Theory of Remainders (30 page)

Philip had drawn him out onto the board, and he was ready to try a move. “By the way,” he began, “I did look into your story about the German blockades, the ones on the roads to—what were they called?—Sorquainville, Malamare . . . and some other wretched place?”

“Adonville, Mr. Adler,” Morin said curtly. “Adonville. You should pay closer attention.”

“But it turns out you were wrong.”

Morin’s eyes grew large. “Do tell.”

“Those villages are on small detours from the roads to Fécamp, Le Havre, and Dieppe, all located on the coast. Roadblocks were erected to stop troops from retreating to those ports. But Sorquainville was not a concern. Neither was Malamare, nor . . . that other town. What was it again?”

“
Adonville
,” Morin repeated with irritation. “What is your point?”

“My point? I don’t have a point. I just thought you should be aware that your facts aren’t straight. You care about accuracy, so I thought this would interest you.”

Morin puffed with exasperation and stood up, beginning to pace on his side of the table.

Suardet shifted in his seat, frowning as he studied the two men. Yvonne remained immobile, the line of her jaw sharp.

“Frankly,” Philip said, “I’d expected better from you.”

These words halted Morin in his tracks, and he glared. “
Basta,
” he snapped. “
Non hai il diritto!
”

It was Italian. “That’s enough,” Yvonne translated. “You have no right.”

Morin cocked his head toward her. “Madame Legrand,
l’aiutante
.”

“No right to do what, Édouard?” Philip pressed.

“
No tengo nada que decir
.”

“I have nothing to say,” Yvonne relayed.

“Tell me what you mean,” Philip said.

“
Lass mich
,” he retorted, pronouncing it
lazz
. “
Du kannst mir nicht vorschreiben, was ich machen soll.
”

“Leave me alone,” Yvonne said, her voice sharp. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“But I
am
telling you what to do. Speak to me.”

“No,” he yelled, his nostrils flaring.

“Yes.
Now
.”

“
Du bist nicht mein Vater!
” Édouard cried, smacking his fist on the table.

“Settle down!” Suardet called out.

Yvonne hadn’t translated Morin’s last phrase, but Philip didn’t need her to. He had heard these words in English so many times, from so many people, and in so many ways over the years, that he recognized it almost by intonation alone. And every single time a patient of his bellowed this at him, insisting that Philip was not their father, it meant that, in fact, he
was
. At least by substitution. It was the transference, the displacement of a relationship from a person who was absent to one who was not.

And now, just as suddenly, Morin’s emotion vanished. Calm settled over him, he slipped back onto his chair, and he clasped his hands on the table.

“
Siga, estimado doctor, no tengo miedo de nada
.”

“Continue,” Yvonne reported. “I am afraid of nothing.”

“Nothing? Not even of speaking your mind?” said Philip.

Morin leaned forward and studied him. “
Molto
,” he uttered slowly. “
Molto interessante
.
Herr Professor, ich bin sehr beeindruckt
.”

“Very interesting,” Yvonne intoned. “I’m impressed.”

Philip struggled to keep pace with the shifting languages. Yvonne’s translations, he could tell, were abridged. “What about it, Édouard,” he said. “Do you have anything left to tell us?”

He tipped his head back, looking at Philip as though from a great height. “Why do you imagine I would do such a thing, Mr. Adler? Because of your psychological games?”

“Because there are things you would like to express.”

Morin sneered. “You think you understand me because I’m like one of your patients. And yet, I am
not
one of your patients, Mr. Adler. I am very different from your patients. For one thing, not one of them has raped and murdered your daughter. Isn’t that right?” He frowned. “Unless you have other daughters?”

Philip stiffened.

“What about Madame Legrand?” Morin said, speaking as if she were not present. “Perhaps she has other daughters?”

So Morin knew about Margaux.

Philip cast a sidewise glance at Yvonne. If anything, she was even more rigid than before, frozen in place, only her eyes afire.

Morin continued. “You think you can read me because you know the patterns. But sometimes we see patterns where we want to. Instead of discovering them, we
project
them. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m not here to answer your questions,” Philip said.

“Is that so?” Morin replied. “Because I think it is quite exactly for these questions that you have come. You’re interested in the answers, too. I can tell.” He studied Philip carefully. “We’re not so different, you and I.” He indicated Yvonne with a nod. “Her, not so much. But you . . .”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” Philip said. “Stop trying to turn the tables.” His neck felt hot. “I want to know the next step, Édouard,” he said, his voice inching up the register. “I want to know what you did with my daughter’s body.”

