Theory of Remainders (22 page)

Cabot eyed his dish and his rounded shoulders sank. “Do you mind if I continue with my lunch at the same time, Monsieur? Ordinarily I wouldn’t ask, you understand, but it’s such a busy day.”

“Of course.”

“Well then, please, pull up a chair.” He took a steaming bite as he eyed his visitor. “You’re the American, aren’t you?” he said as he chewed, jabbing his fork toward Philip.

“That’s right.”

“I thought so! I’m pretty good at figuring out accents. It’s Monsieur Abbler, isn’t it?”

“Adler.”

“What kind of name is that, anyway? German?”

“Of a sort, yes.”

“And you’re a psychologist, aren’t you?”

“Psychiatrist.”

Cabot fluttered his hand, dismissing the distinction. He smiled. “We are colleagues, my dear Monsieur Adler.” When Philip cocked his head, Cabot explained. “Don’t you see? Instead of the psychiatrist’s couch, I use a confessional. Though I must point out one little advantage on my side.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together to show how small, though very real, the advantage was. “The psychiatrist does not give absolution.” He chortled. “And yet, we’re both savers of souls, aren’t we?” The priest seemed satisfied with this parallel.

“Father, I don’t mean to keep you for long.”

Cabot glanced at his watch while he chewed. “I do have a meeting at two o’clock. With the roofers, you know. So annoying. It’s leaking again. All along the south side. And they just repaired it last year. Supposedly all new copper.” Philip attempted to speak, but Cabot continued. “How does copper leak, you might well ask?” He used chunks of baguette to sop up the sauce from his pie. “Can water simply pass through a sheet of metal? Do they think I’ll take it as one of God’s miracles? Even this bread does a better job.” He stuffed the spongy mass into his cheeks, still managing to talk. “Roofers are scoundrels, the lot of them.”

He washed down the bite with wine and stifled a burp. “Still, I suppose that’s not what you’re here to see me about, is it, Monsieur? Perhaps you’d like a mass for your daughter? As long as you’re in town?”

“I take it you know my story.”

“Well, it all happened long before I was brought in. I was in Lisieux before, you know. A wonderful little city—a pilgrimage site, thanks to Saint Teresa. But yes, I’ve heard about your daughter, may she rest in peace,” he said, crossing himself.

“Now I’m looking for her body.”

Cabot’s eyes grew large. “What do you mean? She’s right there in Saint-Louis cemetery. I’ve seen the grave myself.”

“It’s empty, Father. Her body was never recovered.”

The priest’s eyes widened further. “I had no idea. How very unfortunate.”

“Begging your pardon, Father, but it’s worse than unfortunate.”

“Of course. A terrible thing,” Cabot mused. He wagged his head to the left and right. “Still, I suppose all true believers owe their salvation to an empty tomb.”

Philip decided not to pursue the reference. If he wasn’t careful, they’d be lost in digressions. He turned the discussion in the direction of Olivier and Édouard Morin.

These names reined in Cabot’s attention. “As for the boy, I never even knew him. Knew
of
him, of course. But those events, they took place so long ago.”

“You were acquainted with the father?”

“A bit. Olivier Morin, he wasn’t what I’d call a devout Catholic. Not that he was alone in that respect. Oh, Monsieur Abbler, you would hardly believe the state of my flock in Yvetot. It’s not my fault, mind you. Indeed, I’d like to think that in some small way I’ve held the line here—perhaps even improved it since the day of Father Huet. But all over France we are losing parishioners to other pursuits. Sports mostly. Do you know what happens to church attendance every year during the weeks of the Tour de France? It’s appalling!”

“Olivier Morin,” Philip said, prodding the priest back on track.

“Right. Well, for a long time he didn’t come to Saint-Pierre at all. I knew who he was, and he did start attending mass during that last year, while he still could. He had the cancer, you know. You’d be amazed how many people return to the church then,” he commented with annoyance. “I know what they say—better late than never, but still, it’s rather galling.”

Philip began an awkward interrogation, trying to learn what he could about Olivier Morin. What was the man like? Who were his friends? What were his habits? But most of his questions stumped the priest. Cabot could speak at great length about Yvetot families and rumors—even if he muddled some of the details—but about Morin he knew little. The man had never lingered after services, never taken confession. He participated in no parish activities, and Cabot wasn’t aware of any close connections. The Morin family was at the end of its line—another piece of evidence supporting Monsieur Bécot’s theory that Yvetot was fading toward extinction.

“But are you saying,” Philip pressed, “that Olivier Morin had no friends at all? What about at his funeral? Who attended it?”

Cabot wrinkled his brow. “You’ll have to forgive me, Monsieur Abbler. There are so many ceremonies. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, confirmations, first communions . . .” Then his eyes brightened. “But now that I think about it, I do recall Monsieur Morin’s funeral—because it was so odd.”

“Odd?”

“Excessively. There was no one there at all, you see. Not a soul.”

