Theory of Remainders (43 page)

Morin nodded slowly.

“And then there’s the opposite. A word like
eyeshot
sounds wrong to me, but the more I considered it, the more I thought it was perfectly normal, and that I’d used it all my life. You see what I mean? The familiar becomes strange, but the strange has a way of becoming familiar.”

At least he had Morin’s attention.

He held the diary in the air, showing the page of notes. “I did a search for that word on the Internet, so I have a little information for you—an answer to your question. It’s old-fashioned and infrequent, but the word does crop up. It’s used in just the way you thought.”

Morin gave a nod halfway between understanding and appreciation.

Irritation nibbled at Philip. He’d made his offering. It was Morin’s turn.

“Come now, Édouard,” Suardet growled. “You made me arrange this meeting. Doctor Adler has come. It’s time to say your piece.”

Morin’s face was slack, his eyes heavily lidded, his heavy cheeks rough with stubble. There was a sullenness to the way Morin avoided Philip’s gaze, a hint of resistance or determination that clashed with the weariness of his slumped posture. Some kind of mismatch was at work: Morin had called for this meeting, but he had nothing to say. He’d made himself physically present, but he remained absent in every other way. His hand mashed the arm of the chair with nervous energy, but the rest of his body seemed unplugged. The whole situation smacked of provocation.

Philip kept his face calm, but underneath the table he clenched and unclenched his fist. Yes, he understood Yvonne’s fury, wondered what he would do if he had her scissors now. Time was short. They were in the endgame, and still Philip didn’t understand Morin’s strategy—didn’t even know if there was one.

Only one move seemed possible to him now: a surprise that might force Morin’s hand. Not an attack—which would simply trigger greater resistance—but also not a retreat. More along the lines of an offering, like a traveler climbing up on Procrustes’ rack of his own accord, inviting the villain to turn the crank.

Reaching into his back pocket, Philip drew out his wallet and retrieved the old photographs of Sophie, worn images of a young girl at play: on her bicycle, gripping the tennis racket, brandishing her arm in the cast . . . One by one he dealt these treasures of his own past out on the table like a deck of cards, ending with the double portrait that formed the Rubin’s vase. Morin blinked and grimaced, shrinking from the pictures while eyeing them furtively.

“You know what it’s like,” Philip said. “You must have pictures of your father. I look at these, and for a little while Sophie is still alive. It’s a trick of the mind, of course. A benevolent fraud. One I’m grateful for.”

Morin wrested his eyes from the photographs and twisted away, his hands forced in his pockets, the feet of the chair scraping against the tiled floor.

Philip kept his voice calm. “You don’t care for it, do you—the fact that she’s not where she belongs? Too much play in the system, isn’t it? More disorder than you’re comfortable with.” He took a breath. “I don’t mind telling you, I don’t care for it either. You once said we weren’t so different, the two of us. Maybe that’s true. We both appreciate symmetry. You’ve insisted that everything is already in its place, but you know that’s not true. It’s not close enough. Not for me, and not for you.” He leaned forward. “And in a few moments I’ll walk out that door, and it will be too late.”

Morin’s mouth broadened into a grimace and his brow thickened. It was the expression from the old newspaper clippings, the panicked boy Philip had seen fifteen years ago. He squirmed in his seat.

“Still nothing to say?” Philip continued. “Then let me do the talking.” He paused. “You know what I think, Édouard? I think you study your languages and train schedules and maps of France, hoping that if you fill your brain fast enough, it will crowd out everything you don’t wish to remember, everything you’re trying to forget.”

“Monsieur Adler,” Doctor Suardet murmured.

But Philip pushed ahead. “The fact is,” he said, “you can’t forget, can you? The memories keep bubbling up, and you find ways to talk about them. It’s like that story of the German blockades. Remember? Sorquainville, Malamare, and Adonville? I understood the connection to Sophie. I figured it out.” Now was the time to press on the nerve, and Philip leaned in. “But I’d guess that’s not what worries you. What keeps you up at night isn’t Sophie, is it? It’s your father.”

Morin shook his head violently, issuing a grunt.

“That’s out of line, Monsieur Adler,” Suardet interjected.

“What’s the matter, Édouard? Are you ashamed of the life you left him with? Can you imagine what it was like for a father to turn his own son over to the police? And to live forever as a pariah in Yvetot? You knew how it gnawed at him, didn’t you? You know that you killed him—every bit as much as the cancer did.”

“Monsieur Adler,” Suardet snapped.

Morin had cradled his arms over his head, forming a helmet of flesh and bone, trying to fold in on himself. Philip knew he had only moments before Suardet put an end to the meeting. “You don’t like to hear these things, do you?” he said. “When I showed up, it set your world in disorder, didn’t it? I was a father, returning to the scene. Like your own father. Back to punish you. To punish you the way you wanted.”

Morin rose to his feet, glaring at Philip, his eyes slits, and his arms curved with tension.

“Sit down, Édouard,” Suardet ordered. “Monsieur Adler, that’s enough.”

“Isn’t that right, Édouard?” Philip pressed, rising to his feet, too. “I understand how you’ve teased me along with your games and riddles. Taunting. Hoping that I’d do what your father should have done fifteen years ago. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Why don’t you just say it, Édouard? Say it now. Go ahead and speak!”

Édouard’s hands closed into fists.

