The Paris contingent stood in a group in front of the giant cubes of brand new brick and glass, surrounded by flaming red trees. A black squirrel was guarding the door, nibbling at something. Adamsberg lagged behind to have a word with Danglard.
‘Do they all use first names round here?’
‘Yes, it’s their normal way of speaking.’
‘Should we do the same?’
‘Do what you feel comfortable with. People adapt.’
‘He called you “a big slouch”. What did he mean?’
‘A sloppy-looking character.’
‘I see. As he says, he calls ’em as he sees ’em.’
‘So it seems,’ Danglard agreed.
Laliberte showed the French team into a huge meeting room – the equivalent of the Council Chamber – and did some rapid introductions. The Quebecois team consisted of Mitch Portelance, Rheal Ladouceur, Berthe Louisseize, Philibert Lafrance, Alphonse Philippe-Auguste, Ginette Saint-Preux and Fernand Sanscartier. Then the superintendent spoke firmly to his officers. ‘You’re each gonna link up with one of the members of the Paris squad. We change partners every two or three days. Get stuck in, but no need to break any records. They’re not dummies, but they’re on a steep learning curve, this is new to them, so no rushing at it. And no snarky jokes if they don’t understand, or don’t speak the way we do. Just because they’re French doesn’t mean they’re not up to the job. I’m counting on you.’
It was in fact, much the same kind of pep-talk Adamsberg had given his team a few days earlier.
During the rather tedious tour of the premises, Adamsberg took care to locate the drinks machine, which supplied ‘soups’, but also cups of coffee about the size of a glass of beer. He scanned the faces of his temporary colleagues. He felt an immediate rapport with Sergeant Fernand Sanscartier, the only unpromoted officer, whose chubby pink face, with its wide-open innocent-looking brown eyes, seemed to mark him out as a number one good guy. He would have liked to be partnered with him, but for the first three days, hierarchy had to be observed, so he would be working with the energetic Aurele Laliberte. The French visitors were allowed to leave at six, and shown out to their official cars, which were equipped with snow tyres. Only the
‘So why do you wear two watches?’ asked Laliberte, as Adamsberg seated himself in the driving seat.
Adamsberg hesitated.
‘Because of the time difference,’ he explained suddenly. ‘I’ve got to follow some enquiries back home in France.’
‘Can’t you do it in your head like everyone else?’
‘It’s quicker this way,’ Adamsberg prevaricated.
‘Suit yourself. OK, welcome to Canada, man, and see you tomorrow, nine sharp.’
Adamsberg drove slowly, looking at the trees, the streets, the people. Once out of Gatineau Park, he entered Ottawa’s twin town of Hull, which he would not personally have called a town: it was spread over kilometres of flat land, divided up in a grid plan of clean and deserted streets, lined with wood frame houses. There was nothing old or decrepit in sight, not even the churches, which looked like the icing sugar ornaments on wedding cakes rather than Strasbourg Cathedral. No one seemed to be in a hurry, and most people seemed to drive around in big pick-up trucks, capable of carrying several cubic metres of timber.
There appeared to be no cafes, restaurants or department stores. Adamsberg spotted a few isolated shops, all-purpose corner stores, which sold a bit of everything, one of them a hundred metres from their residence. He enjoyed walking over to it, feeling the snow crunching under his feet, and watching the squirrels which did not move away at his approach. A significant difference from sparrows.
‘Where will I find a bar or a restaurant?’ he asked the cashier at reception.
‘All the late-night stuff’s downtown,’ she replied kindly. ‘It’s about five kilometres, you’ll have to take the car. Bye, have a nice evening now.’
The downtown area was not large and Adamsberg had walked round it in under a quarter of an hour. He went into a cafe called the
At the far end of the bar, a hand waved to him. Ginette Saint-Preux, carrying her plate, came and sat down at his table without embarrassment.
‘Do you mind if I sit here, Jean-Baptiste?’ she asked. ‘I’m dining alone too.’
Ginette, who was very pretty, chatty and vivacious, started firing questions at him. What did he think of Quebec? Was it very different from France? Flatter? Oh really? What was Paris like? What was work like there? Fun? And what about you? Oh, really? She had children and ‘hobbies’, especially music. But for a good concert, you had to go to Montreal, would that interest him? Did he have any hobbies? Oh really? Drawing, walking, dreaming? Funny hobbies. How could you do those in Paris?
At about eleven o’clock, Ginette asked about his two watches.
‘Poor you,’ she said, getting up. ‘Of course with the time difference, it’s five o’clock in the morning for you now.’
Ginette had left on the table a green brochure, which she had been rolling up and unrolling during their conversation. Adamsberg unfolded it sleepily, his eyes drooping with fatigue. Some Vivaldi concerts in Montreal, between 17 and 21 October, a string quintet, with flute and harpsichord. Ginette must have some energy, to drive four hundred kilometres, just to listen to a quintet.
XVIII
ADAMSBERG DID NOT INTEND TO SPEND HIS ENTIRE CANADIAN VISIT with his eyes fixed on test tubes and barcodes. By seven in the morning, he was already outside, drawn by the river. Or rather the tributary as Danglard called it, the immense tributary of the St Lawrence, home of the Ottawa Indians. He walked along the bank until he reached a footpath. A sign informed him that it was the ‘Portage trail used by Samuel de Champlain in 1613’. He started off along it, happy to be following in the footsteps of men of long ago, Indians and travellers, carrying their canoes on their backs. The track was not easy to follow, as the path often dipped more than a metre into hollows. The landscape was spectacular: foaming waters, noisy waterfalls, colonies of birds, red-leaved maples along the banks. He stopped in front of a commemorative tablet planted in a clearing, giving a potted history of Champlain’s achievements.
‘Hey, good morning!’ said a voice behind him.
A young woman in jeans was sitting on a flat rock overlooking the river, smoking an early-morning cigarette. Adamsberg had detected a Parisian accent.
‘Morning to you,’ he replied.
‘French,’ stated the woman. ‘What are you doing here? Tourist?’
‘No, work.’
The young woman inhaled and threw the rest of her cigarette into the water. ‘I’m lost. So I’m just waiting.’
‘Lost? Literally?’ asked Adamsberg carefully, while looking at the inscription on the Champlain stone.
‘I met this guy? In law school, in Paris? Canadian. He said why didn’t I come out here with him and I said yes. He seemed like a regular chum.’
‘Chum?’
‘Friend, boyfriend. The idea was to live together.’
‘I see,’ said Adamsberg, retreating.
‘And after six months, what do you think the chum did? He dumped Noella and she found herself all washed
