Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève
He’s behind me now, the terrible stranger, watching me read, wreathing my neck with his breath. The air grows confused with wine.
“That is your address, is it not, Doctor?”
“Of course.”
“And that is your name?”
“Yes.”
“And I believe you have the honor of being the only Dr. Carpentier in all of Paris. Don’t think I didn’t check,” he adds, cuffing me gently on the ear. “Damnit, though, I’m still hungry as the devil. Anything else to eat? That fucking macaroon…”
A moment later, I hear him rustling in the pantry, arraigning each article as he finds it. “Chestnuts have seen better days…. Pear preserves? I think not. …Cheese looks all right, except…well, that’s a scary purple, you don’t see that particular…”
“This is ridiculous!” I call after him. “I’ve never received a Monsieur Leblanc here! I’m not—”
Not even a practicing physician …
But pride cuts me short. Or else it’s the sight of the stranger, reemerging with a potato in his mouth. A raw potato, crammed like an apple into a trussed pig.
“Well, Doctor.” He grinds out a hunk of its hard flesh, mashes it into submission. “We’re certainly—in agreement on—on one point. You couldn’t have—received Monsieur…”
“Leblanc.”
“Leblan c,” he echoes, through whirling pellets of tuber. “For the simple reason…he never made it here.”
“Well, then, why are you bothering me? Why don’t you question him ?”
Another hunk of potato. Another round of gnashing.
“Because he’s…mpxxcchsik….”
That’s how it comes out, I’m afraid. He puts up a single finger— Wait, please —but it’s a good long minute before his larynx breaks free.
“Because he’s dead .”
The taste of the raw potato must finally breach his senses, for all of a sudden, it comes sluicing out in a fast brown stream—right into the waiting carafe.
“Thought it was a bit riper,” he mutters.
And my first thought is, yes: Mother. Must clean up the mess before Mother gets here. I’m already reaching for the carafe when he intercepts me.
“Three blocks from here.” (His sausage fingers curled round the carafe handle.) “That’s where the unfortunate Monsieur Leblanc died. Not too far from the Université where you spend so much of your days.”
He pushes the carafe away, takes one long step toward me.
“Monsieur Leblanc was killed on the way to seeing you, Doctor, and I’m counting on you to tell me why.” He brushes a pebble of damp potato from my coat. “If it’s a question of which confessor you’d prefer, I should tell you I’m a much easier touch than God. At the very worst, you’ll get a few years of state-supported education in a cell of your choice. Think of it as an exercise in character building. Come now, tell Vidocq all about it. Before”—and here he gives me the most knowing of smiles—“before Mama Carpentier comes home and gets her little white feathers ruffled.”
He steps back and contemplates me for a moment. Then, wheeling round, he upends the wine bottle. A single crimson drop touches down on the dining table’s surface.
“Oops, we’re out! Be a good man and fetch us another, would you?”
CHAPTER 3
The Chamber of the Dead
I T’S THE WAY of the human conscience, I suppose. A man suggests you’re guilty of something, and the more you say you’re not, the more it sounds like you are. The voice rings of tin, the heart rattles like a fistful of beans, and every no sounds like a yes, until you can actually feel this yes, inching onto the parapet of your lip…when your interlocutor grabs the bottle of Burgundy—the one you fetched for him not half an hour ago—and peers into its jungle green interior and, in a voice tinctured with resignation, announces:
“Out again.”
Then he waggles his finger at the glass of wine sitting unmolested before you. The one you haven’t had the stomach to drink (thanks to
He’s behind me now, the terrible stranger, watching me read, wreathing my neck with his breath. The air grows confused with wine.
“That is your address, is it not, Doctor?”
“Of course.”
“And that is your name?”
“Yes.”
“And I believe you have the honor of being the only Dr. Carpentier in all of Paris. Don’t think I didn’t check,” he adds, cuffing me gently on the ear. “Damnit, though, I’m still hungry as the devil. Anything else to eat? That fucking macaroon…”
A moment later, I hear him rustling in the pantry, arraigning each article as he finds it. “Chestnuts have seen better days…. Pear preserves? I think not. …Cheese looks all right, except…well, that’s a scary purple, you don’t see that particular…”
“This is ridiculous!” I call after him. “I’ve never received a Monsieur Leblanc here! I’m not—”
Not even a practicing physician …
But pride cuts me short. Or else it’s the sight of the stranger, reemerging with a potato in his mouth. A raw potato, crammed like an apple into a trussed pig.
“Well, Doctor.” He grinds out a hunk of its hard flesh, mashes it into submission. “We’re certainly—in agreement on—on one point. You couldn’t have—received Monsieur…”
“Leblanc.”
“Leblan c,” he echoes, through whirling pellets of tuber. “For the simple reason…he never made it here.”
“Well, then, why are you bothering me? Why don’t you question him ?”
Another hunk of potato. Another round of gnashing.
“Because he’s…mpxxcchsik….”
That’s how it comes out, I’m afraid. He puts up a single finger— Wait, please —but it’s a good long minute before his larynx breaks free.
“Because he’s dead .”
The taste of the raw potato must finally breach his senses, for all of a sudden, it comes sluicing out in a fast brown stream—right into the waiting carafe.
“Thought it was a bit riper,” he mutters.
And my first thought is, yes: Mother. Must clean up the mess before Mother gets here. I’m already reaching for the carafe when he intercepts me.
“Three blocks from here.” (His sausage fingers curled round the carafe handle.) “That’s where the unfortunate Monsieur Leblanc died. Not too far from the Université where you spend so much of your days.”
He pushes the carafe away, takes one long step toward me.
“Monsieur Leblanc was killed on the way to seeing you, Doctor, and I’m counting on you to tell me why.” He brushes a pebble of damp potato from my coat. “If it’s a question of which confessor you’d prefer, I should tell you I’m a much easier touch than God. At the very worst, you’ll get a few years of state-supported education in a cell of your choice. Think of it as an exercise in character building. Come now, tell Vidocq all about it. Before”—and here he gives me the most knowing of smiles—“before Mama Carpentier comes home and gets her little white feathers ruffled.”
He steps back and contemplates me for a moment. Then, wheeling round, he upends the wine bottle. A single crimson drop touches down on the dining table’s surface.
“Oops, we’re out! Be a good man and fetch us another, would you?”
CHAPTER 3
The Chamber of the Dead
I T’S THE WAY of the human conscience, I suppose. A man suggests you’re guilty of something, and the more you say you’re not, the more it sounds like you are. The voice rings of tin, the heart rattles like a fistful of beans, and every no sounds like a yes, until you can actually feel this yes, inching onto the parapet of your lip…when your interlocutor grabs the bottle of Burgundy—the one you fetched for him not half an hour ago—and peers into its jungle green interior and, in a voice tinctured with resignation, announces:
“Out again.”
Then he waggles his finger at the glass of wine sitting unmolested before you. The one you haven’t had the stomach to drink (thanks to
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