The Chalk Circle Man Part 3

'Yeah, right,' said Conti. 'We'd look pretty silly.'

Adamsberg listened to Danglard's report impa.s.sively, allowing his cigarette to droop from his lips, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes to keep the smoke out of them. The only movement he made throughout was to bite off a piece of fingernail. And as Danglard was beginning to get the measure of his character, he realised that Adamsberg had a.s.sessed the discovery in the rue Froidevaux at its true value.

But what was that, exactly? For the moment, Danglard had no idea. The way Adamsberg's mind worked was still enigmatic and impressive to him. Sometimes, but only for a second, he thought: Keep your distance.

But he knew the moment the report went round the station that the boss was wasting his own and his inspectors' time on the chalk circle man, Danglard would have to defend him. And he was trying to prepare his defence.

'Yesterday a mouse,' said Danglard, as if talking to himself, practising future explanations to his colleagues. 'And now a cat. It's a bit nasty, yes. But there was the watch strap as well. And as Conti rightly pointed out, the watch strap wasn't dead.'

'It was dead all right,' said Adamsberg. 'Of course it was! Same thing tomorrow morning, Danglard. I'm going to see this psychiatrist who's taken up the affair, Vercors-Laury. I'd be interested to hear what he thinks. But don't tell anyone. The later anyone asks what I'm up to, the better.'

Before leaving, Adamsberg wrote a note for Mathilde Forestier. It had taken him less than an hour to track down her Charles Reyer, after telephoning the main organisations that employed blind people in Paris: piano tuners, publishing houses, music schools. Reyer had been in the city several months, and was staying in a room near the Pantheon, at the Htel des Grands Hommes. Adamsberg sent the information to Mathilde, and promptly forgot about it.

Well, Rene Vercors-Laury isn't all that impressive, was Adamsberg's first reaction. He was disappointed in the psychiatrist, since he always set out feeling hopeful and disillusion was invariably painful.

Not impressive at all, in fact. And exasperating with it. The psychiatrist kept interrupting himself with questions like: 'See what I mean?', 'You follow me?' or statements such as: 'You'll agree with me, won't you, that the Socratic method of suicide is not the only model?' without waiting for Adamsberg's reply, since the intention was simply to show off. Vercors-Laury expended an inordinate amount of time and words showing off. The portly doctor would first lean back in his armchair, fingers clutching his belt, seeming to think deeply, and would then hurl himself forward to begin a sentence: 'Commissaire, this is no ordinary case.'

If one set all that aside, the man wasn't lacking in intelligence; that much at least was clear. After the first quarter of an hour, things went better; still not impressive, perhaps, but better.

'Our subject,' said Vercors-Laury, launching into a peroration, 'does not fit the normal pattern of subjects with a compulsive disorder, if you are asking for my clinical opinion. Compulsives are by definition compulsive, and one should never forget that do you follow me?'

He was clearly highly satisfied with this formula. He went on: 'And because they are compulsive, obsessive, they're precise, careful, and ritualistic. You follow me? But what do we find with this subject? No ritual governing the choice of object, no ritual governing the choice of district, or the time of night, or even the number of circles to draw on any given night. So! You see the immense discrepancy? All the parameters of his actions vary unpredictably: object, place, time, quant.i.ty, as if they were entirely determined by chance circ.u.mstance. But, Commissaire Adamsberg, in the case of a compulsive personality nothing is determined by chance circ.u.mstance. Are you with me? And that is, in point of fact, the defining feature of the compulsive subject: he will make the chance circ.u.mstance bend to his will, rather than allow it to drive him. No contingency is strong enough to halt the relentless progress of his obsession. You see what I'm driving at?'

'So what we have here is no common-or-garden crank? Not a compulsive personality at all?'

