Theory of Remainders (40 page)

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Boucher said modestly. “I would have done that anyway—it was Rouen after all. The best news, though, is Raymond Desplanches, or what remains of him. You’ve brought one of our boys back, Monsieur Adler! That’s bound to help. Word’s already gotten around.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Philip said. “I’m leaving.”

Roger’s smile soured. “You’re still stuck on that idea?”

Philip turned to Boucher. “You need a statement from me?”

“Yes, please. It shouldn’t take very long. But Rouen is quite insistent about it.”

Boucher booted up an old computer, cracked his knuckles, then hunted and pecked his way through the menus until he found the right place to start. One by one he filled in the fields, typing up the answers with his index fingers. In Normandy they were so used to bodies and armaments coming to the surface of the earth that they had a specially designed form for it.

“There won’t be any trouble about this from on up the line, will there, Francis?” Roger asked at the end.

“Oh, no, sir. I know how to file this so they won’t ask any questions.”

“Good man.”

Boucher looked up at Philip. “They think we’re a bunch of bumpkins down here, Monsieur Adler. In Rouen, they fart higher than their ass—pardon the expression—but we know how to handle them.”

Roger clapped Boucher on the shoulder as they took their leave.

At the brasserie, Roger ordered a half bottle of Burgundy to accompany lunch, but when Philip grimaced, he paused, swallowed hard, and canceled the order, asking for mineral water instead. “You know, no one can blame you for falling off the wagon,” he said. “It was a hell of a day. I knocked back a few myself.” A wrinkle formed across his brow. “Of course, I always knock back a few.” He picked up his glass of water, and studied it as if it were an unfamiliar beverage. Then he took a long sip, evidently not displeased with the taste. “You know,” he said finally, “it’s curious how ordeals like this push us back into old routines, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you went and hit the bottle last night. Me, I called up Élisabeth.” He cautioned with his hand. “Now, don’t start reading all sorts of nonsense into it. It was just a call. But after our little adventure on Le Mont de l’If, I experienced this rather desperate longing for . . . well, I guess it was for
home
. And the craziest thing came to mind.” He stared at the table. “I don’t think she was delighted to hear from me,” he said, “but at least she didn’t hang up.”

Could it be that some good might have come of this disastrous trip? For Philip it had been nothing less than a tortured odyssey. But if Roger was returning to port, that was some consolation. What was the old saying? Let heaven exist for others, though my own place be in hell.

That afternoon he called Air France. It was the peak of high season, and it would take two days and a small fortune to get a seat. He didn’t care. Ever since ancient Greece, people understood that the dead had to pay their own passage to the underworld—and just as with Air France, the price had never been negotiable.

His cell phone buzzed several times during the day, showing Hervé’s number, but he didn’t answer. Roger called, but he let that one go, too. He wasn’t in the mood to talk. At least, not in Yvetot or Rouen. It was time to turn his attention to the future. He phoned Jonas and let him know the time of his return flight. He got the update on Melanie. She was stable. He should give her a call soon, Jonas said. It might do her some good.

Unable to bear sitting alone in another restaurant while the eyes of Yvetot feasted on him, he slipped out and picked up sandwiches to eat in his room. Seclusion had other advantages, too. There was no sense denying that the old thirst demanded to be quenched. It was the mathematics of alcoholism: the difference between zero and one was a leap of astronomical proportions, but one to two was only a mincing step. He purchased another fifth of scotch at the supermarket. Alcohol would lubricate the clockwork, accelerating the spin and whir of the minutes, easing his wait until departure. After a solitary dinner he twisted the metal cap off and poured himself his first shot, and by the time the knock sounded on his hotel room door, just after ten o’clock, he’d already made serious headway. Nevertheless, he opened up, only to find Hervé Legrand standing before him, his feet spread in a pugnacious stance.

“You’ve ignored my calls,” Hervé stated. “I tried you several times today.”

“Good evening,
Hair-vay
.” The words slurred in his mouth.

“
Er-vé
,” the shorter man snapped. “When are you going to get that right?”

Accents. Pronunciation. Soon he’d be on American soil and no one would ever complain again about the way he spoke.

Philip stepped to the side to allow Hervé into the room, watching him cast his eyes over the mass of documents littered throughout.

“Yes,” Hervé said, as he spied the open bottle, “I heard you’d been hitting the sauce again. Old habits die hard, eh?”

“What do you want, Hervé?”

“You just couldn’t let good enough alone, could you?”

“I guess it all depends on what you consider to be good enough, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t be smart. All of this nosing around. And then that ridiculous scheme at the clinic. It’s a personal embarrassment to me. Not to mention the shenanigans at Le Mont de l’If.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re making a fool of yourself. Moreover,” he said, jabbing with his finger, “you broke our deal.”

Philip looked down at Hervé’s finger on his chest. “We had no deal.”

