Theory of Remainders (24 page)

“Besides,” he continued, raising his hands over his head and shaking them. “Why block the road to Sorquainville? No one goes there.”

Philip nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He paused. “What about Malamare and Adonville?”

Bécot was dumbfounded by this display of obscure names. He looked torn between curiosity and anxiety. “Monsieur Adler,” he said, “I am going to show you how wrong you are. Perhaps that will put a stop to this.” He led Philip back into the office and drew an ancient Michelin map from a drawer, the colors bleached with age and the creases barely holding. He unfolded it on the desk as carefully as if it were the Shroud of Turin.

Tracing his finger across the paper, he pointed the towns out one by one. There was no doubt about it: Malamare and Adonville were as forlorn as Sorquainville. They appeared in the smallest print Michelin deigned to use, with only a crook of road leading through them. One was in the direction of Le Havre, though several kilometers off the main road. The other was along the way to Dieppe.

“I assure you,” Bécot said, “the Germans put no blocks in those places. They wanted only big roads—ones that are perhaps not far from these villages, but certainly not these.”

Philip studied the map. The three towns Morin had mentioned were like the points of a triangle, each one in a different direction from Yvetot.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur Adler,” Bécot continued. “But I tell you for your own good. These towns. They barely exist. They mean nothing. They are no place
.
”

No place. It was nothing more than a coincidence of language, but Philip was incapable of ignoring the echo:
non-lieu
.

Notes had accumulated in the blue diary with the dragonfly cover. However, with each pass through the recordings of the meeting, and through Monsieur Guérin’s files, Philip came out with a thinner harvest. There was a presence in Morin’s speech, a language beneath the language, like something hidden that wanted to be found. But it was too partial: a sieve of words. Philip’s own recollections were insufficient to fill the gaps. Much had seeped away over the past fifteen years, and his memory was like the ancient map Bécot had shown him—a speckling of dots where all the connecting lines had faded.

For a while he sought to avoid the obvious conclusion, but there was no use denying it. He needed more—and not just the records from the courthouse. He would have to see Édouard Morin again. Given Hervé’s connections in the medical community, it wouldn’t be possible to keep a second visit quiet, which meant that he’d have to tell Yvonne. A delicate task. He imagined the local bomb disposal expert disarming old shells in the field. That was the kind of touch he’d need.

On the morning of the courthouse expedition, Roger pulled up in front of the hotel in his blue BMW. The window glided down.

“Do you mind if I drive?” he called to Philip. “We could take your car, but I fear you’d have to strap me to the roof.”

On the way to Rouen Philip told Roger about his stop in Sorquainville, as well as his discussion with Bécot. It supported Roger’s belief that the list of towns was the product of an unhealthy mind, a kind of deliberate obfuscation. This left Roger all the more perplexed when Philip announced he would request a second meeting with Morin.

“Why would he say anything new?”

Philip hedged. “I don’t have clear expectations.”

“I get it: a fishing expedition. You drop your line in the water and hope something strikes.”

“More of a trawler. I’ll scoop up everything and then sort through the catch.”

Roger banked hard around a curve. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you, Philip Adler? I admire your diligence. I was all in favor of pumping Morin for information, but I had rather hoped he’d be a bit more helpful.”

“Perhaps,” Philip said into his window, “we’re just not listening right.” Yes, it all came down to listening—to what psychiatrists sometimes called the
third ear
, a special organ attuned to subtle patterns. Mental illness was a private code that grew like ivy, twining along the limbs of language. Philip’s job was to hear the flutter of those leaves, to trace the vines, to discover the roots and sustenance.

He frowned. If the task was listening, he was ill equipped for Morin’s foreign tongues—the bursts of German, Spanish, Italian, and Latin. Even Philip’s French was a mess—his accent a disaster, his grammar a wreck. Morin had agreed to speak in English during the first meeting, but there was no guarantee he would do so for a second. Language offered a wilderness where Morin could seek shelter.

In order to recognize patterns and see connections—to listen—Philip had to be able to understand. Which meant he needed help from someone who had the skills he lacked. His heart quickened as he realized who it had to be. She was the obvious choice. But he wasn’t sure how to make the request from a safe distance.

The
Palais de Justice
of Rouen was a flamboyant medley of towers and arches, pinnacles and arcades, gargoyles and ornaments—a stone monster built with one clawed foot firmly planted in the late Middle Ages, a second just over the threshold of the early Renaissance, and a third in the realm of architectural miscellany, where curlicues, restorations, and annexes grew like galls in the wounds suffered by the edifice over the course of five centuries. The jumble of the outside reflected the labyrinth of corridors coiling through its innards like an irritable bowel, bulging here and there into stone diverticula.

They wound their way through the hall, up Stairway A to the third floor, and down a long corridor. A tall, two-paneled door bore the engraved sign: “
Bureau des Archives
” and showed the hours of operation: “
9h00–19h00
.”

Roger paused before they entered, holding Philip back. “One small detail,” he said.

“What?”

“Let me do the talking.” He fluttered a hand to counter Philip’s objection. “Remember: accents.”