'That's right, commissaire, we could almost swear to it. And that opens up a whole field of inquiry. If we're not dealing with an obsessive-compulsive personality in the clinical sense of the term, then the circles must be in pursuit of some aim which has been thoroughly thought through by their perpetrator, and our subject must have a genuine interest in the objects that he's bringing to our attention, as if he meant to show us something. You follow me? Or to tell us something. For instance, that people don't think enough about the objects they throw away. Once these objects have ceased to be useful, once they have served their purpose, our eyes don't even see them as material any more. I could show you a pavement and say: "What do you see on the ground?" and you could reply: "Nothing." Whereas in reality' (heavy emphasis) 'there are dozens of objects there. You follow? This man appears to be grappling with a painful investigation of some kind: metaphysical, philosophical, or perhaps why not? poetic, about the way human beings choose to make the reality of the material world start and stop, something for which he has elected himself the arbiter. Whereas in his eyes, it may be that material objects continue their existence outside our perception of them. My sole aim, when I took an interest in this man, was to say: Take care, don't joke about this obsessive behaviour pattern, the chalk circle man may be someone of perfectly lucid mind, who cannot express himself except through these manifestations, which are, indeed, evidence of a mind in some sense deranged, yet at the same time highly organised, you follow? But someone of above average intelligence, believe me.'

'But there are mistakes in the series. The mouse and then the cat, they weren't objects.'

'As I said, there's much less logic to the series than might appear at first, the kind of logic we would find if this were a case of authentic obsession. That's what's so unsettling about it. But from the point of view of our subject, he is demonstrating that death transforms a living creature into an object the moment the lifeless body ceases to feel anything which is true enough. From the instant the top comes off the bottle, the top becomes a non-thing. And when the body of a friend stops breathing what does it become? Our man is preoccupied with questions of this order. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it: he's obsessed with death.'

Vercors-Laury paused, leaning back once more in his chair. He looked Adamsberg straight in the eye, as if to say: Listen carefully, I'm about to tell you something sensational. Adamsberg did not believe he would do anything of the sort.

'From your point of view as a policeman, you are wondering whether he poses any danger to human life, aren't you, commissaire? I'll tell you this much: the phenomenon could remain stable at this stage and burn itself out, but on the other hand I see no reason why, theoretically, a man of this kind, in other words a deranged person who is nevertheless perfectly in control of himself (if you have followed me so far), a man burning with the need to exhibit his thoughts, should halt in his trajectory. Note that I'm saying theoretically.'

Adamsberg walked back to the office with vague thoughts running through his head. He was not in the habit of reflecting deeply. He had never been able to understand what was happening when he saw people put their hands to their foreheads and say, 'Right, let's give this some thought.' What was going on in their brains, the way they managed to organise precise ideas, inferring, deducting, concluding, all that was a complete mystery to him. He had to admit that it produced undeniable results, and that after this kind of brainstorming, people took decisions, something he admired while being convinced that he was himself lacking in some way. But when he tried it, when he sat down and said 'Right, I'll give it some thought,' nothing happened in his head. It was even at moments like that that he was aware of a complete blank. Adamsberg never realised when he was thinking and the instant he became conscious of it, it stopped. As a result he was never sure where all his ideas, his intentions and his decisions came from.

At any rate, he felt that nothing that Vercors-Laury had said had come as a surprise, and that he had always known that the man drawing the blue chalk circles was no ordinary crackpot. That some cruel motive lay underneath this apparent lunacy. That the sequence of objects could only lead to one conclusion, one blinding apotheosis: a death. Mathilde Forestier would have said that it was normal not to learn anything serious, since it was the second section of the week, but Adamsberg thought it was simply that Vercors-Laury was someone who knew his stuff all right, but wasn't in the end all that impressive.

The following morning, a large blue circle had appeared in the rue Cunin-Gridaine in the 3rd arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. The only thing in the centre was a hairpin.

Conti photographed the hairpin.

The next night brought a circle in the rue Lacretelle and another in the rue de la Condamine, in the 17th arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, one containing an old handbag, the other a cotton bud.

Conti photographed the bag and then the cotton bud, without pa.s.sing comment, but the look on his face betrayed his irritation. Danglard remained silent.

The next three nights produced a one-franc coin, a torch battery, a screwdriver, and something which cheered Danglard up somewhat, if that was the right expression, a dead pigeon with one wing torn off, in the rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire.