“You have made your desires quite apparent, Mr. Adler. In fact, you are yourself quite apparent. Do you see what I mean? Apparent—a parent? And nothing com
pares
to a
par
ent. Oh, I share the erring despair of parents. They aim to repair the irreparable.”

Philip gritted his teeth. “Enough of your rhymes.”

“Tell me, do you know the myth of Procrustes, Mr. Adler?”

“I’m not looking for a lesson.”

“How about you, Madame Legrand? No? According to the stories of Ancient Greece, Procrustes was a thief. He strapped his victims onto a special bed he made. I picture it much like a rack. Nobody fit his bed exactly. Some people were too small, so he would turn the crank to stretch their limbs. Others were too big, and for these he would use a saw to trim their arms and legs.” He stopped to ponder his phrasing. “Is
trim
the right word? It sounds so much like a haircut. Maybe
cut
or
hack
is a better term. Or how about
lop?
” When no one answered, he continued. “Anyway, I have always thought of the story of Procrustes as a lesson in practicality. In theory we want the world to fit a certain ideal. But in practice, when all you have are round pegs and square holes, sometimes we have to force things a bit. Don’t you think that’s true, Mr. Adler?”

Philip was about to reply when another voice hissed at his side in French.

“
Salaud
.”

It was Yvonne.

Philip reached out to her, but she batted him away. “I didn’t come to listen to this,” she said. “For a pathetic little man to talk about cutting and lopping, as if we didn’t know what he meant by it.”

“Yvonne,” Philip started.

“Shut up, Philip,” she told him, her face suddenly ugly.

“Madame Legrand,” Suardet began.

“
Laissez-moi parler
,” she barked, and Suardet backed down.

Morin had leaned back, taking in the scene. When Yvonne turned to him again, he dropped his gaze to the table. “At last,” he said. “Someone who’s willing to speak plainly.” His taunting tone returned. “I have to admire your frankness. So like your daughter, you know. The first one, I mean.”

“Look at me when you speak,” she ordered.

“Madame Legrand,” he began, “I don’t think—”

“Look at me,” she repeated slowly, as though issuing a threat.

Morin raised his head and for a moment his gaze flitted over Yvonne before he turned away.

She continued. “You don’t know the first thing about my daughter.”

“Oh, but I see the family resemblance,” he said to the floor. “Like mother, like daughter, you know.”

A cruel smile curled Yvonne’s lips. “And like father, like son, don’t you think?”

Morin’s eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”

“I knew him well. Your father. Quite well.”

“Yvonne,” Philip murmured again.

“Don’t you want to hear about it, Édouard?” she pressed.

Morin scowled. “That’s enough, Madame Legrand.
Es gibt Grenzen, die man nicht überschreitet
.” He wrenched his attention from her and turned to Philip and Suardet, switching to an exaggerated British accent, the vowels flattening and the R’s vanishing while the buzzing S remained. “I’m
teddibly
zorry, chums, but I believe we’re done. I’m not at
libuhty
to
discuzz thizz
any
fawther
. No
fawther
at all.” He winced from a pain in his mouth, as if he’d bitten his tongue.

“What’s the matter, Édouard?” Yvonne said. “After all, you had your way with my daughter. Isn’t it natural that your father should have taken an interest in the mother?”

Philip moved to intervene, but Yvonne stopped him with a glare. Suardet fidgeted and grimaced, unsure how much leeway to allow the wife of Hervé Legrand.

Morin looked at her with contempt. “
Puttana
. He wouldn’t have touched you.”

“
Tu crois?
” she said, inching forward on her chair. “Do you need details? Where we met? How often we did it? How he slipped his hand up my skirt . . .”

Morin flinched with each detail. “
Mentirosa!
”

“. . . between my thighs.”

“
Come osi parlare cosí?
”

“
Carogna
,” she spat back.

“
Du hast keine Ahnung—
”

“
Und du keinen Schneid!
” she snapped, leaning in. “You see, you can’t go scampering off into languages anymore. How does it feel, not being able to get away?”

Morin wheeled around to Doctor Suardet for help.

“Madame Legrand,” Suardet began.

But Yvonne was done listening. “And what about this, Édouard?” she continued, sitting erect, drawing her shoulders back. “Don’t you want to know how he took me?” She leaned forward and looked lengthily into Morin’s eyes. “He wasn’t very good,” she said in a confidential tone, “if you care to know. But he wanted it so badly.”

There was a pause, and then Morin uncoiled like a spring, lunging toward Yvonne and administering a backhanded slap that sent her to the ground, her chair clattering against the tiles. She reached up to shield herself from the next blow, but Philip was already between them, shoving Morin against the wall.

Suardet cried out as he scrambled to restrain Édouard, who yelled again.

“
Puttana!
”