The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor Page B

don’t. I did when I was younger, but that was a long time ago. Were you coming to see me, François?”
    “I’ve just heard that Mourad is going to appear before the disciplinary committee.”
    “Not anymore. I’m going to leave poor Mourad alone, and the cathedral is finally going to be able to resume its liturgical life.”
    “How come? What’s happening, Monsignor?”
    “I’ve just received a call from the Minister himself. All this regrettable business is over.”
    “The Minister?”
    “The Minister of Justice. Surely you’re aware of his special interest in our cathedral. One could say that the suspect has just signed his entire confession.”
    “‘One could say?’ What do you mean?”
    “The young man committed suicide early this afternoon. A tragedy. Apparently, he jumped from the fourth floor right in the middle of an interrogation. By the time they took him to the Hôtel-Dieu hospital, he was already dead.”

    Sitting on top of the stone wall, his legs swinging above the water, Gombrowicz watched the Seine flow by. Half an hour earlier, he’d come out of Number 36. He’d crossed the street, heedless of the traffic. Without thinking, driven by a peculiar need to see the waters flow, he’d gone down the paved alley that led to the river. He knew perfectly well that when he went back, he’d have to tell them what he’d seen, what had happened. An hour. They’d given him an hour to calm down and regroup. He searched for words while looking at the flowing Seine. He tried to alter the images in his head into a logical sequence of sentences, but couldn’t really manage it.
    Words had never been Gombrowicz’s strong point. Ever since police academy, perhaps even since high school, he wasn’t quite sure, reports, paperwork, and minutes were for him a cross to bear. God only knew how many reports a cop had to write over the course of his career.
    Once he was up there, they’d ask him to provide his version of the facts, after they’d heard Landard, after they’d questioned the young deputy. They’d ask him to transform feelings into words. What on earth was he going to tell the Police Inspection Committee people?
    I was down in the courtyard of Number 36. I was sitting on the front wing of the Peugeot 308. I was finishing my panini. I was thinking of having a cigarette before going back up.
    Just what was he going to tell them?
    I had just opened my can of orange Fanta. I leaned my head back to drink and looked up.
    What should he tell them? Should he mention the feeling he’d had since yesterday, which had prevented him from sleeping much of the night?
    I could see very clearly that the boy was at the end of his tether. I’d already seen it in the car, last night, on the way back, after the search. Landard was driving at breakneck speed and the little lady, sitting next to him in the passenger seat, was staring at the road not saying anything, looking like she’d be on sick leave before the year is out.
    Just what should he tell them?
    I could see perfectly well that the kid would snap. Already in the car, last night, I felt he was shaking like a leaf. Then, when we took him down to the cells at the Palais for the night, I felt his arm give way. When Landard told him he’d be body searched, he started crying like a baby.
    What could they possibly ask him?
    Did he eat his cup of instant soup in the cell last night? How should I know? Did they have enough of it to go around? Because they looked rather full last night. Who did he spend the night with? Who else was in his twenty-three-foot cell? I don’t really know. What I do know is that he didn’t look good in the morning. Obviously, the Palais cells aren’t exactly the Ritz. Coffee, yes. Of course he had the right to a coffee. I even bought him one. For once, the machine was working.
    What should he tell them? Tell them exactly what he thought?
    Let me tell you, there’s something in this business that doesn’t add up. From the very