فصل پنجاه و سوم

53

THE NURSING STUDENT had dark red hair and maroon eyes about the same color as Hannibal’s. When he stood back from the fountain in the medical school corridor so that she could drink first, she put her face close to him and sniffed. “When did you start smoking?” “I’m trying to quit,” he said.

“Your eyebrows are singed!”

“Careless lighting up.”

“If you’re careless with fire you shouldn’t be cooking.” She licked her thumb and smoothed his eyebrow. “My roommate and I are making a daube this evening, there’s plenty if …” “Thank you. Really. But I have an engagement.”

His note to Lady Murasaki asked if he might visit. He found a branch of wisteria to go with it, suitably withered in abject apology. Her note of invitation was accompanied by two sprigs, watermelon crepe myrtle and a sprig of pine with a tiny cone. Pine is not sent lightly. Thrilling and boundless, the possibilities of pine.

Lady Murasaki’s poissonnier did not fail her. He had for her four perfect sea urchins in cold seawater from their native Brittany. Next door the butcher produced sweetbreads, already soaked in milk and pressed between two plates. She stopped by Fauchon for a pear tart and last she bought a string bag of oranges.

She paused before the florist, her arms full. No, Hannibal would certainly bring flowers.

Hannibal brought flowers. Tulips and Casablanca lilies and ferns in a tall arrangement sticking up from the pillion seat of his motorcycle. Two young women crossing the street told him the flowers looked like a rooster’s tail. He winked at them when the light changed and roared away with a light feeling in his chest.

He parked in the alley beside Lady Murasaki’s building and walked around the corner to the entrance with his flowers. He was waving to the concierge when Popil and two beefy policemen stepped out of a doorway and seized him. Popil took the flowers.

“Those aren’t for you,” Hannibal said.

“You’re under arrest,” Popil said. When Hannibal was handcuffed, Popil stuck the flowers under his arm.

In his office at the Quai des Orfèvres, Inspector Popil left Hannibal alone and let him wait for a half-hour in the atmosphere of the police station. He returned to his office to find the young man placing the last stem in a flower arrangement in a water carafe on Popil’s desk. “How do you like that?” Hannibal said.

Inspector Popil slugged him with a small rubber sap and he went down.

“How do you like that?” Popil said.

The larger of the two policemen crowded in behind Popil and stood over Hannibal. “Answer every question: I asked you how do you like that?” “It’s more honest than your handshake. And at least the club is clean.” Popil took from an envelope two dog tags on a loop of string. “Found in your room. These two were charged in absentia at Nuremberg. Question: Where are they?” “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you want to watch them hang? The hangman uses the English drop, but not enough to tear their heads off. He does not boil and stretch his rope. They yo-yo a lot. That should be to your taste.” “Inspector, you will never know anything about my taste.”

“Justice doesn’t matter, it just has to be you killing them.”

“It has to be you too, doesn’t it, Inspector? You always watch them die. It’s to your taste. Do you think we could talk alone?” He took from his pocket a bloodstained note wrapped in cellophane. “You have mail from Louis Ferrat.” Popil motioned for the policemen to leave the room.

“When I cut the clothes off Louis’ body I found this note to you.” He read aloud the part above the fold. “Inspector Popil, why do you torment me with questions you will not answer yourself? I saw you in Lyons. And he goes on.” Hannibal passed the note to Popil. “If you want to open it, it’s dry now. It doesn’t smell.” The note crackled when Popil opened it, and dark flakes fell out of the fold. When he had finished he sat holding the note beside his temple.

“Did some of your family wave bye-bye to you from the choo-choo?” Hannibal said. “Were you directing traffic at the depot that day?” Popil drew back his hand.

“You don’t want to do that,” Hannibal said softly. “If I knew anything, why should I tell you? It’s a reasonable question, Inspector. Maybe you’ll get them passage to Argentina.” Popil closed his eyes and opened them again. “Pétain was always my hero. My father, my uncles fought under him in the First War. When he made the new government, he told us, ‘Just keep the peace until we throw the Germans off. Vichy will save France.’ We were already policemen, it seemed like the same duty.” “Did you help the Germans?”

Popil shrugged. “I kept the peace. Perhaps that helped them. Then I saw one of their trains. I deserted and found the Resistance. They wouldn’t trust me until I killed a Gestapo. The Germans shot eight villagers in reprisal. I felt like I had killed them myself. What kind of war is that? We fought in Normandy in the hedges, clicking these to identify each other.” He picked up a cricket clicker from his desk. “We helped the Allies coming in from the beachheads.” He clicked twice. “This meant I’m a friend, don’t shoot. I don’t care about Dortlich. Help me find them. How are you hunting Grutas?” “Through relatives in Lithuania, my mother’s connections in the church.” “I could hold you for the false papers, just on the con’s testimony. If I let you go, will you swear to tell me everything you find out? Will you swear to God?” “To God? Yes, I swear to God. Do you have a Bible?” Popil had a copy of the Pensées in his bookcase. Hannibal took it out. “Or we could use your Pascal, Pascal.” “Would you swear on Lady Murasaki’s life?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Yes, on Lady Murasaki’s life.” Hannibal picked up the clicker and clicked it twice.

Popil held out the dog tags and Hannibal took them back.

When Hannibal had left the office, Popil’s assistant came in. Popil signaled from the window. When Hannibal emerged from the building a plainclothes policeman followed him.

“He knows something. His eyebrows are singed. Check fires in the Ile de France for the last three days,” Popil said. “When he leads us to Grutas, I want to try him for the butcher when he was a child.” “Why the butcher?”

“It’s a juvenile crime, Etienne, a crime of passion. I don’t want a conviction, I want him declared insane. In an asylum they can study him and try to find out what he is.” “What do you think he is?”

“The little boy Hannibal died in 1945 out there in the snow trying to save his sister. His heart died with Mischa. What is he now? There’s not a word for it yet. For lack of a better word, we’ll call him a monster.”