and immediate gratification. If you want to look like a scorpion-fish, or a moray eel, or a gargoyle or a two-headed hydra, or a teratomorph, well, feel free, Charles, go ahead. You won’t upset me. I like all the fish in the sea, even disgusting fish, so this isn’t a conversation for a Thursday at all. You’re unsettling my week, carrying on like this with your hysterical revenge. See, what would have been a good thing to do in a section two of the week, would be to go upstairs and have a drink in the Flying Gurnard, where I could have introduced you to the old lady who lives on the top floor. But today, no, out of the question, you’d be too nasty to her. You have to treat Clémence with kid gloves. Seventy years old and she’s just got one idea in her head, to find the love of her life, and a man, hopefully at the same time, which is a tall order. You see, Charles, everyone has their own troubles. She’s got plenty of love to give, she falls for every lonely-heart announcement in the paper. She looks through all the small ads, she replies to them, she goes along for a date, she’s invariably humiliated, so she comes back home and starts again. To tell you the truth, I think she’s a bit soft in the head, desperately nice, always trying to help, and pulling packs of cards out of the pockets of her baggy old trousers to tell people’s fortunes. And I’ll tell you what she looks like, since you have this silly habit of not seeing: she’s not very attractive, she’s got a bony, rather masculine face, with sharp little teeth like a shrew-mouse, Crocidura russula , you wouldn’t want to get your hand caught by them. And she wears far too much make-up. I hire her two days a week to file my papers and slides. She’s very precise and patient, as if she was never going to die, and sometimes I find that restful. She works away with her mind on other things, whispering about her dreams and her pathetic adventures, going over the hypothetical meetings with Mr Right, preparing what to say to the next one, and despite all that she’s very good at filing, although like you she couldn’t care less about fish. That’s the only thing you might have in common.’
‘So you think we’ll get on?’ asked Charles.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll hardly ever see her. She’s always trotting off somewhere looking for the future husband. And as for you, you don’t love anyone, so as my mother would say, what’s the rush?’
‘True,’ said Charles.
VI
T HE FOLLOWING T HURSDAY MORNING TWO CIRCLES WERE discovered: in the rue de l’Abbé-de-l’Epée was the cork from a wine bottle, and in the rue Pierre-et-Marie-Curie, in the 5th arrondissement , lay a woman with her throat cut, staring up at the sky.
In spite of the shock, Adamsberg could not help thinking that the discovery had been made at the beginning of section two of the week, the time for unimportant things, but that the murder must have been committed at the end of the first section, the serious one.
He paced around his office, with a less vague expression than usual on his face, his chin thrust forward, his mouth open as if he was out of breath. Danglard saw that Adamsberg was preoccupied, but that he nevertheless didn’t give the impression of deep concentration. Their previous commissaire had been just the opposite. He had been completely tied up in his thoughts, a man of perpetual rumination. But Adamsberg was open to every wind, like a cabin made of rough planks, letting his brain receive fresh air, Danglard thought. Yes, it was true, you could imagine that everything that went in through his ears, eyes and nose – smoke, colours, paper rustling – caused a draught to whistle through his thoughts and stopped them solidifying. This man, thought Danglard, is attentive to everything, which means he pays attention to nothing. The four inspectors were even getting into the habit of walking in and out of his office without fear of interrupting any particular train
‘So you think we’ll get on?’ asked Charles.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll hardly ever see her. She’s always trotting off somewhere looking for the future husband. And as for you, you don’t love anyone, so as my mother would say, what’s the rush?’
‘True,’ said Charles.
VI
T HE FOLLOWING T HURSDAY MORNING TWO CIRCLES WERE discovered: in the rue de l’Abbé-de-l’Epée was the cork from a wine bottle, and in the rue Pierre-et-Marie-Curie, in the 5th arrondissement , lay a woman with her throat cut, staring up at the sky.
In spite of the shock, Adamsberg could not help thinking that the discovery had been made at the beginning of section two of the week, the time for unimportant things, but that the murder must have been committed at the end of the first section, the serious one.
He paced around his office, with a less vague expression than usual on his face, his chin thrust forward, his mouth open as if he was out of breath. Danglard saw that Adamsberg was preoccupied, but that he nevertheless didn’t give the impression of deep concentration. Their previous commissaire had been just the opposite. He had been completely tied up in his thoughts, a man of perpetual rumination. But Adamsberg was open to every wind, like a cabin made of rough planks, letting his brain receive fresh air, Danglard thought. Yes, it was true, you could imagine that everything that went in through his ears, eyes and nose – smoke, colours, paper rustling – caused a draught to whistle through his thoughts and stopped them solidifying. This man, thought Danglard, is attentive to everything, which means he pays attention to nothing. The four inspectors were even getting into the habit of walking in and out of his office without fear of interrupting any particular train
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