a slave driver. Just stay where you are, Jean-Baptiste, relax and take something. Got any pills for the headache?’

‘No.’

Laliberté put the phone down and called Ginette. Adamsberg heard
his voice echoing through the office. ‘Ginette, take some medicine round to the
commissaire
, he’s got the mother of all hangovers, can’t move.’

‘Saint-Preux will bring you some stuff,’ the superintendent said into the telephone. ‘Don’t budge, stay put, OK? See you tomorrow when you feel a bit better.’

Adamsberg took a shower so that Ginette would not see his face and hands covered in dried blood. He brushed underneath his fingernails and, once he was dressed, he looked almost presentable, except for the large purple lump on his forehead.

Ginette gave him various medicaments, for his head, his stomach, his legs. She washed and disinfected the cut on his forehead and applied some ointment. With expert gestures, she looked at his pupils, and checked his reflexes. Adamsberg allowed himself to be dealt with as if he were a stuffed dummy. She was reassured by the examination, and gave him advice for the rest of the day. Take the pills every four hours. Drink a lot, just water of course. Keep the wound clean, and pass plenty of water. Adamsberg agreed, meekly.

Without chatting this time, she left him a few magazines to distract him, if he felt able to read, and some food for the evening. His Canadian colleagues were really very considerate, that had better go into the report.

He left the magazines on the table, and lay down, just as he was. He slept, dreamed, lay looking at the ventilator in the ceiling, got up every four hours to take his pills, had a drink of water, went to the lavatory, and lay down again. By eight in the evening, he was feeling better. The headache had seeped away into the pillow and his legs felt more solid.

Laliberté chose that moment to call and ask how he was, and he was able to get up almost normally to answer the telephone.

‘No worse?’ asked the superintendent.

‘Much better thanks, Aurèle.’

‘Not dizzy any more?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Take your time tomorrow, Jean-Baptiste, someone will drive you to the airport. Do you need any help with your luggage?’

‘No, no, I’m feeling almost back to normal.’

‘Sleep well then, and I hope you’ll be OK for our session tomorrow.’

Adamsberg felt obliged to try and swallow some of the food Ginette had brought him, then decided to risk a short walk as far as the river to see it for the last time. The outside temperature was 10 below.