Philip grumbled but agreed, and with this matter resolved, Roger pushed through the door into the office. A long counter stretched across the room, separating clerks from the public they were to serve—although both categories were currently hypothetical, as not a soul was visible. From the cubicles in the back, a woman’s voice droned. She appeared to be recounting her weekend.

Roger closed the door, shuffled his feet, coughed, and engaged in all the small sounds of human presence until finally the voice slowed, hesitated, and stalled. A drawn-looking woman appeared from behind the divider, her hair pulled back as tightly as piano strings, graying roots showing in the part. She straightened her skirt as she approached, then shimmied onto a stool behind the counter, crossed her arms, and focused on the papers in front of her. Although she sat only three feet away, she had not yet acknowledged their existence.

“Excuse us for bothering you, Madame,” Roger smiled, finally drawing her attention. “We were hoping you might be available to assist us. You see, we hope to acquire a copy of the records pertaining to a legal case.”

The woman studied him, then turned her thin eyes toward Philip, examining this strangely tall specimen as if he were a weed asking to be pulled.

“Might that be possible?” Roger nudged.

She pursed her lips. “Judgments are a matter of public record,” she said. “You’ll find them in the
Registre des jugements
.”

“Of course,” Roger replied. “But you see, we are looking for more than just the judgment. We need transcripts, motions, police reports—all the trimmings.”

When she spoke, her lips barely moved. “For that you’ll need to start at the Bureau of Legal Affairs, Monsieur. Stairway D, second floor.”

Roger jabbed a finger in the air. “And yet, we have just been to the Bureau of Legal Affairs in Stairway D,” he lied. “It is they themselves who sent us here.” He broadened his smile.

The functionary’s eyes had narrowed to slits. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Merely the file from the case of Monsieur Édouard Morin, from the fall of 1993.”

“And you have an authorization for this? A formal request?”

“I confess we have nothing formal at the moment. I had hoped it might be possible to dispense with such additional steps, and that—”

“No,” she said, cutting him off. “That will not be possible.”

“Goodness,” he exclaimed. “It’s so rare these days to find a civil servant who knows the rules as well as you do. Certainly not those jokers over in Stairway D. I wonder if you might be aware of any process by which the matter might be expedited. Perhaps there is a fee?” He was reaching for his wallet. “I’m afraid I only have cash . . .”

Her pause inspired hope that she might consider Roger’s offer of a bribe, but she refused him with a certain relish. “No, Monsieur,” she said with a smile. “I’m afraid not.”

The screech of a scooted chair sounded from another cubicle, and a younger woman appeared briefly, giving a timid glance in their direction as she dropped a bundle of paperwork into an out-basket, then disappeared.

Philip knew the category for people like this Cerberus of public records: malignant narcissist. Roger would never get past her so easily.

He stepped forward, ignoring Roger’s glare. “We fully understand, Madame,” he said. From these first accented syllables, he knew she’d recognized his voice from the phone call. “We certainly wish to follow the appropriate procedures,” he continued. “And I believe we can get ahold of the legal document rather quickly.” Roger began to speak up, but Philip silenced him with a look. “Our lawyer is here in Rouen,” he continued. “We have only a little time, but perhaps we could return in a couple of hours.” He glanced at his watch. “About one o’clock? Would that be convenient?”

The woman leaned forward, her smile razor thin. “I’m afraid that would be most
in
convenient. I will be at lunch at that time.”

“How unfortunate,” Philip exclaimed. He turned to Roger. “I suppose it will have to be another day, don’t you think?” He turned back to the counter. “Thank you so very much for your assistance.”

He dragged a stunned Roger into the hallway.

“What did you do that for?” Roger hissed. “I nearly had her!”

“Don’t flatter yourself. She wasn’t going to crack.”

“You don’t know that,” he grumbled.

“We’ll be returning at one o’clock.”

“What good will that do? You heard yourself. She won’t even be here then.”

Philip pointed to the hours posted outside the door. “And yet, the office itself will be open. The she-devil will be at lunch, and someone else will be at the counter—probably that poor young woman who has to listen to her all day long, and who will be delighted for us to treat her as a human being for fifteen minutes.”

Roger’s jaw opened, then closed. “That’s not half bad,” he said, though it clearly pained him to admit it. “I’m afraid I may have—what did your president use to say?—
misunderestimated
you.”

“In the meantime, we have a project to attend to.”

Fifteen minutes later, seated at a table in a café, Philip drew a blank sheet of paper from his briefcase. Starting about a third of the way down the sheet, he proceeded to write out a semi-official request for the documents.

Roger squinted as he tried to read the text upside down from his side of the table. “But you’re writing it in English.”

“All that matters is the appearance of authority. In my limited experience, little is more important to French bureaucracy.”

Roger nodded at this assessment, impressed.

Philip continued. “Administrations are hierarchical systems, and therefore narrow. Your run-of-the-mill civil servant can’t possibly know what signs of authority are appropriate to each culture. Our job is to create something that corresponds to her imagination. A letter from a doctor—especially a psychiatrist—will carry some weight.”