Tourquai_ A Novel Part 15

"What about her?"

Larry growled something, but it was unclear what he meant. Chez Jacques was rumbling this evening. The sound from all the police officers who had just got off or would soon go on their s.h.i.+fts-laughter and quarreling, shy confessions and bl.u.s.tering boasts-seemed to settle like a thick, dark brown rug over the black wooden tiles. Philip and Larry were sitting in the midst of a sound porridge, bubbling and boiling on rue de Cadix.

"I guess it is what it is," said Mouse. "Isn't that what you always say? That fate rules us all?"

"That's bulls.h.i.+t," Bloodhound growled. "Don't make yourself ridiculous. Believe in fate. I've never said that. What I have have said is-" said is-"

"I know," Mouse interrupted. "Larry, I know what you've said. Because you've said it so many times. But if you were to be right, it would mean that the future is exactly like history. That everything has already happened, both forward and backward in time."

"I have to think about that," Bloodhound said, digging for the last crushed chips in the bowl.

"Should we get more chips?"

"No way," said Bloodhound. "I'm trying to cut back, you know."

"But that was how you described it," Mouse continued, lighting a cigarette. "Didn't you say that fate is like a train track? We have a certain number of cars to move between. There, in the cars, we can do what we want, and succeed and fail and meet and separate and everything. But the train is moving in the direction that fate determines."

"Yes, yes, just like that," Bloodhound growled. "Smart mouse-excuse me, could we please get a bowl of chips here?"

Stuffed animals came and went, the crowding at the bar waxed and waned. Larry and Philip were sitting half-turned toward the window, so that most of it went on behind their backs. An occasional loud volley of laughter rose up from the spoken Muzak.

"This is what I mean," the private detective said, taking a deep puff on his cigarette. "The consequences of what you're saying are just that everything has already happened."

"You're too smart for me," Bloodhound growled.

He felt tired. He had no desire to listen to Mouse's philosophical digressions. When the waitress came with the chips he ordered another beer, but a light one this time. He longed for Cordelia.

"Imagine a journey in time," Philip said, putting out the cigarette. "If we go back in time we end up in historic events. Carl the Horse's war, and a hundred years later the resistance movement of Shrew-Mouse, or in the twenties what led up to Goldstein's theories ... But the same thing if we travel forward in time, to our grandchildren. There, the same sort of events are waiting. If fate has set the rails through the future, we're going to end up in what has already happened, despite the fact that our lives have not yet taken us there. Do you understand? I think of it as a long train, and each car is a tableau, whether or not there is an audience; 'theater cars' in a marketplace that line the road into the future."

"Sounds really strange," said Larry, who hadn't been following his reasoning.

"It's your idea, not mine. I don't even believe in it. But it undeniably raises questions about infinity. Reasonably there must be an end to all these theater cars, no? Your train tracks have to end somewhere. Because you believe in a fate that is waiting for us in the future, you must also believe in a mountain of time, or a sea of time, where everything ends, right?"

"Bulls.h.i.+t. It doesn't end," Bloodhound growled. "That's the whole point of eternity. That it feels hopeless to imagine. I've got to p.i.s.s."

Whereupon the superintendent got up and waded through the noise over to the toilets. When he came back, Philip Mouse had taken off his hat and set it on the table. But the detective was still talkative and attacked the superintendent as soon as he sat down.

"And love?" asked Mouse.

"Love?"

"Is that fate? Or do you believe it's just something you find on board your train?"

Larry Bloodhound did not answer. He couldn't help that it was the little green budgie waiting for him at home that showed up in his thoughts as soon as Mouse mentioned the word "love." He felt pathetic, which made him angry.

"Love," sighed Bloodhound, "is going around constipated and unsatisfied your whole life. Neither more nor less."

The private detective nodded.

"Unsatisfied? Not bad, Superintendent. For every step you take toward her," the mouse said in a lingering tone of voice, "she takes two steps back. For every word you utter, every word you think builds a bridge, she sinks deeper into herself. It's like a kind of artful labyrinth that leads you farther away, even though you've figured out in advance how you should move ahead."

Private detective Philip Mouse was an animal who lived in his irony; distance was not just in his words but part of his personality. Hearing him talk about love came as a surprise.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," said Bloodhound. "Superb, Mouse. And insightful."