Disconcertingly, Adamsberg showed no reaction except a vague smile. He was still cutting out any newspaper articles that mentioned the chalk circle man and stuffing them into his desk drawer, alongside the photographs supplied by Conti. By now, everyone in the station knew about it, and Danglard was becoming rather anxious on his behalf. But the full confession obtained from Patrice Vernoux had made Adamsberg untouchable, at least for a little while.

'How long is this business going to go on, commissaire?' asked Danglard.

'What business?'

'The chalk circles, for Christ's sake! We're not going to stand in front of these d.a.m.ned hairpins every morning for the rest of our lives, are we?'

'Ah, the chalk circles. Yes, it could go on a long time, Danglard. A very long time, even. But so what? Whether we follow this or do something else, does it matter? Hairpins provide a bit of distraction.'

'So we drop the whole thing?'

Adamsberg looked up abruptly.

'Absolutely not, Danglard, out of the question.'

'You can't be serious.'

'As serious as I can be. It's going to get bigger, Danglard, as I've already told you.'

Danglard shrugged.

'We'll need all this doc.u.mentation,' Adamsberg went on, opening the drawer. 'It could be indispensable afterwards.'

'After what, for G.o.d's sake?'

'Don't get impatient, Danglard you wouldn't wish someone dead, would you?'

Next morning there was an ice-cream cone in the avenue du Docteur-Brouardel in the 7th arrondiss.e.m.e.nt.

V.

MATHILDE HAD PRESENTED HERSELF AT THE HTEL DES GRANDS Hommes, to look for the beautiful blind man a very small hotel for such a grand name, she thought. Or perhaps it meant that one didn't need many rooms to accommodate all the great men in the world.

The receptionist, after telephoning to announce her arrival, told her that Monsieur Reyer couldn't come down, he was detained. Mathilde went up to his room.

'What's the matter?' Mathilde cried through the locked door. 'Are you naked in bed with someone?'

'No,' said Charles.

'Something more serious?'

'I'm not looking my best. I can't find my razor.'

Mathilde thought for a moment. 'It's out of sight, you mean?'

'Yes, right,' said Charles. 'I've felt everywhere. I don't understand.'

He opened the door.

'You have to appreciate, Queen Mathilde, that things take advantage of my weakness. I hate things. They disguise themselves, they slip between the mattress and the bed, they knock over the waste-paper basket, they get stuck between the floorboards. I've had enough. I think I'm going to abolish things.'

'You're not as smart as a fish,' Mathilde observed. 'Because the fish that live right down on the seabed, in complete darkness, like you, they manage to find what they want to eat, in spite of everything.'

'Fish don't have to shave. And anyway, what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve after. Couldn't give a d.a.m.n about your fish.'

'Eyes, eyes. You're doing it on purpose aren't you?'

'Yes, I am doing it on purpose, I've got a whole repertoire of expressions: I'll cast my eye over it, I'll make eyes at her, I've got my eye on you, I'll keep my eyes peeled, it's an eye-opener, I've got eyes in the back of my head. There are plenty of them. I like using them. Like other people like to chew over their memories. But anyway, I really couldn't care less about fish.'

'Plenty of people feel like that. Yes, it's true, there's a general tendency not to give a d.a.m.n about fish. Can I sit on this chair?'

'Please go ahead. Anyway, what's so marvellous about fish?'

'We understand each other, me and the fish. We've spent thirty years in each other's company now, so we don't dare leave each other. If I was dumped by a fish, I'd be lost. The fish are my work, they produce my income, they keep me if you like.'

'And because I'm like one of your d.a.m.ned fish swimming about in the dark, that's why you've come to see me.'

Mathilde thought for a moment.

'You won't get anywhere like that,' she concluded. 'You need to be a bit more fishy, that's exactly it more flexible and fluid. Still, it's up to you if you want to make the whole universe feel guilty. I came because you said you were looking for a flat, and it looks as if you're still needing one. Perhaps you don't have a lot of money. This hotel's a bit dear, though.'