Philip nodded. Because of his son, Olivier Morin represented a tear in the social fabric, and the community had done what it did best, what it did to all outsiders, to everyone who made trouble: it had ostracized him.

That evening he called Roger. The visit to the archives figured in his report, but he glossed over the photograph that had captured Roger’s grief at the cemetery. He would spare him that particular pain.

When he described his flattened tires, his brother-in-law listened with interest.

“It sounds like you’re becoming unpopular, my friend.”

“Unless you count Monsieur Guérin. He didn’t seem to mind me.”

“You would think,” Roger continued, “that they might be struck by the irony of it. Deflating your tires certainly sends a signal, but it doesn’t exactly help get you out of town.” His voice turned somber. “Still, it shows that people are growing impatient.”

“I won’t stay any longer than I have to. But everywhere I turn there’s a new obstacle.” He related the exchange with the woman at the Bureau of Records, and Roger gave a bitter chuckle.

“I love that!” he said. “
No legal assistance for the general public
. If that isn’t the job of the public courthouse, then I don’t know what is.”

“In any case, I don’t know what to do, Roger. We have no court order. And given how slowly things move in this country, I shudder to think how long it would take to get one.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Roger replied. “We’ll get your precious documents. And we won’t need a court order.”

“How do you expect that to happen?”

Roger sighed, and Philip could picture him shaking his head. “You know, you lived in France for many years, but in some respects it was all in vain. You remain very much an American. It’s perfectly charming, I assure you, but quite ineffective. In France, when you desire something that is not allowed, you should never request it over the phone.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. And above all, you must not request it with a foreign accent—especially not an American one.”

Philip tensed up. “I don’t have a great deal of choice about that,” he retorted. “It’s not my fault I sound like an American. I don’t know why the French are so sensitive about that. The accent doesn’t change what I say.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken. Accents are our way of determining the origins and the social class of the speaker. Is he French or foreign? Is he from Paris or Normandy? From Rouen or Yvetot? Does he work as a doctor or a farmer? You see, accents tell us whether you are inside or outside the group, which in turn determines what we think a person has to say—and what right he has to say it. In many situations, accent is more important than the words themselves.”

“Terrific. Where does that leave me?”

“It leaves you needing someone who can speak with the proper voice. In short, it leaves you with
me
. We will travel to Rouen together, and we shall return with the documents we require.”

“Are you sure you have time?”

“Who has time for any of this? And yet time is what it requires.”

It was such a plain observation that one could almost overlook its generosity. “One last request,” Philip said. “Would you mind not mentioning any of this to Yvonne?”

“Why on earth would you think I’d tell her anything?”

“I don’t know. Because she might ask? Because she’s your sister?”

“But she is also an ex-wife, and that places her in a separate category altogether. Ex-wives are a species requiring very particular handling.”

Twelve

After dinner Philip returned to his hotel room and reviewed his notes. The results from the day now occupied several pages in the blue diary, and these columns of ink created at least the illusion of accomplishment. Flipping through, he happened upon Yvonne’s address, copied from the phonebook just the other day.

When she’d come to visit him, she’d stood in this very room. They’d been together, separated by inches, by the sheerness of fabric.

Philip had vowed to keep a low profile, but now he felt a craving, a need to meet with her again. Might he chart a course through all the tension and resentment? And if he did, what awaited him on the other side? The images that paraded through his mind were positively torrid.

Before going to bed, he tried another call to Melanie Patterson, and to his surprise, she picked up.

“Oh. It’s
you
,” she said by way of a greeting. “Again.”

Her tone was high-pitched and impertinent, but the hints of Boston in her voice soothed him. It felt like home. Moreover, he could speak to her in English, while during most of his day he had to scramble through a linguistic obstacle course. And despite everything, he liked this girl.

“Melanie,” he began, smiling into the phone, “how are you doing?”

“Yeah, well, you know,” she replied.

“You’ve been hard to reach. Didn’t Linda try to set up an appointment?”

“Only like a zillion times.”

Vintage Melanie. “Can we talk?” he wanted to know. “Do you have time?” He carried the pen and notebook over to the bed, swung his feet up and sat leaning against the headboard.

She emitted her trademark snort. “Do
I
have time? The question is, do
you
have time?”

He deserved that dig. “Yes, I’m sorry I had to cut our last call short.”

“You don’t have to, like,
apologize
to me,” she said, her voice oozing with apathy. “I’m sure there are lots more important things to do off in Paris.”

“I’m not in Paris. And no, nothing is more important.”

“Yeah. Right.”

There it was again, the lack of trust. But could he really blame her? Something had happened to Melanie in the one place where trust should never be broken—the home. And now, after weeks of microscopic progress in their sessions in Boston, just as they’d started to build a relationship, he’d left her in the lurch. Just as everyone else had. And now, here he was, literally phoning it in.

“Hel-
lo?
” she called out. “Are you still there?”

The absurdity of the imbalance between them had never struck him so clearly. He needed to give Melanie something. Trust was a bridge built from both sides of a chasm, meeting in the middle.