Mouse blushed.

"Everyone has some kind of hub, right? Another animal, a feeling or an idea that is immovable as an anchor at the base of the soul and means that we never manage to tear ourselves loose. Foolishly we paddle around in more or less wide circles, in our own little sea ..."

Philip's voice died away. Mumbling, he finished the sentence to himself. Larry sat quietly and observed the private detective with renewed interest.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned, Mouse," he repeated.

Like everyone else, Bloodhound felt comfortable with the predictable, but in reality Larry Bloodhound had always known that it was the surprises that brightened up life. And hearing Mouse reveal his personal thoughts was refres.h.i.+ng.

At the same time, all the talk about love made the superintendent impatient. He wanted to go home, and he got up.

"Will you get the check, Detective?"

Mouse nodded.

"You can pay in the next life," he replied.

4.6.

Darkness sat like a hat on top of Mollisan Town, with stars sparkling in a clear sky. On rue de Montyon in north Tourquai the streetlights lit up the deserted sidewalks, shadows of light fell soft as cotton across the blue asphalt. The weather had long since pa.s.sed midnight, and the low apartment buildings that lined the street stood dark and silent.

The exception was the fourth and topmost floor at 42 rue de Montyon.

From there a warm yellow light flowed out through the windows, suggesting that the entire top floor was a single apartment with a single resident. The music, too, penetrated out onto the street, or parts of the rhythm at least: a ba.s.s drum that kept an insistent and unsophisticated tempo, and a wailing voice that stumbled around a familiar melody.

Claude Siamese's apartment was somewhat out of the ordinary. It had room upon room upon room in a row in line with the street, and a wood floor laid so that it was impossible to detect the joints: fifty feet of beautiful, wide oak planks, as if the trees were felled by giants. It was spa.r.s.ely furnished, but here and there was a lounge chair. On the floor piles of pillows were strewn; they could be used as seats, tables, or beds. The lighting s.h.i.+fted in various colors; for an animal going from one side of the apartment to the other, it was like walking through a rainbow.

Out in the kitchen stood a cat, Claude Siamese himself, dressed only in a pair of leopard-spotted leather trousers, alongside him a pretty little rat in a red polka-dot bikini top and jeans, and right behind her a gazelle in a blue jacket. One of the gazelle's horns seemed to have broken off in the middle. Each of the three was holding a knife and cutting open with concentration some small cans of tuna on the counter.

The apartment was crammed with hi-fi speakers; it was not possible to escape the music anywhere, and the rat and gazelle were singing along.

"But concentrate!" Siamese shouted to be heard above the noise.

The pretty rat only laughed and continued cutting and singing. The gazelle didn't seem to hear anything at all; he was hacking at his can as if in a trance.

"Focus!" Claude screamed. "We have to SUCCEED! My life depends on it!"

The rat laughed louder and made a few halfhearted attempts to actually hit the little can with her ma.s.sive knife. The kitchen counter was cut to pieces. When Claude Siamese awoke early the next morning, he would have to make a few calls and have the counter replaced with a new one.

At about this time of day Siamese always felt an uncontrollable urge for tuna fish. He knew there was a can opener somewhere, but he couldn't think where. Along with the rat and gazelle he had already turned all the drawers in the kitchen inside out. Silverware and cutting boards, saucepans and place mats, tablecloths and napkins were in piles on the floor around them.

But the can opener was nowhere to be found.

Then he thought of it.

"Wait!" he shouted.

The gazelle and rat both stopped in mid-cut, startled by his tone.

"I KNOW! In the sauna!"

He threw his knife in the sink, the rat did the same, and they ran, paw in paw, out to the corridor. The gazelle followed close behind.

The room outside the kitchen was flooded in orange light. Ten or so animals were lying there in piles across an elegant, austere sofa. In the middle was a large coffee table, full of overturned gla.s.ses and liquor bottles, newspapers and pieces of clothing. Around the couch there were still more clothes. A pair of pants, a few bras, and a beige jacket that appeared to have gone through a paper shredder. Claude's candy dishes-small turquoise porcelain bowls with white gla.s.s borders where there was always cocaine-were empty.

"Who are all these stuffed animals?" asked Claude Siamese, making a gesture toward the crowd.

