Theory of Remainders (29 page)

At the surprise addition of Yvonne, Dr. Suardet grumbled and flapped his arms, complaining that it was irregular, not what they’d agreed to. In the end, though, he had to relent, presenting his decision as a tremendous gift. Philip understood the real motivation: Suardet and Hervé were distant colleagues, which made it awkward to refuse anything to Madame Legrand.

They found themselves in the same conference room as before, decorated only with that most essential tool of psychiatry: the clock on the wall. Édouard Morin waited for them, seated on the other side of the table, stiffly erect in the same plastic chair, dressed in a collared shirt and gray trousers, his blank face scrubbed of emotion. The extraordinary sameness of the situation didn’t surprise Philip. It reminded him of the repetitive nature of his sessions with patients—the same people in the same positions saying the same things at the same hour of the same day, week after week. In his practice he sometimes found himself lulled by this sense of routine. The individuals reclining on his couch might all have different names and stories, but they conformed to patterns of interaction that he could mostly predict.

Changes, however, could make patients uneasy, and Morin scrutinized Yvonne, at first uncomprehending. His eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple dipped with a swallow. He started right away in English. “It’s Madame Adler, if I’m not mistaken?” he said, each S humming.

Yvonne leveled a cold stare that even Morin couldn’t hold.

“Madame Legrand,” Suardet corrected.

“What’s she doing here?” he demanded.

The doctor hesitated. “It’s just a conversation, Édouard. Nothing more.”

Morin stared down, studying his fingers splayed on the surface of the table. He didn’t nod his assent, but neither did he voice an objection.

Suardet moved to the head of the table. “Let’s get started,” he said.

Philip pulled out a chair for Yvonne.

“Excuse me, Mr. Adler,” Morin said, raising a finger. “But that should be
your
place. Madame Legrand will be very happy next to you, I’m sure.”

“I see. You want me in the same seat as before, is that right?”

“Don’t you believe that is best? I think you’ll be much more comfortable in that chair. That is, if Madame Legrand doesn’t mind?” He continued to speak in English, even though French was native to everyone in the room but Philip.

Yvonne moved stiffly, her expression fixed, taking her seat, slipping the messenger bag off her shoulder and resting it on the floor.

“She is so much older now,” Morin whispered loudly to Philip.

Philip paused. “You’re older too, Édouard.” He pulled out the voice recorder.

Morin tilted his head, speaking to Yvonne as though addressing a formal guest. “Mr. Adler invited you along to help him with language questions, didn’t he? I understand you’re very good with languages.”

Yvonne remained silent. She was more controlled than Philip had expected, her body rigid, each gesture deliberate.

Morin turned back to him. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Adler?” he asked with insistence. “You’ve brought her for the languages?”

“Something like that.”

At the end of the table, Suardet drummed his fingers.

Philip pressed the button on the digital recorder and placed the device in the middle of the table, rotating it slightly. “Do I have this lined up the way you like it?” he asked.

“Very nearly, Mr. Adler. Very nearly. I appreciate your attention to my odd little habits.” Morin reached forward and adjusted the recorder microscopically. “That’s better, I think. Of course, nothing is ever perfectly aligned, isn’t that true? But still, we have to do what little we can, don’t you agree?”

“Perhaps.”

Morin was breathing more easily now. Everything was in its place. A small smile spread across his face. “I know you think it’s excessive, my attention to orderliness. But we are all bedeviled by disorder in our lives, and it only makes sense to reduce it whenever and however we can. That’s my opinion. And yet, I am fully aware that, even now, we are surrounded by disorder. We are divided between
pair
and
impair
—what in English you call
even
and
odd
. But true evenness does not exist in the world.” He gestured about the room. “These chairs are not straight. This building is not level. From my window the horizon tips slightly to the south. Even our bodies are not perfectly symmetrical. Reality is, by its very nature, odd. Not perfectly divisible. Like a wheel that is warped, out of true. Do you see what I mean?”

Philip pursed his lips. “I’m not sure that I do. Perhaps you could explain it to me.”

Morin brightened. “You like it when I talk, don’t you, Mr. Adler? You think I may tell you more than I intend. I don’t mind explaining my feelings about this, though. It’s quite simple. All I mean is that evenness is an ideal, a utopia. Reality is always a little bit off. Things don’t ever square up. In short, the world is not tidy, by which I mean that there are no equations without remainders.” He stopped to think. “The question is, what is your tolerance for unevenness? How much leeway will each person allow? How much play in the system is acceptable before you have to intervene and straighten things out? Each person has different limits for that. I, for example, like things to be quite close, which most people find excessive. But I’m sure you have your limits, too, Mr. Adler. We reach a point when the disorder becomes unacceptable, and finally we have to act. Then one simply does one’s best. You make things as even as possible. Perhaps that is what you are doing now.” He lifted his chin. “Tell me, Mr. Adler, how do you feel about this issue?”

“We’re not here to discuss my feelings.”

