An Uncertain Place

‘You screwed her one night, by the bridge over the Jaussene.’

‘A lot of couples went to the bridge over the Jaussene.’

‘Then she wrote to you to ask for your help. And you didn’t answer, because you couldn’t give a damn, or because you’re chicken.’

‘Never got any letter like that.’

‘You probably can’t remember the names of the girls you screwed.’

‘Number one, I do remember their names. And number two, I wasn’t a Jack the Lad in those days. I was shy, and I didn’t have a moped. Other boys like Matt, Pierrot, Loulou, Manu, yes, you might well wonder if one of them’s your father. They could get any girl they wanted. But afterwards, the girls didn’t own up, because it would have ruined their reputations. How do you know your mother’s telling the truth?’

The young man felt in a pocket, frowning, and brought out a little plastic envelope which he waved in front of Adamsberg’s eyes, before putting it on the table. Adamsberg took out an old photo, the faded colours turning purple: it showed a youth leaning up against a plane tree.

‘And who’s that?’ asked the young man.

‘It’s either me or my brother. So what?’

‘It’s you, look on the back.’

His name: J.-B. Adamsberg, written in pencil in small round handwriting.

‘It looks more like my brother, Raphael. I don’t remember having a shirt like that. So your mother didn’t know us very well, and it proves she’s making things up.’

‘Just shut up – you don’t know what my mother’s like, she doesn’t make things up. If she says you’re my father, then it’s the truth. Why would she make it up? It’s not as if it’s something to be proud of, is it?’

‘True. But in our village, it was probably better to say it was me than to own up to Matt or Loulou, because they were known as local bad boys, good-for-nothings, piss-artists. In fact, they used to piss out of the windows on warm summer nights. The grocer’s wife, they didn’t like her, and she got it in the face once. Not to mention Lucien’s gang. In other words, even if it’s no big deal, it would still be better to pretend it was me than Matt. Look, I’m not your father, I have never known any girl called Gisele, in my village or in the next one, and she has never written me any letter. The first time a girl wrote a letter to me, I was twenty-three.’

‘Liar.’

The youth clenched his teeth, swaying on the plinth of certainty that had suddenly developed cracks. His imagined father, his long-lost enemy, his target, seemed to want to slip between his fingers.

‘Look, whether I’m a liar or she is, Zerketch, what are we going to do? Stay drinking coffee here for ever?’

‘I always knew it would end like this. Well, you are going to let me go, free as a bird. And you can stay here with your lousy cats, because you can’t do a thing about it. You’ll be reading about me in the papers, believe me. Because there’s more to come. And you’ll be sitting in your office, and you’ll be fucked. You’ll have to resign because even a cop doesn’t shop his own son for a life sentence. When your kid’s involved, there aren’t any rules. And you won’t want to admit you’re the Zerketch’s old dad, will you, and that it’s all your fault that the Zerketch has gone crazy? Because you abandoned him?’

‘I did not abandon you. And I’m not your father in the first place.’

‘But you’re not sure, are you? See your face? See mine?’

‘Yes, we both look like we come from the Bearn, full stop. But there is a way to find out, Zerketch. A way to put an end to your little dream. We’ve got your DNA on file. And we’ve got mine. We take a look.’

The Zerquetscher stood up, put the P38 on the table and smiled calmly.

‘I dare you,’ he said.

Adamsberg watched as he walked unhurriedly towards the door, opened it and went out. Free as a bird. I came here to fuck up your life.

He reached out for the bottle and looked at it. Nitrocitraminic acid. He folded his hands, and dropped his head on to them, closing his eyes. Of course he wasn’t immunised. With his thumbnail, he flicked the top off.

XXV

AS HE WENT INTO THE DOCTOR’S SURGERY, ADAMSBERG Realised that he reeked of aftershave, and that Dr Josselin had also noticed it with surprise.

‘It was a sample I spilt on myself,’ he explained. ‘Nitrocitraminic acid.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘I made the name up, it sounded good.’

There had been one good moment, when Zerketch had fallen for it, when he had believed that the nitrocitraminic acid really existed, believed in the little bottle and the hundredths of a second. Just then, Adamsberg had thought he had got him, but the young man had a secret weapon far more powerful. A different trick, a different illusion, but it had worked. He, Adamsberg, the cop, had let Zerketch go, without lifting a finger to stop him. When his revolver was on the table, he could have grabbed it in a couple of steps. Or he could have had the area surrounded in five minutes. But no, the commissaire hadn’t budged. ‘COMMISSAIRE ADAMSBERG LET THE MONSTER GO FREE.’ He could see the headlines. In Austria too. It would begin something like ‘KOMMISSAR ADAMSBERG’. In big letters dripping with blood, like the ribs on the Zerquetscher’s T-shirt. Then there would be a court case, people screaming, a lynch mob, a rope from a tree. The Zerquetscher would turn up, his fangs red with blood, thrusting his fist in the air and yelling with the others, ‘The son crushes the father!’ The characters of the headline began whirling into a cloud of black and green spots.

He could taste pear-flavoured alcohol in his mouth; his head was swimming. He opened his eyes and focused on the face of Josselin who was bending over him.

‘You fainted. Does that happen often?’

‘First time in my life.’

‘Why did you want to see me? Is it about Vaudel?’

‘No, it was because I didn’t feel well. I was leaving the house and I thought I’d come here.’

‘You don’t feel well? What’s the trouble?’

‘Sick, confused, exhausted.’

‘Does that happen often?’ the doctor repeated, helping him to his feet.

‘No, never. Yes, once in Quebec. But it didn’t feel the same and anyway that time I had drunk way too much.’

‘Lie down,’ said Josselin, tapping his examination couch. ‘Lie on your back and take your shoes off. Maybe it’s just a touch of flu, but I’ll examine you all the same.’

Adamsberg hadn’t really intended, when he had come to the surgery, to end up on the padded table while the doctor moved his large fingers over his head. His feet had simply taken him away from the office and towards Josselin. He had just intended to talk. The fainting fit was a serious warning. Never would he tell anyone that the Zerketch claimed to be his son. Never would he admit to anyone that he had let him go without lifting a finger. Free as a bird. On the way to a fresh massacre, with a smile on his lips and his deathly shirt on his back. Zerk was easier to say than Zerketch and it was almost onomatopoeic, a sound of rejection and disgust. Zerk, the son of Matt or Loulou, the son of a pisspot. But all the same, no one had felt any remorse over the grocer’s wife.

The doctor put his palm across Adamsberg’s face and pressed two fingers against his temples. The immense hand easily covered the distance between his ears. The other hand was cupped under the base of his skull. Under this slightly perfumed hand, Adamsberg felt his eyes closing.

‘Don’t worry I’m just testing the PRM of the SBS.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Adamsberg with a slight question in his voice.

‘The primary respiratory movement of the sphenobasiliar symphysis, a simple basic check.’