Lock No. 1 Read Free

drowned man had been
     waiting for just that question to open his eyes and, with a gasp, cough up water. He
     was seeing everything at an angle because he was lying on his back, so that his
     horizon was the star-studded sky. From where he was, the people round him rose
     giant-like into the heavens, legs resembling interminable columns. He said nothing.
     Perhaps he was not yet thinking anything. He looked with eyes that were slow and
     flinty, but gradually they relaxed and became less fixed.
    His gasp must have been audible, for
     everyone started forward at the same instant, and suddenly the policemen imposed the
     usual, official order on proceedings, that is that they formed into a line, held
     back the crowd and let through only those who needed to be there.
    The man on the ground saw the space
     around him empty and then a lot of police uniforms and silver-braided police
     headgear. He continued dribbling greyish water, which ran over his chin down on to
     his chest, while his arms were being continuously pumped. They were his arms. He
     watched their movements out of curiosity and frowned when someone at the back of the
     crowd said:
    â€˜Is he dead?’
    Old Gassin got to his feet, without
     relaxing his hold on the bottle. He took three faltering steps, parked himself
between the rescued man’s legs and
     spoke to him. His speech so thick and his tongue so clotted that no one understood a
     single word.
    But Ducrau saw him. He did not take his
     eyes off him. He was thinking. He seemed to be racking his memory …
    â€˜Move further back!’ the
     doctor said crossly and he pushed Gassin so roughly that the drunk went sprawling on
     the ground, broke his bottle and stayed where he was, moaning and fuming, as he
     tried to fend off his daughter, who was bending over him.
    Another car stopped on the quay above
     and a new group formed around the police chief.
    â€˜Is he fit to be
     questioned?’
    â€˜No harm trying.’
    â€˜You think he’ll pull
     round?’
    It was the man, Émile Ducrau, himself
     who replied, with a smile. It was a peculiar smile, still not fully formed, more a
     grimace, but everyone had a clear sense that it was an answer to the question.
    Somewhat uncertainly the police chief
     acknowledged him by removing his hat.
    â€˜I’m glad to see that
     you’re feeling better.’
    It was awkward speaking down from a
     height to a man whose face was turned up to the sky above while the rescue team were
     still working on him.
    â€˜Were you attacked? Was it far
     from here? Do you know where exactly you were stabbed and then thrown into the
     water?’
    Water was still coming out of his mouth,
     in weak spurts. Émile Ducrau was in no hurry to reply or even to try to
speak. He turned his head a little
     because just then the girl in white passed through his field of vision, and his eyes
     followed her until she reached the gangway.
    She had gone, with the help of a
     neighbour, to make coffee for her father, who resisted whenever anyone suggested he
     should go home to bed.
    â€˜Do you remember what
     happened?’
    And since he was still not responding,
     the police chief took the doctor to one side and asked:
    â€˜Do you think he
     understands?’
    â€˜I’d say so.’
    â€˜But …’
    They had their backs to the prone man
     when they were stupefied to hear him say:
    â€˜â€¦ you’re hurting
     me!’
    All eyes turned to him. He was showing
     signs of impatience. It seemed that trying to speak was a great effort to him.
     Moving one arm painfully, he added:
    â€˜Wanna go home.’
    What his hand was trying to do was to
     point at the house on six floors, a little way off behind him. The police chief
     looked rather put out and hesitated.
    â€˜Sorry to insist, but it’s
     my job. Did you see your attackers? Did you recognize them? Maybe they haven’t
     gone very far.’
    Their eyes met. Émile