Theory of Remainders (42 page)

“
Salute
,” she said in Italian as she raised a glass of mineral water.

He could play the game. “
Salute
,” he replied, his Italian accent even worse than his French.

While they ate, he found himself capable of joking, and occasionally Yvonne’s teeth flashed with laughter. They allowed themselves tentative reminiscences, although certain topics—Morin, Hervé—they avoided by tacit agreement, falling back on their old knowledge of each other. After all, Philip realized, a shared history provides a kind of momentum. Or rather, a structure. A comfortable routine. Novelty can be exhausting.

It was after eleven by the time they returned to La Cauchoise. At the front steps, as they said their goodbyes, he leaned in to brush against her cheek, and once there, he paused, lingering against her skin. They stood in this chaste semblance of an embrace for a long moment. What to do? He was leaving the next day, with no plans to return, and he had nothing to lose. Or everything. It was a moment for chances. For risk. For danger.

But he drew back. “I’ll be sorry not to see Margaux before I leave,” he said. “Give her my best, won’t you?” He forced himself to add: “Hervé’s a good man, Yvonne.”

Her lips cracked with a smirk and she shook her head. “You’re such a terrible liar, Philip.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “I confess that I toyed with the idea of telling him about your encounter with Morin—what you’d been prepared to do. It might give him a whole new respect for you. Just think how many marriages could be saved if only the husband knew how close at hand his wife kept a pair of scissors.”

“Yes,” she mused. “It would be good for men to realize things like that.”

He whispered a hasty goodbye and left her in front of the hotel.

Twenty-Four

As he left the breakfast room the next morning, Monsieur Bécot called to him from the reception desk.

“Monsieur Adler! I did not realize you were in there. I just rang your room.” He held out a sheet of paper. “You have had a call. The doctor from Rouen.”

He unfolded the page to find Suardet’s number, along with the request that he call back. Philip shook his head. His fingers closed on the sheet, crumpling it as he climbed the stairs. In his room he willed his hand to release the ball of paper over the wastebasket.

Then he turned his attention to his packing, assessing his possessions. Those drab, formerly white shirts—were they worth repatriating? The threadbare socks? The trousers with the ratty cuff? He set his suitcase on the seat of the old armchair.

While folding up his clothes, he felt the gaze of the Cyclops eye of wadded paper as it watched him through the mesh of the wastebasket. Who was he kidding? It wasn’t in his nature to leave a stone unturned. He retrieved the sheet, and flattened it out on the rickety desk. He closed his eyes, pained. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed Suardet’s number.

“Monsieur Adler.” Suardet’s voice rumbled.

“Doctor. I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“That, I assure you, would have been my preference.” He explained he’d called only out of obligation—and, quite frankly, had hoped to be too late.

“I’m afraid I’m still here,” Philip said. “What is it?”

“Édouard Morin has asked to meet one more time before you leave.”

Philip felt a wave of exhaustion, a hint of dizziness. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Oh, I agree with you entirely. I don’t need to tell you that I objected to this request in the strongest possible terms.” His voice took an edge. “Nothing you have done has been in my patient’s interest, and since your last prank, Édouard has become extremely agitated. But he insisted I make the request and, despite everything, he has his rights. I’ll be glad to tell him you have refused.”

“What does he want to say?”

“I’m not a mind reader, Monsieur Adler.”

“So there’s nothing new.”

“Not as far as I know.” Suardet paused. “He did ask if you had any more information about the word
eyeshot
. That has been a particular preoccupation.”

Eyeshot
. The old fixation. The word had come up again and again.

He needed to make a decision. One way or the other. There was no middle path.

“My flight departs this evening,” he said. “I was to leave Yvetot after lunch.”

“I fully understand,” Suardet replied. “I’ll tell Édouard that you can’t possibly—”

Philip cut the older man off. “What I mean is that if we are to meet, it will have to be today. On my way to Paris.”

“It’s not an obligation. And in fact—”

“I’ll do it.” He knew too well what it was like to live under the pall of what-ifs.

He wanted to stretch his legs before squeezing back into the little car and inserting himself into a plane for a transatlantic flight, so he headed out for one last wander. At the station on the north edge of downtown the first train of the day came through, depositing no one. The fountain in a small square bubbled. As the air warmed, pigeons began their shuffling and cooing. The bells rang in the campanile of Saint-Pierre. He hiked south, past the cemetery, striding under the shadow of the giant oak, then looped west, eventually arriving back at the main square by way of the skein of side streets. He’d gotten to know this town. He hadn’t registered all the names, of course, didn’t have Monsieur Bécot’s deep sense of the families or Monsieur Guérin’s knowledge of the history, but he recognized people on the street, he knew where the stores were, and he no longer got lost.

On the Place des Belges morning activities were in full swing, women moving along the sidewalks, shopping baskets rocking on their wrists or baby strollers rolling under their hands. Children raced along the street.