The animals on the couches moved; they were conscious.

"You ought to know, right?" the rat giggled.

"But I don't know."

"You invited them, didn't you?" she giggled even more hysterically.

"May I kick them out?" he asked.

She was laughing so that she couldn't answer, but she nodded enthusiastically. The gazelle nodded, too, less positively, however.

Claude Siamese adjusted the lining on his leopard-skin trousers, took a deep breath, and went over to the sofa with dignified steps. He remained standing for a few moments, uncertain about how he should go about the task. Then he raised his voice and screamed, "I am Claude Siamese. Vanish. Otherwise you'll vanish forever!"

Four stuffed animals flew up from the sofa and ran as fast as they could toward the hall and the outside door. Three animals tried to follow, but stumbled and tripped and did not appear to be getting anywhere. A few animals still lay sleeping, unaware of what had happened.

The rat laughed. The gazelle laughed. Siamese smiled, but then he remembered.

"The tuna fish."

And they resumed their search for the can opener, hurrying on through the rooms on the way to the sauna.

The sauna was large and lovely, and adjacent to Claude Siamese's bedroom. The can opener was on the upper platform.

"Bring the cans here," said Claude Siamese.

"I thought you were bringing them," the rat replied, turning to the gazelle.

"Darling," said the gazelle, "you're talking about canned goods all the time, but I still don't know what you mean."

A moment of uncomfortable silence, then Siamese laughed. The rat laughed, too, it was liberating; the gazelle smiled wryly. And they ran back through rooms where stuffed animals were still busy abusing Siamese's hospitality.

At first they didn't hear the doorbell. hear the doorbell.

Siamese, the rat, and the gazelle were back in the kitchen, opening cans. The apartment door was unlocked, and sooner or later most tried the handle. But the visitor continued ringing, and the signal cut through the music. The only ones who behaved like that were the neighbors.

"s.h.i.+t," Siamese swore.

He gave the can opener to the gazelle and instructed him to open the cans. Then he ran out to the hall and opened the front door.

Outside stood Superintendent Bloodhound.

"Larry!" Claude Siamese exclaimed in surprise.

"May I come in?"

Claude took a step to one side, and the police officer entered the apartment.

Siamese ate tuna fish right out of the can while he listened to Superintendent Bloodhound. right out of the can while he listened to Superintendent Bloodhound.

"Well, well," said the cat. "That's no problem. It's really no problem. But I'm FURIOUS!"

Bloodhound fell silent. They were sitting in Siamese's office in a part of the apartment where the after-party never made it, the dog on the austere, black leather couch and the cat on one of the soft white armchairs.

"FURIOUS!" Siamese repeated.

He stopped talking and ate. Bloodhound had never heard the cat raise his voice. A single lamp shone on the table, but the glow barely reached the cat and dog.

"You promised," Claude Siamese continued after a few quick bites, "and Magnus knows I've paid you to keep promises. And yet I saw a police car turn in and park on the other side of the street."

Larry shook his head with irritation.

"And?" he asked.

"And it's obvious," Siamese complained. "Despite all you've said, you're after me again!" said Claude. "That makes me FURIOUS!"

Larry was about to raise his voice and put the little fop in his place when Siamese added, "And when I am FURIOUS I'm not going to remember the combination to the cabinet, and your powder is in the cabinet."

It was a simple threat that normally would have provoked Bloodhound. Now his self-esteem was faltering.

"A car that stops across ..." he growled quietly. "You're paranoid. It may have been a couple of lousy traffic cops out after illegal parking, what do I know?"

"NEVER!" Siamese screamed. "They got out of the car, they were plainclothes detectives, not regular patrol officers, and they were snooping around the phone booth across the way for several minutes."

"s.h.i.+t your pants. I never promised that I can take responsibility for what GL is up to," Bloodhound answered morosely.

"THAT is not what I want to HEAR!" Siamese shouted crossly.

Bloodhound's legs were shaking. He was thinking about his hiding place at home in the kitchen cabinet. It wouldn't last long. Self-contempt tormented him; why had he put himself in this situation? The question was a form of self-pity from which it was impossible to gather strength.

"If I see anything that-" he began but was interrupted.

"See to it that they DISAPPEAR!" said Siamese.