The two men studied each other. Édouard glanced again at Yvonne, still rigid and silent in her chair. He turned back to Philip and leaned toward him over the table. “So tell me, Mr. Adler,” he said confidentially, “are you fucking her?”

Even Suardet understood this question, and the words sent a ripple through Yvonne’s statuesque pose.

“No,” Philip replied icily. “I am not.”

“I see,” Morin continued, settling back. “I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s just that if you were fucking her, I’d want to be aware of that. I think it’s good to know where everyone stands. Don’t you agree? I’m not fucking anyone, in case you want to know.” He looked first at Philip, then at Suardet, and then managed to turn his eyes briefly upon Yvonne. “Frankly, I think she’s a little old for me.”

“We’re not interested in who you are fucking, Édouard,” Philip said.

“What a pity. Well, if we are not going to discuss fucking, Mr. Adler, to what do we owe this additional visit? I don’t suppose it’s a medical call, is it? You’re not going to take a look at my tongue? It continues to bother me—a painful burning sensation—and Doctor Suardet won’t do anything for it.”

Suardet rolled his eyes.

Philip shook his head. “No, I’ve not come for that.”

With two fingers Morin pressed on his cheek, probing it gingerly before turning his attention back to the table. “That’s too bad. By any chance have you researched the word
eyeshot
for me? It’s really quite annoying not to know how—or even if—that word is employed. There are so many terms in the dictionary, and it’s hard to tell which ones are truly alive and which ones are dead. Dictionaries are like communities, you know, and they have their own little graveyards.”

Philip paused. “I have no answer for you there.”

“How disappointing. And so?”

“Yes?”

“Why have you requested to meet with me again?”

“Actually,” Philip replied, “I thought it was you who might like to meet.”

Morin reached up and smoothed down his hairline. He cracked a smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And this was where the dance began. Philip had decided not to tell Morin what he understood about the connection between Sophie’s initials and the towns he had named. Just how much of that communication had been intentional was unclear, so he sought to demonstrate interest without revealing understanding. Patients often struggled with their own ambivalence, wanting him to divine what they themselves could not say out loud. His tactic was to feign even greater ignorance than was the case, which sometimes flushed patients out of hiding, forcing them to greater explicitness.

“You seemed to enjoy telling me about the region,” Philip said. “All those references to trains and travel, not to mention language and history.”

Édouard nodded. “I did mention that our region has a rich past. Very rich. I hope you have availed yourself of the opportunity to immerse yourself in it?”

“Not really. But I did find myself wondering about your infatuation with language. Where do you suppose that comes from?”

“I do have a bit of a weakness for it. I suppose
weakness
really is the term. Because of my interest in language, I probably end up saying too much. After all,
vir sapit qui pauca loquitur
.”

Philip turned to Yvonne.

“It’s Latin,” she stated without looking away from Édouard. “Wise is the man who speaks little.”

A shadow of annoyance swept over Morin’s face, then vanished. “Very good. Excellent, even. It’s too bad you don’t know Latin, Mr. Adler. Everyone should learn it. It’s the foundation for so much.”

“Tell me,” Philip said, “why have you studied so many languages?”

“One must do something to pass the time, dear doctor.”

“Could it be because each language expresses things differently?”

“I suppose that’s one of the charms, yes.”

“Do you think you’re looking for one that expresses everything just right, that allows you to say things you can’t otherwise communicate?”

He chewed his lip. “That’s very poetic, Mr. Adler. But I’m afraid I am not adept at poetry. No, indeed, I think my linguistic interest is far more innocent. There’s nothing one can say in a foreign language that can’t be said in one’s father tongue.”

“Mother tongue,” Philip corrected.

He blinked. “Of course. I’m sorry about that. I misspoke.”

“That’s understandable. Various languages use images of motherhood and fatherhood differently. That can be hard to master.” Morin neither confirmed nor denied this, so Philip continued. “In some languages, for instance, the homeland is called the motherland. Isn’t that right?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Morin replied.

“In others, it’s called the fatherland. As in Germany.”

“Why do you find this topic so intriguing, Mr. Adler?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps because you spoke in such detail about the Germans the last time I visited.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. It came after we discussed your own past, when I extended my sympathies regarding your father.”

Morin twitched. “
Das hat nichts mit meinem Vater zu tun
,” he said.

Philip waited for Yvonne’s translation.

“This has nothing to do with my father.”

Morin raised his hand to his lips, parting them enough to allow his fingertip to touch his tongue. He winced.

“I know this is a difficult topic,” Philip said. “You were close to him, and now he’s gone. It’s normal to be upset. I recall we spoke of your father at our last meeting, too.”

“I would rather we change topics, Mr. Adler.”

“Yes, that’s what we did the last time. You began to describe the countryside around Yvetot, and told how, when the Germans arrived, people changed the road signs, slowing the German advance. Then you mentioned how the Germans set up roadblocks, forcing people to take alternate routes.”

Morin’s eyes glowed, but his voice remained flat. “That is mere history, Mr. Adler. Anyone could tell you that.”