This Night’s Foul Work

and to his own surprise, on his paternal function. He was a beginner in that domain, and was still trying to assimilate the information that the child was his son. He thought he would have put in as much effort if he had found the baby on a park bench.

‘He’s not asleep yet,’ said Camille, putting on her formal black jacket.

‘I’ll read him a story. I’ve brought a book.’

Adamsberg pulled a large volume out of his overnight bag. The fourth of his sisters had taken it upon herself to try and cultivate his mind and complicate his life. She had packed for him a four-hundred-page book on architecture in the Pyrenees, something he had no interest in, and given him the assignment of reading it and telling her what he thought of it. His sisters were the only people Adamsberg obeyed.

‘Buildings of the Bearn,’ he read. ‘Traditional techniques from the twelfth to the nineteenth century.’

Camille shrugged and smiled, unmistakably taking on the role of a sympathetic friend. As long as the child went to sleep – and on this point she trusted Adamsberg absolutely – his oddities didn’t matter. Her thoughts were entirely concentrated on the concert that evening – a heaven-sent engagement for her, and no doubt due to Yolande’s regular prayers to the Powers-that-be.

‘He likes this one,’ Adamsberg said.

‘Yes, why not?’

No criticism, no irony. The blank neutrality of authentic friendship.

Once he was alone, Adamsberg examined his son, who was looking at him with a philosophical expression – if that can be said of a nine-month-old baby. The child’s concentration on something far away, his indifference to little worries, even his placid absence of desires concerned Adamsberg, since so much of that resembled him. Not to mention the dark eyebrows, the nose which looked as if it would later be dominant, and a face so unusual in every respect that he looked two years older than his age. Thomas Adamsberg was a chip off the old block, which was not what the commissaire would have wished on him. But through the resemblance, Adamsberg was starting to see, in fits and starts, that this child really was the fruit of his own loins.

He opened the book at the page marked by the metro ticket. He usually turned down the corner of the page, but his sister had asked him not to spoil this book.

‘Tom, now listen to me, we’re both going to be educated, we’ve got no choice. Remember what I read you last time about north-facing facades? Remember all that? Now, this is how it goes on.’

Thomas looked up calmly at his father, his expression attentive but indifferent.

‘… “The use of stones from the river bed to build walls, a combinatory approach indicating an organisation adapted to local resources, is a widespread, though not universal practice.” Like the sound of that, Tom? “The introduction of the opus piscatum into many of these walls constitutes a compensatory mechanism, occasioned by the small dimensions of the materials and the weakness of the unstable mortar.” ’

Adamsberg put the book down, meeting his son’s gaze.

‘I don’t know what the hell the “opus spicatum” is, son, and I don’t care. So we can agree about that. But I’m going to teach you how we resolve a problem like this when it crops up in our lives. How to proceed when you don’t understand something. Just watch.’

Adamsberg took out his mobile and slowly tapped out a number under the child’s unconcerned eyes.

‘What you do is you call Danglard,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite simple. Just remember that, always keep his phone number about you. He can fix anything in this line of country. You’ll see, just pay attention now.’

‘Danglard? Adamsberg. I’m sorry to disturb you, but the little one doesn’t understand this word, and needs an explanation.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Danglard wearily. He was used to the commissaire‘s wayward habits. He had implicitly been given the mission of dealing with them.

‘Opus spicatum. He wants to know what that means.’

‘No, he doesn’t – he’s only nine months old, for God’s sake.’

‘I’m not joking, capitaine, he wants to know.’

‘Commandant,’ Danglard corrected.

‘Danglard, are you going to harp on about your rank for ever? Capitaine or commandant, does that really matter between us? Anyway, that isn’t the question. The question concerns the opus spicatum.’

‘Piscatum,’ Danglard corrected.

‘OK. It’s some sort of opus they put in village walls by some compensatorily occasioned mechanism. Tom and I are stuck in this place, and we can’t think about anything else. Except that in Bretilly, a month ago, someone demolished a stag and didn’t even take the antlers, but cut out the heart. What does that say to you?’

‘Some crazy lunatic,’ said Danglard, gloomily.

‘Exactly. That’s what Robert said too.’

‘Who’s Robert?’

Danglard might curse as much as he liked every time Adamsberg called him up for some inconsequential trifle, but he could never tear himself away from the conversation, assert himself, or get cross and hang up. The commissaire’s voice, like a slow, gentle and embracing breeze, carried his will-power along like a leaf on the ground, or one of the damned pebbles in the damned river. Danglard reproached himself for this, but in the end he always gave way. The water wins in the end.

‘Robert’s a new friend I’ve made in Haroncourt.’

There was no need to tell Danglard where the little village of Haroncourt was. With his compendious and encyclopedically organised memory, the commandant knew all the districts and municipalities in France, and could tell you at once who was the local police chief.

‘Had a good evening, then?’

‘Very.’

‘Is she still just good friends?’ Danglard hazarded.

‘Alas, yes. The opus spicatum, Danglard, that’s where we were.’

‘Piscatum. If you’re educating him, at least try to do it correctly.’

‘That’s why I’m calling you. Robert thinks it was just some young nutter who did the deed. But Angelbert, who’s the elder statesman round here, isn’t so sure – he thinks a young nutter can turn into an old one.’

‘And this high-level conference took place where?

‘In the cafe, at aperitif time.’

‘How many glasses of wine?’

‘Three. What about you?’

Danglard stiffened. The commissaire was keeping an eye on his drinking problem, and that rankled.

‘I’m not asking you about your way of life, commissaire.’

‘Yes, you are, you asked if Camille was still just a good friend.’

‘OK,’ said Danglard, giving in. ‘The opus piscatum is a way of mounting flat stones – or tiles or pebbles – obliquely so that it looks like a herringbone, hence its name, which comes from the Latin for fish. It goes back to the Romans.’

‘Ah. And then what?’

‘Then nothing. You asked me a question, I gave you the answer.’

‘But what’s it for, Danglard?’

‘Well, commissaire, what are we for? Why are we on this earth?’

When Danglard was in a bad way, the Unsolved Question of the infinite cosmos returned to plague him, as well as the fact that the sun would explode in four billion years, and that humanity was but a miserable and desperate chance occurrence on a piece of matter whirling through space.

‘Is there anything precise that’s depressing you?’ asked Adamberg, anxiously.

‘I’m just depressed, that’s all.’