'The ghosts that haunt it are dear to me too. But the main thing, Queen Mathilde, is that people don't want to rent rooms to a blind man. They're afraid that the blind man will do stupid things: drop his plate over the side of the table, p.i.s.s all over the carpet because he thinks he's in the bathroom.'

'Well, a blind man would suit me fine. All my work on the three-spined stickleback, the flying gurnard and the sawback angelshark has paid for three apartments, in the same house, on three different floors. I had a big family living on the first and third floors the Sawback Angelshark flat and the Three-Spined Stickleback flat, I call them but they've moved out. I live on the second floor, named after the Flying Gurnard. I've rented the Stickleback out to an eccentric old lady, and I thought of you as a possible tenant for the Sawback Angelshark call it the first floor if you like. I won't charge you a high rent.'

'Why not?'

Charles heard Mathilde laugh and light a cigarette. He groped for an ashtray, which he held out to her.

'You're offering the ashtray to the window,' said Mathilde. 'I'm sitting a good metre to the left of where you think.'

'My apologies. You're a hard woman, aren't you? Most people would stretch out their hand to take the ashtray and wouldn't pa.s.s remarks.'

'You'll find I'm even harder when you discover that the apartment is fine and a good size, but people don't like living there because they find it too dark. So I said to myself: now Charles Reyer, that's someone I like. And since he's blind, it'll suit him down to the ground, because what difference will it make to him if the flat's dark?'

'Are you always this tactless?' Charles asked.

'Yes, I think so,' replied Mathilde, seriously. 'Anyway, what about the Angelshark does it tempt you?'

'I'd like to take a good look,' said Charles, with a smile, twitching his gla.s.ses. 'I think it might suit me very well, a dark angelshark. But if I'm going to live there I'll need to know the habits of this sea creature, otherwise my own apartment will think I'm an idiot.'

'Easy. The Squatina aculeata, or sawback angelshark, sometimes known as the monkfish, is migratory, and frequents the shallow coastal shelves of the Mediterranean. Its flesh is rather bland, some people like it, others don't. It swims like a shark, propelling itself with its tail. It has a snub nose and fringed nasal barbels. Its gills are large and half-moon in shape, its mouth is armed with unicuspid teeth on a wide base and so on and so forth. It's brown with dark speckles and pale spots, a bit like the carpet in the hall.'

'I could learn to like a creature like that, Queen Mathilde.'

It was seven o'clock. Clemence Valmont was working in Mathilde's flat. She was cla.s.sifying slides and felt unbearably hot. She would have liked to take off her black beret, she would have liked not to be seventy years old, and for her hair not to be thinning on top. These days she never took off her beret. This evening she would show Mathilde two small ads from the day's paper, which were quite interesting and to which she was tempted to reply.

M., 66, well-preserved, large appet.i.te, small pension, would like to meet F., not too ugly, small appet.i.te, large pension, to keep each other company on the last stretch of the road.

Well, at least that was frank. And the next one was pretty irresistible: Successful Medium and Clairvoyant with Gift inherited from Father The whole truth from first meeting whether for protection lasting affection tracing lost husband or wife attraction happiness consultation by correspondence send photo and SAE for entire satisfaction in every domain.

What have I got to lose? said Clemence to herself.

The Sawback Angelshark flat had pleased Charles Reyer. He had already made up his mind, in fact, when Mathilde had told him about it in the hotel, and he had merely concealed his haste to accept. Because Charles knew that he was getting worse, month by month. And he was afraid. He sensed that Mathilde, without even realising it, would be able to distract his mind from the dark and morbid sentiments into which it was sinking. At the same time, he could see no other solution than to keep hating everybody, since the idea of becoming a sort of Pollyanna blind man revolted him. He had gone round the walls of the apartment, feeling with his hands, and Mathilde had shown him where the doors, taps and light switches were.

'Why bother showing me the light switches?' said Charles. 'No need to put the light on. You're not as clever as you think, Queen Mathilde.'

Mathilde shrugged. She realised that Charles Reyer turned nasty about every ten minutes.

