listening out of politeness; she definitely caught the phrase – prepare yourself .
For what? How had he died? Who murdered him?
The shock of the situation kicked in, once again, or maybe for the first time properly. Julia felt a shiver of fear run through her. Murdered.
Now they were in Mende the car was actually speeding up: emancipated by these empty urban motorways, which were virtually deserted at this time of night – and in this type of weather. They slashed through rainy Mende, jumping amber lights, their police siren howling in a satisfying way.
She watched the sights of her adopted and temporary hometown flee past the windows. The cathedral, the museum, the Hotel Lion d’Or . Why did every French town have a Hotel Lion d’Or ?
And then the hospital. Julia had never visited Mende hospital before, but it was just like any hospital. It could have been a hospital in Toronto.
‘Par là . . . je connais bien la route.’
Doors opened, nurses passed, old people lay on trolleys, staring grimly at nothing: people cuckolded by their own bodies, betrayed.
The four of them took an enormous steel elevator to the basement. Again Julia felt the absurd urge to fill conversational silence. What could she say: Hey, isn’t this a big elevator?
She said nothing. Shut her eyes. Tried not to think of what they were about to see. Would she even see anything, would they allow her in as well? Ghoulishly, Julia wanted to observe the body. She had never seen a murdered person. She desired the unique experience even as she despaired at her own heartlessness. Poor Annika. Poor Ghislaine.
The French being spoken was urgent, but whispered, like they were in church, as they walked the long corridor to the mortuary; Julia asked herself why people always whispered in the presence of the dead. The dead, she thought, are also deaf.
A wide door swung open, automatically. As they crossed the threshold, a man in light blue rubber gloves came over, briefly smiled at Rouvier, scanned the other faces, and met Annika’s eyes with his own. She nodded.
He motioned: this way.
It was all happening very quickly, Julia had expected more of a palaver, a prologue, some polite and ritual ablutions. But this was brisk French efficiency, verging on harsh un sentimentality. The four of them filed through a wide overbright room, full of trolleys and the shapes of bodies under plastic sheets.
Now they paused, but only for a fraction of a second, and then the doctor pulled the top of the plastic sheet down to the neck.
It was Ghislaine’s face. He seemed almost calm. The eyes were shut, with just a smudge of blood on the nose. The skin was ghastly pale, but the relaxation of death gave the professor, oddly, a more youthful appearance. No longer straining and posing; the absurd hair was tousled, like a young man’s hair, actually unkempt. It looked better that way.
What a horrible horrible pity. A huge engulfing wave of sadness and pity nearly knocked Julia down, she steadied herself, gripped her feelings. Poor Ghislaine, why had he died? How? Who?
‘ Oui. C’est lui ,’ Annika had spoken; she had identifie le corps. The doctor went to pull the sheet back, but Annika reached out a dignified arm and gripped his wrist.
‘ Non, laissez-moi voir – ’
She wanted to see the rest of the body. The doctor threw an anxious glance at Officer Rouvier, who hesitated – and then nodded, discreetly.
The doctor pulled back the sheet. They stared.
And they flinched.
Ghislaine had been almost ripped apart . That was the only description: he had been cut up with such savagery it was practically a dismemberment. The blood was splattered on the underside of the plastic sheet; so much blood was smeared on his wounded corpse he looked like he was tattooed red and purple, all over.
Whoever had knifed him to death had done it with wild anger, lust even. Slashing his arms and legs, plunging a knife into the groin – several times, cutting and slashing. Seeing
For what? How had he died? Who murdered him?
The shock of the situation kicked in, once again, or maybe for the first time properly. Julia felt a shiver of fear run through her. Murdered.
Now they were in Mende the car was actually speeding up: emancipated by these empty urban motorways, which were virtually deserted at this time of night – and in this type of weather. They slashed through rainy Mende, jumping amber lights, their police siren howling in a satisfying way.
She watched the sights of her adopted and temporary hometown flee past the windows. The cathedral, the museum, the Hotel Lion d’Or . Why did every French town have a Hotel Lion d’Or ?
And then the hospital. Julia had never visited Mende hospital before, but it was just like any hospital. It could have been a hospital in Toronto.
‘Par là . . . je connais bien la route.’
Doors opened, nurses passed, old people lay on trolleys, staring grimly at nothing: people cuckolded by their own bodies, betrayed.
The four of them took an enormous steel elevator to the basement. Again Julia felt the absurd urge to fill conversational silence. What could she say: Hey, isn’t this a big elevator?
She said nothing. Shut her eyes. Tried not to think of what they were about to see. Would she even see anything, would they allow her in as well? Ghoulishly, Julia wanted to observe the body. She had never seen a murdered person. She desired the unique experience even as she despaired at her own heartlessness. Poor Annika. Poor Ghislaine.
The French being spoken was urgent, but whispered, like they were in church, as they walked the long corridor to the mortuary; Julia asked herself why people always whispered in the presence of the dead. The dead, she thought, are also deaf.
A wide door swung open, automatically. As they crossed the threshold, a man in light blue rubber gloves came over, briefly smiled at Rouvier, scanned the other faces, and met Annika’s eyes with his own. She nodded.
He motioned: this way.
It was all happening very quickly, Julia had expected more of a palaver, a prologue, some polite and ritual ablutions. But this was brisk French efficiency, verging on harsh un sentimentality. The four of them filed through a wide overbright room, full of trolleys and the shapes of bodies under plastic sheets.
Now they paused, but only for a fraction of a second, and then the doctor pulled the top of the plastic sheet down to the neck.
It was Ghislaine’s face. He seemed almost calm. The eyes were shut, with just a smudge of blood on the nose. The skin was ghastly pale, but the relaxation of death gave the professor, oddly, a more youthful appearance. No longer straining and posing; the absurd hair was tousled, like a young man’s hair, actually unkempt. It looked better that way.
What a horrible horrible pity. A huge engulfing wave of sadness and pity nearly knocked Julia down, she steadied herself, gripped her feelings. Poor Ghislaine, why had he died? How? Who?
‘ Oui. C’est lui ,’ Annika had spoken; she had identifie le corps. The doctor went to pull the sheet back, but Annika reached out a dignified arm and gripped his wrist.
‘ Non, laissez-moi voir – ’
She wanted to see the rest of the body. The doctor threw an anxious glance at Officer Rouvier, who hesitated – and then nodded, discreetly.
The doctor pulled back the sheet. They stared.
And they flinched.
Ghislaine had been almost ripped apart . That was the only description: he had been cut up with such savagery it was practically a dismemberment. The blood was splattered on the underside of the plastic sheet; so much blood was smeared on his wounded corpse he looked like he was tattooed red and purple, all over.
Whoever had knifed him to death had done it with wild anger, lust even. Slashing his arms and legs, plunging a knife into the groin – several times, cutting and slashing. Seeing
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