was at seventeen, bug-eyed under his shocks of dark hair, nervous, his gaze skipping from side to side, his lips clamped in a grimace. The last thing Édouard Morin wanted back then was to meet anyone at all, and Philip saw no reason for this to have changed.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. There’s no possible benefit for him.”
Roger frowned. “But there’s also no risk,” he said. “I mean, he’s not going to get into any more trouble. Wouldn’t you think he’d want to clear the air after all these years? That he’d sympathize with your situation?”
“I don’t think compassion is an arrow he has in his quiver.”
Roger looked deflated. He contemplated his empty plate.
It was Philip who spoke first. “You know, back when the case was dismissed, what struck me most was the legal term.”
“What do you mean?”
“They called it a non-lieu . I understood the case was being dropped, but I wasn’t familiar with that word. French was such an annoyance then. You can’t imagine what it’s like not being able to follow the legal proceedings for your own daughter’s murder. Non-lieu . To me it just meant no place . As if they were saying that the murder itself had never occurred. Or that the case didn’t belong in the court. But most of all it described Sophie: it was she who had no place, wasn’t anywhere. Without her body, the whole process had been performed around a void, a vacuum. Nothing but a name.”
Roger nodded, draining the end of his wine. “That’s French law for you. We excel at taking the obvious and making it obscure. It’s a national pastime.”
The waiter came by with coffees, along with a snifter of Calvados. Roger swirled the golden liquid in the ball of his glass, lifted it to his nose and inhaled.
“Tell me,” Philip said. “Are you the one who left the flower on Sophie’s grave?”
The snifter paused beneath Roger’s nose. “Listen, I was already there for Mother’s funeral, so it was just a few steps away. Don’t start thinking I make daily pilgrimages.” He took a gulp of the digestif as if to wash the taste of sincerity from his mouth. He sighed. “You know I was supposed to have dinner with them that night, don’t you?” He closed his eyes. “If I hadn’t canceled, she’d never have gone off on her own. She’d still be alive today.”
“You don’t know that,” Philip murmured.
“And do you know why I canceled?” Now he turned his eyes to the ceiling. “Because of Élisabeth. An opportunity came up for an evening of romance, and because I always do whatever my prick tells me, I canceled on my niece.” He stared into his cup. “While Édouard Morin bludgeoned her with a stone, I was busy fondling Élisabeth’s tits.”
“No one expects you to be a monk, Roger.”
“Hah. No danger of that, I suspect.”
A sense of understanding settled on Philip: the rose on the grave, Roger’s keenness to help, perhaps even his difficulties with Élisabeth—a relationship damaged by the very tragedy whose occurrence it facilitated.
“What it comes down to is this,” Roger continued. “I’m sure I am far better suited to unclehood than to fatherhood, but if I did have a child—what I mean is that if I had had one—well, let’s just say that I’d have wanted her to be like Sophie.”
He raised his hand and called for the check.
It was night before Philip started the return drive to Yvetot. Occasional headlights flickered and grew, blinding him before vanishing. At intersections in dark-windowed hamlets he slowed to a crawl, craning to recognize his route.
While he drove, it was the image of Yvonne sobbing in Roger’s arms that stuck with him. At least she, too, had suffered after the divorce. For all these years he had wrapped himself in a cloak of grief lined with regret. But that mantle was cut wide enough to accommodate others in its folds.
The road dipped into a dark swale, woods rising up along the shoulders, ghostly trunks glowing in the
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. There’s no possible benefit for him.”
Roger frowned. “But there’s also no risk,” he said. “I mean, he’s not going to get into any more trouble. Wouldn’t you think he’d want to clear the air after all these years? That he’d sympathize with your situation?”
“I don’t think compassion is an arrow he has in his quiver.”
Roger looked deflated. He contemplated his empty plate.
It was Philip who spoke first. “You know, back when the case was dismissed, what struck me most was the legal term.”
“What do you mean?”
“They called it a non-lieu . I understood the case was being dropped, but I wasn’t familiar with that word. French was such an annoyance then. You can’t imagine what it’s like not being able to follow the legal proceedings for your own daughter’s murder. Non-lieu . To me it just meant no place . As if they were saying that the murder itself had never occurred. Or that the case didn’t belong in the court. But most of all it described Sophie: it was she who had no place, wasn’t anywhere. Without her body, the whole process had been performed around a void, a vacuum. Nothing but a name.”
Roger nodded, draining the end of his wine. “That’s French law for you. We excel at taking the obvious and making it obscure. It’s a national pastime.”
The waiter came by with coffees, along with a snifter of Calvados. Roger swirled the golden liquid in the ball of his glass, lifted it to his nose and inhaled.
“Tell me,” Philip said. “Are you the one who left the flower on Sophie’s grave?”
The snifter paused beneath Roger’s nose. “Listen, I was already there for Mother’s funeral, so it was just a few steps away. Don’t start thinking I make daily pilgrimages.” He took a gulp of the digestif as if to wash the taste of sincerity from his mouth. He sighed. “You know I was supposed to have dinner with them that night, don’t you?” He closed his eyes. “If I hadn’t canceled, she’d never have gone off on her own. She’d still be alive today.”
“You don’t know that,” Philip murmured.
“And do you know why I canceled?” Now he turned his eyes to the ceiling. “Because of Élisabeth. An opportunity came up for an evening of romance, and because I always do whatever my prick tells me, I canceled on my niece.” He stared into his cup. “While Édouard Morin bludgeoned her with a stone, I was busy fondling Élisabeth’s tits.”
“No one expects you to be a monk, Roger.”
“Hah. No danger of that, I suspect.”
A sense of understanding settled on Philip: the rose on the grave, Roger’s keenness to help, perhaps even his difficulties with Élisabeth—a relationship damaged by the very tragedy whose occurrence it facilitated.
“What it comes down to is this,” Roger continued. “I’m sure I am far better suited to unclehood than to fatherhood, but if I did have a child—what I mean is that if I had had one—well, let’s just say that I’d have wanted her to be like Sophie.”
He raised his hand and called for the check.
It was night before Philip started the return drive to Yvetot. Occasional headlights flickered and grew, blinding him before vanishing. At intersections in dark-windowed hamlets he slowed to a crawl, craning to recognize his route.
While he drove, it was the image of Yvonne sobbing in Roger’s arms that stuck with him. At least she, too, had suffered after the divorce. For all these years he had wrapped himself in a cloak of grief lined with regret. But that mantle was cut wide enough to accommodate others in its folds.
The road dipped into a dark swale, woods rising up along the shoulders, ghostly trunks glowing in the
Similar Books