“Sit down,” Suardet barked at both of them.

“Speak!” Philip commanded.

But instead of speaking, Édouard swatted away the photos of Sophie, sending them swirling like leaves. His hand plunged again into his pocket, and it emerged grasping what appeared to be nothing. Then the light caught the jagged edge and Philip realized Morin was holding a piece of broken glass.

Now all three of them were standing.

Philip knew he should be afraid. After all, a man stood before him with a weapon. But his breath came easily, his heart felt light. Édouard Morin believed he held a threat in his hands, but to Philip, it looked like a blade of deliverance. He was ready.

“Just
say
it, Édouard,” he repeated.

And at the instant Édouard moved, Philip realized his miscalculation. Morin raised the glass edge toward his own face, ignoring Suardet’s cries. As he brought the weapon to his chin, Philip foresaw exactly how the flesh of Morin’s neck would part, how the blood would surge. But then his arm rose even higher. His other hand was at his mouth, and too late Philip saw him pulling at the tip of his tongue, lengthening this long steak of flesh. Morin locked his eyes on Philip, and he began to saw. Blood flowed immediately.

Édouard Morin was cutting out his own tongue.

Suardet scrambled, bellowing for help. With surprising speed the old doctor rushed to Édouard’s side, wrenching his hands away from the bloodied maw, struggling to restrain him. He called again for help while Édouard thrashed, making strange yawing noises. Footsteps clattered in the hallway, and soon the door burst open, two white-coated attendants hurrying in to help Suardet, wrestling Morin’s arms down. The glass shard clinked to the floor.

As they dragged Morin from the room, blood dribbling from his face, he turned back to cast a final look at Philip, an indecipherable expression in his eyes.

Twenty-Five

Traffic raced by on the autoroute. The chalk cliffs of Normandy towered in the distance. Philip was at a wayside rest, sitting on a cement bench. On a stretch of grass families circled around blankets, picnicking. By the playground four or five children played tag.

He had seen his share of horrors over the years. He’d known people tortured by their own conscience. He had patients afflicted with unbearable pain. There had been those who, like Melanie, slashed their wrists or put a bullet through their brain. But never once had he seen a man cut out his own tongue.

No, Morin hadn’t fully succeeded. An edge of glass wasn’t a surgical tool, and Suardet had stopped him before the tongue was completely severed. But that changed little. What mattered was the staging. Morin had prepared himself for the encounter, bringing the props he would need. First he had kept silent, and then he’d underscored this silence in the most physical way possible. It was a performance played for an audience of one.

What did it say, this refusal to speak?

His elbows propped on his knees, he lowered his head into his hands. He couldn’t worry about Édouard Morin any longer. All he would do is mis-understand, misread. The way he had fouled everything.

At the playground a knock-kneed girl cornered a boy with short blond hair, trying to tag him. He dodged with monkey-like agility.

Philip turned his thoughts to the coming week. There would be so much catching up. Jonas would want to know everything. Linda would have him scheduled to the gills. And he’d need to go and see Melanie—the sooner the better.

Philip shook his head. He heaved a sigh and dialed a number on his phone.

“It’s me,” he said.

There was a long silence. “
Again?
” said Roger. “Shouldn’t you be watching a bad movie right now—and choosing between inedible chicken or pasta?”

“I’m not going.”

“It must cost you a fortune every time you fail to board a plane.”

“I’m coming back.”

“For once you have genuinely surprised me, Philip. I honestly wondered if I would ever hear from you again.”

He ran his hand over his beard. “I met with Édouard Morin again, Roger. Today.”

There was a creaking sound. Roger was sitting up, his voice alert. “You did what?”

“On my way to the airport. He’d asked to see me.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing useful?”

“No. Nothing at all.” Philip paused. “He cut out his tongue, Roger.”

“What?”

“Not completely. They stopped him. But enough to make his point.”

“Good God. What would make him do such a thing?”

“I’m not sure. But I need to find out.” He stood up. “Do you know if Yvonne is still at your mother’s old place?”

Roger was pretty sure the house was empty. “But if you’re trying to stay out of sight,” he said, “it won’t help you much. People will find out. It’s Yvetot, after all.”

It was past midnight by the time the Smart Car rolled up the gravel drive of the Aubert home. Roger had left him the key under a flowerpot. The shutters on the house were still closed, and once inside Philip turned on as few lights as possible. Yvonne and Margaux had cleared out. The dust cover was back on the sofa, and more boxes had been packed. The kitchen, however, was better stocked, and Philip wondered if Yvonne expected to return sometime soon.

In the guest room he lay awake for an hour or more, listening to the familiar aching sounds of the house while he reviewed events. He’d done so much wrong since arriving in Yvetot—misunderstanding, misreading, mishearing, misspeaking. He’d lurched forward in missteps, and yet wasn’t that, too, a kind of progress? He’d been wrong to question Roger’s motives, but that allowed him now to focus entirely on Morin.

He slept fitfully, and when he woke it was mid-morning. After putting coffee on in the kitchen, he opened the shutters and windows looking onto the backyard. Sunlight and birdsong poured in. He spread his sparse materials on the kitchen table. Most of the documents had ended up in the wastebasket of the hotel room, and all that remained now were the photographs, the voice recorder, and the diary. On the one hand, he regretted having discarded so much. On the other, he could now narrow his focus.