فصل پنجاه و هفتم

57

THE EAST WINDOWS at Paris police headquarters during the warm months were crowded at breakfast time with young policemen hoping to see Simone Signoret take coffee on her terrace in the nearby Place Dauphin.

Inspector Popil worked at his desk, not looking up even when the actress’s terrace doors were reported to be opening, and remained undisturbed at the groaning when only the housekeeper came out to water the plants.

His window was open and he could hear faintly the Communist demonstration on the Quai des Orfèvres and the Pont Neuf. The demonstrators were mostly students, chanting “Free Hannibal, Free Hannibal.” They carried placards reading DEATH TO FASCISM and demanding the immediate release of Hannibal Lecter, who had become a minor cause célèbre. Letters in L’Humanité and Le Canard Enchaîné defended him and Le Canard ran a photo of the burning wreckage of the Christabel with the caption “Cannibals Cooked.” A moving childhood reminiscence of the benefits of collectivization ran in L’Humanité as well, in a piece under Hannibal’s own byline, smuggled out of the jail, further bolstering his Communist supporters. He would have written as readily for the extreme right fringe publications, but the rightists were out of fashion and could not demonstrate on his behalf.

Before Popil was a memorandum from the public prosecutor asking what could positively be proved against Hannibal Lecter. In the spirit of retribution, l’épuration sauvage, remaining from the war, a conviction for the murder of fascists and war criminals would have to be airtight and, even justified, it would be politically unpopular.

The murder of the butcher Paul Momund was years ago, and the evidence consisted of the smell of oil of cloves, the prosecutor pointed out. Would it help to detain the woman Murasaki? Might she have colluded? the prosecutor asked. Inspector Popil advised against the detention of the woman Murasaki.

The exact circumstances surrounding the death of the restaurateur Kolnas, or Cryto-Fascist Restaurateur and Black-Marketeer Kolnas, as he was known in the papers, could not be determined. Yes, there was a hole of unknown origin in the top of his skull and his tongue and hard palate were pierced by persons unknown. He had fired a revolver, as a paraffin test proved.

The dead men in the canal boat were reduced to grease and soot. They were known to be kidnappers and white slavers. Was not a van recovered containing two captive women, by dint of a license number provided by the woman Murasaki?

The young man had no criminal record. He led his class at medical school.

Inspector Popil looked at his watch and went down the corridor to Audition 3, the best of the interrogation rooms because it received some sunlight and the graffiti had been painted over with thick white paint. A guard stood outside the door. Popil nodded to the guard and he pulled the bolt to admit him. Hannibal sat at the bare table in the center of the room. His ankle was shackled to the table leg and his wrists to a ring in the table.

“Take off the iron,” Popil told the guard.

“Good morning, Inspector,” Hannibal said.

“She’s here,” Popil said. “Dr. Dumas and Dr. Rufin are coming back after lunch.” Popil left him alone.

Now Hannibal could stand when Lady Murasaki came into the room.

The door closed behind her and she reached behind her and put her hand flat on the door.

“Are you sleeping?” she said.

“Yes. I sleep well.”

“Chiyoh sends her good wishes. She says she is very happy.” “I’m glad.”

“Her young man has graduated and they are betrothed.” “I couldn’t be more pleased for her.”

A pause.

“Together they are manufacturing motor scooters, small motorcycles, in partnership with two brothers. They have made six of them. She hopes they will catch on.” “Surely they will—I’ll buy one myself.”

Women pick up surveillance faster than men do, as part of their survival skills, and they at once recognize desire. They also recognize its absence. She felt the change in him. Something was missing behind his eyes.

The words of her ancestor Murasaki Shikibu came to her and she said them: “The troubled waters

Are frozen fast.

Under clear heaven

Moonlight and shadow

Ebb and flow.”

Hannibal made Prince Genji’s classic reply:

“The memories of long love

Gather like drifting snow.

Poignant as the mandarin ducks

Who float side by side in sleep.”

“No,” Lady Murasaki said. “No. Now there is only ice. It’s gone. Is it not gone?” “You are my favorite person in the world,” he said, quite truthfully.

She inclined her head to him and left the room.

In Popil’s office she found Dr. Rufin and Dr. Dumas in close conversation. Rufin took Lady Murasaki’s hands.

“You told me he might freeze inside forever,” she said.

“Do you feel it?” Rufin said.

“I love him and I cannot find him,” Lady Murasaki said. “Can you?” “I never could,” Rufin said.

She left without seeing Popil.

Hannibal volunteered to work in the jail dispensary and petitioned the court to allow him to return to medical school. Dr. Claire DeVrie, the head of the fledgling Police Forensics Laboratory a bright and attractive woman, found Hannibal extremely useful in setting up a compact qualitative analysis and toxin identification unit with the minimum of reagents and equipment. She wrote a letter on his behalf.

Dr. Dumas, whose relentless cheer irritated Popil beyond measure, submitted a ringing endorsement of Hannibal, and explained that Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore, America, was offering him an internship, after reviewing his illustrations for the new anatomy text. Dumas addressed the morals clause in no uncertain terms.

In three weeks’ time, over the objections of Inspector Popil, Hannibal walked out of the Palace of Justice and returned to his room above the medical school. Popil did not say goodbye to him, a guard simply brought him his clothes.

He slept very well in his room. In the morning he called the Place de Vosges and found Lady Murasaki’s telephone had been disconnected. He went there and let himself in with his key. The apartment was empty except for the telephone stand. Beside the telephone was a letter for him. It was attached to the blackened twig from Hiroshima sent to Lady Murasaki by her father.

The letter said Goodbye, Hannibal. I have gone home.

He tossed the burnt twig into the Seine on his way to dinner. At the Restaurant Champs de Mars he had a splendid jugged hare on the money Louis left to buy Masses for his soul. Warmed with wine, he decided that in strict fairness he should read some prayers in Latin for Louis and perhaps sing one to a popular tune, reasoning that his own prayers would be no less efficacious than those he could buy at St.-Sulpice.

He dined alone and he was not lonely.

Hannibal had entered his heart’s long winter. He slept soundly and was not visited in dreams as humans are.