He stopped in at the
Tord-boyaux
. It was only ten o’clock, but they were all present, the greasy-haired mayor with the driving cap cemented onto his head, the fat man with the baggy trousers, the oversized
patronne
. Even Brigadier Boucher was present, drinking a beer in uniform. Philip nodded his greeting and worked his way to his table, the one tucked in a corner, partially obscured by a pillar.

He downed his coffee in three or four gulps, then called the
patronne
over to pay.

“What do I owe you?”

“Nothing, Monsieur.”

“I’m sorry?”

She gestured toward the bar. “It’s just been taken care of, Monsieur.”

The motley regulars of the
Tord-boyaux
smiled their gap-toothed smiles in his direction, nodding their unkempt heads in a form of greeting. The two who were seated on stools rose to their feet. One of the men raised his beer glass high. “For you. For Raymond Desplanches,” he said in heavily accented English.

Philip felt a pulse of warmth, a desire to forgive. Lifting his coffee cup in their direction, he gave them a nod. “
Merci
,” he said.

The others all raised their glasses. “
À la vôtre!
”

On his way out of town Philip passed the Yvetot public library, where he slowed and stopped. Inside, on an ancient computer terminal he hunted through the Internet, scribbling down notes in his diary. Then he headed off again, pointing the Smart Car south, entering the countryside and drinking in sights as he rolled toward Rouen past woods and low-slung farmhouses. The green of Normandy, he’d decided, was different from that of any other countryside, and he sought to commit its hues to memory. A gentle hint of rot hung in the air.

At the bottom of a hill, the road crossed a creek, and a hundred yards up he saw a man in rubber boots stomping along the water’s edge with a youngster at his side, each with a fishing pole. They carried their bodies alike, walking in unison, one a miniature version of the other, following in the footsteps of generations before, playing the same trout, untangling the same lines, telling the same stories.

Once, a long time ago, Philip had been the age of that boy. And now, for the first time in a long while he thought of his own father. No, Max hadn’t been an outdoorsman. But the décor didn’t matter: they’d shared their moments.

It occurred to him that he would miss this country. He had reached that point in life when events are measured in terms of their likely repetition. How many New Years did he have left in him? Twenty? Twenty-five, if he was lucky? How many more visits would he pay to the coast of Maine? Three or four? How many more times would he see Yvetot, Roger, Yvonne, Margaux? Zero.

At the hospital he parked and made his way to Ward C, trudging up the steps one last time. Suardet waited in his office, his hands clasped. The two men exchanged a look, each resigned in his own way.

“For the record,” Suardet began, “I’m not in favor of this.”

“For the record,” Philip replied, “neither am I.”

“I don’t like what you’ve done here, Monsieur Adler. Édouard has become nervous and jumpy. He keeps complaining of pains.”

“In his tongue?”

Suardet slapped the table with his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with him. We even did another scan.” He leaned forward. “All in all, he’s in much worse shape than before. And I hold
you
responsible.”

“I won’t be a problem much longer. My flight leaves at eight.”

Suardet’s mustache twitched over his lip. An evening flight clearly wasn’t soon enough for his taste.

A few minutes later he found himself back in the conference room, seated at the table with Suardet at its head. Once more he placed the voice recorder in the middle. He opened up the diary and took out his pen.

When Morin entered, Philip’s first impression was that they’d brought in the wrong man. He looked even more pale, subdued, and beleaguered than before. His shirttails were out and his hands were jammed in the pockets of his rumpled trousers. The usually groomed hair was disheveled and his bulging eyes were dull and darkly ringed. He offered no greeting as he took his seat—the same one as always—and he slouched in the chair, staring blankly at the surface of the table.

“Here you are,” Suardet announced to the both of them. “For the last time. If there’s anything that needs to be said, today is the day to say it.”

Philip pressed the button on the recorder. Morin shifted, as if to reach and straighten the device, but then drew himself back, grasping the arm of the chair and squeezing it until his knuckles went white.

What followed was silence. It was the old problem of the opening move, the challenge Philip faced in every session with every patient, in every game with Faruk89. Not just a question of
how
to move, but also one of
whether
. In some ways the first move was always an attack, but there was also a small generosity in going first, a kind of concession. Taking the first step demonstrated a willingness to play. He decided to offer Morin that gift.

“I’m here,” he said.

Morin stared back, still not speaking. He shoved his right hand back into his pocket.

“You wanted to see me, Édouard,” Philip continued, “and so I’ve come. On my way out of town.”

The other man showed no sign of listening, or even of hearing—as if a barrier of glass separated them, halting the words in midflight. The back of Philip’s neck prickled. He hadn’t come to be toyed with.

He turned to a page of notes in his diary. “Doctor Suardet told me you wanted an update on the word
eyeshot
,” he said. At this statement, Morin glanced up. “You know,” Philip continued, “language is an uncanny thing. Take an ordinary word, one you use every day, and if you stare at it long enough, it falls apart before your eyes. It sounds unnatural to your ear, and you begin to wonder if it ever really existed.”