Doctor Death Read Free Page A

intervals.
    “For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable . . .” Father Abigore did his best, but the words sounded hollow when one gazed down at the rain-filled hole into which Cecile’s coffin had just been lowered. He sneezed violently and had to blow his nose into a big black-bordered handkerchief before he could continue.
    Madame Montaine’s moans came in surges, like the labor pains of an animal, and she seemed utterly oblivious of her son’s meek attempts to console her. Every sob unleashed a chain reaction around the grave, especially from the four black-clad friends from Cecile’s convent school. The largest of them, a pale blond girl whose black robe had originally been tailored to another, more slender figure, cried shrilly, on the edge of hysteria. One of the accompanying teachers placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, but that only made it worse.
    Cecile’s seven-year-old little sister was standing a bit closer to the grave, her eyes shiny with fright, her mouth half open; the bouquet she had been given to hold hung limply down her side like a bundle of herbs. No one seemed to notice her shocked stillness, nor did anyone think to calm or comfort her; they were all so caught up in their own sorrow or in the mother’s more voluble grief.
    Papa, the Commissioner, and I stood some twenty paces awayfrom the mourners, a space that was meant to signal respect for the feelings of the bereaved, but I feared it looked merely as if we wished to distance ourselves. However, once the graveside ceremony had been completed, Cecile’s father, Adrian Montaine, approached. The rain dripping from the brim of his black chapeau made the fur collar on his long coat look like a drowned animal. His graying whiskers drooped around his broad jaw, burdened by moisture, and even in his eyebrows there were drops of icy rain.
    “Gentlemen,” he said, nodding briefly. “Mademoiselle.”
    He could not continue. His entire body leaned forward in search of an answer, but he could not pose the question.
    “My condolences,” said the Commissioner and held out his hand. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
    My father mumbled a similar sentiment. I know he meant it, but on so cruel a day it sounded as hollow as the priest’s words of resurrection. Dead was dead. Cecile’s body was degrading into basic elements. Physical processes were at work in it, but they were no longer life processes. The coffin suddenly appeared to be a futile barrier that prevented the juices from seeping away, merely prolonging the time it would take before the bare, white bones could rest quietly in the ground.
    I might perhaps with a little effort believe that Cecile was with God. But the idea that her body would one day rise from the grave, living and eternally whole—this was more than my rational mind would allow me to accept.
    Cecile’s father did not look as if he had found any consolation in the ritual. His eyes were swollen, and the furrows on his face looked like wounds.
    “I . . . ,” he began and stumbled. He suddenly grabbed my father’s arm. “I have to know . . . why.”
    My father cleared his throat.
    “As far as we have been able to determine, your daughter died of respiratory failure.”
    Monsieur Montaine shook his head—not in denial but because the answer was so clearly inadequate.
    “She was healthy,” he said. “Then she disappeared. And when she came back to us, she was dead. Tell me how this could happen, Doctor Karno. Tell me that !”
    Father Abigore had bid farewell to the rest of the bereaved. Madame Montaine stumbled away from the grave, supported by her son and an uncle. The four convent girls also left the graveyard as a group, accompanied by their two teachers. Through the wrought-iron fence, I caught a glimpse of a waiting coach, a black chaise with a hastily put up hood and a broad-shouldered man in the coachman’s seat.
    The priest came over, with his handkerchief still clutched