'What about other people?' she replied. 'If someone comes to see you, you won't put the light on, will you, just let them sit in the dark?'

'Hate other people, feel like killing them,' said Charles through clenched teeth, as if to excuse himself.

He cast about for a chair, b.u.mped into the unfamiliar furniture and Mathilde did not help him. So he remained standing and turned towards her.

'Am I more or less facing you?'

'More or less.'

'Put the light on, Mathilde.'

'It is on.'

Charles took off his gla.s.ses and Mathilde looked at his eyes.

'Well, obviously,' she said after a moment. 'Don't expect me to tell you your eyes look fine, because they don't, they're horrible. Against your pale skin, frankly they make you look like the living dead. With your gla.s.ses on, you're terrific. But when you take them off, you look like a scorpion-fish. If I was a surgeon, my dear Charles, I'd try and fix them for you, clean them up. There's no reason why you should carry on looking like a scorpion-fish if there's a way out. I know someone, a surgeon. He did a great job on a friend who'd had an accident that left him with a face like a John Dory. The John Dory's not a pretty fish either.'

'What if I like looking like a scorpion-fish?' asked Charles.

'Dear G.o.d,' said Mathilde. 'Are you going to plague me for the rest of my days moaning about being blind? You want to look terrible? OK, go ahead, look terrible. You want to go on being mean and nasty, making cutting remarks that reduce other people to shreds? All right, go ahead, my dear Charles, see if it bothers me. You won't know about this yet, but you're out of luck, because it's Thursday today. So we're at the start of a section two of the week, and until Sunday, inclusive, I will have absolutely no moral sense. You want compa.s.sion, a sympathetic ear, insight, encouragement, or any other humanitarian sentiments, sorry, that's all over for this week. We get born, we die, and in between we destroy ourselves wasting time while we pretend to be spending it productively, and that's all I want to say just now about the human race. Next Monday, I shall find humanity perfectly splendid with all its foibles and procrastinations, as it slouches towards the millennium. But today, nothing doing, the office is closed. Today's a day for cynicism, laissez-aller, futility, and immediate gratification. If you want to look like a scorpion-fish, or a moray eel, or a gargoyle or a two-headed hydra, or a teratomorph, well, feel free, Charles, go ahead. You won't upset me. I like all the fish in the sea, even disgusting fish, so this isn't a conversation for a Thursday at all. You're unsettling my week, carrying on like this with your hysterical revenge. See, what would have been a good thing to do in a section two of the week, would be to go upstairs and have a drink in the Flying Gurnard, where I could have introduced you to the old lady who lives on the top floor. But today, no, out of the question, you'd be too nasty to her. You have to treat Clemence with kid gloves. Seventy years old and she's just got one idea in her head, to find the love of her life, and a man, hopefully at the same time, which is a tall order. You see, Charles, everyone has their own troubles. She's got plenty of love to give, she falls for every lonely-heart announcement in the paper. She looks through all the small ads, she replies to them, she goes along for a date, she's invariably humiliated, so she comes back home and starts again. To tell you the truth, I think she's a bit soft in the head, desperately nice, always trying to help, and pulling packs of cards out of the pockets of her baggy old trousers to tell people's fortunes. And I'll tell you what she looks like, since you have this silly habit of not seeing: she's not very attractive, she's got a bony, rather masculine face, with sharp little teeth like a shrew-mouse, Crocidura russula, you wouldn't want to get your hand caught by them. And she wears far too much make-up. I hire her two days a week to file my papers and slides. She's very precise and patient, as if she was never going to die, and sometimes I find that restful. She works away with her mind on other things, whispering about her dreams and her pathetic adventures, going over the hypothetical meetings with Mr Right, preparing what to say to the next one, and despite all that she's very good at filing, although like you she couldn't care less about fish. That's the only thing you might have in common.'

'So you think we'll get on?' asked Charles.

'Don't worry, you'll hardly ever see her. She's always trotting off somewhere looking for the future husband. And as for you, you don't love anyone, so as my mother would say, what's the rush?'

'True,' said Charles.