“You promised you wouldn’t upset my family.”

“Your family is upset enough already,” Philip retorted. “You didn’t need me for that.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He smiled. “Tell me, Hervé, where did Yvonne spend last night? Wasn’t at home, was she?”

This pleasing comment brought Hervé to a halt, producing a new and fiercer look. The other man stepped back, looking Philip over as though measuring him.

“I’ve been extremely patient with your interruptions in our life,” Hervé said, articulating the words sharply. “But that’s over. I want you out of here.” He left a pause. “Don’t cross me, Philip. I know about all the irregularities. There are people in Rouen who can make things very difficult for you. Get out of town. Now.”

“Or else?”

His hands closed into fists. “Or else I’ll do what I need in order to protect my family.”

Philip’s first inclination was to snap back, to plant his hands on Hervé’s shoulders and push hard. But then a different impulse overtook the first.
To protect my family
, he had said. Yes, there was a family at stake here. A daughter.

And as Philip thought about Margaux, the whiskey-induced swagger evaporated. There’d been Sophie. And Melanie. He had tried to help them all, but it was no use denying the results. Philip’s touch was poison. For the time being Margaux was still safe, and at least Hervé knew how to defend her.

His arms, yearning to take a swing just a moment ago, now dangled at his sides. There was no sense resisting. He had his reservation back to Boston. He’d already given up.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice heavy. “You’re right. And I’m packing it in.”

Twenty-Two

It was closing in on midnight when he finally took his old position at the writing desk, steeling himself before placing the call. No board of ethics would find him at fault, but he knew where the responsibility lay. He’d been too absorbed in his own life. Too distracted. Too much a person, and too little a doctor. He had failed her.

He drew his hands back over his temples, running his fingers through his hair. It was time to put on the mask of the professional. He picked up the phone and dialed.

At the sound of her voice he gritted his teeth but managed to answer.

“Hello Melanie.”

“Doctor Adler? Is that you?” Her voice was small.

He took a deep breath. “Are you comfortable?”

“I s’pose. As much as you can be when your wrist is, you know, all mummied up.”

He pressed his lip between his teeth. “So, have they stuck an IV in you?”

“Yeah. Took ’em a while to find a vein.”

“I hate those things.” He cast about for a topic. He could do this. “And you’re all alone now?”

“Well, Mom and Dad, they went down to the cafeteria. Thank God. And I don’t have to have a roommate. Double-thank-God.”

It was the same old Melanie, but she’d turned softer. He wouldn’t push her, not today. The trick was to keep it light. Light he could handle. But then, before he had time to speak, a great gasping sound wheezed over the phone. It was a suppressed sob.

“Oh, Doctor Adler,” she said, choking back the tears. “I’m such an
idiot
.”

Philip drew the phone away from his mouth. He closed his eyes and felt himself breathe.

“It’s all right, Melanie,” he said when he could. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I couldn’t even do
this
right.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s so
embarrassing
.”

He needed a lever to lift her up, to lift them both, and he opted for irony. “Embarrassing? What do you mean? Trying to do yourself in? Or bungling it?”

It worked. Melanie gulped, and when she replied her tone was trying to meet his. “Geez,” she said. “I mean, take your pick, right? How hopeless is that?” She blew her nose.

“Listen, Melanie. We’ve all been there. Not everyone acts on it, but everyone considers it.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.”

“Huh. Well, go figure.”

He let her finish pondering his humanness. “So tell me,” he said. “Have they given you anything to relax you?”

There was a rustle of sheets. She spoke in a hushed voice. “Well, they tried to give me some pills. But I don’t do drugs. Honest, I don’t. You probably don’t believe me, but it’s true. So I barfed ’em up right after the nurse went out.”

That’s my girl, he thought. “I see.”

“What about you?” she said. “Do you do drugs?”

There she went again, trying to pry into his life. But there he was, still tipsy from the scotch, six time zones away, and conducting professional sessions from a bedroom in a third-rate hotel.

“I drink,” he confessed. “Sometimes.” He let the news sink in.

“Does it help?” she said finally.

“Not really. For a while I think it does. But it doesn’t. What about you? Does cutting help?”

“About the same.”

“Uh-huh.”

A silence hung between them.

“Well, I’ll be back soon,” he said. “We can start up our regular sessions if you’d like.”

“Wow. How exciting.”

“Though if you’d rather work with someone else, I understand.”

“Gee, I don’t know. We’ve done such a great job, haven’t we? I mean, just look how well I’ve turned out.”

“Melanie.”

She stopped. “All right. I’ll try. No promises, but I’ll give it a go.”

He listened to the steadiness of her voice and thought she meant it. There might be other crises in store for them later, but he was pretty sure they’d made it through this one.

“Mind if I ask you something?” he said. “Last time we spoke, you told me that I don’t listen well. That I don’t hear what people have to say. What exactly did you mean by that?”